Secret Isaac

by Jerome Charyn

  The eight detectives were appalled by the blood and squalor inside the hotel. They’d been sleeping in their squadroom for the past two days. They despised anything to do with the ugly smells of the street. They were on loan from the burglary squad. Some idiot from Isaac’s office had fucked up their lives. They were dangling men, cops on a “telephone message.” A phone call from Headquarters had reshuffled them, thrown them in with the pimp squad. No orders had been written up. Another phone call could take them away, parachute them into the Bronx. You couldn’t depend on shit when you were doing a “telephone message.”

  They weren’t in the mood to placate an old bum on the rampage. They wanted to get back to their squadroom at Midtown Station South, so they could sleep the rest of the afternoon. They caught Isaac on the second floor, with a pimp’s ear in his mouth. It was dumb stuff. They couldn’t smooth this out. They’d have to arrest the crazy son of a bitch. Six of them fell on top of Isaac. The other two grabbed his feet. They could either kill him, or handcuff him and bring him along to Midtown South. There were a lot of black whores in the hall. The whores were watching Isaac. Now the detectives would have to go through the entire rigmarole of collaring the bum. Their senior man, a detective-sergeant, shook the “rights” card out of his wallet and began reading it to Isaac.

  “Hey, you glom, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Do ya understand?”

  Isaac growled up at him. “Eat your ass,” he said.

  “What’s your name, you?”

  “Moses Herzog McBride.”

  “Listen, McBride, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. Ya understand?”

  “Eat your ass.”

  Some of the detectives dug their knees into Isaac’s groin.

  “You have the right to consult your attorney before speaking to the police. And to have an attorney present for any questioning now or in the future. Ya understand?”

  “My attorney’s Tiger John. Go play with the Tiger.”

  “A clown,” the detective-sergeant said. “And a fuckin’ moron … you have the right to remain silent until you have the chance to consult with your attorney. So don’t give me a hard time. Are you willing to answer our questions or not?”

  “Eat your ass.”

  They dragged Isaac out of the hotel, sat him in one of their cars, and drove him to Midtown South. The pimp squad had autonomy over here. They were specialists, assigned from Headquarters. The precinct commander was nothing to them. They could ignore any cop who existed outside of their squadroom. They whisked Isaac past the desk sergeant and brought him upstairs. The bum refused to undress for a strip search. They punched him and shucked off his clothes. They took Polaroids of Isaac with his prick between his legs. They pulled him over a table, spread his cheeks, and looked up his rectum for suspicious foreign matter. This Moses Herzog McBride could be carrying diamonds or coke up his ass. The bum was clean, but he was riddled with pocks and many scars. You could tabulate the different warfares on Isaac’s back and chest. The bum must have been knifed and gouged thirty times. He had a welt under his right nipple, a circular piece of raised skin, that looked like it had come from the plunge of an ice pick. The detectives began to finger Isaac’s wondrous scars. “Hey, McBride, were you ever in Korea?… did the chinks do a job on you?”

  “No,” Isaac said, with his ass high on the table. “I got banged up at the Police Academy, wrestling with recruits.”

  They couldn’t get a thing out of the joker. They locked him in the squadroom cage, and wouldn’t give him back his clothes. Let the bastard shiver for a while. They would search through their pimp files for faces that resembled the old bum. Maybe he was a psycho with a grudge against pimps. If they could get his MO and his full pedigree, they might make a big score with this bum, and receive a commendation from the mysterious First Dep, who was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

  The bum began to piss in the cage. The detectives were furious with him. They were going to flip him upside down and use his scalp for a mop when they noticed another old man in the room. The man looked like a detective who’d gone downhill. His coat was shitty and he needed a shave. Isaac recognized him: it was Mangen’s shoofly, Captain Mort.

  “Hey,” the detective-sergeant said, “what the fuck do you want?”

  “I want your prisoner,” Morton said. “Dress that boy … and give him to me.”

  The pimp squad yelled at Captain Mort. “We haven’t booked him yet. This is just a friendly interview. We have to escort him down to Elizabeth Street.”

  The shoofly glared at them. “I wouldn’t book him if I was you … you’ll embarrass yourselves.”

  “Schmuck, how did you get into this room?”

  “I always follow the pimp squad,” Morton said. “That’s my specialty.”

  The detectives’ bark wasn’t so fierce. “Who are you?”

  “Schapiro. I work for Dennis Mangen.”

  Sleeping in the squadroom morning after morning hadn’t dulled their minds. They knew all about the Special State Prosecutor. Mangen. The mention of him was enough to turn your testicles gray. No commissioner could protect you from the great god Dennis. But suppose this Schapiro was telling a lie? Anybody could bluff you with Mangen’s name.

  “Why do you want this guy so bad?” the detective-sergeant muttered with a little more respect.

  “I don’t want him,” Schapiro said. “He’s Mangen’s baby.”

  The detectives peeked inside the cage at Isaac’s scars and Isaac’s prick. “Who is this fuckin’ bum?”

  Captain Mort showed his contempt for the pimp squad. He had a disgusting grin that almost swallowed his own two ears. “That’s your boss. Isaac the Brave.”

  The detectives stood frozen in the squadroom. Their mouths were brittle and puffy white.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Isaac shouted from the cage. “Take me to Elizabeth Street. I want to be booked without my clothes.”

  The pimp squad didn’t know what to believe. “We frisked him … we didn’t find a commissioner’s badge.”

  “You think he’s a dummy like you?” Morton said. “The First Dep don’t wear a badge when he’s on a caper.”

  The detectives were miserable now. Then the man himself, Dennis Mangen, came into the squadroom. It was the proof they’d been begging for. You couldn’t mistake Dennis’ fur collar and aristocratic Irish nose. They jockeyed with themselves to open the cage for Isaac.

  “Boss,” they said, “boss, we’re sorry … you should have told us … we’d help you cripple every pimp in New York.”

  Isaac stepped into his pants. Who had assigned such sleeping beauties to the pimp squad? Not Isaac. No wonder the pimps and whores walked free on Times Square. Isaac had an awful desire to beat them around the ears and stick them in their own cage. Who would miss them if they were padlocked for a month? Their wives? Their daughters? Their sons? They had frightened, rabbity eyes. Isaac began to pity them. He would leave them in place. Was it because of Isaac’s scarcity that they were impotent on the street?

  He left Midtown South with Mangen and Schapiro. “Dennis, get rid of the shoofly, will you, please?”

  “Isaac, you ought to be nicer to Captain Mort. He’s been like a fairy godmother to you.”

  “Baloney,” Isaac said. “You planted a pimp in my hotel, that’s all. The pimp got in touch with Morton, and Morton hollered to you.”

  Dennis motioned to the shoofly with his jaw, and Schapiro scampered down the street.

  “Mangen, I wish you’d level with me … are you looking for Mayor Sam under the Tiger’s long johns?”

  Mangen frowned at him. “I’m on good terms with Sammy. The Tiger’s my meat.”

  “What about the McNeill?”

  “That old man? He’s retiring in two weeks. What would I want with the Chief Inspector when I can have the PC?”

  Isaac pushed away from him. “So long, Dennis … I don’t like having my armpit
s licked by fancy prosecutors. If you feel like talking, give me a blow.”

  “Isaac, be careful. Those lads might turn mean on you. The Tiger has his private shotgun patrol.”

  “Oh, I’ll be careful, Dennis. Believe me. I’ll scream for Captain Mort when the shotguns start to fire. Goodbye.”

  25

  HE was too fired up to go back to his hotel. He would have ravaged pimps again. Isaac the Brave, who was disturbed by the society he kept. He’d fallen in with a hotel full of whores, become a nanny to them. The black girls could lament their old age at nineteen. The little snow queens could drag their frail bodies in front of him. Damn the City of New York. Isaac was the First Dep. Couldn’t he manufacture a holy writ, without judges and special prosecutors? Bite into Dermott’s trade by shoving every whore and pimp off the street? It wouldn’t be an official arrest. Isaac would store the pimps in some secret house, feed them with the petty cash that the First Dep had at his disposal. The Civil Liberties Union would climb on Isaac’s back and wrestle him to the ground. Judges would hurl restraining orders at him. The pimps would have to go free.

  Mangen should have left him in the cage. He could have danced with his prick out. It would have been a lovely thing to book the First Deputy Commissioner of New York. They’d have to throw a shirt on him for his arraignment. They don’t allow you to go naked before a judge. What kind of bail would they set for Isaac the Pure? The bondsmen would titter at him. They’d call it a travesty. Isaac in handcuffs for attacking pimps in a foul hotel. The Times might make a wonder of it. City Hall wouldn’t know where to leap. Should the Mayor get behind Isaac or the judges? The bitches would take his badge away. Dennis shouldn’t have spoiled his fun.

  Isaac decided to camp at his office. Rebecca Karp didn’t have the power to lock him out of Centre Street. She’d have to send the City marshals after Isaac. He could stall them for another month.

  Centre Street wasn’t dark tonight. The lights were on for Rebecca’s coming-out party. Bunting flew from the windows and the gates. There were balloons on the old Police Commissioner’s terrace. Isaac avoided the hubbub of Becky’s people, all the little Democrats who had fastened themselves to her cultural committee. He got in through the Commissioner’s private entrance at the rear of the building, and stole up to his office without being caught by Becky’s spies. The party emerged around him. He heard the slap of kettledrums under his feet. Tubas came through the walls. Every motherfucker in New York was partying with Rebecca of the Rockaways.

  Democrats prowled in the halls. There was lots of giggling. Isaac ground his teeth. The noise in his ears wasn’t from the Democrats. The worm was communing with him. The bitch was singing to Isaac. Who can pull sense out of the babble of a worm? Someone drifted into Isaac’s office. The First Dep dimmed his lights. He hoped this stray Democrat of Becky’s would disappear. Isaac could see him in the shine from his window. It was a blue-eyed boy. A shiver tore through the First Dep. A spook had come to visit him. The boy was Manfred Coen.

  Isaac blamed the worm. That piece of shit in his belly could drag out spirits from the dead with a nonsensical song. Isaac wasn’t afraid to mutter to a ghost. “Blue Eyes,” he said. “Manfred?”

  The boy jumped. He hadn’t noticed the man in bum’s clothes sitting behind the desk. “Excuse me … I was looking for the men’s room.”

  “Aren’t you Manfred Coen?”

  “No,” the boy said. “I’m Scamotti. Deputy Mayor for Consumer Affairs.”

  Isaac bellowed at him. “Get the fuck out of my office.” Scamotti ran away. Isaac cursed his fifty-one years. He had a worm to trick his eyes. The bitch could give him glaucoma with those squeezes of the belly. That worm ate from Isaac’s blood. It thrived on sugar and other food. He’d lost his angel, Manfred. He had no one to play checkers with. Why couldn’t the worm bring back Annie Powell?

  The party began to irritate Isaac the Pure. He couldn’t sleep with kettledrums and the smell of roast beef. The Democrats were devouring sandwiches in the main hall. Isaac went downstairs to join the party.

  Men and women glared at him. The women had waxed their legs and wore jewels between their tits. The men had tiepins and flared cuffs under their dinner jackets. They hadn’t come here to mingle with a bum. Isaac went for the sandwiches. The worm had hungered him. He’d have to feed the bitch or go around with a pain in his gut that could bend his knees and cause him to whimper in despair. He put roast beef, ham, and chicken salad into his mouth like any pig of a First Deputy would do. He was standing near Marshall Berkowitz and his wife. Sylvia must have gone back to Marsh. The dean wouldn’t smile at Isaac.

  “Marsh?” Isaac said. The dean turned away.

  Isaac brushed into the Police Commissioner. “Hello, John.” Tiger John was supposed to be his boss. But he would hunch up and shiver in Isaac’s presence. John was helpless without the Mayor of New York. His turkey sandwich fell apart in his fingers. Mustard dropped on his shoes. Isaac wondered how many bank accounts he had under his sweater. He was a doomed boy. Run, Johnny, run, before Dennis pounces on you.

  “Did you have your bath this week?”

  “What?” John said.

  “The sauna at the Dingle … have you tasted the dry heat with Sammy again?”

  “No,” John said.

  “That’s good. Those bloody rocks make your heart beat fast. It’s been known to kill a man …”

  Issac left him behind a pillar with his unraveled turkey sandwich and mustard on his shoes. Sylvia Berkowitz took Isaac by the elbow and didn’t let him swing very far. She’d gotten away from her husband again. Isaac was trapped between Sylvia and a kettledrum. What kind of fucking music did Rebecca hire? Isaac looked and looked, but no band knit together in front of his eyes. Tubas and drums were placed around the stairs like a scattering of orphans. Each instrument breathed its own crazy line. Rebecca had a party where tubas talked to themselves, tubas and drums. It confounded the First Dep. He couldn’t make peace with all those screaming melodies. Marshall’s wife became a solace to him. He smiled, wanting to please her.

  “I’m glad you went home to Marsh …”

  But his words only angered Sylvia, who showed him her teeth. “I didn’t need you to be my kidnapper,” she said. “Two of your bulls ran me out of your apartment. They dropped me on Marshall’s lap. You bastard, you could have been more polite.”

  “Hey, those bulls weren’t mine.”

  “Then where did they come from? How many people knew I was living on your mattress?”

  “Mangen … it was Mangen. He has his shooflies on my tail. Dennis kidnapped you, not me …”

  The wife wouldn’t believe him. “Don’t lay it on Mangen,” she said. “He wouldn’t climb in with a lady and then desert her like that.”

  Sylvia went looking for canapés. Isaac wished he hadn’t come downstairs. But he didn’t want to sit with the ghost of Blue Eyes in his office. So he began to circulate. He pecked at different sandwiches. His luck brought him nose to nose with his new landlady, Ms. Rebecca. She didn’t cackle at him, or scold him for crashing her party.

  “Isaac, I heard a friend of yours died … a girl … Annie Powell.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The Special Prosecutor.”

  Did Mangen have a tube attached to Isaac’s worm? It wasn’t fair. The fuck owns me. Isaac was disgusted with himself. But he remembered to thank the landlady for her interest in Annie Powell.

  “Isaac, how did you get so thin?”

  “Seven days of mourning,” he said. “I didn’t have much to eat.”

  “You sat shiva for a gentile girl?”

  “Why not?”

  She kissed the First Dep on his cheek. She had wet lips for a landlady.

  “Isaac, I didn’t think you had a heart under all that fur. A cop who makes his own religion … that’s a surprise to me.”

  Isaac had to get away from her, or she’d start waltzing with him to those crazy tubas. He saw that boy Scamotti again
, the blue-eyed Deputy Mayor. Isaac shuddered hard. Who was this Scamotti? It had to be Coen. Manfred couldn’t lie easy in the ground. He had a “kite” to deliver. Himself. He had to pay a visit to his murderer, Isaac Sidel. Isaac had used Coen, fed him to the Guzmann family as a kind of bait. Coen’s reward was to get killed. Isaac was going to unwind this Scamotti, prove that he was Manfred Coen.

  “You,” Isaac said. Half the Democrats in the main hall turned to look at the bum with a scowl on his face. Scamotti hid from him. Isaac ended up with the Mayor and Mr. and Mrs. Pears. Melvin must have patched up his differences with Mayor Sam. The lawyer was chatting freely with His Honor. Democrats of every conceivable color had crawled back under Sam’s umbrella at City Hall.

  “Mother of God,” the Mayor said. “Isaac, what happened to you? You’re not the boy who went campaigning with me. Did they trample on your skin somewhere? Laddie, put a little meat on you.”

  “It’s nothing, Your Honor. I’m in mourning, that’s all.”

  “Who died on you?” the Mayor asked.

  “No one. Just the girlfriend of an ordinary thief. Annie Powell.”

  The name didn’t seem to register with Sam. Isaac wouldn’t pump “Hizzoner” with Mr. and Mrs. Pears around. Jenny’s green eyes turned him gloomy. He recalled the live thing growing in her, his child. Lady, I’ve got a thing in me too, a worm that can twist up into a cannonball, and outgrow any fetus in the world. The bitch can scream and claw like Moses. I’ll trade brats with you.

  Jennifer couldn’t hear the whistling in his skull. Isaac was attractive to her in his mourning clothes. She didn’t enjoy him in cop’s pants, swaggering, with the mark of a commissioner on him. She preferred him disheveled and unwired. Suffering and the right kind of stubble brought out the character in his cheeks. He looked younger to her, a boy with thinning hair. She was carrying this man’s baby. She had a sudden loathing for Mel. She didn’t want to be touched by him. Her husband was spending his afternoons with Rebecca Karp. She wasn’t jealous of that. They could smother themselves in bear hugs if they liked. But Isaac shouldn’t have come to her with all the fat burned off. Mel became a chubby fool in her eyes, a lawyer in cowboy boots sucking up to an old Irish Mayor who hadn’t gotten past kindergarten.