25
Cameramen appeared from all over the planet. Isaac couldn’t destroy the myth that had surrounded him: the mayor of New York had rescued his son-in-law from Claremont Village, the worst badland in the Bronx. The Big Guy would walk into a gangster’s den and come out alive, sneeze in the middle of a firestorm, survive tapeworms and knocks on the head. He was only scared of one man: Sweets. The PC wouldn’t tap-dance with politicians, wouldn’t take Isaac’s shit.
The Big Guy had to run down to Police Plaza. He knew that Sweets was going to raid Claremont Village, “neutralize” the warlords with his sharpshooters from Emergency Services. They had elephant guns and armored trucks and impenetrable shields. Isaac rode up to the fourteenth floor and waited in Sweets’ vestibule for half an hour. Finally Sweets ducked out of his office. He was six feet four, and could make Isaac feel like a fucking dwarf in his presence. “You’re not going to Claremont Village with ESU.”
“Sweets, can’t we argue in your office?”
Isaac entered the office where he’d lived for five years and which Sweets had inherited from him, with Teddy Roosevelt’s desk and the same jungle plants.
“I’ll arrest you if you go near my tactical team. Claremont is off-limits.”
“But couldn’t I watch the action from my chopper?”
“No choppers,” Sweets said. “Those mothers have all kinds of military hardware. They’ll shoot you right out of the sky.”
“Who’s leading the assault?”
“I am. With Brock Richardson and ESU.”
“Brock?” Isaac said.
“The Bronx is his domain. I can’t leave him out of the picture.”
“He was working with the warlords. He slept on that roof.”
“He’s your baby,” Sweets said. “I’ll throw him to Internal, but not until I take Claremont Village.”
“Sweets, let me come with you as an observer. I won’t draw. You can have my Glock.”
Sweets gazed into Isaac’s miserable eyes. “You’ll stick behind the shields?”
“I promise.”
“And you’ll wear a vest?”
“I’m the mayor. I’ll look ridiculous with fiberglass under my coat … I’ll wear the vest.”
He rode into the Bronx with Sweets. ESU had already assembled in Claremont’s common garden, near the wounded turtles. They were all carrying elephant guns. They looked like gladiators under their helmets and shields. Richardson wore a bulletproof vest. He held Sweets’ horn to his lips and shouted at the roof. “African Dave, this is your last chance to surrender. Give up your weapons and come downstairs. I repeat. Give up your weapons and—”
Tracers struck the turtles and the shields; the warlords shone their lights in the gladiators’ eyes, blinded the whole tactical team. Isaac was stranded in a red wall of light. But the gladiators raised their shields into the glare and rushed the main building. Isaac followed them up the stairs, galloping like they did, a couple of steps at a time. The warlords had barricaded the door to the roof, but ESU broke it down with sledgehammers and stepped onto the roof. African Dave stood on the far side of his own little Copacabana with several warlords, their wives and children in front of them.
“Sweets,” Richardson said, “it’s pathetic. Exploiting women and children, using them as shields. Should I parley with the fuckers?”
But a chopper appeared above Copacabana. It didn’t belong to ESU. Isaac laughed into his own fist. Richardson must have told Billy the Kid about the raid, and Billy had to ride over the battlefield like some deus ex machina, the man who would be president. “This is the governor,” he screamed into his microphone. “Clear the area immediately … lay down your arms.”
Sweets put his hands over his eyes and rocked his head … as the warlords concentrated all their fire power on Billy the Kid. The chopper’s tail fell off; the machine shivered in the wind, and plunged into the garden between two turtles. Sweets’ backup team had to rescue Billy, pull him out of the burning machine.
“Hey, boys, how you like that?” African Dave shouted from behind his wall of women. “Who’s next?”
Isaac crept between two of the shields and started to cross Copacabana. “Isaac,” Sweets said, “you broke your promise. Will you get back?”
“I promised to stand and watch a fight, not a slaughter, Sweets.”
The warlords didn’t fire at El Caballo. The children hadn’t washed their faces. Isaac looked into their eyes, touched their foreheads, and walked up to Dave. “You’re no warrior. You’re not even a nihilist. You’re outside my fucking respect.” He slapped Dave in front of women, children, and warlords. “Come on. Pulverize me, Dave. Prove what a hero you are.”
“We had to mobilize all the bitches,” Dave said. “Richardson was coming with his death squad.”
“This aint Richardson’s show,” Isaac said. “Dave, come with me.”
The warlords dropped their weapons and crossed Copacabana with Isaac the Brave.
Sweets’ men discovered a mountain of crack and sixteen million dollars in small bills, strewn among diapers and baby shit. Reporters marched through Claremont Village, interviewed twelve-year-old children who’d never gone to school. “David Copperfield,” they scribbled. “Oliver Twist.” Democratic hopefuls visited “this sewer and sink of the Western World,” but Sidel had already been there, Sidel had captured the warlords without wearing a gun. Dottie Dreamer of Newsday kept talking about the late Billy the Kid. “There’ll be a new political marriage. That’s my guess.” And then a photo appeared in Newsday of the Gov in a sordid position. Billy was being whipped by a woman who wasn’t his wife. The photo had a familiar sting; Isaac could almost tell whose eye had observed Billy the Kid. Abner Gumm had climbed the fire escape of some hotel to catch Billy the Kid with a call girl.
The Big Guy began to worry. His name was tied to Michael Storm. “A dream ticket,” Dottie said. “The experienced son backed by his spiritual dad. Michael Storm, who ended an ugly baseball war, and Isaac Sidel, the passionate policeman (and mayor) who risked his own life to spare the abused children of Claremont Village. The Republican Party will have to ride on some camel and run to the ends of the earth.”
Isaac wouldn’t take Dottie Dreamer’s calls. He removed himself from reporters and Party hacks. He didn’t even have Bernardo Dublin to bark at. Bernardo moved out of the back bedroom while Isaac had gone to the Bronx with Sweets. Isaac couldn’t console himself with Marianna’s cookies. She was baking for her house guest, Alyosha. But neither of them had invited him downtown for potato chips on the terrace.
“They’ve forgotten me,” he said. “They’re kids … they have their own lives. What did Birdy say? Romeo and Juliet.”
And then the baseball czar called. “Isaac, we have to chat.”
“I don’t think so, J.”
“I’ll expect you at six.”
He didn’t have the heart to visit J. alone. He brought Barbarossa, whose face was still black-and-blue (no one could recover very fast from one of Birdy’s beatings). Clarice met them at the door.
“Where’s Alyosha?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. He mopes a lot. He’s hardly a communicative boy.”
“He’s mourning his brother. And he hasn’t been able to do a mural.”
“He could decorate the whole apartment. I wouldn’t care.”
Bernardo was in the living room with J. and Tim Seligman. Bernardo could have been Barbarossa’s twin brother. They were both black and blue.
“Where’s Alyosha.”
“Don’t dodge the issue,” Seligman said. “That’s not why you’re here. We can’t run you for President. There’s the Jewish problem. But if we turn the order around? With an Episcopalian on top, and you right behind, we can’t miss. The adventurous son and the law and order dad to quiet him.”
“J. isn’t my son.”
“Isaac, we’re talking metaphors. You molded J.”
“And what if I decide not to run?”
�
��J. wouldn’t work without you. But did I forget to mention that Margaret Tolstoy is in D.C.?”
“I thought she was in Prague, living with some cultural attaché?”
“We had to move her, Isaac. She was getting too popular … she’s involved with a Romanian general.”
“And you’ll let me see her if I’m a good boy.”
“We’ll withdraw the general, send him to Bucharest.”
“So I can have my dangerous liaison.”
“There’s no danger,” Seligman said.
“Then why can’t I see Margaret while I’m mayor?”
“We already talked about it,” Seligman said, rolling his eyes. “You live in a glass house. But as vice-president, you’ll be on the back burner … Isaac, the Party needs you. You can’t pedal backwards once you enter politics.”
“All right. Then assassinate Brock Richardson for me. I mean it. If your friends won’t do it, Joey will cancel him for me.”
“Your Honor,” J. said, “will you be a little more discreet? If we’re bugging the Republicans, they could be bugging us.”
“And what does the Grand Old Party say about Sidel?”
“Dynamite. They’re frightened to death.”
“J., how did you end the strike? What did you promise the owners that got them to cave in?”
“Nothing. I said that when I was done with politics I’d consider becoming the commissioner of baseball.”
“That’s brilliant. You fuck both sides without fucking yourself. And what happens to Sidereal when Tim Seligman puts you in the White House?”
“There won’t be any complications. Porter’s bank will buy up all our family shares, and the money will go into a blind trust.”
“Perfect,” Isaac said. “A blind trust. And how much money will mama, papa, and Marianna have made off Sidereal?”
“Peanuts,” J. said. “Presidents don’t need pocket money.”
“Grand.”
“You can’t kill Brock. He’s one of your children. We all came out from under your overcoat. Isn’t that what Tolstoy said about Pushkin? Remind me, Isaac. You were our teacher.”
“Your batteries are crossed, J. It was Dostoyevsky talking about Gogol and his genius for inventing ghosts. But I don’t have the same overcoat.”
“Yes you do. You put Richardson in place, him and those other bandits … we’re gonna run him for congress in the South Bronx.”
“And it doesn’t matter, J., that he murdered children?”
“We’re still running him. The case is closed.”
“Boss, I came out from under the overcoat,” Bernardo said, sitting near Clarice. “With Barbarossa.”
“What’s Bernardo doing here?”
“He’s Clarice’s new bodyguard,” J. said. “I’m borrowing him from the Bronx brigade.”
Bernardo must have been Clarice’s consolation prize. She’d play the candidate’s wife if Bernardo could come along. J. wouldn’t have to spy on his wife. He’d know exactly which bed she was in.
Marianna came into the room looking glum. “Uncle Isaac, mom and dad wouldn’t let me come to the mansion. They said I had to leave you alone. You couldn’t spend so much time with a little girl.”
“Where’s Alyosha?”
“He ran away. He loves me but he hates Manhattan.”
“Don’t talk foolish,” Clarice said. “He couldn’t stay here. He’s a convict.”
“You can’t call a twelve-year-old kid a convict. He was in a juvenile facility. It’s medieval. But it’s not a jail. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to find Alyosha … can I borrow your daughter, J.?”
“Ask Clarice.”
“She’s silly. But take her if you want.”
“What about our deal?” Seligman said.
“I’ll think about it. I can’t make snap decisions. I’m only a guy who lives in a glass house.”
And Isaac left with Marianna and his son-in-law. “Where’s your sword?”
“A gypsy cabdriver borrowed it. He promised to bring it back.”
They got into Isaac’s limousine, and the Big Guy listened to the police radio, switched from band to band. There was a new vigilante in the Bronx, called himself the Good Knight. He appeared in different neighborhoods, attacked local stickup artists with some kind of sword. Isaac caught the story on his scanner.
… EMS transporting three young Hispanic males on land to Bronx Hospital. They all have multiple bruises and were carrying guns and knives. A witness who won’t give her name says they tried to rob a bodega at one-three-five Grand Concourse, and a male Hispanic with a sword disarmed them and drove away … no make on the sword. Must be the Good Knight … what you got? … Yankee Stadium, large commotion … young Hispanic male is defacing a whole lot of wall … should I get it?
Barbarossa raced up to Yankee Stadium with his siren on. It was like the old days, when Isaac was PC and Joe had just started to court Marilyn the Wild. The Big Guy was born to make trouble, not to govern. He felt like dancing in the street. There was a crowd in front of the stadium. Isaac had to laugh. He was almost happy … without Margaret Tolstoy. He discovered an enormous image on the stadium’s southern wall. Paulito Carpenteros wearing the blue handkerchief hat of the Latin Jokers. And Alyosha hadn’t placed Paul inside any idyllic backdrop. He’d recreated the Bronx, his Bronx, from the Third Avenue Bridge, with blue sharks feeding in the water, to Yankee Stadium and the Castle Motel and a little hobby shop on Jerome Avenue with a demonic face in the window; from the Cross Bronx, which looked like a gigantic dead snake, to Claremont Village and Crotona Park; the rest of the borough was one long Sahara with a building here and there and endless dunes.
PAULITO CARPENTEROS, LORD OF THE SOUTH BRONX
REST IN PEACE, GENERAL
PAID FOR BY THE LATIN JOKERS WAR FUND
Isaac got out of the car with Joe and Marianna Storm. He had to lunge into the crowd, and when people asked him for his autograph, he grunted, “Not now.” Two patrolmen arrived. They stood with Marvin Hatter, the Yankee president, near Alyosha, who looked like a glass boy on his own little ladder.
“Thank God,” said Marvin Hatter. “Isaac, I don’t want to see that kid arrested, but we can’t have graffiti on our walls.”
“That’s not graffiti, Marvin. It’s a war memorial.”
“We still can’t have it here.”
“I’m the landlord, Marvin. The memorial stays.”
Marvin Hatter stared into the crowd, appraised all the interest in Alyosha’s art, shook Isaac’s hand, and disappeared with the patrolmen.
The Big Guy found himself on the wall. The kid had painted him with blue sideburns and a slight hump. The Bronx wasn’t such a Sahara. There were other people hidden in the dunes, like a little family: Isaac recognized Richardson with a roach in his mouth, Marianna with her big medallion, Marilyn the Wild, Bernardo Dublin wearing a mask, Martin Lima and his crack babies, Miranda and Dolores … Isaac had never even mourned those two little girls. The Big Guy was ashamed of himself.
Alyosha came down off his ladder. He’d been working for eight hours and was hungry as hell. Marianna put her arms around him. “You shouldn’t have run away … I was worried.”
“I had to do Paulito,” Alyosha said. “And this was the only wall that was big enough. Now every homey who comes to see a Yankee game will remember Paul.”
Isaac didn’t know what he’d do with Alyosha. Adopt him, name him the new Bronx historian? “Joey,” he said, “will you go to a deli and get us some sandwiches?”
“We don’t need sandwiches,” Marianna said, and took a batch of cookies out of her bag.
Alyosha bit into a cookie. It wasn’t peanut brittle or mocha chip.
“Rum raisin,” Marianna said. “A new recipe …”
And Alyosha mounted the ladder again. He still had to draw the model planes in David Six Fingers’ shop. Rest in Peace, Homey. The Big Jew could put him in jail. Alyosha didn’t care. But he just couldn’t live without his ladder.
“Uncle Joe,” he said to Barbarossa, “where’s the Big Guy gonna take me?”
“Somewhere,” Barbarossa said. “We’ll see.”
They watched Isaac for some signal.
“Alyosha.” Isaac had nothing more to say. He couldn’t hide a glass boy in a glass house. Both of them might break. And then he looked deeper into the design on the wall: Alyosha had included Gracie Mansion, sat it on a little dune between Claremont Village and Crotona Park; it had chimneys and porches, but this glass house didn’t face the sea; it looked out upon all the other dunes, like some ghostly lighthouse. The Big Guy hopped around the ladder, with his own crazy joy. Alyosha was absorbing Manhattan bit by bit. Isaac didn’t have to abandon his glass house. He could live in it with Alyosha, call it the Bronx.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Isaac Sidel Novels
Part One
1
He was the Democrats’ darling, Isaac Sidel, mayor of New York and ex–police commissioner, about to be picked as the Party’s vice-presidential candidate. He was going to run with J. Michael Storm, the baseball czar, who’d defeated senators and billionaires in the primaries. J. Michael had settled the worst strike in the history of baseball. He was a ferocious candidate … and a former student radical, whom Isaac himself had kept out of jail. The country had fallen in love with them. They were their own kind of comedy team: Laurel and Hardy had come back to life as a pair of mischievous commandoes. But Isaac didn’t have time for comedy. The town was swollen with Democrats, and Isaac was the babysitter and sheriff of the Democratic Convention.
The Party had captured Madison Square Garden in the middle of a heat wave; Isaac had to worry about mad bombers, demonstrators, and air-conditioning ducts. He also had to sit with the New York delegation, act like a pol, shake the hands of Democrats who wanted to feel the future vice-president. He’d been on the cover of Time magazine with J. Michael. He’d sat with journalists from India, Hong Kong, Spain … he had ten or twenty interviews each hour. Reporters couldn’t stop pestering him.
Isaac had his own Secret Service man, who would officially belong to him once J. Michael received the nomination and declared his running mate to the whole convention. Isaac couldn’t get rid of his federal shadow, Martin Boyle, a thirty-two-year-old marksman from Oklahoma City who liked to talk guns and horses and girls with Sidel. Boyle was six foot two and had been trained to step in front of a bullet, give his own life for whatever candidate he had to protect.
El Bronx (The Isaac Sidel Novels) Page 16
