by Jackson, Gil
Lying on the floor panting, his heart was racing with the shock and the pain from the muscular spasm trying to free itself from his chest. He tried to work out what had happened. The light from the bare bulb in the ceiling had been but a flash, but it had been enough to show him that he was not alone.
He didn’t have to wait for long to find out who.
‘WHERE’S MY DAUGHTER?’
He turned his head sharply to one side — in the direction of the sound of the voice and promptly punctured the side of his neck on something sharp. Letting out a yell his head went back the other way to do the same to the other side. His brain passed the message to the neck muscles not to repeat the exercise.
‘That you, Fariq? I didn’t touch her, honest! I’ve told Lieutenant Weinberg that; he believes me. It must have been Sledge. I left him there and ran. Your wife, she cut me.’ He uttered the words through the burning pain. His mind’s eye could see himself in a pincer arrangement of two knives from which there could be little chance of immediate escape, and an equally imminent chance of dying for he could feel his life blood pumping from him: his heart having been accelerated to do the job from the electric shock more efficiently than if he’d been connected to a pump.
‘Me and you finished playing games when my wife was murdered and you took my child. Italian excuse for a shit bag. Tell me and what I want to know. Now!’
Fariq said the words quietly, unhurriedly, and Tony knew that he would let him die right there on the floor. He was beginning to choke, the blood had found its way to the back of his throat.
He whispered. ‘We didn’t see her. And we didn’t kill your woman.’ His voice was barely discernible to himself and he wondered if Fariq had heard him for he could feel himself slipping away. There was enough life in him to utter the last words he had to make. ‘Please.... Get me a priest.’
‘Who?’ He screamed the word.
‘Marco Giuseppi must have ... her—’ The man fell unconscious.
Fariq, satisfied Tony Di Sotto, thinking himself about to die and likely spoken the truth, pressed his thumbs hard against the man’s neck artery hard against the muscle: held the pressure for a full ten minutes until the blood rush subsided. He bound a tight bandage around the two wounds leaving the man’s fate in the hands of a phone call and a message with a 7th Precinct police desk sergeant. Satisfied, he left to seek the only man left responsible.
* * *
Charlie O’Hare walked into Dutch’s eater with a hand-full of claypipes, some tobacco, and Wakes on his mind. At their usual table Frank sat eating a breakfast of sliced hard eggs and what he liked to call special koshered bacon, haricot beans, motzas and a wash down from a large jug of coffee. He pulled a chair out for himself, sat down and helped himself to a wash down; waiting for Frank to look up from his newspaper.
‘I think we’ve found what’s on Fariq’s mind. You’re right, he’s looking for his daughter in the same direction that you are.’ Frank looked at him. ‘We had a call that Tony Di Sotto — after someone tipped us off. Apparently he was supposed to be in a bad way.’
‘How bad?’
‘Don’t know. When our people arrived he’d been spirited away — no sign of him. Blood on the carpet. That’s it.’
‘Could have been a fake call.’
Frank pushed the rest of the motza into his mouth, picked his coffee up and sipped it, carried on reading. ‘It was real alright. Someone with more concern for his fellow man than was meted out to him.... Yankees won last night. See the game?’ Frank said.
‘Wireless,’ Charlie replied. ‘Good game. Fariq didn’t kill him?’
‘No way of knowing for sure. Shouldn’t have thought so. Person or persons unknown removed the deceased before we got there.’ Frank said.
‘Fariq obviously didn’t think Tony was responsible for his daughter’s disappearance, he’d had finished him off then and there.’
‘He did tell us it was Giuseppi all along. So much for Sicilian blood brothers.... My guess is: Fariq was after all the information Di Sotto had on Giuseppi that would be useful to him — like where he lives — and gone after him.’ Frank said.
‘Well, it’s beginning to add up, so it is. I found more.’ Charlie said.
‘Go on.’
‘Well. Those missing children ...’
‘What the six—’
‘... Try eighteen!’
‘How many?’ Frank’s voice raised the faces of the rest of the diners and he quickly lowered it again. ‘Eighteen?’
‘Six in the last two years. Twelve in the previous three.’
‘The file only mentions six, how come?’
‘There was, apparently, another file sculling round somewhere.’
‘How’d you know?’
‘Sugden ...?’
‘The file clerk in the basement?’
‘That’s right. Well, he happened to mention to me when I went to look at the file that there was another. Went to look for it — couldn’t find it.’
‘He must’ve made a mistake.’
‘No mistake, Frank. He was certain. It was such an unusual crime he said it stayed in his memory — eighteen and all girls.... They ranged in ages from four to six; all of them immigrants. Plus, he said that it mentioned that several six to nine year olds had turned up in New Jersey and Pennsylvania; necks all broken; wearing ball gowns, court shoes and make-up.’
‘Did he say if there was any one in the frame for it at the time—?’
‘Yes. Marco Giuseppi’s name was banded around. Apparently Dore was so convinced that Giuseppi was involved he made the file available to someone higher up for a possible prosecution. Only Governor Brent got to hear of it and intervened. The word was they wanted Dore’s evidence before allowing him to bring Giuseppi in for questioning.’
‘And the file’s definitely gone?’
‘Along with Dore’s career.’
‘So others’ ... are aware?’
‘Apart from Sugden who was never going to let on that he knew of its existence, until that is, the right people came a-snooping.’
‘I’m flattered. Someone’s covering for him, if it is. The question is why should they ... I mean; this goes beyond a bit of racketeering?’
‘Would certainly answer the other question we had at the time.’
‘What was that?’
‘Dore retiring early.’
‘Um, and getting run down by a sedan and killed. Makes you wonder if it was the accident they said it was. You want the rest of this coffee, Charlie? Christ. Eighteen children!’
‘Don’t keep saying, Christ! To the best of me knowledge your Messiah hasn’t arrived yet!’
PART ONE
CHAPTER 4 – 1920
Detective Sergeant Charlie O’Hare sporting a large checked brown suit, a brown bowler hat and a broad grin, sat perched on the wall that surrounded Marco Giuseppi’s house. Next to him in something less loud, with an altogether different sense of humour: Lieutenant Frank Weinberg, but not for long. Dropping silently to the ground; the wrong side of the wall and the wrong side of the law, he listened for sounds that did not belong to the night. Satisfying himself that all was, as far as he could tell, kosher, allowed himself to call for Charlie to follow in a voice above what he would call a whisper. Charlie still wearing the broad grin obliged hit the ground lost his balance knocked the crouching lieutenant over into a hedge whilst still keeping his grin but losing his bowler. Frank struggled out of his predicament brushed himself off gave Charlie a less than friendly look and remarked that he had all the attributes of Stan Laurel. This kept the grin, which was having to be contained by a kerchief, from turning into a full blown laugh on his face even longer. Frank showed him his fist to keep him quiet and it left.
Both crouched in the darkness waited for their eyes to adjust, moved off in the direction of the semi derelict house, Charlie hanging back apace to collect his bowler before following Frank.
‘Can you see any lights?’ Frank whispered, ‘go t
o the side behind that glass thing see if you can see anything.’
‘Cold frame.’
‘What?’
‘It’s called a cold frame.’
But Frank was on the move.
‘No! Where you going?’ Charlie called to him.
‘Round the back. Meet me there if no one comes out.’ He banged the large knocker on the front door, twice and was gone.
Charlie froze at his mischief and daring. ‘What if some one comes?’ But Frank had gone. Not having the time to think what they were doing he waited for the time it might take someone to answer before leaving the security of the cold frame and following Frank, but not before knocking a stack of flower pots over.
‘Sweet Mother of Jesus!’ he whispered and put his fingers into his ears hoping for the noise to go away; pulled them out when he realised the ridiculousness of his act of childishness.
Frank heard the crash not knowing who made the din stopped stock-still guessing that it would be Charlie stumbled around again, carried on.
Charlie looked at his watch and waited. A minute went by and he followed after Frank but not before knocking yet another pot over. Coming to the back of the house he saw Frank with his head inside the bonnet of one of the cars that were parked there; and emerged with a rotor arm from the car’s distributor which he tossed into the air and caught with a smile of satisfaction.
‘Charlie! Over here.’ He called to him as quietly as he could and began to wonder if it were worth their while bothering anymore. ‘This window’s been forced’. He lifted it, pulled himself up and disappeared through it head first with a crash.
Charlie looked through the window and into the blackened room anxiously wondering what had befallen him when his face appeared right way up like a demon prince at a magic show hanging by his hands on the window frame.
Charlie smiled. ‘I’m thinking oylle be goin’ in feet first if it’s all the same to you, lieutenant.’ The image of Frank in a crumpled heap on the floor made him feel better over the noise he was making. The floor was seven feet below the window sill and Charlie gently lowered himself to it. He flicked his torch on. Frank was brushing himself down and rubbing the top of his head. They looked around. There was the usual rubbish that people put in basements — even criminals. They noticed a small flight of stairs leading to a door. Frank was at the top of them banging his head on an old yellow lamp bulb hanging from an even older length of cable. ‘See if you can find a switch.’
Charlie obliged and they switched their torches off. ‘You don’t think this is going a bit far, what with us not having a search warrant an all?’
Frank certainly did have reservations. They could be in a lot of trouble over this: there wasn’t after all any real evidence that Giuseppi had abducted Fariq’s daughter. Would they have been granted a warrant if they had? He knew they wouldn’t. Rivers will have a field day with their careers if this all goes wrong; or more to the point: if it all goes right.
Frank seized his stray thoughts into something constructive. ‘We’re here to rescue a six-year-old girl in danger of her life — concentrate on that.’
Charlie nodded. ‘Let’s hope she’s here, eh?’
Frank nodded back. ‘She may not be, but I’ll bet my badge that the man that lives here will know where she is.’
‘I’m hoping that’s he’s not the same bastard that tears heads off — have you thought about that?’
‘I know. I keep coming back to that one myself, have you ever seen anything like that before?’ Charlie shook his head. ‘If he’s ever got his hands round my neck and you think that there’s a chance that it was him that done it, you have my permission to shoot your gun up the bastard’s arse; and if my back’s to you – up mine!’
Feeling the door edges for some grasp, Frank, found what he was looking for and slowly pulled the door open with his nails and fingertips. He looked through. There was no light the other side so he opened it all the way.
‘Come on,’ he whispered, and was gone.
The passageway had the smell of cheap perfume mixed with damp atmospheres. The whole gave off the odour of something unpleasant. Making their way along further the unpleasantness turned into horror and the whole reason they were there became justified.
Charlie spoke first. ‘Sweet Mother of Jesus, look at all this.’
With Sugden’s file recall still to the forefront of his mind, Frank’s brain sent the message of chill down his spine erecting the hairs on his arms and shoulders upright. His eyes watered with the imaginative complexities of a brain that could conjure such deviation. He looked at Charlie to gauge his reaction. Charlie stared back at him. He hoped that he would have made nothing of what was before them. That it was something that he’d seen before. Something that was normal and not to be taken too seriously, but he was to be disappointed. The look on Charlie’s face was of the same horror that he was experiencing; and he looked for all the world as if he was to burst into a rage. The walls were strung with dresses. Not adults’ or children’s, but grown-up women’s clothes made small. There were gowns, cabaret dresses, wedding dresses and fancy dresses that would have made a whore proud. And there was more. Hanging alongside were long black cloaks (adult size), with hoods that would hide the identity of the wearers. Next and added to the bizarre wardrobe: whips, knives, pliers, wire brushes.
Charlie spoke first with little reason to curb his volume anymore; as if their being here would place all bets off with any occupants of this evil, evil palace. ‘Sweet Mother of Jesus, what the fook’s this all about?’ But he didn’t need Frank to respond, he knew “what the fook”, and his normally red Irish complexion deepened.
Frank said nothing. He’d put two and two together and came up with a whole heap of sick bastards.
‘These have gotta be put away, Frank.’
‘Come on. Let’s do it.’
* * *
Frank had hoped that the file that Sugden had first mentioned to Charlie had been a mistake. In that corridor Charlie had spoken the word that he had not wanted to think let alone hear. Torture. Involving children in some bizarre rites, was that what this was? Religious. No religion that he’d ever heard indulged in practices like that. Sex and torture? Satanism? Too many subjects that ended in the same conclusion. Satanic rites. But surely, that kind of thing ended in the dark ages along with animal sacrifice. The drinking of blood and the like.
‘Frank!’
Charlie had gone on ahead and had come to another room that he was listening at the door. ‘There’s someone in there,’ he whispered.
He went up to where Charlie had his ear against the door and did the same. He could not hear anything.
‘Stand aside,’ he said and gently opened the door. Looking in they saw the room was in darkness except for a hole cut in a wall that was letting in a thin stream of light. In the middle was a movie projection machine. They went inside closed the door and listened. Frank could hear what Charlie was on about and it was coming through that hole. He peered through and found himself looking into an auditorium, seats arranged in rows. Although dark, he could make out three people seated in front of a stage.
‘What do you make of it, Charlie?’
Charlie put his face to the opening and stared down. ‘Who’re the comedians wearing the funny masks, Frank?’
He stepped aside leaving Frank to look again. ‘Don’t know. Looks like some kind of a show, can’t be a movie show though the lantern is up here with no one to operate it.’
‘Unless someone’s coming up to do that,’ Charlie said anxiously.
‘No, there’d be one of them roll of film spools. Whatever’s going on is going on down there. Can’t make out what those guys are wearing. Look like farm animals.’
Frank had no sooner said the words than Marco Giuseppi stood up from one of the seats, turned round and looked right up to where the two men were standing. It happened so quickly that Frank didn’t have a chance to move and when he did he decided against it for fear of drawing
any more attention to himself. Standing there frozen not moving an eyelid. Giuseppi’s eyes bore into his and just when Frank thought the game was up he turned away and carried on what it was doing. Frank moved back inside and breathed a sigh of relief.
‘My life, I’d thought he seen me!’
‘Are you sure he hadn’t?’
Frank slowly looked back through the aperture again. ‘Well if he did, he isn’t letting on ... wait a second
... something’s happening.’ He stared hard down into the gloom moving aside enough for Charlie to share the view.
Charlie whispered slowly. ‘Where’s that light coming from?’
‘That stage, I think.’ Frank could make out the silhouette of a woman with a smaller woman by the side of her. Or was it her: Fariq’s daughter? He couldn’t be sure. She was tethered to the woman by a rope or cord of some kind. The light came up brighter now. It was her, he was sure of it. The description given him fitted her, her full eyes – though they weren’t so now – he was convinced, it didn’t matter anyhow: it was some mother and father’s child if it wasn’t Fariq’s — and she, wearing a wedding dress! A white effrontery to God. That such a gift of His creation could be subjected to such deprivation was an affront that he felt especially. A white wedding dress over laid with flowers, her face in view as the woman pulled her forward to the front of the platform; heavily made up like a whore. Painted red lips, blushed cheeks; her hair had been managed. He could make out another identity. It was a man wearing the mask of a bloodhound, the masquerader was clearly agitated. Shouting lovely and delightful. Nudging the clown and the goat, urging them to turn her round so that he could get a better view of her. A semi-circle of mirrors behind the girl and her escort showed her multi mirrored into infinity which excited him even more. Hooting with glee he made the other two start to laugh: but they were laughing at him.
All the time that this circus was being played out Frank watched the girl for any kind of compliance to which she was being subjected to — there was none, any more than there was distress. She was not smiling, in fact her face was expressionless as if she had been hypnotised. He had seen it being performed on the variety stage and thought that it was a complete hoax — people doing things that they would not ordinarily do, stupid things.
