The Good Policeman (The Isaac Sidel Novels)

by Jerome Charyn

  Isaac clutched her sleeve. “You’re half the family I’ve got. I missed you, and I never even called out your name. Didn’t ask myself, ‘Where’s the Odessa girl?’”

  “Isaac, don’t get crazy on me.”

  “I am crazy,” Isaac said. “I always was. My mother collected rags. My kid brother is in and out of alimony jail. My father ran to France.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with Sal Rubino’s hitter. Isaac, you have a price on your head.”

  “Then I must be an important man.”

  “I warned you, Isaac. It’s out of my hands.”

  She started to go, but Isaac spun her around, Dracula’s teenage bride.

  “I could keep you here,” he said. “Plenty of souls have been lost in Riker’s Island. I could waltz you under the bench.”

  “And what would you accomplish? You’d look into my eyes and see I wasn’t there. You’d be making love to some kind of corpse. I died in Odessa, Commissioner Sidel.”

  Isaac released her from his grip. “I’m not a commissioner anymore.”

  He wasn’t scared of the Big Blue. He welcomed the idea of meeting his executioner. Don Isacco would bite off both his ears. He wondered if the Blue would bribe a guard and sneak into the isolation ward. The Big Blue had Rubino money behind him. Isaac slept with a sharpened fork inside his sleeve. But the Big Blue never came and Isaac fell into his old routines. He revived Machos alphabet book. Even baseball slipped from his mind. He’d lost that river of names. Isaac would dream of the cities he’d visited as a Hamilton Fellow. Not the scenic routes other police chiefs offered him. But the barrio of East L.A. The shantytowns along the Rio Grande. And while he was dreaming, a note was slipped into Isaac’s cell.

  DEAR COMMISSIONER,

  I WANT THAT SHORT EYES AS MY BABE.

  I’LL KILL YOU IF I DON’T GET MACHO.

  —A FRIEND

  Isaac smiled. The Big Blue had come to him with a note, realizing that Don Isacco would never give up Macho and would have to meet with the man. Isaac scribbled on the back of the note: “Dear Friend. Fuck yourself.”

  He gave it to one of the Rastafarians and forgot about the whole affair. And then the Big Blue smuggled a second note under Isaac’s door.

  IT’S TIME TO TALK.

  But Isaac didn’t know where or when. He sharpened the prongs of that fork that he kept in his sleeve. He had his own trident now, like some water god away from the sea. He slept with one eye open, but the Big Blue wouldn’t come for Isaac until Isaac started to dream. He felt a hand clamped over his mouth. Convicts dressed as screws lifted Isaac off his bunk and carried him out of the isolation ward. He didn’t resist. He clutched the trident in his sleeve. He was bounced from cellblock to cellblock, and he could hear these convict-screws laughing at him. A police chief didn’t amount to much at Riker’s. He was one burly white man among a tribe of Latinos and blacks. It wasn’t Rebecca’s planet anymore. It wasn’t Maiden Lane, with Boris Michaleson’s Three Sisters. The sisters here wore mustaches and had biceps like ostrich eggs.

  Isaac was dropped in some recreation room that should have been off limits to prison people. But his kidnappers had the run of the room. Their captain had a shaved head, like Marvin Hagler, the middleweight champion of the world. He had little bumps along his skull, like craters.

  “Are you Sal Rubino’s man, the Big Blue?”

  The captain started to laugh, and soon the whole pack of them were howling at Isaac. They had tears in their eyes.

  “He’s dead, brother. He had an awful accident. Electrocuted himself in the machine shop … we don’t like black button men. Hell, I saved your life. Don’t you recognize me, little brother? I’m your black angel.”

  Isaac looked again. He was always clever at reading faces. But his powers had deserted him until a kind of sadness came into the captain’s eyes.

  “Henry Armstrong Lee,” Isaac said. “Without the wig.”

  “I’m awful proud of you, little brother.”

  “Henry, why are you here?”

  “Can you think of a better place for a black man who’s being hunted by all that white trash? I always have my R and R at Riker’s. I come and go.”

  “Like Mandrake the Magician.”

  “Don’t insult me, brother. He was more white trash. He kept a slave.”

  And Isaac wouldn’t argue the merits of Mandrake with Henry Armstrong Lee.

  “I want your chicken,” Henry said.

  “Chicken? I don’t get it.”

  “Short Eyes. The Macho man. I want him to be my babe.”

  “Then it wasn’t Sal’s assassin who sent me the note.”

  The bank robber smiled. “It was Mr. Henry Lee.”

  “I can’t give him up to you.”

  “Why not, little brother? Is he your babe?”

  “I’ve been teaching him how to read. Henry, he’s a fucking kid.”

  “Should I tell you what he’s done out on the street, that kid of yours?”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “Should I tell you about all the black children he touched? Little brother, get smart. Give him to me.”

  “I can’t,” Isaac said. “I can’t.”

  And Henry Lee scowled at Isaac. “I could cut your heart out and no one would ever miss your white ass.”

  “I still wouldn’t give him up. I’d haunt you for the rest of your fucking life.”

  The bank robber scratched his lip. “Guess I’ll have to look for another babe.”

  After he was returned to his ward, Isaac said, “Oh, shit.” He forgot to congratulate Henry Lee for being the first man to break out of Leavenworth in seventeen years. Cops and corrections people didn’t know a bloody thing about jails. The institutions they ran were phantoms of themselves. Riker’s wasn’t what the warden saw. The screws were children who guarded grown men. And Isaac was like an interloper in this hotel. He didn’t belong here. He was on loan from the outside world, a luxury that Riker’s could swallow whenever it wanted to. In the end Macho would become somebody’s babe no matter how many alphabet books Isaac prepared. That was the law of Riker’s Island.

  He got a call from Eileen DiAngelis, the melamed’s daughter. Izzy Wasser had had a stroke. The left side of his body was paralyzed. But he wanted to see Isaac.

  “Eileen, I can’t walk. I’m …”

  “He says he’s willing to pay your bill. Not a bond. The whole bail.”

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  Isaac went to see the warden.

  “You’ll have to wear handcuffs every minute you’re away,’ Warden Salinger said. “And you’ll have to sign a note that you promise to return in six hours.”

  “I’ll sign whatever the fuck you want.”

  “That isn’t the correct attitude, Commissioner. I could get in trouble. You’ll have to keep a log that lists each and every stop.”

  “Salinger, for Christ’s sake. I’m going to visit a dying man.”

  “I’m familiar with that dying man,” the warden said. “He’s a member of a certain Mafia family. Do you realize the trouble Michaelson could make? If you conduct any business, Isaac, I’ll shove you into solitary.”

  The “bride” who accompanied him was the same young black corrections officer who rode with Isaac on the bus to Riker’s, the boy with the gold star in his ear, whose name was also Isaac.

  “I can get you some pussy,” black Isaac said.

  “Not on this trip.”

  Black Isaac drove him to St. Vincent’s Hospital in a tiny van that doubled as a laundry wagon.

  Isaac went up in the elevator with his hands behind his back. People kept staring at the cuffs. One old lady recognized him. “You’re always in my prayers,” she said, and stepped out of the car.

  Isaac entered the melamed’s room while black Isaac stood at the door. Izzy sat like gray stone in his pajamas. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t move. He hadn’t lost the power of speech, but his face was all twisted from the stroke. And when
he talked, Eileen had to wipe the spittle from his mouth.

  “Go,” he told her. “I have things to discuss with the convict.”

  Eileen joined black Isaac.

  “You’re a fool,” the melamed said, “to make such a spectacle of yourself. I never liked martyrs. You could have served yourself better on the street.”

  “How? It’s too fucking political being the Commish.”

  “Then you should have resigned.”

  “And do what? You can’t take a downward step in this career. There are always alligators to bite your ass. You’re creating enemies all the time.”

  “Then sit, Isaac, sit in jail. I wanted to apologize. You were our friend, and I shouldn’t have broken your trust. But Isaac, I had to use every advantage. Jerry’s not much of a planner. And Ted …”

  “He loves to spy.”

  “That’s the picture.”

  “But how can I help you, Iz?”

  “Take care of Eileen.”

  “I can’t run an escort service from Riker’s Island.”

  “Isaac, I’ve set aside sixty thousand dollars. Promise me. If Jerry is hurt, you’ll accept that money as bail. And you’ll move her to Boca Raton. Isaac, I have one daughter, one girl.”

  “I promise,” Isaac said.

  “Now get the hell away from me. Such a stupid man.” The melamed was crying from one side of his face.

  “I told you not to worry,” Isaac said. “I’ll take care of Eileen.”

  “But you’re the bigger baby.… I’ll miss you, Isaac.”

  Isaac whistled through his teeth. “You’re not gone yet.”

  “But I know. I’ll miss you when I’m dead. A commissioner who dresses like a bum. Get out of here.”

  Isaac had an hour to kill. Black Isaac drove him to One Police Plaza. He had no identity here. He’d fallen between the cracks. He was a prisoner who’d once been the PC. He had to get a pass like any glom to get upstairs. “Please tell Commissioner Montgomery I’d like a word with him, if he can spare the time.”

  The guard leered at Isaac’s handcuffs. “I’m not sure the PC is in the building.”

  “APC,” Isaac said. “Mr. Montgomery is the Acting Commish.”

  Isaac rode up to the fourteenth floor with black Isaac, who’d never been around so many police inspectors. No one said a word about the handcuffs. His former sergeants and secretaries wouldn’t even look Isaac in the face. He was the outcast of Riker’s Island. Only Sweets seemed genuinely glad to see Isaac, and Sweets had enough rank not to feel ashamed. He hugged Isaac, who didn’t even have the use of his own hands.

  “Aw, shit,” Sweets said. “Isaac, will you get me out of this hole, and take your desk back.”

  “I’m on vacation.”

  “Can I buy you dinner?”

  “No. The warden will shout bloody murder if I’m not back in his sink. But will you do me a favor, Sweets? I’m worried about Margaret Tolstoy.”

  Sweets’ bonhomie began to go. He looked like an Acting Commish. “I can’t help you, Isaac. The woman belongs to LeComte.”

  “But you could—”

  “Isaac, the case is closed. She’s FBI business.”

  “But that fucking Sal will get her killed.”

  “Then use the telephone. Ask LeComte to lift her.”

  “I can’t call LeComte. You know that.”

  Sweets stared out the window.

  And Don Isacco returned to Riker’s Island. He couldn’t even remember the streets. He belonged with child molesters.

  Magda, Margaret, Minnie the Moo.

  She had more masks than the Phantom of the Opera, who was nothing but a skull with bits of flesh to dry on. And the Phantom wasn’t an informant for the FBI. She’d been to the Paris Opera when she was a girl. It was during the Occupation, and the Germans were interested in High Kultur. Ferdinand’s little Jewish tailor on the avenue Pierre de Serbie had designed a uniform for him, because not even the German High Command could tell what he was supposed to wear. Officially he was the finance minister of Russian Roumania. But Ferdinand loved to dress like a general or a duke. And Margaret couldn’t recall if the pants were brown or blue. But he had gold buttons on his chest, and the buttons smelled of burnt almonds. It could have been because of the tailor, a stubborn little man with thick fingers who had temper tantrums all the time. The Germans wouldn’t dare touch Ferdinand’s Jewish tailor, because Ferdinand was essential to their plans. The tailor’s name was Karl. He looked like Ludwig van Beethoven, or one of the Seven Dwarfs.

  He dressed little Magda too. And she hated all the fittings where he would hover over her with needles in his mouth. And she could smell those burnt almonds on his tongue. The almonds had come from huge honey cakes that he kept in his shop. He was much too busy for breakfast or lunch. He would tear off a hunk of cake between fittings and chew and chew and chew. Margaret wondered where all the needles went, but she never asked Grumpy the tailor.

  She was always introduced as Ferdinand’s niece and protégé. Generals danced with her. Countesses admired her clothes. And when Ferdinand brought her to the Opera, he would always wrap her in his cape, so that she could lunge out from under him like some mysterious creature. And she’d start to patter in French and look up at the chandeliers and try to guess where the Phantom was with his acid-eaten face.

  “Margaret, where have you been?”

  “Out,” she said, looking past Eddies yellow eyes and into Sal Rubino’s pumpkin head. His head was always swollen after a long sleep.

  “Baby. I can’t sleep without you.”

  “You were doing fine.”

  She’d risked LeComte’s whole operation by running out to Riker’s. She’d worn wires in her underpants, buried microphones in flowerpots, marched Sal and his yellow-eyed bandit near FBI surveillance trucks. She’d slept with Jerry DiAngelis, taunted Sal’s soldiers, and would have slept with the melamed too, but he wasn’t interested in her wares. She’d set each branch of the Rubinos against the other and had them fighting like mad dogs. She’d put on a mask like the Phantom of the Opera and robbed Jerry’s runners, all in the name of the FBI. Sal knew about her past, but he needed his Margaret at night. He hated to sleep alone. And the fantasy in his own heart and head was that he could contain her, defuse Margaret Tolstoy, and convert her to his own cause. He always had the option of shoving her into a sack, and that’s why Margaret had to dance around him, but this time she might have danced too far, reached outside the borders of his own crazy love.

  “But where did you go, Margaret?”

  “Shopping,” she said.

  And some kind of menace opened in Sal’s sleepy eyes. “I don’t see any packages, hon.”

  “I couldn’t find anything I liked.”

  “Did you know that the Blue is dead? Some niggers clipped him a couple nights ago.”

  “What Blue?”

  “Come on, Margaret. Our Big Blue.” And he cracked her across the face. She fell against his captain, who seized her by the hair.

  Eddie had an idiotic grin. “You shouldn’t have gone to Riker’s, sweetheart.”

  “Did you finger our Blue?” Sal said. And he cracked her again. Her head tilted back from the blow. And she had to swallow her own blood while Eddie dug a knee into her groin and wouldn’t relinquish her hair. Sal began to waver a bit. “The FBI is one thing. Fuck LeComte. I couldn’t care less if you’re on his team. But Isaac? You’re in love with the Jew boy.… Didn’t I treat you right?”

  Margaret nodded her head as much as she could with the captain’s fist in her hair.

  “The fuck tried to destroy me and all my people … and you run to him at Riker’s? Ed, should we whack the bitch, put out her lights?”

  “Definitely.”

  And Sal started to strut in his pajamas. “My own man agrees.” Then he turned glum. “Margaret, do you love me, Margaret?”

  But she couldn’t think with all that blood in her mouth. She closed her eyes and felt Sal’s knuckles in her fa
ce. Then she stopped hurting. She was no longer there in that room with Sal and Ed. She was the phantom of her own little opera. The princess of a new country at twelve. Ferdinand had his palace that he’d stolen from Finkelshtein, the Jewish count. And Margaret had all of Bessarabia to rule. She had halvah and honey, and the Reichskommissar of the Ukraine took her on a picnic in the mountains, where she saw partisans and Jews hanging from the trees. It’s nothing, my dear, he said. They are Urmenschen. They don’t exist.

  I’m an Urmensch, I’m an Urmensch, she sang to herself while the Reichskommissar stroked her calf. And then she had no more honey. The halvah was gone. Ferdinand’s own little army began to pillage. And when there was nothing more to take, his soldiers deserted him. He was left with twenty policemen in blue pants. The policemen had to patrol Bessarabia and lands along the river Bug. She sat in the palace and listened to her stomach growl. There were no more pillowcases, and Ferdinand made love to her on blankets that hadn’t been cleaned in months. Odessa had become a haunted town. Wild dogs reigned in the streets. They attacked sick horses.

  Find me a Jew to eat, her prince would shout. And Margaret asked if he’d forgotten his little tailor. Fuck the tailor. He’s probably dead by now.

  The policemen returned with a prize. They’d discovered an idiot boy wandering in the local asylum. They beat him senseless with their own muddy boots. They butchered him in front of Margaret’s eyes. They tore at his flesh. She wept and wept, but she ate the boy when it was time to eat. The policemen went off and found other prizes. And Margaret taught herself to club a boy like a wild turkey.

  Captain Eddie had let go of her hair.

  “Sal’s talking to you. Are you deaf?”

  That’s how she’d come to Isaac, the little murderess who could babble French. And what was it about him that could still move her? The way he’d follow her like one more idiot without an asylum. She adored the holes in his pants, the silly uncombed hair.

  “You deaf?”

  And Margaret opened her eyes. Sal was bawling. “Baby, I’ll give you one more chance. You promise not to leave me again?”