Soul Patch mp-4

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “Why?”

  “I’m just wondering. I never knew Larry was friends with Frankie.”

  She was defensive. “It didn’t last. After a few years, we stopped seeing Frankie altogether.”

  “Did something happen between them?”

  “Is it important?” She answered with her own question.

  “I don’t know, Marge. Probably not.”

  “It was so long ago.”

  I was tempted to share a quote that I picked up during the few years I had kicked around the city university system before entering the police academy. Faulkner once said, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” I wanted to shake Margaret and tell her that so long ago is never long enough. Just ask my father-in-law.

  “Yeah, Marge, you’re right. One more question about this and I’ll drop it completely, okay?”

  “Sure, Moe, anything.”

  “Can you remember when you guys stopped hanging around with Frankie?”

  She didn’t answer right away, but gave it some thought. Although the subject made her terribly uncomfortable, Margaret was a woman of her word.

  “I can’t remember any particular incident between Larry and Frankie. It was like a few months had passed since we’d seen Frankie and whatever woman he was dating at the time. I tried bringing it up to Larry, but he told me to drop it. That was okay with me, because as pleasant and charming as Frankie could be, he made me uncomfortable. It wasn’t a sexual thing, like he was interested in me or anything. He just. . I don’t know.”

  “Okay, but can you remember the timing?”

  “Sure, it was the same year you rescued the little girl from the water tank.”

  “Marina Conseco.”

  “It was right around then, a few months after that. Late spring, maybe. Early summer. I think that was the last time we saw Frankie.”

  There was nothing that struck me about that timing, so, as promised, I dropped it. Maybe Larry’s friendship with Frankie Motta was nothing. Hell, I had friends from my old neighborhood who were connected to the Anellos, the Gambinos, and the Lucheses. None of them had achieved the level of success of Frankie Motta, but they were connected just the same. Maybe Larry wised up and understood that his relationship to a known mob figure would hurt his rise up the career ladder. It was definitely Larry’s M.O. to shed anyone or anything that might hinder his ambitions.

  “Do you want some dessert, Marge?” I asked, moving on.

  She shook her head no and took my hand. “Do you think he killed himself, Moe?”

  “I don’t know. I wanna believe that Larry wasn’t the type of man who would run away from things, but he was really worried the last time we spoke. I’d never seen him so shaken. I just don’t know enough.”

  “But I knew him. I slept in his bed. I spent hours with him inside me. It’s different for a woman, having someone inside her. A woman can know a man in a way he can never know her. I can’t explain it, but I don’t think Larry would have killed himself and not left a note. He wouldn’t have done that.”

  “Maybe. Who knows? A person on the verge of suicide maybe isn’t thinking clearly about who they’re going to hurt.”

  “I just can’t believe Larry would leave that way without explaining why. It wasn’t his way.”

  She seemed really haunted by his suicide. I understood haunting.

  “C’mon, Moe, let’s get out of here. I’m feeling sad and I don’t want to feel sad here.”

  Outside, I hugged Margaret and kissed the top of her head. We didn’t really speak. There were looks and shrugs and silent understandings. I had lost a lot with Larry’s death, but nothing compared to what she had lost. I watched her pull away from the curb and I followed her taillights until they disappeared near the bridge. In an hour or so, she’d be home with Frank. I wondered if his kindness and understanding made it better or worse for Marge. Then I turned and

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I had spent the night drifting in and out of sleep, staring at Katy as she slept. I couldn’t get Margaret Spinelli’s words out of my head. A woman can know a man in a way he can never know her. I was torn between disbelief and wanting more than anything for it to be true. Did she feel the unspoken distance between us? Was every day a long, boring ride for her as well? Was the problem me? Her? Us? Before I left the house that morning, I pulled Katy aside.

  “We need to talk,” I said, brushing her cheek with the back of my hand.

  “About what?”

  “Nebraska.”

  I expected puzzlement in her eyes, her too-thin lips to turn down in confusion, her brow to furrow, at least a little bit. But she seemed to understand.

  “Long, flat, uneventful,” is what she said.

  “Exactly.”

  I pulled her close to me and for the first time in what felt like years, my wife pressed herself against me, threaded herself through my arms in that way she had of breaking down the walls between us.

  “When I’m done with whatever this is about Larry, we’re dropping Sarah at Aaron and Cindy’s and we’re going to dinner.”

  “Okay, Moe.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Then you better hurry and finish this up.”

  D.A. Fishbein was happy to get me the name and home address of Captain Raymond Martello, the 60th Precinct’s commander. I imagined the D.A.’s mouth watering on the other end of the phone. Un-contained ambition, I thought, must be an incredible burden for a political

  Fishbein also used the opportunity to inform me that he’d come up empty on another front. As far as any of his contacts knew, there was no ongoing or recent investigation into wrongdoings at my old precinct. No one, apparently, not I.A., the city, state, nor federal governments seemed the least bit interested in the 60th Precinct. That didn’t confuse me any more than usual. For me, confusion was a pre-existing and chronic condition.

  Martello lived in Great River. Unlike Massapequa, Great River was not a frequent stop for folks fleeing New York City. Tucked quietly away in Suffolk County between an arboretum, a wooded state park, a golf course, and the Atlantic, it was insulated from the neon signs and strip malls that dominated so much of the local landscape. It was a lovely old hamlet with clapboard and wood shingle churches and well-appointed houses on healthy-sized plots.

  Across the street from Timber Point Golf Course, Martello’s house began life as a modest L-shaped ranch. It had since grown a second floor, an attic with shed dormers, an extension, a separate three-car garage, and a fancy brick driveway. Although the work had been quite skillfully done, the original ranch house still shone through.

  Ringing the bell and knocking on the door got me nowhere, and I was about to write a note to stick in the mailbox when I heard a lawnmower start up around back. I walked the curvy, bluestone path that led to the rear of the house. I figured the worst that could happen was that I would meet the Martello’s landscaper. Before I made it to the back gates, the mower crapped out.

  Short, broad, fierce, and looking at his riding mower as if it had just disobeyed a direct order, Martello had C.O. written all over him. Before announcing myself, I took a moment to admire the backyard. A two-level, red cedar deck led down to a kidney-shaped swimming pool, a basketball hoop, and a brick barbecue pit. Even with all that stuff, there was half a football field’s worth of grass to mow.

  “Did you prime it?” I asked by means of introduction.

  He stared at me like something shit wipes off the bottom of its shoes. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Moe Prager. I used to be on the job. I was a friend of-”

  “-Chief McDonald’s. He smiled with the warmth of a hacksaw. “You’re the guy that figured out what happened to John Heaton’s kid, Moira, right?”

  “With Larry’s help, yeah.” I approached Martello cautiously.

  “You know a lot about mowers, Prager?”

  “Nah. I still live in Brooklyn. My lawn’s the size of a pillowcase, but I figured I’d say the only semi-intelligent thing I could think of.”


  “Well, I primed the fucker, but you’re not far off. I think I’m outta gas. So, if the John Deere people didn’t send you, I hope you don’t mind me asking what you’re doing here.”

  “I don’t mind. I wanted to talk to you about Larry Mac.”

  “What about the chief?”

  On the ride over, I’d worked through scenario after scenario. Not in a single one did Martello react well. Cold bastard or not, I couldn’t see any precinct command reacting well to the news that a bug had been placed in his precinct house by the department’s chief of detectives. And that was just the half of it. I couldn’t wait to see Martello’s reaction to my questioning him about Malik Jabbar’s arrest.

  “What about Chief McDonald?” Martello repeated, his jaw tightening.

  Reaching into my pocket, I came out with the cassette that Larry had given me a week and a lifetime ago. I made a concerted effort not to wince, steeling myself against the inevitable barrage of questions, denials, and accusations. What’s that? Where’d you get it? A wire? Not in my house! No way! I run a clean house. It’s a plant. It’s bullshit! Who sent you, I.A.? You’re a cocksucking rat, you cheese-eating motherfucker! You’re a. .

  But instead of thunder and lightning, I got quiet resignation and a cold drink.

  “I figured the tape would surface sooner or later. C’mon, I guess we better sit on the deck and talk.”

  Martello offered me something stronger, but I opted for iced tea. He had a beer. I sat and sipped, waiting for him to speak. We both knew the questions. Only he knew the answers.

  “My wife and the kids are away upstate, so we’re alone here,” he said. “How’s the tea?”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re not gonna make this easy, Prager, huh?”

  “That’s sorta up to you, no? I don’t really know anything except that there’s an illegal wire in one of your interview rooms and that you obviously know it’s there. That whatever Malik Jabbar said on this tape scared the shit out of Larry, got Malik and his girlfriend murdered, and maybe even Larry too.”

  “Chief McDonald, no way. That was a textbook suicide, pal.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “How well you know Larry Mac, Captain?”

  “Well enough. We weren’t friends or anything.”

  “He strike you as the suicidal type?”

  “What’s the suicidal type? Half the fucking people who commit homicide aren’t the murdering type. You push anybody hard enough and they can kill you or themselves. It’s just a matter of how much of a push and in what direction. Type is besides the point.”

  “All right. Let’s say Larry killed himself. It doesn’t change the rest of it,” I said. I was doing an awful lot of talking for someone who intended to listen. “So what about the wire?”

  “McDonald came to me and told me he had heard a few things, that stuff had filtered back to him about some of my detectives.”

  “What kinda things?”

  “Drug stuff. You know, the same old bullshit about shaking down the local dealers, protecting the bigger ones for a fee, stealing cash and drugs. Blah, blah, blah. Nothing new under the sun, right?”

  Just ask Rico Tripoli. “Which detectives?”

  “Now you’re crossing the line, pal. I’ll talk to you about McDonald, but that’s where it ends.”

  “Okay, skip it. So Larry Mac comes to you and he says he’s heard some things and. .”

  “And he says he don’t want a scandal involving detectives, not on his watch, not while he’s their chief.”

  I laughed with no joy. “He wouldn’t. It might hurt his ascendency. I used to joke with Larry that he thought ‘Stairway to Heaven’ was his theme song.”

  “You musta known him pretty well, huh?”

  “I used to think so. We came up together.” I sipped my tea. “So, Captain, he comes to you and says he’s heard some things. It’s a leap from that to planting a wire in an interview room.”

  Martello squirmed in his chair so much that it made me uncomfortable watching him. The beer seemed to turn to vinegar in his mouth and he spit it out onto the grass.

  “The chief said he wanted to handle things quietly, that if he could get some proof on these detectives that they were using trumped-up arrests or threats to shake people down. . You know, he could pull them aside and warn them to put in their papers before it got ugly for them, their families, and the department. This way the whole thing goes away and nobody gets hurt. It worked for me.”

  “That’s an interesting view of justice,” I said.

  “Look, Prager, no C.O. wants to get caught in the middle of a corruption scandal. My head would’ve rolled along with those guilty motherfuckers.”

  “But even so, what’s this got to do with Malik Jabbar and a seventeen-year-old murder case?”

  “I don’t know. McDonald said I was to call him any time a drug suspect came in wanting to make a deal. After my detectives-”

  “Murphy and Melendez?”

  “Yeah. After Murphy and Melendez came to me, I phoned Chief McDonald. He sounded weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  “Just weird. I don’t know. Different. Strange. Unnerved, maybe. Anyway, he told me that he’d handle everything. He came down, talked to this Jabbar guy and had me release him. He took that cassette from my office and told me to just keep my mouth shut and that he’d protect me.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “What choice did I have?” Martello asked, crushing his beer can. “I was fucked no matter what I did. I had knowingly let a wire be planted in my house without a court order and by someone who had no authority to do it. I have the fucking receiver in my office, for chrissakes! Even if I could convince somebody it wasn’t my idea in the first place, I’d failed to alert anyone about what the chief was doing. And besides, McDonald had juice. Everybody with a brass button owed him favors. If anybody could protect my ass, it was him.”

  “I guess I see your point. What did you do with the paperwork on Jabbar?”

  “C’mon, Prager, you were on the job. Shit gets misplaced all the time. It’s a fucking miracle more shit doesn’t disappear.”

  “But with the new computers. .”

  “Never got entered into the system.”

  “And you didn’t called the Brooklyn D.A.?”

  “Nope. So. .” He strummed his fingers on the arm of his deck chair. “What are you gonna do about the tape?”

  “This?” I twirled the cassette on the table. “I got no beef with you and I’m not looking to jam anybody up. All I want are some answers about why a small-time shithead like Malik Jabbar scared Larry so much. Nothing really scared Larry. Like you were saying, he had juice and he had balls. What could this Jabbar guy have known that got him and his girl killed?”

  “Sorry, Prager, can’t help you there.”

  “Okay, Captain, thanks for your time. I won’t say anything to anyone about your part in this mess.”

  “Thanks. One thing I gotta say.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I wasn’t tight with Chief McDonald, and maybe I’m talking outta my ass, but I think you’re being a lot more loyal to him than he woulda been to you.”

  “You’re probably right, but in the end, I don’t suppose it’s really about who Larry Mac was. It’s about who I am.”

  I stood and offered my hand to Martello. He took it, looking mostly relieved. Mostly.

  “About the tape. .” he said, clearing his throat.

  “Keep it. The answers I’m looking for aren’t on there.”

  On the ride back into the city, it occurred to me that I probably should’ve kept the tape as a bargaining chip for Fishbein, but I wasn’t out to hurt people. There was already too much hurt to go around. In the end, I’d find Fishbein some raw meat to chew on. There was bound to be a lot of that around too.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The first time Yancy Whittle Fenn and I met, we had drinks
at the Yale Club across the way from Grand Central Station. It didn’t start out well for the two of us. I like drinking, but I don’t like drunks. An odd position to take, I realize, for a man who owns three wine shops, but there it is. Wit had been an especially nasty drunk, because he was a cruel drunk. As a cop, you kind of get used to belligerent drunks, fist-swinging assholes who start throwing punches at the first whiff of alcohol. Sad, stupid, angry, even hateful drunks were one thing, but I could never abide cruelty. Maybe that’s why I hated my father-in-law so.

  Near seventy, Wit had begun to show his age. He was thinner these days, almost too thin without the Wild Turkey course of each meal. His perpetually tan skin now hung loosely off his jaws and there was a rounding of his shoulders that wasn’t there six years ago. But his gray-blue eyes still burned as brightly as ever behind the lenses of his trademark tortoiseshell glasses. And the man could dress. No matter how much my clothing cost, when I stood between Wit and Larry McDonald, I looked like a vagabond.

  Wit and I had been back to the Yale Club several times since we’d met, but I don’t think I’d ever fully taken the place in. It was of a completely different time. A time when a certain class of white, Christian gentleman ruled the world, and proximity to Grand Central Station mattered in the scheme of things. It was of an era when black waiters wore white gloves and swallowed their anger like table scraps. Katy loved the place. Not me. I would always be more comfortable in steerage with the fish.

  “A good day to you and your guest, Mr. Wit,” Willie said. He was an overly polite black man equal to Wit in age, if not older, who had waited on us that first time back in ’83 and every time since. Willie didn’t do white gloves, at least not anymore.

  “And to you, Willie,” said Wit. “You’re getting a little old for waiting tables, aren’t you?”

  “That well may be, Mr. Wit, but I’m not too old to stop eating, if you catch my meaning, sir.” We both caught it, but these two always went on like this. “Would either of you fine gentleman like a beverage this afternoon?”

  “Dewar’s rocks,” I said.