Dancer in the Flames

by Stephen Solomita

  Galligan paused for breath. Most of the clients he pitched interrupted at this point, to express amazement or outrage, but Littlewood just stood there, his encouraging smile firmly in place.

  ‘I can supply the names and addresses of the subject’s closest neighbors,’ he continued, ‘where the man works and approximately how much he earns. I can also assemble a consumer profile, using data mined from warranty forms. Cars, major appliances, high-end electronics, like that.’

  This time, when Galligan paused, Boots spoke up. ‘And all this is legal?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  Galligan winked, then led Boots into a cluttered office. He was still smiling when he closed the door behind them and took a chair on the far side of a battered partner’s desk.

  ‘Let me take up the issue of financial records. I might as well, because it always comes up later.’ He scratched at the side of his neck and shifted his weight. ‘Let’s just say there’s a black market in information out there, a network. I can tap in, but it doesn’t come cheap.’

  Boots took the only other seat in the room, on a wheeled office chair. ‘I want to investigate an inspector in the NYPD named Mack Corcoran. I want you to concentrate on a two-year period.’

  ‘What about financial records?’

  ‘No, let’s keep it legal for now. But I want to know everything else there is to know.’

  Galligan leaned back in his chair. ‘Two grand,’ he said. ‘As long as you’re not askin’ me to do anything illegal.’ He smiled as broadly as his small mouth would allow. ‘You understand, the databases I use – ChoicePoint, Seisint, LexisNexis – they don’t let you run wild through their computers. They charge by the database and you want everything.’

  Boots stared at Galligan for a moment, then suddenly wheeled his chair around to Galligan’s side of the desk and pulled the top drawer open. Quickly, he shuffled through the pens, the Post-it pads, the discarded mouse, the tangle of cables.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Simple, ya junkie fuck. You’re stoned out of your mind and I’m searchin’ for your works. And when I find them …’ Boots closed the top drawer, then drew open the drawer beneath. ‘Hey, what’s this?’ He held up a small automatic handgun. ‘You got a permit for this, Tommy?’

  ‘You have no right—’

  Boots shook his head vigorously. ‘Don’t give me any bullshit about rights. I happen to know that you charge your best customers a thousand dollars for this search we’re talkin’ about. I know because Joaquin told me. What made you think you could get away with disrespectin’ me? How could you be so stupid?’

  Galligan extended his hands, palms out, but Boots was not ready to make peace.

  ‘Roll up your sleeves.’

  ‘Look …’

  ‘Don’t argue, just do it.’

  ‘OK, I admit it. You made me for a junkie. You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes. Now what?’ He wiped a sheen of perspiration from his forehead before adding, ‘I can’t believe I’m gettin’ squeezed like this.’

  ‘That’s because you’re naive about the criminal justice system.’ Boots laid Galligan’s weapon on top of the desk. ‘Now, first, you’re gonna knock down that two grand to five hundred. Second, you’re gonna answer a simple question, and I sincerely advise you to think twice before lyin’ to me. Is Joaquin usin’ dope?’

  The surprised look on Galligan’s face told the story before he uttered a sound. ‘Never. The kid’s square.’

  ‘Then what is he doin’ here? Why did you hire him?’

  ‘City College has a placement office for students lookin’ for work. I called them and they sent Joaquin. End of story.’

  Galligan breathed a sigh of relief when Boots fished out a roll of bills. In fact, he commonly ran this search for two hundred dollars, a figure Joaquin could not have known. The cop was scary, but he’d guessed wrong this time.

  ‘Originally,’ Galligan said as he accepted payment, ‘I hired Joaquin because he was cheap and willing to work part-time. But it turns out the kid’s a genius at mining data. Like I already said, these outfits are set up to make you spend as much as possible, so if you’re not efficient, you’re gonna be out of business in a hurry. Joaquin, he’s better than I am, and that’s a high compliment.’

  TWENTY

  Five weeks after leaving the hospital, Boots made his way to the basement of his father’s house. He walked through the laundry room and into a smaller room at the back, carrying with him a bucket filled with soapy water, an assortment of sponges and a package of throwaway dust cloths. For a moment, he simply eyeballed the dumbbells, plates and bars scattered about the room. Then he went to work.

  Boots had begun lifting weights in high school, when he was a scrawny freshman hoping to make the baseball team. He kept at it after he met his goal, often accompanied by his neighborhood buddies, including Frankie Drago, until he finally graduated. Following high school, Boots spent three years in the Army – as far as he could remember, he never gave weightlifting a second thought. It was only when he discovered the weight room in the bowels of the Six-Four that he started lifting again. Of course, he had practical reasons for the hours he spent pumping iron. The streets could be very unforgiving – size and strength not only gave you an advantage if you had to fight, they often deterred violence before it happened. And there were networking opportunities as well. The regulars accepted him once he proved himself to be a serious lifter, including a detective-sergeant named Steve Guardino. It was Guardino who first recommended Boots to the Detective Bureau, acting as his rabbi.

  And there was still another benefit, a less tangible benefit to be sure, but a benefit nonetheless. Tai Chi for knuckleheads: this was how Boots eventually came to understand his hobby. As the ritual played out, his focus tended to narrow, his judgment sharpen. This effect had only increased over the years, especially when he turned away from the goal of improvement, when he eased back on the weights and allowed himself to be guided by the internal rhythm of the workout. And Boots definitely felt that he needed guidance. He’d reviewed the profile of Mack Corcoran amassed by Tommy Galligan and found nothing out of order; the only item of interest was Corcoran somehow qualifying his son, who had cerebral palsy, for Medicaid.

  Boots spent the entire morning cleaning the room. Then he ate lunch, strapped his ribcage with an ace bandage and worked out for thirty minutes. Barely able to rise from his bed the next morning, he was in pain for most of the afternoon. Nevertheless, he went back downstairs every other day until he gradually assembled enough puzzle pieces to map out a series of short-term goals. Now it was up to his ribs. When he finished a workout free of pain, he’d be ready.

  He was just about there a week later, when Joaquin showed up.

  ‘You busy?’ Joaquin asked.

  ‘Actually, I been wantin’ to talk to you.’

  Except for the ace bandage, Boots was naked to the waist. Again, Joaquin was struck by his size, and by how much smaller he looked in a suit and vest. But the costume wouldn’t do Boots any good now. Between the scar and the eyelid, the man was fucking gruesome.

  ‘So, what’s up with your recovery? Galligan told me that you and him worked out a deal.’

  ‘That’s somethin’ else I wanna talk about. Do you know he’s a junkie?’

  Taken off-guard, Joaquin’s pale cheeks reddened. ‘I never caught him with a spike in his hand, but it’s pretty obvious. Sometimes, in the late afternoon, he nods out in his chair.’

  ‘You’re not afraid it’ll rub off on you?’

  ‘Boots, I only work for the guy, and part-time at that. What he does with his life isn’t my business. Only don’t get the idea that Galligan’s a street junkie. Tommy’s makin’ money hand over fist.’

  ‘Gimme a break. You could buy the jerk’s wardrobe at a thrift shop for thirty-five cents.’

  ‘That’s his Elvis Costello look. Galligan wants to believe that he’s some kind of outlaw.’

 
; Boots considered this for a moment, thinking that maybe there was more to the PI than he’d first thought, that maybe he’d have to renegotiate his original negotiation.

  ‘Galligan said that you’re a genius at the work.’

  ‘He went further than that. He offered me a full partnership.’ Joaquin stared at a massive barbell, its plates seeming as big as manhole covers. ‘I was really tempted because I think I could triple the volume within a couple of years.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Boots, gimme a one-word description of Galligan’s set-up.’

  ‘Shithole.’

  ‘Exactly. Corporate clients expect a little show, a little hi-tech glitz. Shitholes with rock-and-roll outlaw bosses don’t impress them. What I’d do, if it was up to me, is put twenty computers in that room, put ’em in little niches against the wall, and set ’em to humming when I brought clients in. See, information brokers discount for high volume, so the more business you do, the lower your costs. Meantime, Galligan loses clients as fast he brings them in.’

  ‘So, you turned him down.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Was it the dope?’

  ‘That was part of it. But there’s also the illegal searches. Boots, the guy’s makin’ money in a business with a tremendous potential for expansion. He doesn’t have to do anything illegal. Meanwhile, if he gets caught, it’s bye-bye license. Now, why would he take that chance?’

  ‘Because he’s an asshole?’

  ‘Word up.’

  Boots slid a t-shirt over his head and pulled it down. The pain in his side was minimal now, more the expectation of pain than pain itself. ‘What about the sleaze? Invading people’s privacy?’

  ‘Does privacy give a spouse the right to hide assets in a divorce case? Does it give someone the right to defraud a bank? Or to lie on a resumé? Or to avoid a judgment rendered by a jury? And keep in mind, Boots, the information is already out there. All we do is collect it.’

  Suddenly, Boots grinned. ‘Well, if that’s the way you feel, you oughta take Galligan up on his offer. The man’s weak, Jackie. If you lean on him from time to time, he’ll mostly be a good boy. And if he’s not? A year from now, after you get to know the customers, you can muscle him out.’

  Boots made one more stop before putting his initial tactics into play, at the home of Vinnie Palermo’s Aunt Connie. He arrived at noon, having walked the ten blocks without any discomfort. For a moment, he stood outside the narrow, two-story home, so much like his father’s. Then he took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

  ‘Well, you got a pair of balls, showin’ up here.’

  ‘That’s right, Connie, and I’d appreciate you not bustin’ ’em. Lemme in for a minute. I need to talk to you.’

  Connie Palermo stood in the door with her hands on her hips. Twice divorced, she was in her early sixties, a thickly built woman with the piercing eyes of a winged predator.

  ‘Hey, strunz, check it out. You don’t tell me what to do.’

  Boots shifted her out of the way and walked through the door. ‘Ya know,’ he said, noting that his little move had been pain-free, ‘it’s Vinnie’s own fault. I read him his rights, even though he was only a witness at the time. It’s a lot more than I’d do for anybody else.’

  Connie followed him into the living room, her jaw trembling with righteous anger. ‘He trusted you, Boots. That’s why he said what he said. Vinnie thought you’d protect him.’

  Boots rubbed at the scar on his forehead as he contemplated the price he’d already paid for Vinnie Palermo’s big mouth.

  ‘How’s he doin’?’

  ‘Vinnie?’

  ‘Yeah, Vinnie.’

  Connie plopped down on a white, sectional couch. ‘He’s havin’ a hard time, Boots. Vinnie’s not strong enough for Rikers Island.’

  ‘If that’s the case, he shouldn’t have been out stealin’ cars.’

  Connie Palermo’s eyes spewed fire. It was all Boots could do not to flinch.

  ‘Get out of my house, Boots. You don’t, I swear to God, I’ll make you hurt me.’

  Boots ignored the outburst. ‘I wanna send Vinnie a message. For his ears only. If you talk it around, especially to Vinnie’s lawyer, it’s gonna work against him.’

  For a moment, Connie didn’t move at all, and Boots knew he’d taken her off-guard.

  ‘What are you saying?’ she finally asked.

  ‘Tell Vinnie to hang on. It might still work out.’

  ‘Yeah, you mean that?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  On Monday, June 14th, two months after he was attacked, Boots found himself sitting in a car on Fresh Pond Road in the Queens community of Ridgewood. It was nine o’clock at night and he was waiting for Detective Artie Farrahan to emerge from the Pink Rose, a small neighborhood bar. The city was in the grasp of an early heatwave, the temperature in the mid-eighties, the humidity above seventy percent.

  Boots wanted a cigarette so bad that he could hardly sit still. This was one of those times, he knew, when it was just as well that he had no access to nicotine. If he hadn’t already tried a dozen times in the past few months, he would have searched beneath the seats for a mislaid pack.

  The Chevy was parked in the shadows of a gnarled sycamore that towered over the row of houses on the block. Boots had the radio on, despite the obvious need for stealth. The Yankees were playing the Orioles at Camden Yards, one of the league’s smaller parks and a feasting place for New York’s sluggers. Granderson and Montero had already parked the ball in the right field seats, while Robinson Cano had lined a hanging curve ball off the center field wall that came within six inches of leaving the park. In fact, the game would’ve been over by the third inning if only the Yankees’ pitching had held up. Unfortunately, the Orioles had jumped all over Ivan Nova in the bottom of the second, pounding out nine hits before Joe Girardi called in Hector Noesi to put out the fire.

  Boots waved at a mosquito that buzzed his left ear. An instant later, he felt the insect land on the back of his neck. He slapped down hard, but his skin began to itch before he withdrew his hand. Hoping this would be the only race he lost tonight, Boots said a little prayer.

  The Chevy was facing away from the Pink Rose, so that the driver’s door opened on the street. With the bulb in the overhead light removed, Boots was able to leave the door slightly ajar without attracting attention. He was scrunched down behind the wheel, with the seat all the way back, his eyes glued to the rear-view mirror.

  As the minutes ticked away, his thoughts were inevitably drawn to the recent past, to the long period of waiting. The delay had been forced on him by his injuries, and it wasn’t only his ribs. For the first few weeks, he couldn’t put two thoughts together. Yet he’d somehow managed to function. He’d shored up his flanks and thrown his enemies off the scent. Proof of the last had come only a short time before. Rather than track down Artie Farrahan, Boots had simply waited outside Brooklyn North for the man to emerge, then followed him. Farrahan had barely glanced in the mirror on the twenty-minute drive to Ridgewood.

  The door of the Pink Rose opened and Boots jerked his eyes to the rear-view mirror. The tall blonde who emerged looked both ways before strolling off in the opposite direction. Boots watched her for a moment, then let his eyes drift to a crescent moon just visible on the horizon. Screened by the haze and a layer of thin clouds, the moon had no distinct edges, its light seeming to bleed into the atmosphere. On the radio, John Sterling described Noesi’s mastery of the Oriole line-up.

  Boots lowered the volume and settled in to wait. A half-hour passed, then another, but the delay only helped to settle him down. Nor was he unduly affected by the Yankee’s narrow defeat, though he found the post-game wrap-up a depressing mix of bullshit and excuses. The Yanks had lost because Joe Girardi had a fixation with not yanking pitchers early. Joe wanted to build their confidence, or so he claimed, especially with the younger pitchers. Boots couldn’t see it, not with all that money on the ta
ble. Shut up and pitch was the way he felt as he turned off the radio.

  At ten fifteen, Artie Farrahan emerged from the Pink Rose. Alone, he limped toward Boots, weaving as he came. Boots waited patiently, until Farrahan tried to yank a cigarette from a crumpled pack and stumbled, dropping to one knee. Then Boots slid his fingers into a pair of leather gloves, opened the door and slid out into the street.

  Crouched beneath the window line, he closed the door without latching it. His heart was pounding now, and he had to will himself to ignore the adrenaline pumping through his veins, to open his ears, to listen. Fortunately, Detective Farrahan provided unwitting assistance. He sang as he came – ‘Danny Boy’, in a surprisingly sweet falsetto.

  Boots dropped down to peer beneath the car at Farrahan’s shiny-black loafers, cursing to himself when they came to a stop behind the rear tire. A second later, a cigarette dropped to the sidewalk, emitting a tiny cloud of red sparks. Farrahan made several attempts to extinguish the smoldering butt, the sole of his shoe first coming down on one side, then the other. Finally, he moved on.

  When Farrahan reached the front fender, Boots rose from his crouch and came around the trunk, gathering speed as he turned on to the sidewalk. Stealth, of course, was not a realistic possibility for a man his size. As Boots knew he would, Farrahan heard the footsteps pounding toward him. He had just enough time to execute a wobbly half-circle, to register what was about to happen, before Detective Littlewood’s shoulder crashed into his chest.

  Farrahan fell backward, his head striking the concrete with an audible thunk. Barely conscious, he made a feeble attempt to unbutton his jacket, to reach for his weapon. But then Boots was on top of him and the best he could do was raise a hand and beg.

  ‘Boots, please, please.’

  Boots recalled his own attempt to survive. No mercy had been show him then. He would show no mercy here. He yanked Artie Farrahan to his feet, propped him up against a parked car and drove his right fist into Farrahan’s side, over and over again, until something finally cracked. Then he shifted the assault to Farrahan’s face and hammered away. Blood was running now, from the back of Farrahan’s scalp and from his crushed nose. Still, Boots didn’t stop until the man’s eyes closed and he went limp. Then he took Farrahan’s pulse, finding it strong and regular, before dropping him to the pavement.