Payback

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “What happened?”

  “From what my dad told us, the heart of the neighborhood was the church—St. Mark’s Evangelical Lutheran on East Sixth. In June of that year, they held a picnic for the moms and kids of the area on Locust Grove in Long Island. They leased a ship to get there—the General Slocum. But it never made it.”

  Connie stopped and turned to me. “The fire,” she said. “Dad has a good friend who lives in Yorkville. He lost family on that ship.”

  “A lot of people lost family,” I said. “It was a screwup on every level—fire burning through the ship, panic setting in, lifeboats wired to the ship, third-rate life vests. The captain didn’t know how to deal with the East River currents.”

  “How many died?”

  “One thousand and twenty-one,” I said. “All women and kids. Many crushed by the steamship wheel, the rest died in the fire or drowned. Hundreds of people lined up along the shore, watching it happen, helpless and hopeless.”

  “Your dad was right,” Connie said.

  “To have told us?” I said.

  “There’s that,” Connie said. “But more about the hidden history of the city. It’s all around us. There’s probably a secret behind every building, in every park, every storefront.”

  I stopped and turned to face Connie. I stroked her tanned face. Her long brown hair had strips of blond along the fringes and covered one of her eyes. I reached for her and brought her closer to me, our cheeks touching, our hands clasped. “Behind every person, too,” I whispered. “Just because something’s hidden doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

  9.

  THE BROWNSTONE

  THAT NIGHT

  A JAZZ QUARTET WAS PLAYING A soulful tune in a corner of my small backyard. Two buffet tables were set up, each piled high with food from Tramonti’s kitchen. It was a warm and clear night, and the downstairs apartment was filled with friends there to welcome Pearl to his new home. I sipped from a glass of Brunello and glanced across the yard at him. He was in an animated conversation with two members of my team, Bruno Madison and Carl Elliot, and I hadn’t seen him this happy since before we both got shot off the job.

  Bruno is in his early thirties and works as one of the bartenders at Tramonti’s. He’s a former heavyweight contender, in solid shape. He is as good with money as he is with his hands and has invested his ring winnings wisely. A few years back, he took over a deli struggling to meet the rising rent and turned it into a boxing club for the neighborhood kids.

  Carl is a few years younger and hasn’t seen the inside of a gym since high school. He is quick to smile, keeps his thick brown hair long, and has a tattoo of a butterfly on each arm. During the day, Carl plays guitar on street corners and parks, taking in as much as twelve dollars. His take-home grows larger once the sun goes down. Carl’s a fence, meaning he moves everything from knockoff designer goods to high-end cars and jewels. When he works on his own, how he goes about his business is none of mine. When he works for me on a case, he wrangles the goods the crew requires in as clean a manner as possible.

  I walked over to Pearl and raised my glass to him. “Welcome home,” I said.

  He nodded, his eyes welled up with tears. “Never thought I would see a day like this,” he said. “Figured I would live the rest of my life in one rehab facility or another. Here, I feel like I belong. I feel like I can breathe again. For that alone, I’ll never be able to thank you. Never.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, partner,” I said, giving him a smile and clinking my glass against his longneck beer. “At least not until you see your rent bill.”

  “Any word from the chief?” Carl asked. “Been a couple of months since he tossed us a case.”

  “Those Ferragamo shoes not moving as fast as you’d like them to, Carl?” I said. “Or are you just missing the action?”

  “Little bit of both,” Carl said. “Besides, fall is just around the corner and singing on street corners in the cold is no fun, let me tell you.”

  Alexandra Morrasa walked up behind Pearl and gave him a big hug and a huge smile. “There she is,” Pearl said, resting his beer against the side of his wheelchair and reaching for Alexandra with both hands. “I swear you get more beautiful by the day. You have to tell me your secret.”

  “It’s Romanian blood,” Alexandra said. “We never get old and we never forget. Most especially our friends. And, even more so, our enemies.”

  “That’s a good way to go through life,” Pearl said. “And it sure as shit makes me glad you sit on our end of the table.”

  Alexandra is another member of my little crew of misfits. She has rich curly-brown hair and wears a ring on each finger and a wolf’s head pendant around her neck. She has a psychic parlor in Chelsea and another on the Upper West Side. You more than likely have walked past them and never taken notice. Next time, maybe you should. Those parlors—and Alexandra’s in particular—are the eyes and ears of the city. If something is said that needs to be heard, she’s the first to know about it and pass it our way. Her customers come to her from all walks, some with seven-figure bank accounts, others with wanted posters of their faces pinned to the wall of the nearest post office. It doesn’t matter who it is or what their worries are, Alexandra will tell each one what the future has in store for them. They leave with some peace of mind. She gets to pocket a twenty in return for her words of wisdom.

  She also has a platoon of street fighters at her disposal, most of them from Romania, now living in the States, and all lethal in the use of a knife during a tussle. They’re straight out of another century, similar to the River Pirates and the Hudson Dusters crews that roamed the New York waterfront in the late 1800s. They live on the outskirts of the city or in small apartments nestled close to the river’s edge. They make their living off the street and are the most adept pickpockets any street cop could ever confront. They are a secret society living out in the open, impossible to infiltrate and even harder to catch. Their word is sacred, and they always hold up their end of an agreement.

  “Never go up against any of those guys with a blade and expect to come out in one piece,” Carmine once told me. “They will cut your tongue out before you can call for help and slice off your fingers before you can reach for a weapon or make a fist. They’re like those ninjas you see in the movies, only faster and deadlier.”

  Chris came over and stood next to the group. “You’re all set, Pearl,” he said to him. “And I left the instructions, in case you need them, on your coffee table. But everything should work.”

  “What did you two cook up?” I asked.

  “All of Pearl’s appliances and equipment are now voice-activated,” Chris said. “Television, stereo, Wi-Fi, phones. Fingers crossed on the microwave, but everything else is working. All Pearl has to do is talk and the system takes care of the rest.”

  “Thank you, little man,” Pearl said. “You have more than earned those four Yankee tickets.”

  “I can do the same for your stuff if you want,” Chris said to me.

  “I’m afraid I’m not as high-tech as my friend Pearl here,” I said, giving Chris a wink and a smile. “Besides, I talk in my sleep, and God only knows what I’ll turn on in the middle of the night.”

  I went looking for Connie but stopped short when Pearl wheeled himself next to me. “You got a few minutes for some one-on-one talk?” he asked.

  His mood had turned suddenly serious and his upper body seemed to be on edge. “You live here now, Pearl,” I said. “Once the party wraps up, this place will turn as quiet as an empty church and we can talk until the sun comes up. But maybe we should keep our voices down. Wouldn’t want to say anything that might turn on your toaster.”

  “I was going to hold off for a few days,” Pearl said. “I know you got your brother’s situation to look into and that’s not going to be a light lift. But some info came my way today that I need to put on the
front burner.”

  “What’s this about, Pearl?” I asked. I looked around and made sure no one was close enough to overhear.

  Pearl took a deep breath and inched his wheelchair closer to my side. “It’s about getting a guy out of prison,” he said. “And in order to do so, we have to be ready to go up against one of the dirtiest and most dangerous cops to ever put on a badge.”

  “Eddie Kenwood,” I said, without a second of hesitation.

  “Public Enemy number one himself,” Pearl said.

  10.

  THE BROWNSTONE

  TWO HOURS LATER

  I WAS IN PEARL’S APARTMENT, THE blinds to the backyard drawn, the door locked. All the furniture in the place was new and I sat on a soft gray couch, a glass of wine resting on the glass coffee table in the center of the room. Pearl was across from me, gazing down at the yellow police folders scattered on top of the table and across the hardwood floor. “I’m guessing you have been reading about all the cases the DA has had to reopen in the past two, three years. All of them homicides, all of them brought to court with signed confessions.”

  “Last I counted, there were six,” I said. “All young black men with multiple priors on their jackets. All second-tier offenses, none coming close to a murder. And each case was closed out by Detective Eddie Kenwood.”

  “They were all in their early- to mid-twenties by the time their case got to trial,” Pearl said. “And they all got hit with the two-five-to-life sentence.”

  “DNA cleared them of the murders,” I said, gazing down at the folders, “and then the city doled out anywhere from three to six million in tax-free cash to make up for the error of their ways.”

  “Now, from what I read and hear, the DA is going to look into all of Kenwood’s closed homicides,” Pearl said. “And if my count is on the money, that number totals out to fifty-six.”

  “And they’ll fall on the chief’s desk,” I said. “He’s short on staff as is. Toss that pile on top of the cases they’re already working, plus the new ones sure to come in, and he’s on a heavy overload.”

  “Sounds like he could use some helping hands,” Pearl said. “Now, I know the way it usually works is he comes to us with a case. Am I right on that score?”

  I nodded. “For the most part. Look, for all I know, he already pulled a case from the pile with us in mind. If anyone hates dirty cops more than you and me, it’s the chief. He’ll find his way to us. Then we’ll get our chance to butt heads with Kenwood.”

  “But that’s just it, Tank,” Pearl said. “I don’t want us to get just any case off the pile. I have a specific one in mind.”

  I took a sip of wine and stared at Pearl for a few seconds. I had not seen him like this in a long while. He was usually one to keep his emotions in check, but I could tell from his manner that this was more than another case to him. This one was personal.

  “Tell me what I need to hear, Pearl,” I said. “Tell me which case it is you want us to go after.”

  “The young man’s name is Randy Jenkins,” Pearl said. “That is, if you can still be called young after doing seventeen years in prison. He was convicted of first-degree murder. Vic was a woman name of Rachel Nieves.”

  “He confessed to the murder?”

  “Written up by Detective Eddie Kenwood himself,” Pearl said. “He was a perfect target for Kenwood. Randy had multiple priors and he knew the victim. They had shared a pipe or two together, maybe more than that. Not sure.”

  “So, there’s a signed confession, drug use, and a possible sexual relationship between doer and the vic,” I said. “That’s what we’re looking at?”

  “That’s right,” Pearl said. “That’s what’s in the reports, and that’s what the jury seen and heard. Didn’t take them long to convict. They weren’t in the room long enough to order lunch.”

  “He put up any kind of a defense?”

  “There wasn’t much family money for a decent lawyer,” Pearl said. “There was the usual spiel we’ve all heard hundreds of times—the confession was coerced, and he would never hurt the victim; he had feelings for her. But it all fell on deaf ears. Kenwood, as you can well imagine, took the stand and did a full Bogart. He had the judge and jury eating out of his hands. Hell, by the time he was done, even Randy’s lawyer was convinced the boy was guilty.”

  “Then why are you convinced he’s not?” I asked. “Look, there’s no love lost between me and Kenwood. And truth be told, his cases always seemed to have a stench about them. But before I go in and see the chief and ask for this particular case, I need to know we are truly looking to clear an innocent man.”

  “Randy’s street name was TB,” Pearl said. “He was a chunky guy with a taste for candy and ice cream. He wasn’t a banger, not in a way you and me would define the word. Not even close. But in his neighborhood, in those days, there was only one way to go—you played along to get along. On those other priors in Randy’s rap sheet, there isn’t any doubt as to his guilt. He was all the things they said he was when it came to those crimes. But I can swear on any Bible you got handy that he wasn’t a murderer.”

  “How do you connect to him?” I asked.

  “Randy didn’t have much in the way of family,” Pearl said. “His grandmother worked two, sometimes three jobs to earn the paycheck of one. I knew his uncle, and when he was healthy, he would ref some of the high school basketball games. But he didn’t last long enough to help keep Randy on the right side of the law.”

  “And his mother?”

  “Dead.”

  “Any brothers or sisters we can reach out to?”

  “They’re scattered all over the country,” Pearl said. “And if we found any of them, doubt they would care much. The only one who did was Mo Hastings.”

  “I remember him,” I said. “Worked for the parks department. Used to be a gangbanger back in his day but got scared straight and stayed that way, far as I know.”

  “He did,” Pearl said. “And he tried to help steer as many kids out there as he could away from a wasted life. He spent a lot of time with Randy. Gave him a place to sleep when he needed one, bought him a meal here and there. Had me talk to the boy a few times, using me as an example of the kind of life you can have if you can beat the street.”

  “What was your read on Randy?”

  “Tried to come off as tough, like all street kids do,” Pearl said. “But I didn’t buy it. Deep down, he was scared of what he didn’t know. He was looking for the easy out, because that’s what they see each and every day. Fast money, flash cars, quick scores, and all the drugs you can pump into your body. He was polite enough, but I knew my words didn’t make a dent.”

  “Mo didn’t seem to have much luck in that department, either,” I said.

  “It wasn’t from lack of trying,” Pearl said. “He did as much as anyone could, and it broke Mo’s heart when Randy was sent away on the murder rap. He kept telling me there was no way that boy killed that girl. No way.”

  “Did you look into it?”

  “As best I could,” Pearl said. “Jury says guilty and the judge slams that gavel down, there isn’t much anyone can do. Even back then, signed confession and all, something about the case just didn’t feel right. But who was I to go up against the great Eddie Kenwood?”

  “You still keep in touch with Mo?” I asked.

  “We would meet now and then,” Pearl said. “Less and less as the years went on. He came to see me a few times in the hospital when I got hurt. But back then, as you well know, I wasn’t much in the mood for visitors.”

  “With good reason,” I said.

  “Then, when news broke about the DA unwrapping all of Kenwood’s cases, Mo gave me a call,” Pearl said. “He asked if I would take a look at the Randy Jenkins case. He had heard that me and you take on a job now and then, and he asked me to make it right. I told him I would.”


  “Where’s Mo hang his hat these days?”

  “He lives in the Bronx,” Pearl said. “Up near Tremont Avenue. But he won’t be there long.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s got cancer,” Pearl said. “Terminal. He thinks at best he’s got one month left, if that.”

  I nodded and stayed silent for a few moments. “You ever reach out to Randy over the years?” I asked.

  “I went up to see him a few times,” Pearl said. “But after I got shot up, I stopped. That guilt’s on me. I write him letters every few weeks, but that don’t help ease the burden.”

  I sat back and closed my eyes. “None of the weight is on you, Pearl,” I said. “If Randy is guilty, then it’s on him. If he’s innocent and locked in a cell for no reason, then it’s on Kenwood.”

  “There’s only one way for us to find out,” Pearl said.

  “I should go upstate and visit with Randy. Get his side of the story. You good with that?”

  “Was counting on it,” Pearl said. “So, you’ll ask the chief for the case?”

  “I’ll talk to him,” I said. “Rest easy on that score. And there’s someone else we should have a sit-down with, someone I never thought I would see again, let alone go up against.”

  “Kenwood,” Pearl said.

  I stood and looked down at the scattered folders. “That’s right,” I said. “Eddie Kenwood. Mr. Homicide himself.”

  11.

  UPPER WEST SIDE

  APRIL 2006

  I TURNED THE CORNER AT SEVENTY-FIFTH and Amsterdam Avenue, running fast, my gun in my left hand, held low against my leg. Pearl was on the other side of the street, also in full pursuit. We had been driving around in an unmarked when the call came over the radio, break-in at a clothing store near the Fairway Market on Broadway. Two black males, both armed, rifled the register and pistol-whipped the owner and were last seen heading downtown.