Madman's Thirst

by Lawrence de Maria

  She quickly threw some food on a plate and brought it over to the table. Bimm sent her back for more potato salad with a pat on her rump. Finally, he let her leave, giving her a dollar tip and another pat. He continued playing during the entire incident and lost two miniscule pots, on purpose. Bimm knew he would get the money back easily when he stopped his loose play and he and Porcini trapped a sucker between them. Which they did within the half hour. The victim was Brendan McCarthy, a boozy reporter who “covered” Borough Hall for Staten Island, a slick monthly magazine secretly financed by the Borough President.

  McCarthy, with a good “7” low had been caught between Bimm and his shill. He finally folded after 15 raises by Bimm, who had an unbeatable “6” low, and Porcini, who turned out to have only two pair. The pot topped out at $900, serious money for a journalist already into Bimm for several thousand.

  “You didn’t belong in the fucking hand,” McCarthy whined to Porcini. “All you did was build a pot for this whale.”

  Bimm thought it best to distract the irate loser.

  “What do you care about losing a few bucks? You’re gonna be the city editor of the Register soon, right? What are they waiting for over there? It’s been weeks since Pearsall flipped out. You’d think they’d be happy to replace that holier-than-thou pain in the ass with someone who knows his way around Borough Hall.”

  Somewhat mollified by the suggestion he would get the job – everyone at the table knew he had submitted his resume and considered him delusional – McCarthy nevertheless felt that Bimm’s characterization of Pearsall was uncalled for. He certainly didn’t want anyone else thinking he was as insensitive as the piece of lard who had just taken him to the cleaners.

  “I don’t think the Register is going to rush into anything. They’re all pretty broken up about what happened to Bob. And while I didn’t see eye to eye with him on some things, he was a good editor. And a good man.”

  Eye to eye, my ass, Bimm thought. Pearsall thought you were a hack, which you are. Beldon Popp and Jennifer Fish would never make you city editor. You are bought and paid for, and not just at the poker table. But the other players had squirmed in their seats at Bimm’s comments and he knew he had overplayed his hand.

  “Of course, I liked Bob, too. What happened to his daughter was terrible. Worst thing that can happen to a parent is to have a child predecease him.”

  Bimm believed nothing of the kind. He had been married once, years earlier, to a freckled, red-headed woman from Breezy Point, the “Irish Riviera” on Long Island. Her perky looks and insouciant demeanor had temporarily charmed him. Their union produced a boy and a girl, both of whom had inherited some recessive ugliness genes. They grew into short, dumpy, washed out adolescents with stringy red hair that constantly reminded Bimm of their mother and his idiocy. He filed for divorce while the kids were in grade school and before his wife could lay claim on his soon-to-explode medical riches. He rarely saw his children, begrudged them every cent of his court-ordered paternal support and didn’t want anyone to outlive him, even them.

  “I hope they catch the bastard who murdered that poor girl,” he intoned gravely.

  “They may be getting close,” McCarthy said. “Something new has come up.”

  That got looks from everyone at the table. But nobody paid more attention to the remark than Bimm, who managed to hide his surprise by relighting his odiferous cigar.

  “Don’t tell me they finally got a DNA match,” said Michael Basilio, the superintendent of schools for Staten Island. Everyone in the borough knew that the girl had been raped and couldn’t understand why the cops couldn’t locate the killer, like the C.S.I. teams did on TV.

  “I don’t know about DNA,” McCarthy said. “All I do know is that some private investigator is nosing around. Apparently he’s got a lead.”

  “Aw, it’s probably bullshit,” Bimm said casually, feeling relieved. “Some private dick who sold a bill of goods to the family. It’s a sin what some unscrupulous people will do for a few bucks. Deal the cards.”

  “Hold your horses, Nathan. Not winning fast enough? I want to hear this.”

  It was Al Johnsen, who owned a large CPA firm and, other than Bimm, was the best card player in the room. Bimm knew the man was a genius with numbers and had recently dropped some hooded remarks about Bimm’s winning streak. It wouldn’t be long before he figured out what was going on. Bimm had already decided to wean him out of the game.

  “I don’t know if it’s bullshit,” McCarthy persisted. He wasn’t going to be derailed. The attention he was getting was easing the pain of his last poker hand. “I don’t think it’s the family. Bob’s out of the picture, and I don’t know who else would be that interested in hiring this guy. He’s apparently a big deal in the city. Well connected. I don’t know what he’s got. I overheard a couple of the guys in Borough Hall talking and all they knew was that the guy is convinced the murder wasn’t random.”

  “Still sounds like a scam,” Bimm said, trying to keep his tone even. “What’s this super sleuth’s name?”

  “Scarne. Jake Scarne. Apparently he knows his way around the Island.”

  “Never heard of him,” Bimm said dismissively. “What about you, Moo Shu? You know everyone in the city. On both sides of the law.”

  Silman ignored the jibe.

  “Maybe. Sounds familiar. Think he’s an ex-cop.”

  “Big deal. They all are. Burnt-out losers.”

  “I know him.”

  They all turned to a man fixing a sandwich at the buffet tray. His name was Manny Manieri and he ran the largest car dealership on Staten Island.

  “Jake Scarne. He used to hang out in some of the bars on the North Shore. Nice guy. We were pretty good friends. Bit of a wild man, but nowhere like the lunatics he ran with. He’s real tight with Dudley Mack.”

  Dudley Fucking Mack, Bimm thought. He suddenly lost his appetite, a rare occurrence.

  “They went to college together,” Manieri continued. “Jake’s from out west somewhere but used to stay on the Island a lot. I met him again a couple of years ago at somebody’s wedding on the South Shore. Actually asked him if he’d like to do some investigating for me. Remember when I had those cars vandalized and the cops sat on their asses. He was polite, but said he never worked out here. If he’s looking into the Pearsall thing, it must be serious. He’s a bulldog. And he’s tight with the Police Commissioner.”

  This gets better and better, Bimm thought.

  CHAPTER 16 – OUTSIDE HELP

  Bimm continued playing poker for a few minutes, but was so distracted he actually lost a big hand, drawing a disbelieving look from Porcini, who nervously thought that he was responsible. Finally, Bimm stood up.

  “I gotta take a dump. Deal me out.”

  “Thanks for sharing that,” Johnsen said. “Make sure you wash your hands.”

  Bimm laughed good-naturedly, and, farting for effect, walked into the bedroom, closing the door. His smile evaporated. One of the reasons – other than his natural greed – that he put up with the oafs he played card with was the information he gleaned from them. He took out his cell phone and dialed a number he rarely used, knowing he was in for a lecture for even calling.

  “It’s me.”

  “For God’s sake. I’m in the middle of a charity auction.”

  Bimm heard laughter and chatter in the background. An obviously annoyed female voice said, “Why can’t you ever turn that damn thing off?” The wife, no doubt. The bitch has an eight-carat diamond ring and flies to Palm Beach on a private jet to get her pussy waxed – and still kvetches. Rumor is she’s yesterday’s news, and her lawyers will soon be going over her pre-nup with a fine-toothed comb. A lot of good that will do.

  “Call me Monday,” the man barked. “I’m bidding on a Richard Prince.”

  Bimm, who couldn’t tell a Prince from a Picasso, wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But that would be foolish.

  “This may be important. Sorry.”

 
“What’s so important on Staten Island that it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  The man had raised his voice when he said Staten Island, Bimm knew, so as to be overheard by some of his fellow Manhattan moguls. He was probably winking at them. Have to talk to the provinces, you know. Filled with rubes who buy their machine-generated paintings of Bengal tigers and bald eagles at weekend Holiday Inn ‘art’ shows. Bimm smiled, knowing his next remark would freeze the supercilious grin on the other man’s face.

  “The solution to our local media problem is coming under new scrutiny.”

  “Hold on.” The man was apparently moving away from his table. Bimm heard the whining woman call out. “Where are you going?” The man replied sharply, “Just keep bidding until you get the damn thing!”

  Bimm heard a door click. Now there was no background noise. The man probably went into another room.

  “What kind of scrutiny?”

  The voice was icy.

  “Not the local kind.”

  There was a lengthy silence as Bimm idly dug into his ear with a fat pinky, which he then sniffed, making a face. Finally, the man said, “I’ll have a car pick you up at 8 A.M. sharp.”

  Bimm smeared ear wax on a window drape and hung up.

  ***

  The Lincoln Town Car pulled up alongside a Rolls-Royce Phantom VI parked at the 34th Street heliport in Manhattan. Bimm got out and walked over to the magnificent silver-and-black saloon as its chauffeur moved to open a door for him. The Phantom has two opposite-swinging rear doors on each side. Noting Bimm’s girth with ill-concealed distaste, the driver, a rapier-thin Asian, opened both. Bimm, whose eyes drifted to the automatic in a shoulder holster under the chauffeur’s left arm, missed the look.

  “Wait outside, Cong Bao.” The deeply timbered voice from inside the Rolls had the barest trace of an accent. “You can keep Karl company. But don’t smoke in the limo! I’ll call you when I need you.”

  Despite its famously sturdy chassis, the Rolls settled slightly as Bimm sat in the car. He could feel rivulets of sweat streaming down his sides from his damp armpits. He wanted to mop his brow, but was afraid to show weakness. Maybe the son of a bitch wouldn’t notice. Fat chance. He didn’t miss anything. There he was, looking cool in his charcoal grey suit, sipping pomegranate juice from a crystal tumbler. A small tray of croissants lay perched –and untouched – on a side console, surrounded by little jars of marmalade and honey. The aroma of high-grade coffee wafted from a covered silver carafe embedded in mahogany cup holder. I’m starving, but the bastard won’t offer me anything, Bimm fumed. He never does. I’m not an equal.

  “I’m surprised you employ someone who smokes,” Bimm said. “It doesn’t fit your reputation for fastidiousness. And didn’t I read somewhere that you gave millions to the Mayor’s anti-smoking crusade.”

  “The Mayor is an idiot. And you don’t tell a Vietnamese not to smoke. They come out of the vagina with a cigarette in their mouth. Now, what do you have?”

  So much for small talk, Bimm thought, as he recounted the news from the poker game. When he finished, the man looked out towards the East River and began speaking.

  “Do you think it’s Lacuna?”

  Bimm shook his head. The Staten Island Mafia capo who handled the Pearsall contract was a lot of things. Stupid wasn’t one of them.

  “He would keep his mouth shut. He has nothing to gain and everything to lose. Especially after what happened to the girl. It’s his back yard. His protection would dry up.”

  “Then it must be one of the men he used.”

  “One of them is dead, remember.”

  “I know that! The one that raped the girl and caused this whole mess. For which I hold you responsible, Bimm. Perhaps there is a leak from the landfill, so to speak.”

  “Landfills, plural. That’s too farfetched to be even possible.”

  “Then it’s the other man. Lacuna should have used his own men. I should have taken care of this myself. I know people better suited for this kind of work.”

  “Lacuna was an obvious resource. He was on the ground, and has a vested interest in the project. But the Mafia isn’t what it used to be. The younger generation doesn’t go into the family business. They can make more money stealing legitimately on Wall Street. Old timers like Lacuna have to farm out much their work. It’s like the Roman Empire towards the end. Using mercenaries from the provinces to fill out the ranks of the legions. Or Hitler’s SS enlisting non-Germans when they had a billion Russians knocking on the door. Quality goes into the crapper. That’s why he used outside talent.”

  “Spare me the history lesson. What about the other man?

  “We may be jumping to conclusions. It could be something else entirely.”

  “We can’t take the chance.”

  “I don’t know. He thought so much of his own security he shot his partner.”

  The man was silent for a moment, then turned to look at Bimm.

  “This private detective, Scarne, is well connected and has a reputation for getting things done.”

  “You know him?”

  “Not personally. But we know some of the same people and his last big case was notorious in my circle. His involvement was suppressed by his friends in the media and the police. He won’t be easy to handle. It would have to look like an accident, and even then there might be blowback. It might be better to just make sure he can’t find anything out.”

  Although the Phantom’s air-conditioning was on full blast, its rear windows were open and the man’s last words were almost drowned out by a helicopter landing nearby. They closed the windows as the dust kicked up. The man waited until the muted racket subsided as the pilot trimmed the rotors and cycled the engine into neutral.

  “Will Lacuna give us the man’s name?”

  Bimm stared at him.

  “I know what you’re thinking. That’s crazy. He wouldn’t even tell me. Just said he was a tough little Polack who knew his way around the Island. He won’t give him up. It’s a line these guys don’t cross. Besides, he’ll know you are cleaning up a trail, and he’s at the head of the trail. It would be suicide to even ask him.”

  “Leave it to me. Just keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. There are not going to be any more mistakes.” He pushed a button and the window slid down. “Cong Bao, we’re done here.” He turned to Bimm as his driver, who had been smoking with the Town Car driver under the FDR Drive, started walking back to the Rolls. “I’ll be in touch when I get back.” With that, he opened the door the chauffeur held for him and walked purposely toward the waiting helicopter.

  Big fucking deal, Bimm thought, watching the man’s back. I’m dismissed. He mopped his brow and reached for the croissants. They were still warm. He put several in his pockets.

  CHAPTER 17 – THE TEMPLE OF DENDUR

  Their cab was jockeying for position amid the other taxis and limos outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Emma was on her cell phone. (“Yes, Becky, if her mom says it’s OK, then it’s fine with me. But you know that I talk to Becky’s mom, sweetie, so don’t con me. OK. Love you, too.”) She put her cell in her bag and removed a small compact that looked just like it. She powdered her nose and saw Scarne’s amusement.

  “In case you are wondering, I’ve come close to calling someone on this compact and got powder all over my ear. I’m going to change colors, I think.”

  The “charity thing” at the Met was a fundraiser for Darfur famine relief. If things held true to form, Scarne reflected, the food at the cocktail party alone would be enough to eliminate hunger on the entire African continent. He said as much.

  “Don’t be such a cynic, Jake. There are some very nice people here, and they have their hearts in the right places. Just be grateful that at $1,000 a head they don’t serve only bread and soup like they did at the Catholic Charities dinner for the homeless I went to last month. The idea was to show solidarity with the downtrodden. It must have sounded like a noble idea, but they should have closed the open bar
. Everyone got smashed, including the Cardinal.”

  They were just entering the Sackler Wing of the museum, a place popular with the city’s fundraising elite because it housed the famous Temple of Dendur, donated by Egypt in 1965 for America’s help in saving the temple and other artifacts from submersion by the Aswan Dam. The huge room, which could seat 500 for dinner, was already filling up. Scarne’s progression toward the nearest of eight bars set up strategically on the outskirts was slowed by several couples who greeted Emma. He smiled politely and made small talk when she introduced him. He could feel himself being sized up by the women. Date? Lover? The men were cordial, but their eyes were on Emma, who was wearing a simple black cocktail dress, with a modestly plunging neckline. A pear-shaped emerald pendant hung from her neck on a platinum chain. Scarne knew it was her favorite piece and was worth more than $200,000. Matching diamond and emerald earrings peeked out from behind her shoulder-length hair. The women complimented the pendant, and the men happily concurred, as it gave them an excuse to gaze upon Emma’s breasts.

  “Lovely,” one of the men murmured appreciatively.

  Emma finally extricated herself and put her arm through Scarne’s.

  “Sorry about that. Part of the job. They are friends, and more important, potential advertisers. I want a drink just as much as you do. I know you hate this kind of thing.”

  “Not really. I often enjoy myself. The secret is going as infrequently as I do. I’m usually stag, so I bail out at my leisure. But I will persevere, and behave. Your company is not hard to take. I enjoy being envied. Those guys really liked your necklace.”

  “They liked my boobs,” Emma said.

  “They are museum quality.”

  Emma laughed as they reached the bar, on which sat some trays of champagne and wine, red and white. She rolled her eyes and looked at Scarne, who took the cue.

  “Two Beefeater martinis, very dry, straight up, olives.”

  They took their cocktails and started walking toward the Temple, which sat on a raised platform overlooking the room where the tables for the upcoming dinner were set up. A reflecting pool in front of the Temple, plus strategically placed diffused floodlights and stippled glass ceiling and walls lent the ancient sandstone monument an air of magnificence that dominated its surroundings.