"So walk away," he said. "What's the problem?"
"There's another cop," I went on like I hadn't heard him. "He's been on my case forever. We had some dealings—he didn't like the way they turned out. Now he thinks I'm connected to a bunch of murders—I don't know why. He's been around, watching. Turns out he was one of the investigators on one of the rape–murders this guy—the guy the lady cop says is innocent—is doing time for. It's all too coincidental for me to buy it. Fortunato, he's all mobbed up, right? Julio's gone, sure…but the family's still in business. I thought you might…"
"What? Call off the dogs?"
"If that's what it is."
"That's not what it is. Fortunato's a worm. The family may know something about how Julio got done, but not a one of them cares. You know better than that. Why would they care? For honor?" he sneered.
"I don't know," I told him. "But why would a mob mouthpiece like Fortunato take this kind of case?"
"Don't make a big thing out of it," he said. "It's all about this"—rubbing his thumb against the first two fingers of his right hand, a money gesture. "There's really only two families now. One deals with drugs, the other does the unions, gambling, puts money on the street—all the old stuff. Fortunato, he's nothing—a dealer, not a lawyer. If they didn't fix the juries for him, he's nothing. And he knows it, see? This is all about greed, that's all. But if you want, I could have somebody talk to him…"
"I don't know…"
"Don't get cute, he said. "I'm not going to talk you into it. You want it done, it's done. If not, no. Capisce?"
"Yeah."
"And…?"
"Do it," I told him, "And thank you."
The next morning, I shaved extra carefully before I put on my lawyer outfit. What I needed was a look at the court file they'd have on Piersall. Not the criminal file—Fortunato would already have all of that for the appeal—what I wanted was over at the Surrogate's Court. A look at that trust fund.
They kept me waiting almost forty–five minutes before I got into the office. Not the judge's chambers, the office they gave his law secretary. "Law secretary" isn't what it sounds like—they're all lawyers themselves, and they don't do any typing or filing. What they do depends on the judge, whatever the judge wants. And they get their jobs the same way the judges do—the right person taps them on the shoulder and they're made. Kind of like the Mafia would be if the feds made them swallow Affirmative Action.
This one was a skinny guy with a prominent Adam's apple, hair cut real short. He was wearing a white button–down shirt and black suspenders, sleeves rolled up like he'd been hard at work for hours.
Sure.
"My name is Rodriguez, sir," I introduced myself. He looked up impatiently, not offering to shake hands. "This concerns a client," I continued. "George Piersall. What we need is some information regarding Mr. Piersall's trust fund…I understand it came about as a result of a bequest. I wonder if it would be possible to look through the file…?"
"You are a lawyer, Mr…ah…Rodriguez?" he asked, just this side of snide. If I'd told him my name was Anderson, he wouldn't have asked.
"No sir," I replied. "I apologize. I should have made that clear. I am a paralegal—I work for Raymond Fortunato."
The weasel's face shifted. Not a lot, but I'd been looking for it. He was a mid–list ass–kisser—he did it on the way up, and he expected those below him in the political food chain to treat him the same way. But he wouldn't risk offending someone of Fortunato's weight.
"Will you excuse me a moment?" he asked. "I need to make a phone call."
"Certainly, sir," I said, backing out of the room. I took a seat on the polished wood bench in the corridor, one hand stroking my status–appropriate attaché case.
In less than five minutes, the weasel poked his head out of his den, motioned for me to come back.
"Here's the file," he said, handing me three thick folders, holding about half a ream of paper each. "There's a lot to go through, I know, so, if you want, you could use this empty room we have down the hall."
"I would appreciate that," I told him.
He led me to the room. It was bare except for a long wooden table and six matching chairs. I sat down at the table, thanked the weasel again, put on a pair of reading glasses and started to work.
"When you're done, just let me know," the weasel said.
"Thank you, sir," I replied.
As soon as he left the room, I put the reading glasses off to one side. I don't need them—the prescription is for someone with a radical astigmatism. I'd leave them behind…accidentally. It's the same thing I do with the matchbooks—if the weasel ever had to prove I was there, he'd whip out the reading glasses triumphantly…and they wouldn't fit.
Most of the papers were the kind of boilerplate legalese you expect from people who get paid by the hour or by the pound. I finally got to the meat: the guy who left all the money was Morton L. Capshaw, last listed address was on Park Avenue. There's a key to finding the cross streets for any avenue address in New York—what you do is take the number, cancel the last digit, divide by two, then add or subtract another number, depending on the avenue. For Park, it's a +34. Park Avenue runs all the way from Gramercy to Harlem. I did the math—Capshaw lived in the Seventies…big–bucks territory.
I kept reading. He died at Sloan Kettering, the cancer hospital. Age seventy–three when he cashed out. The trust fund was huge—more than seven million. The way it was set up, Piersall got the income only, not the principal. There was a long list after that, all next in line. I counted seven names. Once I sorted it out, it was easy to see what Capshaw had done. Piersall got the income from the trust for as long as he lived. When he died, the next name on the list took over. When they all died, the principal went to something called the Adelnaws Foundation. I read through the rest of it, but couldn't find anything more. The Adelnaws Foundation was a 501(c)(3) corporation—not–for–profit. Its stated purpose was "social research"—you know, what the reverend told the cops he was doing in a whorehouse.
The trustee was a white–shoe law firm with a whole hive of WASPs on its letterhead. They were to pay the interest "monthly, quarterly, or annually, at the election of the beneficiary," and the instructions were to invest in "prudent instruments, the goal being preservation of capital." Commodities, options, and precious metals were specifically excluded from permissible investments.
I went back to the beneficiary tree again. Something about it…Yeah—none of them were named Capshaw. So that meant…Sure enough—I found what I was looking for in the last folder—a will contest. Capshaw's ex–wife, a sister, and a cousin all brought suit, challenging the will on grounds of "undue influence" and "lack of testamentary capacity." Meaning, somebody got to the old man when he was dying, or he was out of his head when he made out the will.
But it was no go. Most of those things get settled out of court, but this one went to the wall. The relatives got zilch—they were completely shut out, even on appeal. The trustee law firm did a little better—they billed for $477,504.25, and the Surrogate allowed them every penny, pulling it right out of the principal.
I looked at the list of beneficiaries again—just the names, dates of birth, Social Security numbers—straight ID stuff. All the beneficiaries were approximately the same age—there wasn't ten years difference between the oldest and the youngest. The list was the only thing in the whole file that varied from the kind of air–pumped filler you find in any document lawyers get their hands on. I copied it onto my yellow legal pad, checked it again to be sure I had it right.
On my way out, I stopped by the weasel's office to thank him for his courtesy. He wasn't at his desk.
I carried the money I'd gotten from Fortunato over to Mama's. As I was crossing Lafayette Street, a tall slender Chinese girl shot by on Rollerblades, her long black hair flying behind her. She was a pro at it—had a backpack strapped on, a whistle on a chain around her neck, and black kneepads against a possible spill. A pair of bus
iness–dressed guys saw her too. One told the other the girl had another use for the kneepads. His pal laughed in appreciation. I figured the guy who made the crack was an expert—probably on his way to do the same thing to his boss.
Anytime I forget how bad I hate this place, somebody's always good enough to remind me.
When I handed Mama the money, she didn't react with her usual happiness as she extracted her cut. When Mama doesn't smile around money, it's a storm warning. I gave her a look, waiting for it to hit. But she just sipped her soup in silence. Patience is one of my few virtues, but I knew better than to try outwaiting Mama.
"What?" I asked.
"You like this woman?" she answered my question with one of her own.
"What woman?"
"Girl with wig. Police lady."
"No," I told Mama. "I don't like her."
"Why you work, then?"
"For money," I responded, playing the one card that Mama always recognized as trump.
"This money?" Mama asked, holding up the bills I'd just handed her, a disgusted tone in her voice.
"Yeah."
"Not much," Mama said. "You have money. From…last time, yes? I know." She did know. Hell, she was holding most of it. "Balance," she continued, looking at me straight on. She held out her hands parallel to the tabletop, palms up, raising first one, then the other, imitating a scale.
"Yeah," I told her. "I'm impressed. You gamble all the time yourself," I said, thinking of her endless fan–tan games and her love of lotteries.
"Gamble with money, sure," she said, shrugging her shoulders to show that was of little consequence. "Horses, cards, dice. Even buy a fighter, yes? All you lose is money. Always get more money."
I knew what she was saying. Hell, any professional thief knows the odds. You measure risk against gain, and take your shot. A B&E in a slum neighborhood is easy—not much chance of the cops' even coming around, much less dusting for prints and all that techno–stuff. Only problem is, the score's going to be low. Try the same stunt on Park Avenue, you raise the chances of being caught—but the take is a lot better if you pull it off. And you don't just look at the score, you look at the penalty too. You stick up a grocery store, you're probably looking at some serious time Upstate. If you're lucky enough to get out of there alive, that is—every self–respecting bodeguero has a gun somewhere under the counter. But if you embezzle a million bucks out of some widow's estate, you're probably looking at probation and community service.
You have to pick out the right scores too. If I was going to rob someone in Grand Central Station, I'd stick up a beggar instead of a guy in a business suit. I asked a beggar there for change of a five once, and he pulled out a roll thick enough to choke a boa constrictor. All I'd probably get from the suit would be an ATM card.
"You think there should be more money?" I asked innocently.
"Not enough money for this," Mama said, her tone serious, unrelenting. "This woman is bad. Immaculata, she say that too."
"This is…what? Woman's intuition?" I smiled at her.
"This is truth. You do something because you like a woman, it is not wise."
"I wouldn't—"
"You do it before," she interrupted.
I didn't need Mama to remind me. I still hurt for Belle—for what happened to her. My fault, all of it. Mama wouldn't have used such a heavy hammer on me unless she was scared about something.
"Mama, I don't like this girl. That's the truth. I think I'm in a box, and I think she's part of it. There's no way I can hide from her. I have to go down the tunnel, look around for myself."
"Take Max," she suggested.
"Maybe. Maybe later. I have to see first, okay?"
Mama nodded her head, reluctantly agreeing.
When I checked in later, Mama told me I had a message from Belinda. "That woman," Mama called her. It wasn't much of a message—just an address in the Village and a time.
The address Belinda left was on Van Dam, a few blocks south of Houston, just off Sixth Avenue. Ten o'clock, she said. I left my car on Fifth, just north of Washington Square Park, figuring I'd walk the rest of the way.
When I was a kid, I used to come here a lot. By myself. There was always something to see: the chess hustlers on the permanent playing boards, folksingers trying out new stuff, pretty girls walking—gentle, safe stuff. I was so young then that I thought the sun had something to do with it—that all the bad stuff only happened after dark.
Or inside houses.
Even a kid wouldn't believe that anymore. The sun burned fresh–butter bright, but it didn't mellow the shirtless man wearing a heavy winter hat with flapping earmuffs, viciously arguing with a schizophrenic inner voice. And it didn't have any effect on the drug dealers and assorted lurkers. It didn't calm the nervous citizens looking over their shoulders.
An open–top, pus–yellow Suzuki Samurai slowly prowled past, a boom box on wheels, aggressively smashing its hyper–amped sound violence at hapless citizens in a scorched–earth assault. The latest city ugliness—the sonic drive–by.
A long–haired white man in a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off strolled by, pushing one of those metal shopping carts they give you in supermarkets. The homeless love those carts—they pile all kinds of stuff in them and wheel them around the streets. The carts are stainless steel—they don't break easy and they never rust. They're real expensive too, and the supermarkets hate to lose them. In fact, they have a contract with a business that gets a flat rate for every one they recover.
The stroller wasn't homeless, he was a thief. There's a guy works out of a vacant lot off Houston on the East Side—he's got a standing offer to buy all the carts you can bring in.
On MacDougal, the precious–special shops looked depressed, pounded into near–submission by the sidewalk vendors. It was prime–time out there for cruising, but I didn't see many tourists. A man urinated against the side of a building. A woman sat on the curb, picking at her head, her blackened fingernails no match for the lice. Another boom–box Jeep rolled by, this one full of young men all decked out in brand–name gangstah–gear. Even the scavenging pigeons looked more degenerate than usual.
I stopped at a corner, right behind two guys on bicycles. They were pro messengers—you could tell by their gear. Not the Speedo pants or the fingerless gloves or the whistles on cords around their necks. Not even by the crash hats—open–weave padded leather fitted tight over their heads. No, what gave them away was the heavy combat chains wrapped around the base of the bicycle seats, always ready. One of them had his chain in his hands, talking urgently to the other.
"Motherfucker tried to door me, check it out! I laid it down, but when I come up swinging, pussy decides to bail!"
The other messenger high–fived his endorsement of biker self–defense as I stepped around them to move on. Three black youths approached, spread out in a fan across the sidewalk, blocking the way. One wore a T–shirt with "Back The Fuck UP!" on the chest. Another had a picture of Mike Tyson silk–screened on it, with "I'LL BE BACK!" below. I guess that was a political statement—Tyson gets convicted of raping a young girl and all of a sudden he's Emmett Till.
I gave way to them, stepping into the street, ignoring the sneering hiss one threw in my direction. When I was their age, I wouldn't have stepped aside. I was stupid then, and I paid what stupid people pay.
The sidewalk was clogged, but I wasn't in a hurry. I stopped at a bakery, bought myself a French bread, scooped out the inside and dropped it in an overflowing garbage can, and munched on the crust as I moved along.
On the next corner, a dressed–for–success woman was telling a tall man—her husband? boyfriend?—some miserable story.…I could see it in her stance.
"You know, you kind of expect this over in the East Village," she said, pointing a finger at a decrepit gray–haired man huddled in a doorway, his pants down around his ankles, calmly dumping a load as people stepped out into the street to avoid him.
"I know," the tall man
commiserated. "Just the other—"
"I hate them," the woman interrupted. "The fucking homeless . I can't help it. I really hate them for what they've done to this city. You can't even use an ATM machine in peace anymore—they're always there, standing around with their hands out, like a pack of filthy doormen."
The dangerous ones, you won't see their hands, I thought to myself. I never considered sharing my professional knowledge with the woman—New York isn't that kind of place.
Once I crossed Houston into Little Italy, it got quieter. I wondered how long that would hold—in this city, there's no border invaders won't cross.
I found the place easy enough. The sign on the door said: RING BELL AND STEP BACK! I knew what that meant, so I wasn't surprised when I saw a second–floor window open and Belinda lean out. "Catch!" she said, tossing down a thick wooden stick with a key attached by a loop of wire.
I used the key to let myself in, then climbed a set of metal stairs to the second floor. Belinda was standing in an open doorway, wearing a baggy T–shirt that fell to mid–thigh. Her hair was lighter than I remembered, reddish highlights dancing in the reflected sunbeams from the window. As I stepped past her to walk inside, she put her lips against my cheek, a butterfly kiss so soft I couldn't be sure it had landed at all.
The place was furnished totally in Now and Today—which, from looking around, I guessed meant Retro. The joint was loaded with reproductions of old junk—a red–and–white Coke machine reprogrammed for diet soda, a Wurlitzer jukebox that spins CDs instead of 45s, and a painting that gave me a headache. I walked over, took a closer look. It was about twice the size of an eight–by–ten, done on white Crescent board. Supposed to be the Seven Dwarfs, near as I could tell, slapped on in a crude, amateur style, all in primary colors, right out of the tube. In the lower right hand corner: POGO in small block letters. I looked over at Belinda.
Footsteps of the Hawk Page 13
