“Christ, Gadd, he almost blew it.” Moodrow shook his head. “Eighteen-to-one and he almost blew it.”
“Not really. I had him up and down in the exactas. If he finished second, we’d have been okay.” She took out a cigarette and lit it, her first since Moodrow’s arrival. “What’s gonna hurt us is that he came in with the favorite. That and the stable sunk a bundle into the exactas.”
Sure enough, when the race became official and the exacta price, six dollars more than a straight win bet, flashed on the tote board, the crowd hissed and booed for a moment before drifting away from the finish line.
“Business as usual,” Gadd announced. “Meanwhile, I’ve got it twenty times.”
Moodrow took a minute to do the numbers. “Eight hundred and fifty-six dollars?”
“And you’re in for ten percent.” Gadd stood up and stretched. “Whatta ya say we cash the tickets, Moodrow, get the hell out of here, talk about that tape?
THIRTEEN
“YOU THINK WE CAN finally get down to business?”
They were sitting in a booth in Moreno’s, a small, neighborhood bar on First Avenue near Eleventh Street, sipping at frosted mugs of Budweiser. Moodrow, busy with an eight-ounce cheeseburger, mumbled a reply, then bit off another chunk of his sandwich.
“How ’bout repeating that, Moodrow. After you swallow.”
Moodrow chewed for a moment, then drained his glass. “I’ve been stuffing my face ever since I came out of the hospital.” He signaled the bartender, raised his empty glass.
“So, you’re saying it’s not genetic.”
Moodrow wiped his lips. “Definitely not, Gadd. In fact, up to this point in my life, folks have always considered me a dainty eater.”
They’d driven from the track to the Lower East Side in absolute silence, a condition made inevitable when Moodrow had tossed the keys over to Gadd in the parking lot, then fallen asleep on the backseat. Gadd had threaded her way through the late-afternoon traffic without resentment, but now that her partner was awake, she found herself running out of patience.
“Let’s get on with it,” she said. Her voice was even, almost resigned, a fact she knew wouldn’t escape Moodrow’s notice.
“Gadd, you won close to eight hundred dollars this afternoon. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
“I suppose so.” Gadd sipped at her beer, then added, “Tell you the truth, I almost forgot about it.” She carefully set the mug on the table. “And it’s funny, Moodrow, because finding the rail like that was kind of miraculous. It only happens a few times at every meet and I don’t go out every day. You think I have other things on my mind?”
The bartender, a burly middle-aged man who knew Moodrow well enough to call him by his last name, strolled across the room and set two mugs of beer on the table. He dropped Moodrow’s empty on his tray, added Gadd’s half-finished mug, then walked back to the bar.
“How did he know I didn’t want something else?” Gadd asked. “Like maybe a boilermaker.”
Moodrow shook his head. “Dave’s pissed because I didn’t fetch my own beer. He’s got a thing about being a waitress. His words, Gadd, not mine. Anyway, about the tape.”
“Yes, the tape.”
“When they were all talking at the same time, I couldn’t make anything out. Maybe the feds have a way to separate the voices, but, for me, they might have been speaking Russian.”
“What about the rest of it? Did you recognize anybody?”
“Only Carmine. In fact, it was Carmine doing most of the talking.” He crossed his legs, leaned against the back of the booth. “There’s a deal going down, a drug deal, probably heroin. The drugs are coming in by boat and the smuggler is Chinese.”
“That’s all?”
“One more thing, the actual date, May 18, five days from today.” Moodrow tapped a finger on the table. His voice, when he spoke again, was gentle. “You get in the middle, Gadd, most likely you’re gonna get crushed. I watched you at the track. You could have bet every race, the scraped rail was a perfect excuse, but you didn’t. Instead you waited, calculated the odds, made the right move at the right time.”
Gadd nodded, took a deep breath and let it out. “My father was a degenerate gambler, bet every race, every sport, day after day, year after year.” She hesitated for a moment, finally adding, “It was hard on the family.”
The jukebox came on suddenly, Ella Fitzgerald doing “How High the Moon.” Moodrow and Gadd listened for a moment, then leaned closer.
“This deal, it’s why they let Sappone out. Carmine, his lieutenants, his customers, a Chinese smuggler, a pile of dope …”
“Makes for a nice photo-op, right? A real career maker.” Gadd raised her glass, waited for Moodrow to follow suit, then drank. “Credit where credit is due.”
Moodrow started to speak, then changed his mind. He, like Gadd, had no trouble imagining a gaggle of honking prosecutors, politicians, and FBI silks posturing in front of a table piled high with guns and dope. It wasn’t the kind of picture that made foot soldiers happy, and Moodrow, throughout his entire career, had never been more than an infantryman battling in the trenches.
“I sent Tommaso electronic mail,” Gadd said. “Via a Long Island bulletin board system.” She looked up at Moodrow, noting his evident confusion. “Nothing elaborate, just a get-acquainted note.”
Moodrow shook his head. “Does this have something to do with what I told you last night?”
“Everything,” Gadd admitted. “After I went upstairs, I kept thinking about his obsession, how he wanted to be tied up, humiliated. That’s not something you just stop doing, no matter who your father is.”
“Speak for yourself, Gadd. Me, I stopped wearing diapers ten years ago. About the time my sexual drive went south.”
“In that case you ought to have a foot fetish by now.”
It was Gadd’s turn to look around for the bartender, raise her mug in the air. When she caught his eye and received a grudging nod, she came back to Moodrow.
“I figured our boy would do what any good computer freak would do under the same circumstances. I figured he’d look for his jollies in cyberspace.”
“Cyberspace? Jesus, Gadd, didn’t your momma teach you to respect your elders?”
“Forget I said that.” Gadd lit a cigarette, waved it like an eraser over a blackboard. “You know what computer bulletin board systems are?”
“Frankly, no.”
“Great.” She threw him a disgusted look. “Mostly, BBSs are nothing more than personal computers with a few modems attached. Individuals post information on the boards, messages, software, like that. Sometimes, two or more participants get on at the same time and have a conversation.” She leaned back, waited for the bartender to set her beer down. Her eyes never left Moodrow’s. “Actually,” she finally conceded, “it’s more complicated, but that’s all you need to know.”
Moodrow nodded, accepting the reality of the generations. “These bulletin boards, they’re all sexually oriented?”
That brought a smile. “They’re on every subject known to man. For a few thousand dollars, you could set one up yourself.”
“You could.” Moodrow spun the heavy glass mug between his fingers. “Me, I couldn’t stand the excitement.” He drank, set the mug down. “Meanwhile, tell me the whole story. Although I’m not sure I can stand up to that excitement, either.”
“It’s not really too complicated. I have a friend, makes his living on computers, who’s also into bondage and discipline. What he tells me is that, in addition to visiting the clubs in Chelsea, he fools around on various bulletin boards. My buddy knew all about Tommaso getting busted. Apparently, Carmine’s reaction has passed into official B&D folklore. By the way, Tommaso’s handle on the boards is Tommaso the Timid.”
“Not Tommy Timid?”
“That’s the interesting part, Moodrow. A lot of the sexual freaks who work out on bulletin boards are deep in the closet. They don’t want anybody to know who they are. Tommaso,
on the other hand, is begging to be discovered.”
Moodrow smiled. “I take it you left some kind of a message for him on one of these bulletin boards.” He waited for her nod, then said, “Before you show it to me—and you will show it to me—lemme tell you what I set up with Betty.” He quickly outlined DHCR and Betty’s strategy, adding, “It’s a long shot, Gadd, but we’ll see what happens. I should know one way or the other by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Does this mean you’re finally in?”
Moodrow wanted to pass the question off with a cynical comment, but her dead-serious expression made humor the least likely of all the possibilities.
“I’ll answer that question when you answer this one: in for what?” Moodrow’s response being eminently reasonable, Gadd shrugged once, then rummaged in her purse, finally withdrawing a folded sheet of paper. “Knowing what a dirty old man you are,” she declared, “I figured you’d wanna see this.” She started to hand the paper over, then pulled it back, acknowledging his frown with a satisfied smile. “But first, let me tell you about the bulletin board itself. It’s called The Slave School and it’s operated by a dominatrix named Ingrid.”
“Ingrid?” Moodrow interrupted. “Why not Brunnhilde?” Gadd nodded agreement. “Believe it, Moodrow, subtlety is not their strong point. The graphics feature chained men in latex masks, women with Arnold Schwarzenegger biceps. Lots of degrading oral sex. That’s why I wrote the message like I did. What I wanna do is draw Tommaso out of his shell and I’m not gonna do that if I sound like everybody else on the board.”
She tossed the paper across the table and Moodrow, who had some familiarity with nasty letters, unfolded the single page carefully, then put on his reading glasses.
Tommaso: I do not speak of leather, chains, latex, or the whip. No more than a sculptor speaks of chisel and hammer. I speak of the perfect serenity that flows from perfect obedience. Grace is not to be found in the masturbatory fantasies of the amateur, but in the minute-to-minute, day-to-day obedience of the true slave. Let discipline burn away the layers of disobedience. Let discipline dissolve the unruly will. Let absolute obedience, ruthlessly imposed from without, lead to serenity, ruthlessly imposed from within.
Amazing Grace
“Nice work, Gadd. Very tasteful.” Moodrow waved the letter. “But how do you know it’ll work?”
“I don’t,” Gadd admitted. “No more than I know what really motivates jerks who like to be whipped.” She leaned forward and tapped the back of Moodrow’s hand. “Truth, Moodrow, I don’t have any idea why I want to contact Tommaso, what I’ll do if he takes the bait.”
Moodrow looked down at her fingers. He was feeling slightly drunk, ready to lie down again. “If we get nowhere, if a week goes by and Carmine is arrested, Sappone taken off the street, are you gonna be able to deal with it?”
Gadd looked at him steadily for a moment, her face relaxed, features smooth. Finally, she allowed herself a thin smile. “Are you?” she asked.
Moodrow, as he walked east on Fourth Street toward his own apartment, half expected to find another reporter sitting on the stoop in front of his building. Instead, he found Agent Karl Holtzmann (with two ns) sitting in a Ford sedan. Moodrow pulled himself up short, checked for a surge of anger the way he might check for wounds after a shoot-out, found himself calm if not actually amused.
“Wait right there,” Holtzmann called. He pushed the door open, stepped onto the hot asphalt.
“Jesus,” Moodrow said, “I’m glad you shouted. I would’a never noticed you if you hadn’t.”
Holtzmann took his time crossing the street. His gait was stiff, his back ramrod straight, his arms nearly motionless at his side. He didn’t stop until he and Moodrow were an arm’s length apart.
“We need to talk, mister. You don’t understand what you’re doing.
“Does that mean you’re gonna tell me?”
The agent, despite his macho posturing, was a head shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than Moodrow, a fact not lost on either man.
“Do we have to do this out here on the street?”
“Yes, we do, Karl.”
Holtzmann flinched at the sound of his name, then drew himself up. “I’m going to appeal to your conscience, Moodrow. You were a cop for thirty-five years, a detective for thirty. Try to imagine your own reaction if someone from the outside thrust themselves into the middle of your investigation.”
“Thrust themselves? Gimme a fucking break.”
Moodrow, who’d been watching for tails, was almost certain that he hadn’t been followed. He wasn’t sure about Ginny Gadd, though. Despite her reassurances earlier in the afternoon, it was quite possible, given her lack of experience, that her theft of the tape had been observed. It would depend on how many agents were available to Holtzmann.
“This warning is your ‘break,’ Moodrow. The next step is obstruction of justice.”
“For doing exactly what?”
“For exactly obstructing justice.” Holtzmann’s tight, prim mouth drew up at the corners. “We’re going to prosecute. Remember, you’re nothing more than a private citizen. You no longer carry a badge. If you get in our way, you’ll be crushed, like any other civilian.”
The two men stood silently for a moment, until Moodrow decided it was time to go upstairs, lie down, catch a quick nap before Betty came over.
“Ya know something, Karl? It seems to me like it’s you feds obstructing justice. I mean considering that half the goddamned NYPD’s looking for Jilly Sappone and you’re protecting him.” Moodrow noted Holtzmann’s left eye jerk slightly. The man tried to cover it by looking over his shoulder, but it was much too late. “Letting him out of prison,” he continued, “now that was a judgment call. Sure, the prison shrinks said jilly was crazy and violent, but that didn’t mean he was gonna go out and kill a child. Not for sure. But now that the child is actually dead, actually buried, the excuses won’t wash. Not with the media. Not with, say, Mike Wallace on 60 Minutes.” Moodrow slapped his forehead. “Jesus, they’ll be like sharks at a feeding frenzy. Especially if your bosses in Washington don’t know what you’re doing.”
Holtzmann, instead of showing fear, drew up his shoulders and bunched his fists. He was accustomed to command, simply couldn’t play the role of the beggar even though it was obviously required. Still, he wasn’t so angry that he seriously considered an attack on the giant in front of him.
“You can’t go to the media,” he sputtered, the words ringing hollow even in his own ears.
“What are you gonna do, kill me?” Moodrow stepped back onto his stoop, waited for a response. “Tell ya what, Holtzmann with two ns,” he finally said, “why don’t you go back to your keepers, try to come up with a strategy in line with our relative positions. I might be willing to bend a little here. For, say, a real wet blow job.”
FOURTEEN
WHEN MOODROW AWAKENED, HE was literally without breath. His chest and lungs refused to expand, refused to follow the demands of his panicky brain. He sat straight up, his torso jerking to attention like a spring-loaded knife blade. The 3 AM darkness confused him, left him suspended, without time or place. He heard Betty, saw her kneeling in front of him, but neither recognized her nor understood the words she shouted in his face. Finally, in desperation, he sipped at the air through pursed lips, continuing doggedly until his chest finally opened and he began to gasp like a half-drowned swimmer dragged up through a ragged surf.
“Stanley, wake up. Wake up.”
Betty was punching him in the chest. Her face was contorted, her mouth forming a nearly perfect circle around her small even teeth. Moodrow stared at her for a moment, then pulled her into his arms.
“Jesus,” he hissed. “I couldn’t breathe.”
“You scared the crap out of me.”
Moodrow continued to gulp air, as if afraid that any pause in the rhythm would return him to paralysis.
“I was dreaming,” he announced, “about … that night. Sort of.”
&nb
sp; Betty sat back on her heels, pushed an unruly lock of hair out of her eyes. “You want to tell me about it?” She watched him get up and walk to the window. He was wearing his usual sleeping outfit, a pair of boxer shorts and a T-shirt. The T-shirt, soaked with sweat, was pasted to the broad muscles of his back.
“It’s already vague.” He turned to face her. “Jilly Sappone was there, standing up high, like on the edge of a roof or a mountain, holding that white blanket with … with something inside it. He was staring at me, laughing, and I didn’t know what to do. I tried to plead with him, but it only made him angry. He said, ‘You stupid son of a bitch, it’s just a fucking package.’ ”
“It’ll fade, Stanley.” She felt the cliché even as she mouthed it. Nevertheless, she repeated herself. “Given time, it’ll fade.”
“Yeah, that’s the worst of it. Time will heal the wound. Heal it by reducing Theresa Kalkadonis to an official FBI statistic. By dropping me, Ann Kalkadonis, Ginny Gadd, and Jilly Sappone into our graves. It’s already turned the trick for Jackson-Davis Wescott.”
Abner Kirkwood and Karl Holtzmann stood nearly hip to hip beneath an oversize umbrella. They were in Battery Park, peering out through a steady downpour at the Staten Island Ferry. Silently, as if by agreement, they watched the ship retreat into the gray, slanting rain, Kirkwood thinking it was a perfect movie image, the two of them in their Burberry trench coats discussing the crime of murder.
It was a simple crime, he decided. A single act, done and over with; not like drug dealing with its network of smugglers and middlemen, or the elaborate scams of corporate sharks.
Finally, he said, “The ex-cop was completely defiant?” One more nail in Jilly Sappone’s coffin as far as Abner Kirkwood was concerned.
“Accused me … No, he accused us, Abner. Accused us of protecting Sappone. Threatened to go to the media.”
“Well, he’s right, Karl. We are protecting Jilly Sappone.” Kirkwood took the agent’s arm, pulled him in a little closer. “But we had a couple of breaks last night. Things may not be as bad as they look. At least the heat’s off.”
Damaged Goods Page 27
