Devil's Redhead

by David Corbett

  Abatangelo returned to the phone, tried Waxman again, but the line was still busy. He felt disinclined to put the receiver down, presuming Cohn would be trying to call. He didn’t as yet have the stomach for lawyer talk. He foresaw a practiced apology from Cohn for the friction between them last night, followed a bit too promptly by discussion of a fee, then a recommendation he turn himself in. Cohn was right, of course—the Bureau of Prisons didn’t need any more reason than they had to yank him back in, conduct a grinding, dishonest, arrogant and sloppy review of whether he’d actually done anything to violate the terms of his probation. If he took the initiative, surrendered himself to custody, he stood a good chance of wiggling out of any real time. None of which, however, conformed to his need to see that Shel was still alive. He told himself it would be wise by day’s end to take Cohn’s other piece of advice, and find somewhere else to stay.

  Finally he mustered the nerve to face Waxman’s piece. The story commanded page one with a jump—two parallel pieces, the straight murder account gaining the higher, larger lead, with a column inch for Waxman down the right margin below the fold. The straight piece related the more objective information, identifying the place and time and numbering the dead, leaving them nameless pending family notification. It did note, though, that one was a child.

  The nuances were left to Waxman. First he presented the theory that Shel had run a minor dope outfit, with Abatangelo, just out of prison, her once-again partner; the murders, in this scenario, were blamed on some amorphous revenge. Reading it, Abatangelo recalled that this was one of the theories advanced by the homicide detectives, embellished somewhat.

  The narc’s scenario got laid out next, with the similarities to the Briscoe murders, the link between Shel and Abatangelo, the possibility of an attempt to frame Frank.

  Last came Abatangelo’s account, coming off in contrast to the police renditions as the obsessive rantings of a half-cocked jailbird, angling for God knows what. At the same time, though, on the pickups inside, there was an archive picture of Felix Randall, as well as one of the shots of Shel that Abatangelo had passed along. The pictures, by simply being there, lent credence to his version of events. His name was even listed for attribution beneath Shel’s photo. Apparently, he mused, it only took three people dead to get the editors to change their minds about adding a little art.

  All in all, Abatangelo thought, Waxman came off strangely evenhanded. If you could think of ambivalence that way. He raised a lot of questions that made him seem sharp but only hinted at answers. He tried to please everybody and at the same time work up his own stock. It wasn’t surprising, but it wasn’t really forgivable, either.

  Abatangelo folded the paper over slowly, then heaved it against the wall. He put his head in his hands, thinking, Just another dumb fish. Then he reached for the phone and kept on dialing Waxman’s number till at long last he got through.

  Waxman greeted him with, “I just tried to reach you.” A curious distance abstracted his voice, a skeptical civility that hinted at defensiveness. “I’ve just had a call from Frank Maas.”

  Abatangelo laughed acidly. “Don’t fuck with me, Wax.”

  “I couldn’t be more sincere.”

  “Is she with him?”

  Waxman hesitated. “Shel? He didn’t—”

  “Tell me what he said.”

  Waxman cleared his throat. “First, I gather from your tone you’ve had the chance to read the article. I realize it may not be everything you would have wished. But understand—”

  “I loved the article,” Abatangelo said. “Read it twice. In particular I liked your art. Tell me what he said.”

  Waxman replied, “I don’t think it’s entirely apropos I tell you.”

  Abatangelo squeezed the receiver and fought an impulse to bang it against the wall. “You want apropos? Before I showed up last night you were stewed, plowing through hate mail. You wouldn’t even be on this story if it weren’t for me. How’s that for apropos?”

  “I have a duty—”

  “You shit little green apples as soon as you’re in a room alone with a few cops. They spot this lovely trait and play you like a goddamn flute. You hand up my name, hang me out to dry. For all I know you’re wearing a wire right now.”

  “That is insulting.”

  “What did this Frank guy have to say?”

  “He’s bitter. He says he had nothing to do with any killings.”

  “No fooling.”

  “He wants money.”

  “How much?”

  “What difference does it make? It taints whatever he intends to tell me.”

  Abatangelo could hear a cat purring in the background. It was nuzzling the receiver on the far end. Waxman shooed the animal away and resumed with, “He says he’s willing to meet, if I bring five thousand dollars. He’s giving me half an hour to think it over.”

  “Offer him three,” Abatangelo said, “and ask him where he wants to meet.”

  Waxman groaned. “This isn’t the tabs. We don’t pay sources. Even if we did, I can’t get an editor to front me lunch, let alone three thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll pay it,” Abatangelo said.

  He did the tally in his head. He could sell the Dart, that’d bring maybe half a thousand. If he gave the Sirkis back, he’d never get the full three hundred, not from the likes of Toretta, but two would do. He could pawn Mannion’s camera equipment; that might get him the rest. It wasn’t his to pawn, of course. If caught, it meant back to prison for sure. No wiggle room at that point. Five more years.

  “I’m dead serious, Wax.”

  “Yes. I gathered that.”

  “Tell him it isn’t payment for his story. It’s to cover the cost of food, a safe place to stay. He’s on the run, we understand that. I understand that. But first he talks. Otherwise no deal.”

  In the background, the cat’s purring grew loud again. Waxman didn’t bother to shoo it away this time.

  “I guess,” he said finally, “if we’re careful, check out his story so it doesn’t look like we’re just paying for some ruse.”

  “There you go.”

  “It’s intriguing, your offer, don’t get me wrong. It’s just, ethically speaking, I mean—”

  “Ethics is for philosophers, Wax. Get him to sit down with you. Serve the story, remember?”

  Frank approached the restaurant bar of the Brighton Hotel and ordered a double Tanqueray rocks. Taking a stool, he checked his watch, shook it, put it to his ear. He told himself, Sit quiet now, try.

  Another restaurant, he thought, bad news. His thumb, courtesy of Waldo, felt hot from infection and large as a bar of soap. His midriff cramped with each breath. Christ, why did I agree to this? Because the reporter insisted. Because the reporter doesn’t want to be alone with you. He watched with relief as his drink arrived and he wrapped his hands around the glass.

  The restaurant was new, catering to the icy fashion crowd—ambitious cuisine, stark decor, an intense unpleasant swank among the staff. Artwork of a sort hung here and there. Glass dominated the bar to where it seemed to emit a faint, high sound.

  Behind the bar, a television offered the morning news, a segment called “Local Edition.” A bit about hepatitis in the gay community segued into a helicopter shot of the ranch house, beneath which the words SITE OF GANGLAND-STYLE KILLINGS appeared. Shortly an Asian woman with bangs and wearing a peach-colored suit was holding a microphone against a blurred backdrop. The sound was turned too low for Frank to hear everything the Asian woman was saying, but he did catch the word “methamphetamine,” pronounced like it was a kind of napalm. Then the camera cut to a close-up of Felix, standing on his porch. Frank couldn’t tell at first if this was stock footage, a segment shot earlier or what. He strained again to hear, catching through the static bits of what Felix was saying—he had no clue, he said, what anyone was talking about. He mentioned something about a “doctor,” then smiled like a harmless aging redneck, gestured good-bye with his cane, and reached beh
ind him as his wife, Cheryl, offered her shoulder and they hobbled side by side to the car. Going to the doctor, Frank guessed. Can’t get much more harmless than that. Unless you take a good look at his eyes.

  Frank glanced around, to see if anyone else was paying attention to the program, or him. The bartender was bent over, stocking his fridge. The owner, a slight balding Persian in a double-breasted suit, patrolled the dining room with hands clasped behind his back, leading with his chin. The hostess, a thin blonde maybe thirty years old, wearing makeup so garish it made her look fifty, stood at her lectern, fussing with the brunch menu.

  Frank reached inside his jacket, removed his hand-worn copy of the newspaper piece and smoothed it out on the bar. He’d given it maybe three dozen readings, feeling more naked each time, an effect only enhanced now by the television coverage. But the worst of it wasn’t the fear. The article talked about this smuggler just out of prison, a guy with a long and difficult name. It said he and Shel had been an item years ago, before they both went down on federal charges. Worse, it said that he was the man Shel had run to after Frank had tried to murder her. The article actually used the word “murder.” It also used the word “lovers,” referring to Shel and this other guy. It all made sense now, he thought. What a sick, pathetic, piss-driven fool you’ve been. This was who Shel was secretly mooning over all that time, not Mooch. She’d never said a word about the guy, not once in over two years. How many other secrets had she kept? How many times, when I sat there, pouring out my heart, telling her my plans—not just for me, for us, that was the sick part, for us, damn it—how many times had she really been thinking of this Danny Grab-Your-Banjo, or however the fuck you pronounced his name?

  He glanced one last time at the picture of Shel, winced, then folded the paper over again and returned it to his pocket. Shortly a plump, redheaded professor-type came through the entrance, stumbling on the door saddle. He was garbed in tweed and corduroy, checking every face as he came aright, catching his balance. Frank watched in the mirror above the bar, biting his lip, heart pounding.

  Spotting Frank at the bar, the professor made the proper mental connection and came forward ardently, extending his hand the last few steps. “I’m Bert Waxman,” he said. Frank detected in the voice traces of jug wine, chalk dust, arguments in the library. He’d sold crank to voices like that. “I appreciate your willingness to meet with me here.”

  “You have to pay for my drink,” Frank told him.

  They sat at a table against the wall and the waitress appeared shortly. She had chubby legs and wore a crucifix nose stud; a cold sore as large and white as a chancre filled the corner of her mouth. Waxman only wanted coffee but Frank ordered another double gin, asking it be brought at once. The waitress checked out his face, then spun around and vanished. Once she was out of earshot, Frank remarked, “I think I’d shoot my lips off before I let that woman kiss me.”

  He and Waxman eyed each other briefly. Frank felt vaguely discouraged. Waxman was coming into focus, impression-wise, and he was exactly the sort of person Frank had been bred to loathe: educated, browbeaten, sincere. The kind folks run to with their inspired lies. A scribe for users. Like I’m one to complain, Frank thought. He hid his throbbing thumb in his lap.

  “I’ve had a chance to think through the way you want to work the money angle,” he said. “This third-party thing.”

  “Yes,” Waxman said, clearing his throat.

  “Won’t work. Where’s my guarantee it’s not just smoke?”

  “I think you can understand I’m in much the same position,” Waxman said. “How do I know you have anything genuinely valuable to provide.”

  “Oh, I do. Believe me, I do. And it’s a damn sight better than what you’ve got so far.”

  The waitress returned, bearing their drinks on a tray. Frank downed half his before Waxman was through tending to his coffee: heavy cream, three sugars.

  “Look,” Frank said, “this source of yours. This I-talian guy. I’d be careful if I were you. Strikes me as the type to say anything.”

  “There were two police versions of events quoted in the article as well.” Waxman pinched his empty sugar packets into sections and set them on his saucer like tiny flowers. “You don’t seem terribly bothered by either of them.”

  Frank blinked. “Meaning what?”

  “Say what you like about Mr. Abatangelo’s reliability, it’s his story that troubles you.”

  “Like hell.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  “Look,” Frank said, sensing it was time to invent, “Shel told me all about this guy, got it? I can tell you things about him his own mother doesn’t know.”

  “His mother,” Waxman enjoined, tasting his coffee, “is dead.”

  “Yeah, well,” Frank said, thinking: If she’s dead, she can’t contradict me. “Figure of speech, okay?”

  “What in particular did Mr. Abatangelo get wrong?”

  The room turned hot suddenly. Frank felt sweat prickling his skin. “Look, what I mean is, if I were you I’d sort things out a little, not just write them down on the jump. Use your head, you know? Ask around.”

  Waxman nodded. “Go on.”

  “I can help you there,” Frank said. “Unlike this Dan Slab-of-Mango guy, who wouldn’t know the truth if he had to drive it around like a bus.”

  “The truth, which is?”

  Frank was having trouble with his throat, it kept wanting to close up on him. Worse, little stabs of memory kept jagging across his mind’s eye and scaring him. Wetting his lips he leaned forward.

  “The crew that smoked those three folks in that house last night? I can put you through to the chief. Absolutely. Nervy little fucker, mean as a hornet, got a birthmark right here.” He tapped his forehead. “Your article, it got the Mexican angle right, but, you know, it was kinda spotty. No offense. But I mean, that’s the problem, right? That’s why you need me.”

  “Who is this crew?” Waxman asked. “What are their names?”

  Frank shook his head. “Money first.”

  Waxman twisted his pen cap, leaned forward and asked, “Do you concede that you were with the Briscoe twins the night they were murdered?”

  Frank grimaced and sat back. He shivered a little. “I’m getting a little sick of being blamed for that,” he said.

  “But you were with them.”

  “I didn’t do it.” Frank slammed back the rest of his cocktail, at which point he realized he had quite a package on. Everything but his skin seemed warm to the touch. Surfaces gave way a little when he looked at them.

  “Look,” he said, a bit loud, “it’s easy to crap on me. I’m easy to hate. But get this”—and he prodded his finger into Waxman’s arm—“by the time those two got sniffed, I was long gone. I never touched them, I didn’t see who did. I liked the little fuckers, why would I smoke ’em?”

  Waxman asked, “Where did you go when you left their house?”

  Frank shoved the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. His head seethed with fervent whispers. When he took his hands away he reached for the sugar bowl mindlessly and fingered a half dozen packets, slipping them into his coat pocket.

  “That’s all I got to say,” he said, looking up in a daze, “till I see some cash.”

  Abatangelo waited in his car outside the Brighton Hotel as an immense American sedan drifted from its parking space. Good omen, he thought. Right in front.

  Waxman had refused to tell him where the meet was being held, insisting he see Frank alone. So Abatangelo had driven over in the Dart, parked down the street from Waxman’s apartment, and, when the cab appeared, followed. Wax, Wax, Wax, he’d thought—you simply do not understand the stakes involved. I deserve a good look at this character. It won’t do, letting you sit there and get lied to—not if I’m the one who’s got to risk five more years in stir just to pay him off.

  He steered the Dart into the parking spot and hustled inside the hotel. Brunch patrons queued at the hostess stand. Abatangelo worked
past them gently, murmuring apologies. When he reached the hostess she bristled, glaring up from her seating chart, which she’d rendered into a chaos of crayon smears. She looked ready to let go with a good long scream. Abatangelo smiled, said, “Meeting a friend,” and kept moving.

  He spotted them across the room. Obscured behind a waiter pushing a flambé cart, he made half the distance between the hostess stand and the table before Frank looked up. Don’t be hostile, he told himself. Just mosey up, introduce yourself, sit down, and take it from there. For the fraction of an instant it took to tell himself this, the plan worked well. Then Frank’s eyes turned wild. Maybe I’m walking too fast, he thought. Maybe there’s blood in my eye. Whatever the reason, Frank bolted up from his chair, spilling coffee across the tablecloth as Waxman stared down at the stain oozing toward him.

  “Don’t,” Abatangelo shouted, sensing it was the wrong word just as the whole situation went wrong.

  Frank checked every direction, bat-eyed, ashen, then hurdled the next table. Four middle-aged women launched to their feet, screaming. Waxman stared, dabbing his trousers mindlessly, as Abatangelo, acting on instinct, lunged past the screamers and caught Frank’s ankle. Porcelain shattered, glass and flowers sailed airborne. “Stop it,” Abatangelo shouted as a searing pain shot through his wrist. Frank had doubled on himself, sunk his teeth through the skin, clear to bone. He went at Abatangelo’s face with his nails, gouging the eyes. He broke loose of Abatangelo’s hold, teeth and fingernails dark with blood, and one of the four women collapsed in a faint. Waiters and busmen drifted back against the high walls uttering, “God, Oh God, My God.” Blind, the ripped eye hot against his fingers, blood clouding what he could see, Abatangelo flailed, lunging again, grabbing Frank’s coattail from the back and with the other hand reaching out for his belt. Frank kicked free, tore at him again, hissing like an animal. He twisted back and bit Abatangelo’s face, found the eyes with his nails again. Abatangelo recoiled, Frank scrambled to his feet and shoved his way through the crowd past the hostess stand shrieking into faces, tumbling out into the lobby, pulling fiercely on the heavy brass door.