Soul Patch mp-4

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  Just lately, the yuppies-with their nose for cheap real estate, rustic charm, and loft space-had taken notice. It would probably be another ten or fifteen years before the last black, Puerto Rican, and artist was driven out by gentrification, but as sure as the sun would rise

  “Over here!” she called above the din of the crowd and Johnny Maestro’s sour ruminations on the prospects of marriage.

  That was the thing about the jukebox at Rip’s. With the solitary exception of Sinatra, every selection on the box was written or performed by a Brooklynite. Either that or the song title or the band name featured the word Brooklyn.

  “Dewars rocks,” I shouted at the barman after working my way through the tangle of bodies.

  Melendez held up her bottle of Heineken to show me she was fine. We clinked bottle to rocks glass.

  “This is weird,” she said.

  “What’s weird?”

  “Us.”

  “Us?” I repeated. “What about-”

  Everything! “Nothing,” she lied. “Forget it.”

  I would have lied, too, had she pursued it. All through dinner with Pete Parson and Katy, this moment was all I could think about. Now that it had come, I felt about fifteen years old. There was no denying she made my heart beat faster, that since she had shoved me out of the path of that car my appreciation for her had taken a decidedly more personal bent than simple recognition of her charms.

  “Look at this place,” I said, just to say something. “If the city mixed like the crowd in here, we’d have a lot less trouble.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” she agreed, looking out at the jumble of black, brown, and white faces. “Not many places in the city like this.”

  “Not many places like Red Hook.”

  “None.”

  I guzzled my scotch. “C’mon, let’s get outta here for a little while so we can talk.”

  “Okay.”

  We walked to the corner, turned left on Van Brunt, and strolled toward Conover. In stark contrast to Rip’s, the streets were eerily silent and a thick veil of fog obscured the normally brilliant lights of lower Manhattan. We, too, were silent. Now we stood at the end of Conover Street, where moot trolley tracks curved directly into oblivion.

  “My brother Aaron and me, we own wine shops,” I said, smooth talker that I was. “And we just opened up a new place on Long Island. Larry-Chief McDonald-was there for the grand opening party. We were outside talking and he handed me a cassette tape. He told me to take it home and listen.” I pulled that same cassette out of my jacket.

  “What is it, a mix tape of ELP, Jethro Tull, and Pink Floyd?”

  “A sense of humor, huh? You forgot Yes and the Moody Blues. How do you know from those bands?”

  “You think I dance around my house with fruit on my head to Tito Puente and Menudo records? Some kids like dinosaurs. I liked dinosaur rock.”

  “No, Carmella, it isn’t a mix tape.” I handed it to her. “It’s a recording of two detectives interviewing a drug suspect.”

  “Detectives?”

  “You and Murphy, specifically. The suspect was Malik Jabbar or Melvin, as you seemed to like to call him.”

  Her face went blank, any hint of playfulness vanished.

  “I don’t know how he got it, but there’s definitely a hidden mic somewhere in that interview room. You’ll hear for yourself.”

  “Fuck!”

  I might just as well have smacked her with a two-by-four. She stared at the cassette like it was radioactive.

  “I know, Carmella. It raises a lot of questions.”

  “We need to talk and I need a drink.”

  “Come on, let’s get back to Crispo’s.”

  “No!”

  “Where then?”

  “Walk me back to my car.”

  I loved fog. I always found a drowsy calm in it, a comforting embrace. Tonight the calm was lost on me. Following Melendez’s car through the twisty womb of silent streets, I could not quiet my thoughts or the heart thumping in my chest. I turned the radio up to where it might have drowned out a subway collision on the el above my head, but it could not drown out my guilt. I couldn’t think of anybody,

  Melendez lived on Ashford Street just off Atlantic Avenue: still in Brooklyn, but barely. With the wind at your back, you could smack a golf ball and hit the horses turning for the finish line at Aqueduct Raceway, just across the nearby Queens border. Here the fog smelled of the sea tinged with the scent of spent kerosene as jets followed the shoreline of Jamaica Bay, swooping low toward Kennedy.

  Carmella turned back to me, placing a finger across her lips.

  “My grandmother lives downstairs.”

  I preferred her whisper to the devil’s.

  We climbed a steep flight of unlit stairs. Cranky with age, the steps complained at each footfall. Carmella seemed not to notice. I think maybe my guilt had given me rabbit ears, that what I heard in the creaks and moans in the old wood were admonitions. I heard, but did not listen.

  With laundry strewn on the living room floor, open Chinese food containers on the coffee table, Melendez’s apartment was sloppy and disorganized and not so very different from any other single, lonely cop’s. Though I had difficulty imagining Carmella Melendez ever being lonely.

  Then again, I was probably confusing loneliness and solitude. She would have had all the company she ever wanted; but I understood better than most about loneliness in the heart of the crowd. It’s what’s inside that keeps us apart. Over the years, the secrets I kept had isolated me. And it dawned on me that the secrets I kept had pushed Katy away. Build a fortress well enough and it even keeps love out.

  Sometimes, like at the grand opening party, the only other person I could see in the crowd was my father-in-law. We were alone together. I wondered if Carmella Melendez had secrets, too. For her sake, I hoped not.

  “Drink?” she asked.

  “Scotch.”

  “I’d try the beer.”

  “Yeah, why’s that?”

  “It’s all I’ve got,” she said. “Come on in the kitchen. It’s neater in there.”

  She was right. The kitchen was immaculate. More likely from lack of use than anything else. She noticed me notice.

  “I can cook, but. .”

  “No one to cook for. I know.”

  “My grandmother brings stuff up for me sometimes and we eat together a few times a week. She’s getting old and is beginning to forget things sometimes. This way I can keep an eye on her.”

  I sat down at the little round-top table as she fished two Coronas out of the fridge.

  She handed me a bottle. “No limes, sorry.”

  “I’m not a lime sort of guy.” I took a pull on my beer and waited. I’m not sure why or what for, but I hadn’t felt this awkward in a very long time. Melendez stood her ground, leaning against the refrigerator. Things were rapidly progressing from awkward to downright uncomfortable, when Carmella threw me the sharpest breaking curveball I’d ever seen.

  “I want you to like me.” There was that whisper again.

  “What do you think I’m doing here?”

  “No. I want you to like me, Moe, not just want me. I know how to make men want me. That’s something I could do even before I knew how.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Forget it. Just that I know I’m pretty.”

  I got up and stood close to her, softly brushing her cheek with the back of my hand, tucking a wayward strand of silk black hair behind her ear. “You’re more than pretty, Carmella.”

  Leaning forward, I rested my lips gently on hers. It was more a caress than a kiss, really, neither of us willing to take it further. Still, it was electric. Carmella slid her lips along mine and nestled her head in the crook of my arm and against my chest. She threaded herself through and around me, holding me desperately tight. I can’t explain it, but there was an old yearning in her touch, something way beyond simple attraction. When she finally relaxed her hold and looked back int
o my eyes, it was one of the most disquieting moments in my life. Guilt? No, not this time. I don’t think so. I recognized something almost frightening in the depths of her stare.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m going to ruin it,” she said.

  “Ruin what?”

  “This. . Us, if I tell you. .”

  “If you tell me what?”

  Now she completely freed herself, ducking under my arms, and walked away. Gazing out into the darkness through the little window above the kitchen sink, her back still to me, she said, “Remember the other day in the car on the way to Fountain Avenue when I was saying that getting my shield had nothing to do with my being Puerto Rican or my-”

  “I remember. You were giving me a song and dance about being a good cop.”

  “I am a good cop.”

  “I believe you, but what’s this got to do with-”

  “I am a good cop,” she repeated, trying to convince the both of us. “But maybe I did make a compromise I shouldn’t have. I just wanted that shield so bad.”

  Yeah, tell me about it. “What kinda compromise? Who’d ya-”

  “-fuck?” She turned toward me. “That’s what you were gonna ask, right? It always comes down to that-who I fucked to get ahead. I didn’t fuck anybody! This ain’t about pussy or passports.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. You’re right. So if that wasn’t it, what was it?”

  “I knew about the wire in the interview room,” she said, looking anywhere but at me.

  “How?”

  “I put it there.”

  “You what?”

  “I put it there,” she repeated, head hanging low.

  Now I understood her reaction when I told her about what was on the tape. She was worried about being found out.

  “Whose idea was it?”

  “Not mine.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Chief McDonald. He put me up to it.”

  “You’re shitting me, right?” I seethed. “The chief of detectives has a bug planted in his old precinct house and he winds up an apparent suicide, and you don’t think to say anything!”

  “I knew this would ruin it.”

  I was at her in a flash, my hands grabbing her shoulders and spinning her around.

  “You’ve got a lot more to worry about than us, Carmella.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” she growled, pulling out of my grasp. “I just wanted my shield. You can’t understand.”

  I ignored that last part. “Okay, okay, let’s start from the beginning. When did Larry first come to you?”

  “Technically, I went to him.” She took a long sip of her beer. “About eighteen months ago I got called into my C.O.’s office at the Seven-Seven and he told me to report to One Police Plaza.”

  “And Larry Mac was waiting.”

  “He said he’d been keeping his eye on me since I got outta the academy. Had my personnel jacket right in front of him. I thought he was going to put the moves on me, you know? I mean, it’s not like every dick with stripes or brass buttons hadn’t used a variation of that ‘keeping my eye on you’ line since the day I got on the job. What’s that look for?” she asked, noticing the smile spreading across my face.

  “Believe me, Larry loved women, but you had to understand him. He was an ambitious bastard. If he saw a way you’d be of use to him, your looks would have become beside the point. That was just who he was. And if he saw you were hungry. . watch out! That was his talent, spotting people’s hungers. So what happened?”

  “So he asked me if I thought I’d make a good detective.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I said no, that I’d make a great detective.”

  “Let me guess. He put a small box in front of you on the table and told you to go ahead and open it up. Inside, you found the thing you were desperate for, a shield, and Larry said something like, ‘Congratulations, Detective Melendez.’” I could see by her expression I’d gotten it about right.

  “He said he might have special assignments for me from time to time.”

  “But not right away. No, he would want to see if you could handle the job and the abuse you were bound to take for getting the bump so early in your career.”

  “That’s some spooky shit, Moe, the way you knew him. You even say the words he said.”

  “It was hard-learned, what I know about Larry. We came up together. So when did he come back to you with the special assignment?”

  “About six months later, when I was in the One-Eleven, he asked me to do some minor crap. He had me check up on someone, another detective. I wasn’t supposed to say anything to anybody, no matter what. Then like a week later, two guys from-”

  “-I.A. showed up and wanted to speak to you about this other detective. You didn’t say a word, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Larry was-”

  “-testing me. Yeah, I knew that. It was bullshit. After that, he didn’t call for a long time.”

  “How long?”

  “I got transferred to the Six-O almost eight months ago. I guess it was four or five months after that.”

  “And. .”

  “And he met me at some Cuban-Chinese dive in Hell’s Kitchen. Gave me some equipment, told me how to install it.”

  “Did he say why he wanted a wire in-”

  “I didn’t ask. I didn’t wanna know. I’m not sure I woulda believed him anyway, no matter what he told me.”

  “Clever. Believing Larry was about percentages. But what happened next?”

  “Nothing. Chief McDonald and I never spoke again. Most of the time, I even forgot that the wire was there. I never even saw the chief again until. . you know.”

  “Fountain Avenue.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, is that all of it?”

  “That’s it! Tomorrow, I’ll pull the wire.”

  “No you won’t. Leave it there,” I barked. “Right now it’s all we got. Maybe we can use it. Does anybody else know?”

  “Not from me, but I can’t say if Chief McDonald told anyone.”

  “I doubt it. Not Larry’s style to share. Besides, whatever his reasoning, this was way beyond kosher, even for a chief.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “The plan? The plan is you dig up what you can on the Dexter Mayweather murder while I try and figure out what Larry Mac was up to with this wire.”

  “You think they’re related, the wire, the Mayweather thing, and the chief’s suicide?” she asked.

  “If it was suicide.”

  “Right, if it was suicide,” she agreed. “But do you think it’s all related?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Depends what Larry was fishing for.”

  “Huh?”

  “Sometimes trawlers catch sharks in their nets. Even if you go to throw the shark back in, it doesn’t mean it won’t bite you.”

  Her name was Nancy Lustig, a forlorn little rich girl whose looks bordered on the ugly side of nondescript. I’d met her in 1978 when I was looking for my now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t brother-in-law, Patrick. They’d dated long enough for him to knock her up and abandon her after the abortion. I hadn’t thought about Nancy Lustig in years, but as I drove home along the Belt Parkway in the suddenly un-welcoming fog, she was on my mind.

  I guess maybe there was something in Melendez tonight that brought Nancy to mind. Not her looks, certainly, but there was something in Carmella’s eyes, a sadness, a yearning, an old wound that struck the same chord Nancy had struck a dozen years ago.

  I don’t know, maybe it was my guilt again, screaming at me like the cranky old steps. It wasn’t lost on me that in the midst of Melendez’s revelations about Larry Mac and her planting the wire, I had kissed a woman in a way married men are not supposed to kiss women who are not their wives. Sure, from the outside it probably didn’t look like much of a kiss, but it was on the inside, and on the inside there was fire.

  In a way, I think I was grateful f
or the bomb Carmella had dropped on me about her dealings with Larry Mac. It put the fire on hold, at least for now. There was only so much I could handle all at

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Fishbein met me at a coffee shop in Elmont, just over the Queens border with Nassau County. The D.A. didn’t like being summoned. He was careful not to say so, though his expression spoke all too clearly. Fishbein may have been good at keeping his yap shut when the situation called for it, but he wore his heart on his face. It was forever getting him in trouble, especially during his ill-fated run for governor. His media-savvy handlers spotted the problem right away, making certain Fishbein never appeared on camera in his own commercials. His ads were always full of testimonials, newspaper clippings, and still photos.

  The bigger problem was that his handlers couldn’t control the TV news, and whenever they showed tape of Fishbein making a stump speech, the D.A.’s boredom and condescension showed through. It was especially evident when he’d be in some upstate county speaking to a bunch of dairy farmers. Bad enough that he looked so out of place to begin with-Groucho Marx in a Dickies shirt, stiff Levis, and Wolverine boots-but when he started talking about price supports. . Jesus, you could just see the man wanted to be any place else.

  “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Prager?” Fishbein asked, pulling a face as bitter as the coffee. He put his cup down.

  “That’s the right question, Mr. D.A., but first I wanna talk about my brother-in-law a little bit. You said-”

  “I know what I said, but you might as well not ask. Results. Results. Results. They’re the only things that’ll get you answers, so I suggest you get to work.”

  “Can you find out if there was any monkey business going on in the Six-O?”

  “Monkey business?”

  “Was anyone in the precinct a target of an I.A., local, or federal investigation? Do I really have to spell it out for you?”