“Why’d Shork pick your sister to blackmail?”
“You know about that?”
“Uh huh. Why her? Why not you?”
“Indeed? Why me?”
“No offense, but your sexual inclinations, maybe. That’s always a good reason.”
“You have proof of same?”
“No, but…”
“But I’m convincing in the part, if it is a part.”
“Something like that.”
“It’s true that I follow the great Oscar Wilde in my sexual appetites, but I am discreet. Sissy, alas, has never been.”
“I have the pictures,” I said, producing the folder from inside my coat.
“Of?”
“Sissy. From Shork’s collection.”
“That’s not possible. Not unless you lied to my brother about his briefcase. You told him you found it empty.”
“I did. That night at the wrecking yard, your brother was paying Shork for pictures of Sissy.”
“Pictures and negatives. And you don’t have those pictures?”
“No, others.”
“Not possible. Shork told me that they were the last…”
“You’d paid Shork five times before, fifteen thousand dollars, all totaled…”
“How did you know that?”
“…And he was ready to hold you up for more, and to keep holding you up.”
Jorgenson’s eyes turned harsh as he stared at the folder. “So now I am to deal with you,” he said sadly. I tossed it across the table.
“Wrong again. Except for the pictures in the briefcase, and I don’t know where those are, this is the end of it. I promised your brother I’d destroy them myself, but maybe you’d feel better doing it.”
The moment he looked at the picture, he began to cry. He got up, still sobbing, and walked to the window. I waited until he collected himself before I continued. “I hope you’ll accept what’s in that folder as my favor to you, and I hope you’ll do me one in return.”
He eyed me cautiously for a moment, and then he said, “What do you want?”
“The story. All of it that you know.”
He slumped at his desk, flicked a button on his intercom and said, “No calls.” He studied my face for a moment before he spoke further. “Sissy… is not quite right, as the doctors like to say. Since birth. Our father had only the briefest affair with the unhappily married Mrs. Carlson. His name was Arthur, or so I was told years later. He was an artist, very bohemian, very handsome and witty, but he had emotional problems which he passed, for the most part, on to Sissy. Neither of us ever met him. Jack even tried to track him down once, without success. Poor Arthur either went mad somewhere or Jack’s father had him—how shall I say this nicely—eliminated. Sissy and I are similarly dead as far as Jack’s father, the great tycoon, is concerned. He supported us, grudgingly, at our mother’s insistence. Such a cruel, heartless, petty man. I’m ashamed to be in the same business.”
“I’m assuming he hasn’t changed much over the years.”
“No. There have been times when even Mother could not force him to support us, to acknowledge our needs. That’s when Jack fought for us, fought against his own father, for us.”
“And Sissy’s trouble?”
“As I said, she’s not quite right. Call her dull-witted, irrational, flighty, gullible in the extreme. It’s what the doctors say. Anyway, she’s spent most of her life being a victim of something. The boys in Sissy’s grammar school were her first tormentors. They abused her, emotionally at first, and then, when they found out how easy it was, sexually. After she was gang-raped in the eighth grade, Mother took her out of school. It was an elite private school, and many of the guilty boys were the sons of men who worked for or with Jack’s father, or knew him from his club, so the whole business was hushed up. Nobody admitted to knowing that the Jorgenson twins were really half-Carlsons, but most of them knew. We could barely control Sissy after the rape. She discovered alcohol, Benzedrine, and her own sexuality almost simultaneously. Jack came to her rescue time and again, and the two of us begged her to get the psychiatric help she’d been refusing. The only person she’d accept counsel from was Jiang, whom Mother had secured as a companion when Sissy was very young.”
“She waits tables at Lum Fung’s on Canal Street?”
“Yes.”
“But Jiang couldn’t watch her day and night…”
“Precisely. It was a party somewhere. She’d gone unchaperoned, or perhaps her escort was in on it as well. She became drunk, they took her to a room, and took their pictures. Sissy didn’t care, but it was a scandal to the rest of us, especially Mother. The pictures came somehow to Shork, who bled us dry, until that night at the wrecking yard. The last pictures, he promised. The very last.” His voiced trailed away, and he stared blankly at me for a moment, his attention waning, his thoughts scattering like children at recess. I was afraid I’d lose him, so I posed my other question.
“What hold did Alberto Scarpetti have on your brother?”
“Do you know the Faust legend? A man who makes a fatal bargain with the Devil?”
“A little.”
“Transpose it to Brooklyn, substitute Scarpetti for the Devil, and you have my brother’s story.”
“’A critical lapse in judgment, leading to a series of bad decisions and crowned by an act of sheer recklessness.’”
“What’s that?”
“It’s something he said to me a couple of days before he died. You knew his whole case against Scarpetti was in that briefcase, didn’t you?”
“And if I did?”
“Then you made the same deal he made. I mean, with your soul.”
That brought a cold stare. He stood up and walked to the window again. After a few moments, he answered. “I chose my brother above the law. That’s all. I made no deal with the Devil.”
“You aided and abetted. You helped your brother give the Devil his due, and then some. If those documents don’t reappear and convict Scarpetti, you’re going to have even more blood on your hands than you have already.”
That turned him around. “Already?”
“That’s right.”
“And whose blood is that?”
“You were in such a hurry to be honest before. Why not be honest now?”
“About what?”
“About whom. Joe Shork.”
“Shork?”
I stood up. “You want to tell me why you killed him?”
CHAPTER
40
Jorgenson fled his office so quickly that he slammed his shoulder into the doorjamb. He wasn’t going far without an overcoat, so I followed him casually into the lobby. He waited for the elevator with some agitation, and when he got in with five other people, I got in, too. We glared at each other across the car as the operator closed the door.
We went up.
The Williamsburgh Savings Bank Tower had several observation decks. Jorgenson took the first, probably because no one else was on it. I followed him out.
“You’re out of your mind,” he said as he looked down on Times Plaza.
“If I am, why are we up here?”
He turned to face me, eyes set coldly. “I needed some air.”
“And maybe a good spot to jump?”
“Or perhaps to throw you over.”
“No offense, Mr. Jorgenson, but I could handle you from a wheelchair.”
“Your accusation is absurd.”
“No it isn’t. Think about it the way I have, ever since you tipped me.”
“Tipped you?”
“Yeah. You were in the car that night your brother was dealing with Shork. You didn’t hear Shork say anything about those being the last pictures.”
“Jack came out to the car and told me.”
“No he didn’t. He went to get more money for the negatives, but he didn’t say a word to you, and Shork didn’t, either, because you were never inside the shack that night. That’s what Arnold, that kid in Raymond S
treet says, and, strangely enough, I believe him.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“So, what’d you and Carlson do after Arnold swiped the car? Call the cops from right there, then call a cab?”
“Jack had me call, but then we took the subway back to Flatbush. Jack was afraid to be recognized.”
“Did Shork know the Scarpetti file was in the car?”
“Of course not. He thought the entire incident was quite amusing, especially when I was thrown into the street. He had his money, you see. He had no further interest.”
“Another reason for you to frame Arnold. Payback for throwing you into the street.”
“Nonsense. The boy killed Shork. He made a public threat in City Prison.”
“Not all that public. Only the desk sergeant, a couple of guards, some stray felons, and a lawyer friend of mine heard it. That’s how I knew, and from the police report, which isn’t public. The only way you could’ve known was from your brother, who was paying very close attention to everything Arnold said or did at Raymond Street. He needed that briefcase back in a hurry, before anybody else knew it was gone. You were helping him on that, but then you realized you could kill Shork, frame Arnold for it, and save your sister from any more blackmail. You were even prepared to jeopardize your brother’s search for the briefcase to get Sissy free of Shork permanently. That’s why you went back to Victory Wrecking the night after they released Arnold. That’s when Shork told you there were no more pictures except the ones in the car. He probably said it with a sly little grifter’s smile, just to put a doubt in your mind, to watch you squirm a little more. Maybe he was even laughing. And then you hit him as hard as you could with Arnold’s hammer when his back was turned.”
“You can’t prove a word of this.”
“That’s right, I can’t. But a boy’s going to die unless you tell the truth. All the jury’ll know is that his fingerprints are on the hammer you drove into Shork’s skull. You wore gloves, right?”
“Doesn’t everyone, in winter?”
I stopped to read his expression, but it didn’t betray him. “Look,” I said, “I’m not saying Shork didn’t deserve what he got. I might even want to shake your hand…”
“Then leave things as they are.”
“I can’t. Look, let’s even say you didn’t go there to kill Shork or to frame Arnold. Let’s say you just tried to reason with Shork one last time. Maybe he tried to bully you, and maybe you panicked. You saw the hammer in Arnold’s toolbox and took it for protection. And when Shork went for his gun in the desk drawer, you hit him and you ran. Self-defense. Extenuating circumstances. Maybe a jury’d buy that. I don’t know. But you’re gonna carry two big sins around, not just one, if Arnold takes the fall for this.”
“And how many more pictures are there?”
“Just the ones in the car.”
“And these? How much?” He was still clutching the envelope I’d handed him in his office.
“Didn’t your brother tell you about my price for the briefcase?
“He said he offered you ten thousand dollars.”
“And?”
“And you didn’t take it.”
“I’m not here to take from you, either.”
“And the pictures in the car, the so-called last of the last?”
“They’re with whoever has the Scarpetti evidence file. When I return that to the cops, I’ll return the pictures to you.”
“For what?”
“I could say in exchange for Arnold, but that’s not what I told your brother.”
“You sound very certain that you’ll find the pictures.”
“I’m not. I’m just trying to keep my word to some people. You think about it, Mr. Jorgenson. You think about what you’re doing, and who’s gonna pay. You won’t be any better than Shork if you let Arnold Pulaski die for nothing.”
“And if I confess? What happens to Sissy while I’m in prison?”
“Her Chinese friends can take care of her. Your mother, I’m sure, will handle the financial part.”
He walked past me toward the bank of doors that led back to the elevators, the envelope with Sissy’s pictures curled tightly in his hand. “All of this over one poor woman’s weakness,” he said, gesturing with that hand.
“More than that, Mr. Jorgenson. A whole hell of a lot more than that.”
CHAPTER
41
The Barracuda Brothers’ hearse was still parked across the street when I arrived home. I’d already returned Gino’s car, snuck in the back way again, and was pretending to check my mail as I waved to them from the porch. A note was inside the mailbox. The handwriting was Father Giacomo’s, the envelope official St. Margaret’s stationery. So I called.
Father Giacomo’s voice sounded unusually agitated and urgent. Even his typically sing-song vowels were clipped and off-key. He told me to come to the rectory by the back entrance, and I did. The Barracuda Brothers followed, parked their hearse, and waited.
In the dressing area behind his office, Father Giacomo was gazing somberly at a line of black cassocks hung on hangers inside a long, narrow closet. The vestments for mass were in another closet, and the altar boys’ vestments in yet another.
“Eddie,” he said. “You stand-a here,” and held a cassock in front of me as if measuring me for a fit. It was chilly in the room, but he was sweating.
“Father…”
“Stand-a up a little taller,” he said, watching the hem of the cassock spill over my shoes. He put the cassock back on the rack and anxiously tried another. “Maybe-a Father Michcle’s, maybe his fit-a better.”
“Father, what’s going on?”
He held up the second cassock, urged me again to stand taller, watched the hem fall just to the tops of my shoes and said, “Hold-a this.”
He paused to wipe the sweat from his troubled brow and make a hurried sign of the cross. He seemed in that moment to relax, but then he took another look at my shoes. “You gotta brown-a shoes,” he said. “That’s-a no good. Black. Black shoes is-a good.”
He burrowed through all three closets on hands and knees for the next few minutes while I stood holding the cassock. Finally he asked, “What size-a shoe, Eddie?”
“Ten-and-a-half B.”
He looked perplexed. “That’s-a narrow.”
“I’m missing four toes, remember?”
“From a-Europe. From a-the frost-a-bite.”
“That’s right, Father. Listen…”
“You just-a gonna have to settle for eleven C,” he said, pulling out a pair of black shoes and placing them at my feet. “The cassock, the shoes, you put-a them on.” He sat down, exhausted, as I removed my coat and shirt, slipped the cassock over my undershirt and trousers, and buttoned it up. I took off my shoes, swam around in eleven C black oxfords, stood straight up, and stared at him.
“You want to tell me now, Father?”
A look of pure bliss briefly crossed his troubled face. “Your sweet-a mother, she all-a-ways want-a you to be a priest. She look at you now, from a-Heaven, and she-a smile!”
“Father…”
He pointed to a small round table and two chairs and we sat down. “There’s a boy in-a the confessional, he wants a-talk-a to you. A-nobody else. He say he’s not-a gonna come out lest-a you go in.”
“How long’s he been in there?”
“One-a two hours a-maybe. I phone-a you, then I send-a Sister Ursula with-a the note.”
“This boy, he give his name?”
“No. He’s a-scared. He gives-a your name, wants-a talk with-a you only, and only if-a you come lookin’-a like a priest. He say he make a confession.”
“Is that something I’m allowed to do?” The anguish in Father Giacomo’s eyes confirmed that it wasn’t.
“It’s-a not-a real confession, not-a like to a priest. If he done a-somethin’ bad, somethin’ to put him in-a state of mortal sin, you no can-a take it away…”
“I understand, Father.”
&
nbsp; “Maybe you make him a-understand, he needs-a to talk to a real-a priest…”
“I will, Father.”
“He’s in-a confessional number two.”
He made another sign of the cross, pointed me to the door, and I walked the short distance to St. Margaret’s. I used the side door that Chick Gunderson had used each of five nights. There were no broken panes. The sight of that saddened me for a moment as I tipped my head down, folded my hands in front of me and made my way as unobtrusively as possible to the door of confessional number two. I closed it silently behind me, slid the connecting window open, and heard a frightened voice say, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned” through a fine wire mesh.
Before he could tell me how long it’d been since his last confession, I said, “I’m Eddie Lombardi. Father Giacomo says you want to talk to me.”
“I gotta”
“Look, this isn’t exactly above board, what I’m doin’ here, kid. You got any real sins, you gotta confess ’em to a priest, not me. You understand?”
“I’m scared,” he said, his voice at the edge of tears.
“What of?”
“They got Chick and Teddy. Maybe they’ll get me, too.”
I sat up stiff. “You knew Chick and Teddy?”
“I’m Teddy’s cousin.”
“Who sent you to me?”
“His pals in Brownsville, they said you was tryin’ to help him, and that you wasn’t a cop. I hadda tell somebody, so…”
“Keep talking.”
“Chick, he came to see me after they heisted the D.A.’s car.”
“Right away after?”
“Uh uh. He’d been hidin’ all over. I figured he’d go to that little hideout they got by the bridge. That’s where they always went when they got in trouble. But he said he couldn’t this time.”
“He say why?”
“Naah. He was so scared, he wasn’t makin’ a whole lotta sense.”
“Been there yourself? The hideout?”
“Naah. I never hung out with Stinky and that bunch. That’s why I was surprised when he came to see me that night. Maybe that’s why he came.”
“What night was that?”
“Night after Teddy got shot.”
“Which was the night before Chick got shot.”
Hot-Wired in Brooklyn Page 17
