I need you here now, man.
You that hyped?
Now, man.
* * *
In the gutters, the rushing rain washes cigarette butts and candy wrappers, a note with the number 484 in watery ink, a hat shop receipt, a prescription label for Demerol. It washes down grimy windshields and as it washes, sees the pop-eyed and the drowsy, the hazy and the alert, Eddie scratching his skinny arms, Detective Boyle in the unmarked car a block away, playing back the tape, grinning at his partner as he listens to the voices on the ferry.
We got McBride dead to rights, Frank.
A laugh.
That fucking Jamaican. Jeez, does he know how to work a wire.
* * *
At Police Plaza, the wind shifts, driving eastward, battering the building’s small square windows, a thudding rumble that briefly draws Max Feldman from the photographs on his desk, Lynn Abercrombie sprawled across the floor of her Tribeca apartment, shot once with a snub-nosed .38, no real clues, save the fact that she lay on her back, with a strand of long blond hair over the right eye, maybe by a fan of Veronica Lake, some sick aficionado of the noir.
The rain falls upon the tangle of steel and concrete, predator and prey. It slaps the baseball cap of Jerry Brice, as he waits for Hattie Jones, knowing it was payday at the all- night laundry, her purse full of cash. It mars Sammy Kaminsky’s view of Dolly Baron’s bedroom window, and foils the late-night entertainment of a thousand midnight peepers.
On Houston Street, it falls on people drawn together by the midnight storm, huddled beneath shelters, Herman Devane crowded into a bus refuge, drunk college girls all around him, that little brunette in the red beret, her body naked beneath her clothes, so naked and so close, the touch so quick, so easy, to brush against her then step back, blame it on the rain.
* * *
Lightning, then thunder rolling northward, over Bleecker Street, past clubs and taverns, faces bathed in neon light, nodding to the beat of piano, bass, drums, the late-night riff of jazz trios.
Ernie Gorsh taps his foot lightly beneath the table.
Not a bad piano.
Jack Plato, fidgeting, toying with the napkin beneath his drink, a lot on his mind, time like a blade swinging over his head.
Fuck the piano. You hear me, Ern? 484 Duane. A little jewelry store. Easy. I cased it this afternoon.
Ernie Gosch listens to the piano.
Jack Plato, slick black hair, sipping whiskey, cocksure about the plans, the schedule, where the cameras are.
Paulie Cerrello’s backing the operation. A safe man is all we need. Christ, it’s a sure thing, Ern.
Ernie Gorsh, gray hair peeping from beneath his gray felt hat, just out of the slammer, not ready to go back.
Nothing’s ever sure, Jack.
It is if you got the balls.
It is if you don’t got the brains.
Plato, offended, squirming, a deal going south, Paulie will be pissed. No choice now but play the bluff.
Take it or leave it, old man.
Ernie, thinking of his garden, the seeds he’s already bought for spring, seeds in packets, nestled in his jacket pocket, thinking of the slammer, too, how weird it is now, gangs, Aryans, Muslims, fag cons raping kids in the shower, deciding not to go back.
Sorry, Jack. Rising. I got a bus to catch.
* * *
The eyes of the rain see the value of experience, the final stop of crooked roads. It falls on weariness and dread, the iron bars of circumstance, the way out that looks easy, comes with folded money, glassine bags of weed, tinfoil cylinders stuffed with white powder, floor plans of small jewelry stores, with x’s where the cameras are.
* * *
At 8th Street and Sixth Avenue, Tracey Olson leaves a cardboard box on the steps of Jefferson Market. Angelo and Luis watch her rush away from inside a red BMW boosted on Avenue A, the rain thudding hard on its roof.
You see that?
Wha?
That fucking girl.
What about her?
She left a box on the steps there.
What about it?
That all you can say, whataboutitwhataboutit?
Luis steps out into the rain, toward the box, the tiny cries he hears now.
Jesus. Jesus Christ.
* * *
On 23rd, the rain slams against the windows of pizza parlors and Mexican restaurants, Chinese joints open all night.
Sal and Frankie. Sweet and sour pork. Moo goo gai pan.
So, the guy, what’d he do?
What they always do.
He ask how old?
I told him eighteen.
Sal and Frankie giggling about the suits from the suburbs, straight guys who dole out cash for their sweet asses then take the PATH home to their pretty little wives.
Where was he from?
Who cares? He’s a dead man now.
That plum sauce, you eatin’ that?
* * *
At Broadway and 34th, the million eyes of the rain smash against the dusty windows of the rag trade, Lennie Mack at his desk, ledgers open, refiguring the numbers, wiping his moist brow with the rolled sleeves of his shirt, wondering how Old Man Siegelman got suspicious, threatening to call in outside auditors, what he has to do before that call is made … do for Rachel, and the two kids in college, do because it was just a little at the beginning. Jesus, two-hundred fifty thousand now. Too much to hide. He closes the ledger, sits back in his squeaky chair, thinks it through again … what he has to do.
* * *
From Times Square, the gusts drive northward, slanting lines of rain falling like bullets, exploding against the black pavement, the cars and buses still on Midtown streets, Jaime Rourke on the uptown 104, worrying about Tracy, what she might do with the baby, seated next to an old guy in a gray felt hat fingering packets of garden seed.
So I guess you got a garden.
My building has little plots. A smile. My daughter thinks I should plant a garden.
Eddie Gorsh sits back, relaxed, content in his decision, grateful to his daughter, how, because of her, there’ll be no more sure things.
Daughters are like that, you know. They make you have a little sense.
* * *
Near 59th and Fifth, a gust lifts the awning of the San Domenico. Dim light in the bar. Bartender in a black bolero jacket.
Amanda Graham. Martini, very dry, four olives. Black dress, sleeveless, Mikimoto pearls. Deidre across the small marble table. Manhattan. Straight up.
Paulie’s going to find out, Mandy.
Amanda sips her drink. How?
He has ways.
A dismissive wave. He’s not Nostradamus.
Close enough. And for what? Some nobody.
He’s not a nobody. He plays piano. A nice gig. On Bleecker Street.
My point exactly.
Amanda nibbles the first olive. What do you really think Paulie would do?
Deidre sips her drink.
Kill you.
Amanda’s olive drops into the crystal glass, ripples the vodka and vermouth. The smooth riffs of Bleecker Street grow dissonant and fearful.
You really think he would?
* * *
Over the nightbound city, the rain falls upon uncertainty and fear, the nervous tick of unsettled outcomes, things in the air, motions not yet completed. At 72nd and Broadway, it sweeps along windows coiled in neon, decorated with bottles of ale and pasted with green shamrocks.
Captain Beals. Single malt scotch. Glenfiddich. Detective Burke with Johnny Walker Black. A stack of photographs on the bar between them. Fat man. Bald. 3849382092.
This the last one?
Yeah. Feldman thinks it’s a long shot, but the guy lives in Tribeca, and it seems pretty clear the killer lives there too.
A quick nod.
His name is Harry Devane. Lives in Windsor Apartments. Just a couple buildings down from Lynn Abercrombie. Four blocks from Tiana Matthews. Been out four years.
What’s h
is story?
He works his way up to it by flashing, or maybe just rubbing against a girl. You know, in the subway, elevator, crap like that.
Then what?
Then he … gets violent.
How violent?
So far, assault. But pretty bad ones. The last time, the girl nearly died. He got seven years.
Ever used a gun?
No.
A sip of Glenfiddich.
Then he’s not our man.
* * *
At 93rd and Amsterdam, the rain sweeps in waves down the tavern window, Paulie Cerrello watching Jack Plato step out of the cab, taking a sip from his glass as Plato comes through the door, slapping water from his leather jacket.
Fucking storm. Jesus.
So? Gorsh?
I showed him everything. The whole deal.
And?
He ain’t in, Paulie. He’s scared of the slammer.
Paulie knocks back the drink, unhappy with the scheme of things, some old geezer scared of the slammer, the whole deal a bust.
So what now, Paulie? You want I should get another guy?
A shake of the head.
No, I got another problem.
He nods for one more shot.
You know my wife, right?
* * *
The rain sees no way out, no right decision, nothing that can slow the encroaching vise. It falls on bad judgment and poor choice and the clenched fist of things half thought through. At Park and 104th, it slaps against a closing window, water on the ledge dripping down onto the bare floor.
Shit.
Charlie Landrew tosses his soggy hat onto the small wooden table that is his office and dining room. Misses. The hat now on the frayed rug beneath the table.
Shit.
Leaves it.
Phone.
Yeah?
Charlie, it’s me. Lennie.
This fucking storm flooded my goddamn apartment. Water all over the fucking floor.
Listen, Charlie. I need to borrow some cash. You know, from the guy you … from him.
A hard laugh.
You barely got away with your thumbs last time, Lennie.
But I made good, that’s all that matters, right?
How much?
Twenty-five.
Charlie thinks. Old accounts. Too many of them. Past due. Lots of heavy leaning ahead. And if the leaning doesn’t work, and somebody skips? His neck in a noose already.
So what about it, Charlie?
Not a hard decision.
No.
* * *
The rain sees last options, called bluffs, final scores, silenced bells, snuffed candles, books abruptly closed. At Broadway and 110th, the windshield wipers screech as they toss it from the glass.
Listen to that, will ya?
Yeah, what a piece of shit.
A fucking BMW, and shit wipers like that.
Might as well be a goddamn Saturn.
The box shifts slightly on Luis’s lap.
I think it’s taking a crap, Angelo.
So?
So? What if it craps through the box?
It won’t crap through the box.
Okay, so it don’t. What we gonna do?
I’m thinking.
You been thinking since we left the Village.
So what’s your idea, Luis? And don’t say cops, because we ain’t showing up at no cop-house with a fucking stolen car and a baby we don’t know whose it is.
A leftward glance, toward a looming spire.
A church. Maybe a church.
* * *
The rain falls on quick solutions, available means, a way out that relieves the burden. It falls on homeless shelters and SROs and into the creaky, precariously hanging drains of old cathedrals.
At 112th and Broadway, a blast of wind hits as the bus’ hydraulic doors open.
Eddie Gorsh rises.
Good luck with the garden.
A smile back at the kid.
Thanks.
I got a daughter, too.
Then take care of her, and maybe she’ll take care of you.
Out onto the rain-pelted sidewalk, head down, toward the building, Edna waiting for him there, relieved to have him back, the years they have left, a road he’s determined to keep straight. This, he knows, will make Rebecca happy, and that is all he’s after now.
* * *
The rain moves on, northward, toward the Bronx, leaving behind new beginnings, things learned, lessons applied. At 116th and Broadway, Jamie Rourke steps out into the million, million drops, thinking of Tracey and his daughter, how he shouldn’t have said what he said, made her mad, determined to call her now, tell her how everything is going to be okay, how it’s going to be the three of them against the world, a family.
* * *
The rain falls on lost hopes and futile resolutions, redemptions grasped too late, fanciful solutions. At 116th and Broadway, it falls on Barney Siegelman as he steps out of a taxi, convinced now that his son-in-law is a crook, news he has to break to his wife, his daughter, the whole sorry scheme of things unmasked. He rushes toward the front of his building, feels his feet slosh through an unexpected stream of water. He stops beneath the awning of his building and follows the rushing tide up the sidewalk to Our Lady of Silence, where a cardboard box lays beneath a ruptured drain, a torrent gushing from its cracked mouth, filling the box with water, then over its sodden sides and down the concrete stairs, flooding the sidewalk with the stream that splashes around Siegelman’s newly polished shoes. He shakes his head. Tomorrow he’ll have to have them shined all over again. He peers toward the church, the stairs, the shattered drain pipe, the overflowing box beneath it. Disgusting, he thinks, the way people leave their trash.
A NICE PLACE TO VISIT
BY JEFFERY DEAVER
Hell’s Kitchen
When you’re a natural-born grifter, an operator, a player, you get this sixth sense for sniffing out opportunities, and that’s what Ricky Kelleher was doing now, watching two guys in the front of the smoky bar, near a greasy window that still had a five-year-old bullet hole in it.
Whatever was going down, neither of them looked real happy.
Ricky kept watching. He’d seen one guy here in Hanny’s a couple of times. He was wearing a suit and tie—it really made him stand out in this dive, the sore thumb thing. The other one, leather jacket and tight jeans, razor-cut bridge-and-tunnel hair, was some kind of Gambino wannabe, Ricky pegged him. Or Sopranos, more likely—yeah, he was the sort of prick who’d hock his wife for a big-screen TV. He was way pissed off, shaking his head at everything Mr. Suit was telling him. At one point he slammed his fist on the bar so hard glasses bounced. But nobody noticed. That was the kind of place Hanny’s was.
Ricky was in the rear, at the short L of the bar, his regular throne. The bartender, a dusty old guy, maybe black, maybe white, you couldn’t tell, kept an uneasy eye on the guys arguing. “It’s cool,” Ricky reassured him. “I’m on it.”
Mr. Suit had a briefcase open. A bunch of papers were inside. Most of the business in this pungent, dark Hell’s Kitchen bar involved trading bags of chopped-up plants and cases of Johnny Walker that’d fallen off the truck; the transactions were conducted in either the men’s room or alley out back. This was something different. Skinny, five-foot-four Ricky couldn’t tip to exactly what was going down, but that magic sense, his player’s eye, told him to pay attention.
“Well, fuck that,” Wannabe said to Mr. Suit.
“Sorry.” A shrug.
“Yeah, you said that before.” Wannabe slid off the stool. “But you don’t really sound that fucking sorry. And you know why? Because I’m the one out all the money.”
“Bullshit. I’m losing my whole fucking business.”
But Ricky’d learned that other people losing money doesn’t take the sting out of you losing money. Way of the world.
Wannabe was getting more and more agitated. “Listen careful here, my friend. I’ll make some phone
calls. I got people I know down there. You don’t want to fuck with these guys.”
Mr. Suit tapped what looked like a newspaper article in the briefcase. “And what’re they gonna do?” His voice lowered and he whispered something that made Wannabe’s face screw up in disgust. “Now just go on home, keep your head down, and watch your back. And pray they can’t—” Again, the lowered voice. Ricky couldn’t hear what “they” might do.
Wannabe slammed his hand down on the bar again. “This isn’t gonna fly, asshole. Now—”
“Hey, gentlemen,” Ricky called. “Volume down, okay?”
“The fuck’re you, little man?” Wannabe snapped. Mr. Suit touched his arm to quiet him, but he pulled away and kept glaring.
Ricky slicked back his greasy, dark blond hair. Easing off the stool, he walked to the front of the bar, the heels of his boots tapping loudly on the scuffed floor. The guy had six inches and thirty pounds on him but Ricky had learned a long time ago that craziness scares people a fuck of a lot more than height or weight or muscle. And so he did what he always did when he was going one on one—threw a weird look into his eyes and got right up in the man’s face. He screamed, “Who I am is guy’s gonna drag your ass into the alley and fuck you over a dozen different ways, you don’t get the fuck out of here now!”
The punk reared back and blinked. He fired off an automatic “Fuck you, asshole.”
Ricky stayed right where he was, kind of grinning, kind of not, and let this poor bastard imagine what was going to happen now that he’d accidentally shot a little spit onto Ricky’s forehead.
A few seconds passed.
Finally, Wannabe drank down what was left of his beer with a shaking hand and, trying to hold on to a little dignity, he strolled out the door, laughing and muttering, “Prick.” Like it was Ricky backing down.
New York City Noir Page 36
