The Monkey Rope

by Stephen Lewis

  “And the baby?”

  “How caring of you to ask? But everything’s taken care of.” She walked to the door.

  “Just one more thing,” she said.

  Seymour waited. She stood with her hand on the knob.

  “Get him home to me,” she said. “I need him.”

  “When you saw him last night, did he say anything about our meeting?”

  “No, he wouldn’t. He doesn’t talk about that with me. Ever.”

  Seymour nodded.

  “Why?” she asked.

  He took his time.

  “Well, I just thought he might have mentioned how we both almost got caught at the scene of a pretty messy murder.”

  He searched her face for a reaction. When she did not respond, he continued.

  “We met in your old downtown office.”

  She lowered her eyes for a second, and took her hand off the doorknob as though she had realized that it was hot. He thought he detected a quiver at the corner of her mouth, but then her face went blank. He had seen such expressions on the faces of defendants who were either lying or concealing information. He pushed a little harder.

  “It seems that one of your old associates had a problem with a client. A fatal problem.”

  “Who?” she whispered.

  “She calls herself ‘Kitten’. She’s okay, I guess, just a little the worse for wear. The client is, I expect, at the morgue.”

  She took a deep breath, and the mask cracked into an angry snarl.

  “Shit! Isn’t it just our luck?”

  Rage rose within him.

  “Luck! Luck doesn’t have anything to do with it. The only luck we had was getting our asses out of there before the cops showed up. I don’t know who tipped them, or if they were just making a regular visit.” He shook his head as the idea flashed. “Maybe they had an appointment for crissakes, I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised. But what I do know is that I am an officer of the court, and I ran like a goddamned criminal.”

  His anger died as suddenly as it had erupted. “Look,” he said. “Why don’t you just go on your way. I’ll show up at the courthouse, and we’ll take it one step at a time from there.”

  She started to reply when they heard steps on the stairs.

  “Are you expecting company?” she asked.

  He shook his head and half-smiled.

  “No, but I can guess.”

  “So can I.”

  He turned toward Rosalie who stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her face glowing olive rich from the shadow, her black hair hanging damply to her shoulders. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and worn jeans.

  “I’m sure,” she said, “it’s our friendly neighborhood detective. You two better sit down and figure out what you want to say to him while I answer the door and give him my best ‘we’re all such nice folks’ librarian’s smile.” She moved toward the door just as the bell rang, but turned back to Lois. “Maybe you can keep your legs crossed and underneath the table while our guest is here.” She tossed a newspaper toward her. “You can kind of spread this out in front of you.”

  Lois pushed the newspaper away from her with the tips of her fingers.

  “I don’t know what you think I’ve got to hide,” she said, “but I never read that paper. Too grim. I want one with comics, horoscope, and advice to the lovesick, that’s my favorite.”

  “I’m sure,” Rosalie said. Her lips hardly moved, and then she turned to answer the door.

  Seymour heard the door click open, but no voices. He turned to look and saw Rosalie gesturing toward the kitchen.

  “You know, some days are just luckier than others,” Detective Rosenberg said. “Here I hoped to find Mr. Constantino’s attorney so that I could check on his client’s whereabouts, when we might have the pleasure of a conversation, and what do you know, I luck out and get the whole family.”

  Lois nudged Seymour’s ribs. “So this is the big, bad man,” she whispered. “We go back a long way. I’ll take care of him.”

  She motioned the detective into the kitchen.

  “Reuben, howya’ doin’? Come on in and take a load off. Seymour, is there more coffee for Reuben?”

  Detective Rosenberg nodded to Lois, but his face remained impassive.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said.

  “Too long,” Lois replied. Seymour studied her eyes. The pupils seem dilated and unfocused. He leaned across the table and took her hand.

  “Maybe you should go freshen up. I’m sure the detective will excuse you. You do have that appointment uptown you were just telling me about.”

  She pulled her hand free.

  “Sure, sure, but not before I have a chance to chat with Reuben. He was the first one to bust me, years ago, when he was in uniform. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I was out the door almost before he was. After a while, we came to a kind of understanding. But look at him now, dressed like a banker or something.”

  “I’ve heard there’ve been some changes for you, too,” the detective said. “I hear you’ve got a little baby at home, and that you’ve been off the streets. I hope that’s the case.”

  “It was,” Lois said.

  “And still is?” Rosenberg asked.

  “We do what we have to do,” she answered, her eyes now narrowed and bright.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Seymour half believed that the detective was genuinely concerned, but he mistrusted him. Whatever else might motivate him at the moment, he was O’Riley’s man, and he wanted Junior any way he could get him. He turned to Rosenberg.

  “What can we do for you? I’m sure there must be something extraordinary to bring you here.”

  “No, not so special. It’s all part of my job, and I kind of like being back in this neighborhood. I used to know it well.”

  “Well, detective,” Seymour said in his crisp courtroom voice, “it’s interesting to discover your roots, professional, or social...”

  Rosenberg waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal.

  “Professional,” he said, “I was raised...”

  “Wherever, whatever,” Seymour cut him off. “Please don’t think me rude, but I’d like to try to cooperate with you, and then go about my business.”

  “As you like, Mr. Lipp. But I think, maybe, your business is also mine. In any case, perhaps you can answer a couple of questions for me.”

  “About?”

  “About a murder last night. A knifing in a room above a restaurant, The Sitar, off Avenue D. I think Mrs. Constantino here, knows the place.”

  Seymour glanced at Lois who was sitting with her elbows on the table, her hands cupping her chin. Her face was set in a look of bemused interest like that of one who is being told an anecdote involving people from faraway lands, wondering what possible connection she might have with the story. Her eyes were half closed, and she puffed slowly on a cigarette. When Rosenberg mentioned the restaurant and her name, she permitted a flicker of a smile to slide across her lips, but she did not say anything.

  “I think I know the place,” Seymour said.

  “I thought you might,” Rosenberg responded.

  “I am partial to Indian food, and I’m sure I’ve wandered by it from time to time, though I’ve never tried it.”

  “And last night?”

  “Excuse me?” Seymour wondered when the detective would shift gears.

  “Last night, Mr. Lipp. Did you happen to be wandering in that neighborhood, in or near the restaurant, between, let’s say, midnight and three a.m.?”

  “No, I can’t say that I was. I believe we had pizza last night, at about six or seven.” He looked to Rosalie and was pleased to see that she nodded and that her eyes were warm.

  Detective Rosenberg straightened himself in his chair and shifted so that he faced Seymour directly.

  “Then you wouldn’t know anything about a John getting himself offed last night after he got a little too rough. We found him with his throat slit, nice neat
job, from ear to ear.”

  Seymour calculated how much the detective could know. He saw the room again, the nude man’s body on the floor, the bruised woman holding her clothes around her heaving body, but none of that provided a connection. And then he remembered that he wasn’t sure that Pedro and Kitten had gotten away. He decided to gamble.

  “Can’t say as I do,” he said.

  The detective opened his notebook and held his pen poised above a page.

  “Where were you last night, sir, just for the record?”

  “What record is that?”

  “My report, Mr. Lipp, the report of my investigation.”

  “Are you including me in your report of this murder?”

  “Could you answer the question, Mr. Lipp? It’s just a formality. You should understand that.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, detective. There must be a piece missing.”

  Rosenberg placed his open notebook on the table in front of him and laid his pen across the page.

  “Oh, yes, of course, the piece. You see, Mr. Lipp, that room, behind the restaurant you say you know, is one of Mr. Constantino’s old resting places. We’ve been doing some digging around, you know, trying to locate your client, and our information is that he has been known to burrow into that building. It’s kind of like his corporate headquarters.”

  “And is that the piece?”

  Rosenberg shook his head.

  “Of course not, Mr. Lipp. That was just a lead that brought us there. The piece has to do with a credit card.”

  “Excuse me?” Seymour asked, but he already knew that he had been snared.

  “To be precise, sir, your card. We found it on a young man we now have in custody, one Pedro Rivera. We picked him up in the neighborhood. Maybe you know him. Has a long scar on his cheek and a gold tooth. The hooker got away.”

  “Rivera,” Seymour mused. “I don’t think I know anybody by that name. In any case, I misplaced my wallet some time ago, and when I recovered it the cards were gone, along with a few dollars.”

  “Just asking,” Rosenberg said, his hand on the door. “It seems Mr. Rivera is a business associate of Mr. Constantino. Strange how he should wind up with your American Express card. Almost like he was keeping it as a souvenir.”

  Seymour shrugged.

  “If it were the gold card, maybe I could understand.”

  “Just a thought, Mr. Lipp. It seemed like a lead worth tracking down.” He turned to Lois. “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know where Mr. Constantino was last night, would you?”

  Lois smiled broadly.

  “My husband was home last night, paying attention to our daughter.”

  “And now?”

  Lois shrugged.

  “I can’t help you with that detective.”

  “But I can,” Seymour said. “I have been in touch with Mr. Constantino, quite recently, and I can assure you that he will soon be available for questioning.”

  Detective Rosenberg frowned.

  “You could have saved me a lot of trouble if you had told me that before. When will that be, counselor?”

  “Soon.”

  “Can’t you pin that down any better?”

  “I’d like to help you, but that’s the best I can do.”

  “You know we have a warrant.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that time is running out.”

  “Yes detective, we know all of that, and my client is prepared to cooperate fully. He’s anxious to get this matter straightened out.”

  Rosenberg raised his eyebrows.

  “You could have fooled me.” He turned toward the door. “Has Mr. Rivera been charged?”

  “No, not yet. He’s got a Public Defender.”

  “I see,” Seymour said. “I wasn’t looking for business.”

  “I didn’t think so,” Rosenberg said. He opened the door, waved good-bye, and left.

  * * * *

  “That’s enough excitement for one day.” Rosalie had resumed her place at the table across from Lois, who had not changed her position.

  Seymour leaned over her to make sure he had Lois’ attention. “He will show on Friday, won’t he?”

  “Sure,” she answered. Her voice was flat, disinterested. “He’s no fool. He’s just playing the hand out.” She got up slowly and stretched. “I’d like to say it’s been fun, but I’ve got to be on my way.”

  “We’ll keep in touch,” Seymour said. He noticed Rosalie stiffen for a moment.

  “I told you about that,” Lois said. “I’m out.”

  “I wish it was that simple.”

  “It is for me.” She turned to Rosalie. “Don’t bother. I can find my own way out.”

  Rosalie nodded, but did not say anything. After Lois shut the door behind her, she started to clear the cups and saucers from the table. Seymour took her arm in his hand. She started to pull it away.

  “What was all that about?” he asked.

  She look at him, her eyes wide and hurt.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I’m not sure that I do.”

  She brushed a tear from her eye.

  “I didn’t know you could be so dense. If I have to explain it, it just makes it worse.”

  Seymour felt his patience snap.

  “What ‘it’ are we talking about? The ‘it’ of Lois the hooker, the ‘it’ of Lois my one-time lover, that’s a twisted and bizarre one, the ‘it’ of Lois the wife of your brother, or mother to his child, your niece, or Lois the addict?” He slammed his first on the table so that a cup rolled to the edge. He caught it before it fell. Rosalie’s hand arrived a half second later and held his.

  “All of them,” she said quietly, “all of them.” After a moment, she forced a smile. “But mostly the kinky one.”

  * * * *

  The building was as impressive as Seymour had imagined it to be, rising in stately lines from the avenue, its upper floors, beneath the exotic gargoyles, commanding a view of the park across the street. He walked toward the doorman, who was looking at him without concern. Goode had insisted that they meet, had wanted to take him out to lunch or dinner. Seymour had pushed for a conference in his office, but Goode had declined, saying something about not having the time to travel to Brooklyn. They both knew that they were maneuvering for a territorial edge, and reluctantly Seymour had conceded. Tomorrow he would be dealing with the police and Junior. Maybe the old man could be of some help, although Seymour still hadn’t decided how far he was willing to walk the shady paths of Mr. Goode. For now, he hoped to discover the direction of those ways, to measure the distance against his own boundaries.

  He ground out his cigarette on the sidewalk and raised a disapproving stare from the doorman who leaned over to pick up the butt as though he were disposing of a dead rat. He dropped the cigarette into an ashtray by the door and turned to Seymour.

  “Can I help you sir?”

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Goode. My name’s Lipp. He’s expecting me.”

  The doorman’s expression of scornful civility did not change. He punched in a code on the intercom, and after a few words that Seymour could not hear, he held the door open.

  “Apartment 1223,” he said. “The elevator is to your right.”

  He had not expected Goode to waste any time with amenities, but the old man did not even say hello. As soon as Seymour walked into the apartment, Goode was on him.

  “You took your time getting here, Lipp. Look, I’ve just heard something awful.” Goode looked and sounded heavy with his years in contrast to the buoyancy of their first meeting. “Now. Have you turned up anything on Gomez? When is your man going to be questioned?”

  “Do you mind if I sit down for the Inquisition?” Seymour asked. They were standing in a hallway lined with original oil paintings, one of which Seymour thought was a Chagall, but he wasn’t sure. Goode ushered him into the living room, which was dominated by a life-size wrought-iron sculpture of a figure that appeared to be a woman,
half kneeling on one knee, arms crossed in front of her chest, as though in supplication. The room was plushly carpeted in ivory with several oriental rugs scattered about, seemingly at random. The tables were all chrome and glass and the upholstered furniture angular and uncomfortable looking. Seymour took a step toward the sofa, his eyes still drawn to the sculpture, but Goode continued steering him through the room.

  “Nobody ever sits in here,” he said. “It’s my wife’s project. When she’s here. I sent her to Paris until this thing blows over.” He followed Seymour’s eyes.

  “Emily did that,” he said. “Years ago. Beatrice changes everything else in the room, but that remains. Always.”

  They passed through a door into a smaller room, an office cluttered with a huge wooden desk, papers strewn across its surface, bookshelves sagging beneath ledgers. A calendar supplied by a furrier’s organization occupied the only open wall space. The illustration for the month was a bosomy brunette wearing only a mink stole. Goode sat behind his desk, and motioned for Seymour to sit on an overstuffed and ancient loveseat against the wall across from the desk.

  “Lipp,” Goode said, leaning his jowled face toward Seymour, “I’m sure Gomez is our man.”

  “Because you think he used to be one Eduardo Rodriguez.”

  Goode started.

  “I knew I shouldn’t underestimate you.”

  “My assistant dug up that bit.”

  “Well, whatever,” Goode rose and paced the room, his thick body animated by his anger. “It’s clear, isn’t it? The son-of-a-bitch waits all these years. To get back at me, would you believe it, to pay me back, for what he did!”

  “We’re going a little fast,” Seymour began, but Goode waved his hand impatiently.

  “Fast? How did he slip through, that’s the question. A simple name change. Shit, I had the best people on it.”

  “Then, they blew it,” Seymour said.

  “No! Not them, me, and now twice. But no more. He’s mine, if I do nothing else.”

  “If all of this checks out, you’ll have him.”

  “If? What if? And your man is free.”

  “The ‘if’ is evidence, like maybe physical evidence, something more than a crazy story about a man waiting fifteen or twenty years for revenge.”