“Who was the guy if it wasn’t a wise guy?” asked Marlene.
Guma smiled broadly, showing a remarkable collection of mismatched yellow teeth. “Ah, yeah. It was a Turk, as it happens. Said his name was Takmad. Ran a restaurant, he said, which was why he wanted caviar. He said.”
“So they lift the crate,” said Karp. “What happened then?”
“That’s where Jimmy got a little vague. Lifting it-no problem. They’re so wired out by Kennedy, the clerks, the guards, it’s like going to a fuckin’ K Mart for them. So they deliver it. So I say to Jimmy, ‘So, you find out they went into business for themselves, you ratted them out to Joey.’
“He got a little testy there. He don’t rat, he says. So who, then? I ask him. Jimmy don’t know, but somebody dropped a dime the day after the boys delivered the box. Not only the caviar, but the snitch tells Joey they’d been doing it for months.”
Karp said, “Great. Hold that thought for a minute. The next act is the art business, starring V.T. and Marlene.”
Marlene summarized the interview with Sarkis Kerbussyan and the story of the search for the Gregory Mask. V.T. added what he had learned from his investigation into the financial life of the various Turks and Armenians involved in the case.
“Summing up,” he concluded, “Kerbussyan has been pursuing liquidity to an unusual degree for the past nine months. He’s sold some property he should have hung on to, and he hasn’t bought anything else, not in real estate anyway. So, a lot of cash floating around. Some pretty big wire transfers to Switzerland. Also he’s received very substantial inflows of cash from wealthy Armenians in the U.S. and overseas. In the neighborhood of thirty million. This is since mid-February.
“On the Turks, Ahmet Djelal has a modest bank account, but he spends like a pimp. Aziz Nassif, the cousin, bought himself a nice location for his restaurant, and nobody knows where he got the cash. Nobody buys real estate in New York for actual folding money. The seller recalled it clearly.
“Mehmet Ersoy had, as we know, a nice wad in a box when he died. What we didn’t know until a day or so ago is that in the past year he has sent a total of”-here V.T. paused to check through some sheets of scribbled-on paper-“a total of, $1,835,000 to the account of his brother, Altemur Ersoy, at Esbank, Istanbul.
“Another interesting thing. NYPD art fraud has been working with Interpol on a series of fake scams run across Europe in the last two years, centered on Rome and London. The period of these scams fits almost exactly with the periods that Mehmet Ersoy was stationed in those two cities.”
He paused. “Now to the letters Ersoy also had in his box. They’re in a kind of crude code. Family bullshit, but not really. ‘I’m sending you a nice present. I hope Fatima will like it.’ ‘Thanks for your recent gift.’ Always uses the same locutions, either a ‘special present’ or a ‘very fine present, just like the special present.’ Genuine art and forgeries? It makes a nice story. In any case, the Ersoys are apparently generous people. There are presents and thank-yous mentioned in every letter.
“Okay, late February, early March, there’s repeated mention of a ‘special present’ coming. Also, old Altemur seems pretty worried. Talks about ‘our unpleasant relations’ trying to look in his windows. I think the cops were starting to pinch at him. Probably why they didn’t use the phone. ‘This will be my last present for a time,’ he says on February 22. ‘I will send it air express on March 10.’”
“The Viacchenzas pulled their heist when, Ray?” Karp asked.
“March 11.” Everyone was silent, thinking about that for a while.
“Did he say what the presents were going to be, or just ‘presents’?” Marlene asked.
V.T. smiled. “Yes, interesting question. Not normally. It just indicates with a name-a present from so-and-so. Obviously they’d worked the code out beforehand. But for this last one he did. He said, ‘I’m sending you a big case of your favorite caviar.’”
Vinnie was taken to change his clothes and was then returned to his cell, a ten-foot box designed to house two prisoners in reasonable discomfort, but which now held six. He lay down on the lower bunk. He heaped his blankets on the upper part of his body, including his head, and began to groan and writhe, shaking the three-tiered structure. While he did this, he used the knife to peel strips of thick crusted paint off the wall opposite his face, until he had a crumbly little mound about the size of an ice-cream scoop. He placed the paint chips in his mouth, deep in his cheek, like the tobacco cud of a ball player. Then he stuck the blade inside his mouth and made a long slit on the inside of his cheek. It didn’t hurt much; the knife was extremely sharp.
His groans and cries increased in volume. He rolled out of the bunk and, after staggering a few steps, collapsed on his side in a fetal position. A trickle of blood oozed out of his mouth. His roomies began to raise an alarm, yelling for the guards, delighted with this opportunity of getting rid of a man who was possibly the least desirable cell mate in the Tombs.
A guard arrived, checked out the problem, went back to a wall phone, and called for Walker. That was the informal policy: when Vinnie moved, Walker moved him, and it was obvious that something was seriously wrong with the big son of a bitch. He was bleeding from the mouth, and his face was flushed and covered with sweat.
Walker arrived, entered the cell, and heaved Vinnie to his feet. Vinnie immediately began to cough spasmodically; then he vomited a crimson lumpy mass all over the front of his own jumpsuit, the floor, and the tips of Walker’s shoes.
Walker jumped back, his face expressing both distaste and concern. Ulcers are as common among criminals as they are in the advertising business. Most experienced jail guards have seen the typical bloody, granular vomit of a perforated ulcer, and many have learned how fast a victim can bleed to death through one. Walker thought of the investigations, of the paperwork he would have to do if Vinnie punched out on his shift.
“Vinnie! Can you walk? Should I get a trolley?” he asked nervously.
“I can walk,” said Vinnie in a thin, cracked voice.
So he could, barely. The other guard locked up the cell, and Walker half carried his charge down the barred corridors toward the jail infirmary.
A small man in a white smock looked up in alarm as Walker dragged the huge bloodstained prisoner through the swinging doors.
“Knife fight?”
“No,” said Walker. “Popped his ulcer. He’s puking blood.”
As if to demonstrate, Vinnie heaved again, splashing a gout of blood across Walker’s white uniform shirt. Cursing, Walker wrestled Vinnie into a plastic chair.
Vinnie groaned. “I gotta go … toilet. Got the shits.”
Walker looked at the slight ward attendant and cursed again. “Should I take him, or …?”
The attendant nodded. “Yeah, go ahead. And then get him up on a gurney. Cuff and strap. There’s one in the hallway. I’ll call Bellevue. We can’t handle a perforated ulcer here. Wait! Sign him over first.”
Walker signed a blank form. The medic picked up the phone, and Walker got Vinnie moving down the hall to the toilet. He installed the prisoner in a doorless booth and turned to one of the sinks. He started dabbing at the bloodstain on the front of his shirt. He had reduced it to a large pink smear when he heard a faint sound behind him and turned.
Vinnie had squat-walked up behind him so as to keep his reflection out of the mirror. As soon as Walker turned, Vinnie sprang forward, rising, and drove his knife deep into Walker’s chest. Again. Walker collapsed without a sound.
The medic had finished his call and was busy typing out the transfer form. He saw a man in a guard uniform walk past him and called out, “He okay?”
“Yeah,” the man mumbled, and was gone.
“Cut to the chase,” said Roland irritably. “What’s it all mean?”
Karp looked around the conference table. He had everyone’s attention. “What does it all mean? Okay, here’s my take, but anyone else, you got any ideas, jump in. Mehmet Ersoy, o
ur victim, had a brother who had access to art treasures. The brothers had a racket going. They worked some European cities and then, late last year, started in New York. He brought the head of security for the Turkish mission, Djelal, in on it, and maybe Djelal brought in his cousin Nassif.”
“How do we know that, Butch?” asked Hrcany. “Because they got money? Hell, I got money. Maybe their family’s loaded in the old country. We don’t even know these guys hang out together. I sure don’t with my cousins.”
“They hang out,” said Bello. Everyone turned to look at the cop, amazed, as if a file cabinet had started talking. “I followed Nassif. He went to the mission offices, then the two of them headed out in an embassy car.”
“Where did they go?” asked Marlene.
“They bought paint on Canal Street. I saw them heaving a big carton into the trunk of the Caddy. Big carton. They had to tie it down. Then they went back to Djelal’s place on 56th. They left the carton in the car.”
Roland laughed. “Very suspicious. We could get them for Attempted Felonious Decorating with a Bad Taste Color.”
Karp resumed: “Okay, at least it’s established that they’re buddies. Anyway, Ersoy, and whoever, started selling artworks through the Sokoloff gallery, some genuine pieces but also a lot of fakes. It was the same scam he’d used in Europe. They sold a lot of material to Sarkis Kerbussyan.
“Late last year, Ersoy told Kerbussyan that they’d gotten hold of this super treasure, this Mask of Gregory. Kerbussyan agreed to buy it and began gathering serious money from the Armenian community. He puts something like a million bucks down on it, most of which we find in Ersoy’s bank box after his death. At about the right time Ersoy’s brother sends this box of caviar.”
Karp paused and looked meaningfully around the table again. “Anybody want to bet that it was caviar in that box? No, me neither. Let’s say this mask was in the box. It goes out from Turkey on March 10, arriving at JFK March 11.
“Okay, now it gets complicated. A little prior to this, a Turk had contacted the Viacchenza boys and set up a theft from air freight. A box of caviar. He pays heavy cash in advance, with a promise of more. The Viacchenzas do the heist on March 11, late. This is a Friday. Two days later, Sunday, Mehmet Ersoy is murdered. Two days later, somebody calls Joey Castles and tells him the Viacchenzas are ripping him off. On the 18th, the Viacchenzas are gunned down. Maybe the snitch was the mysterious Turk, maybe not.
“Meanwhile, after all this, Joey is still talking to Sally Bollano about Turks and making some big score off them, with the involvement of a major fence. So. That’s it. How many animals can you find in the drawing?”
Roland spoke first. “Simple. Ersoy screws Kerbussyan on an art deal. Kerbussyan wants to get even. Tomasian wants to be a martyr to the cause, so he pops Ersoy.”
“That doesn’t explain the theft from the airport,” Marlene objected. “It doesn’t explain the Bollano deal.”
Roland answered blandly, “That’s a detail. Ersoy arranged for the theft. Or maybe the thing didn’t ever exist. It really was caviar, or a box of bricks. Then he tells Kerbussyan the thing got ripped off, and by the way, the million is nonrefundable. Kerbussyan has him killed, like I said. Now we got these other two Turks, they got a load of high-value objects they want to move. They’re scared to run it through the auction houses-there’s too much heat now. So they contact the mob and set up a deal with a heavy fence.”
“What about this guy Jimmy said hired the theft? What’s-his-face, Takmad?” asked Guma.
V.T. tapped a squat green-covered book he’d been leafing through. “It means ‘nickname’ in Turkish. Cute.
No, it’s got to be either Djelal or Nassif. Roland’s story is interesting, and it fits all the facts.”
Karp could see Guma nodding, satisfied. Karp might have been satisfied too if he had never met Sarkis Kerbussyan face to face.
16
What’s going on?” asked Marlene. She was sitting next to Harry Bello in his car at the junction of Leonard and Centre, and they could see, and hear, that something was not right a block north at the Tombs. There were a half-dozen blue-and-whites parked near the corner occupied by the jail, their lights flashing. Sirens heralded the arrival of others. Harry moved the car onto Centre and was stopped by a uniformed cop who was directing traffic around the confusion.
Harry flashed his shield and asked, “What’s up?”
“Escape. Scumbag knifed a guard and walked out through the courthouse.”
“Who was it? The escape?”
“Name of Boguluso. A big motherfucker, they say. Shouldn’t be too hard to catch. Probably hiding in the neighborhood.”
Harry doubted that, the part about being easy to catch. He headed around the blockade toward the day-care center.
He was silent, but Marlene picked up his mood. “You’re worried,” she said.
He nodded and grunted assent. “Don’t be,” she said. “He’s a punk. They’ll pick him up. It’s not like he could vanish into Chinatown. If he had any brains, which I doubt, he’d be halfway to the moon by now.”
Not to the moon, but only to Hempstead, Long Island, at a house belonging to Duane Womrath’s girlfriend’s grandmother. Granny was in a nursing home, and Rita was watching the house.
The three of them sat in the living room, drinking beer and smoking dope, while the TV blared game shows.
“We should go west,” Duane said. “Fuckin’ Arizona.”
“Yeah,” said Vinnie without enthusiasm. He was wondering how to get rid of Duane for a while so he could hit on Rita. She’d go for it. Or if not, he’d pop her anyway. He was glad tobe out of jail, sure, and it was Duane and Rita who’d planned it all out and pulled it off as slick as it went, but that was then. Vinnie was a child of the now.
He drained his beer and said, “We should get some more brew,” looking significantly at Duane.
Duane said, “Fuck the brew, Vinnie! We gotta make some plans. We got to get out of state. That screw checks out, it’s murder one, and they’ll never stop lookin’ for you.”
“Don’t fucking tell me what I gotta do,” Vinnie rumbled.
Duane got up and paced. “Okay, fine. Do what you want. You want to stay here till somebody spots you, fuck me! Go do it! This ain’t Alphabet City, bro. It’s fuckin’ Hempstead, Long fuckin’ Island.”
“Yeah, fuck it,” said Vinnie after a considerable, tense silence. “Okay, we’ll head west and all. But I got to do something in the city first.”
“The city! You’re outa your fuckin’ gourd, Vinnie!”
“Don’t fuckin’ worry about it,” said Vinnie confidently. “I’m in and out, no sweat. But I need to borrow your bike.”
Marlene and Harry picked up Lucy at the day-care. She squalled briefly at the changing of the guard and then fell asleep in Marlene’s arms.
“Home?” asked Harry.
“Yeah-no, could we stop by Canal and Lafayette first? I said I would pick up a roll of butcher paper for Lillian.”
No problem. Harry parked the car on Canal, took the baby, and Marlene got out. It was close to six, and the merchants were starting to take in their sidewalk displays. Between Hudson and Centre streets, Canal is a vast emporium, whose many small merchants supply goods both ordinary and exotic, from war surplus to plumbing supplies, to hardware, to art supplies, to specialized equipment for all of the City’s trades. You can buy a slightly used meat freezer, a bolt for an 1898 Mauser, a Norden bomb sight, a box containing a thousand assorted brass zippers, a length of anchor chain, an anchor to go with it, or (as in the present case) a roll of brown butcher paper suitable for the scribbles of preschoolers. Marlene bought her paper and staggered out with the heavy roll on her hip.
As she crossed the broad sidewalk, her eye was caught by an object fluttering from the awning rail of a military-surplus business next door. It looked like a gigantic pair of training pants in international orange, suspended by four heavy cables from a pulley. Marlene studied it for a momen
t and then went into the store. After a brief conversation with the proprietor, she bought it.
“Harry,” she said when she was seated again in the car, “I got another big favor. After you drop us off, could you go back to Centre Street and get Butch and bring him back to the loft? Tell him I figured a way to get him home for the weekend.”
“You must be out of your mind,” said Karp when he saw what Marlene had wrought.
“I don’t see why,” she said blithely. “It’s a navy breeches buoy. They used to use them to transfer people between ships at sea. Just sit in it and hold your crutches, and I’ll go upstairs and haul you up on the cargo hoist. It’s perfectly safe.”
Karp looked doubtfully at the orange canvas object rotating slowly in the dusty light of their building’s lift shaft. He was familiar with how the building’s industrial operations acquired their raw materials. He also knew how frequently the lift broke down, suspending a load of wire in mid-shaft. Marlene had secured the lift hook to the shackle conveniently placed above the pulley block of the contraption. Thereby it swung, glowing and ominous.
“Come on. It’s just like the Parachute Jump,” encouraged Marlene.
Indeed. It was a lot like the vanished ride at Steeplechase in Coney Island, that once lifted screaming fun lovers two hundred feet into the air and then released them to float down to earth on parachutes. Karp had been on the Parachute Jump at the age of eight. Once-and tossed a heavy meal of hot dog, fries, and root beer over the assembled throng below.
On the other hand, at age eight there were only his brothers to mock him and call him chicken. Now he had Marlene. Leaning on her, he fitted himself into the apparatus. Five minutes later, the lift roared and jerked him into the air.
“There, that wasn’t so bad,” said Marlene cheerfully when Karp was at last standing in their loft.
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