Death's Little Helpers

by Peter Spiegelman

  “Jesus Christ,” she said, and stepped away from me. A long black car pulled up to the curb and Ned got out of the back. His face was rigid. He looked at Janine and then at me.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he said. I told him about the photos and the packages and what I thought they meant, and as I did he shook his head and ran his hand through his gingery hair. When I finished he stared at the pavement for a long time and said nothing. Then he turned to Janine.

  “Why don’t you sit in the car, Jan?” he said softly. Janine murmured something and moved to the curb. Ned’s driver jumped out and held the door. Janine glared at me coldly as she climbed inside.

  “If you give me the keys, I’ll get the packages and get out of here,” I said to Ned. He nodded and fished in his pocket.

  The packages were in the foyer, in a plain brown shopping bag, and both of them were wrapped in gold paper. They were rectangular, about the dimensions of a medium-sized phonebook but much lighter. Janine was still in the car and Ned was still standing by the curb when I returned. His face was lined and sagging. I handed him his keys.

  “I’m sorry about this,” I said.

  “You know, you’ve terrified Janine and the kids. And you’ve certainly scared the hell out of me. My God, Johnny, what kind of a life are you leading that this sort of thing happens? What kind of thing have you brought to our door?” He stopped and took a deep breath and softened his voice a little. “Janine’s upset right now and so am I, and she— we both— think maybe it’s best if you don’t come around for a while.”

  I looked at Ned for a moment and nodded. “Sure,” I said, and walked away.

  “What was in the packages?” Neary asked, bringing me back to the car.

  “Jigsaw puzzles, one of a talking train and another of that furry dinosaur. Somebody’s idea of funny.” I looked over at Neary. “Tell me it’s not a warning shot,” I said again.

  “To back off of Danes?”

  “It’s the only thing I’m working on.”

  Neary shook his head slowly. “I’m not so sure it’s Marty.”

  “Who else can it be? Are you saying that somebody else is running a tail on me, and your guys somehow missed it?”

  Neary sighed, and Sikes and Pritchard shifted uncomfortably in the front seat.

  “Marty’s boys were the only ones we saw out there, and I’m pretty sure they’re the ones who took these photos. But I’m not sure Marty organized all this. And if you’d calm down a little and think about it, you might agree.”

  I took a deep breath and ran my hand across the back of my neck. It was warm and sticky. “Okay, all calm now. What am I supposed to think about?”

  “The timing, for one thing,” Neary said. “Not even an hour went by between the time we left Marty’s office and when you found those pictures. Do you think he had that stuff ready and waiting and that he sent Stevie racing uptown to deliver it as soon as we left?”

  I shook my head. “I think he’d set it up already. Our showing up when we did was a coincidence.”

  Neary raised his eyebrows at me. “You think Marty could be that cool, knowing what was happening while we were sitting in his office? He’s not a total idiot, but he’s also not that smooth. And what about genius-boy Stevie? He clearly recognized you, even though it took him a while and he didn’t know enough to keep it to himself. You think that’s the response you would’ve got out of him if he knew this shit was going down today?”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Maybe he didn’t know about it,” I said. “Maybe Czerka doesn’t trust him to know about this stuff.”

  Neary wasn’t buying. “I don’t know that Marty trusts anyone, but I do know Stevie does all his fetching and carrying. If Marty arranged this bullshit, Stevie would’ve known about it, and he would’ve pissed his pants when he saw you today.”

  I looked out the window at the doors of Jane’s building, and thought about what Neary had said, and grudgingly agreed. The timing didn’t make sense and neither did Czerka’s behavior, or Stevie’s. But my anger wanted a focus, and if not Czerka …

  “Then who?” I said aloud.

  “If we assume Marty’s boys took the pictures— and I don’t know who else would have— there are only two choices as to who set this up: one of Marty’s guys or Marty’s client.”

  “His guys would have no reason to do it,” I said.

  “None that I can figure.”

  “Which leaves his client.”

  “Which leaves his client.”

  A surge of frustration closed my throat, and I slapped my palm against the window glass. “Which leaves us exactly where we were before— with no fucking idea of who that might be.”

  “Maybe not exactly where we were,” Neary said evenly. “If Marty doesn’t know about the pictures, I can use them to shake him up a little and maybe shake something loose.” My cell phone trilled and I answered it. It was Jane, ready to leave.

  “I’ll meet you out front,” I told her. I hung up and looked at Neary. “I notice you said I can use them, not we can use them.”

  Neary sighed and was quiet for a while. “I think you’re wound a little tight right now, John,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t want you doing anything … counterproductive.”

  I stared at him. “How hard will you go at him?”

  Neary’s eyes narrowed and Sikes and Pritchard shifted again in their seats. “As hard as I need to,” he said. We were quiet for a moment, watching the street.

  “When are you going to talk to him? It should be soon—”

  “Today,” Neary said, cutting me off. “I’ll do it today.”

  “How about the nephew, Stevie? He might go easier than Czerka. He—”

  “I’ll do what needs doing, John.” Neary’s voice was tight.

  “And that means what?”

  “That means part of what you’re paying for here is my judgment. That means I’m not going in there high on my own adrenaline and with my head up my ass. That means if what you’re looking for is somebody to kneecap these guys, you’re on your own.” Neary stared at me, and his eyes were flat and unmoving.

  I took a deep breath and let it out and nodded. “I don’t know if I could take that office again anyway,” I said.

  Neary smiled a little. He looked beyond me, out the car window. “Here she comes,” he said. He slipped the photos into the envelope and passed it to me.

  I climbed out of the Volvo. “Call me when you’ve talked to Czerka. And thanks for sitting out here.”

  “It’ll be on your bill,” he said. “You sure you don’t want a shadow home?” I shook my head and closed the door and the car pulled away. Jane was watching. She hitched her big black bag higher on her shoulder. There were tight lines around her mouth.

  “Was that your friend Neary?” she asked. I nodded. “What was he doing?”

  “Waiting for me to get here.”

  Jane pursed her lips. “What’s going on?” she said. We started toward 16th Street and I told her. We walked slowly and Jane listened, and when I was done she didn’t speak for several minutes. When she did, her voice was soft and flat.

  “The boys were okay?” she asked.

  “Probably a little confused, but okay.”

  “That’s good,” Jane said.

  She was quiet for another half a block.

  “And you think this thing is a warning to you— about Danes?” I nodded. “From whoever hired— what’s-his-name— Czerka?” I nodded again. “I guess they don’t know that you were fired.”

  “I guess not.”

  She went silent again, and as we reached the corner of Fifth Avenue and 17th Street, she stopped. “What’s the warning?” she asked. “I mean specifically, what message is he sending with those pictures?”

  I looked at her and she met my gaze and waited. “I suppose it’s a message that he knows what’s important to me and that he can … get at those things if he wants to. I suppose it’s a message about what’s at stake if I keep pushing.”<
br />
  “And is he right about what’s important to you? I know your nephews are, so he’s right about that much.” Her face was blank, and her dark eyes were empty.

  “I didn’t want this, Jane. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Something already happened to me.”

  I took a deep breath. “I know.”

  Jane started walking again. “Why didn’t you tell me someone was following you— maybe following both of us?” she said.

  “I didn’t think they were a threat— until recently I wasn’t even sure they were there. And I never thought they were interested in you. You had a lot on your mind, and I didn’t want to upset you.”

  Jane stopped again. She almost spoke, but she bit back the words. She looked at the manila envelope in my hand. “Let me see them.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t—”

  “Just give them to me, goddamn it.” Her voice was icy. We moved into the doorway of a small office building and I handed her the envelope.

  Jane slipped the pictures out and looked at each one. Her face was still and ashen; only her dark eyes moved. She leafed through the stack three times and leaned against the building and was quiet for a while. When she did speak, it was almost to herself.

  “They were so close … I had no idea.”

  “Neither did I.”

  She handed me the envelope. “But now you know,” she said. “You have no case and you have no client, but now you know about this. So what will you do?” Her voice was even and without emotion.

  “I need to find out who sent this, Jane.”

  She nodded, unsurprised. “Why?”

  I studied her unreadable face and thought about all the answers I could give— that the best way to keep her and my nephews safe was to find whoever made this threat and send a message of my own, that I didn’t like being pushed around, that I needed to know what the hell was going on, that I needed to keep working. All of them were true and none of them seemed adequate and finally I said nothing.

  After a while we walked again. Jane slowed as we came to 16th Street and looked down the block. I followed her eyes as they scanned the people and parked cars, and I saw a grimace cross her face and a shudder go through her shoulders.

  “Let’s get something to eat,” she said, without looking at me.

  We kept going south, to a coffee shop off Union Square, and had a silent meal amid a chattering crowd. We went back to 16th Street afterwards, and Jane’s steps were quick and resolute down the block and into the lobby of our building. I rang for the elevator and she dug in her bag and pulled out her house keys. We got in and I pressed four. Jane pressed five. She watched the numbers light as we rose. The doors opened on four and I got out.

  “I don’t want these things in my life,” Jane said. I started to speak, but the doors began to close, and as they did something shifted in Jane’s face. Her mouth got smaller and the fine creases around it curved downward. And something happened in her eyes like a shutter opening. They grew darker and larger and brimmed for an instant with anger and disappointment. And then the doors shut and the car rose again.

  I heard Jane moving around upstairs and I heard music come on: Chrissie Hynde, turned up loud. I checked my messages. There were three from Lauren and I didn’t bother to listen.

  I poured myself a large glass of water and drank it while I paced the room and let my anger steep. I thought about Marty Czerka’s mystery client and what he might want with Gregory Danes. I thought about the small handful of people I’d found in Danes’s life and wondered which of them might care enough to hire a guy like Czerka.

  I thought about Neary, too, and wondered how his conversation was going. I wasn’t optimistic. It wasn’t that I doubted Neary’s skill at the back-and-forth; I didn’t. I’ve seen him play the good guy, the tough guy, the burned-out-doesn’t-give-a-shit guy, and the fucking-crazy guy, and he’s better at it than most. But Czerka had no doubt played those parts himself, and while Neary might surprise him, I didn’t think he’d get him talking.

  No, Stevie was definitely the weak link in that shop; he was the guy I’d go at first. But Stevie might need a little encouragement, and that’s where Neary would draw the line.

  I stopped my pacing and thought about Stevie’s broken nose, and about his bruises and stitches and splinted fingers, and I remembered what Richard Gilpin had told me, back in Fort Lee. The office isn’t open to the public, and management gets real nervous about visitors. From what I heard, the last guy who came sniffing around here was lucky to get out with all his fingers attached.

  The phone rang and I jumped. It was Neary. He was calling from a car and he sounded exhausted.

  “I took a run at Marty,” he said, “and got nowhere.” Neary waited for me to say something, but I didn’t. He went on. “He was surprised, no question about it, but you saw— he dances pretty good for a fat man and he wouldn’t admit to anything. In fact, he seems to know less now than when we saw him this afternoon.”

  “What about Stevie?”

  “There was no sign of him in the office. I had Juan check out the neighborhood watering holes, but he had no luck. I sent Eddie out to his place in Queens. We’ll keep an eye out there and at the office until he turns up.” Neary yawned deeply. “I’m sorry about this, John.”

  “You should get some sleep.”

  “We’ll find him, if not tonight, then tomorrow or the day after.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Sure, unless Uncle Marty finds him first and tells him to shut the hell up and runs him out of town for a while. I thought some more about Stevie and his broken fingers and about what Gromyko had said, the last time I had seen him.

  It is possible that I could be of assistance to you, Mr. March, but I do not operate a charitable organization. My advisory services are valuable, and for them I expect payment in kind.

  I sat at the table and thought about how long it might take to locate Stevie and how much coaching he might get by then. I rubbed my eyes and thought about Goran and Gromyko and deals with the devil and payment in kind. I thought about the manila envelope and about the pictures inside. I punched the number for Morgan & Lynch in Fort Lee, and a woman answered. She sounded like the tattooed girl.

  “This is March,” I said. “I want to talk to Gromyko.” I gave her my number and she hung up. I sat and waited for a call back and listened to the music coming through the ceiling. It was louder now, and punctuated by the angry staccato of Jane working combinations on the heavy bag.

  24

  I slept badly that night and met Gromyko the next morning in the Conservatory Garden in Central Park. I took a long and elaborate route to ensure that I got there unescorted, and I arrived early, at just after eight. I entered at 105th Street, and the sound of morning traffic on Fifth Avenue faded behind me as I passed through the Vanderbilt Gate and into the Italian-style section of the garden. It was a warm morning, with a breeze and some fat clouds in a Wedgwood sky, but it was just past opening time and the garden was nearly empty. There was a well-dressed elderly couple making their slow way south, toward the English garden, and a willowy woman with long blond hair and a flowing flimsy skirt standing near the wrought-iron pergola. I headed north, past a row of blossoming crab apple trees and into the French-style garden. The tulips were still in bloom, and their bright heavy heads bobbed a little in the little wind.

  Gromyko was early too, and he was standing by the fountain. He wore loafers and loose white trousers and a band-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was looking at the bronzes— three dancing maidens— and at the water that rose and fell between their elegant arms, and his blond hair shone in the sunlight. The Ukrainian Jay Gatsby. He walked toward me and his movements were precise but also graceful and relaxed. His canted gray eyes were as cold as ever.

  “You are more than prompt, Mr. March,” he said.

  “It’s a nice morning.”

  Gromyko nodded. “And the gardens are particularly nice in
this season.” We walked slowly down the path, flanked by vast beds of tulips, and a little of yesterday’s heat seemed to come up at us from the soil. “I walk here every morning, but spring mornings are the best.” Gromyko saw my surprise and a smile disturbed his pale features. “It is not a long walk, Mr. March, I live just over there.” He pointed south and east.

  “Not in Jersey?”

  Gromyko snorted a little. “No, not in New Jersey,” he said. He came to a stop by a stone bench and put a foot on its edge and folded his arms across his chest. “And now business. You said last night that you wished to consult me.” I nodded. “And you recall that I operate on a quid pro quo basis, yes?”

  “I recall.”

  “And when the time comes that I require payment?” Gromyko fixed his gray eyes on me, and despite the sunlight a chill spread through my limbs.

  “I pull my weight,” I said. “Within reason.”

  Gromyko smiled a little. “Always within reason, Mr. March.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. I haven’t asked you anything and you haven’t answered. So it remains to be seen how much help you can be.”

  Gromyko smiled again, patiently this time, as if at a quarrelsome child. “I am at your disposal,” he said quietly.

  “That day in the garage, you weren’t surprised when I told you I was working a missing persons case. And you didn’t press me about it. You didn’t ask who was missing, or much of anything else.”

  The little smile stayed on Gromyko’s face. “No, I did not.”

  “I think that was because you already knew who I was looking for.”

  A nod. “I did.”

  “Because I wasn’t the first person to come looking for this guy and wanting to talk to Gilpin. Someone else had been there before me.”

  Gromyko’s smile widened slightly. “Someone much less … civilized, Mr. March.”

  “Stevie,” I said.

  Gromyko shrugged. “I do not recall his name. He was a bodybuilder, impolite and stupid— an unfortunate combination.”