El Bronx (The Isaac Sidel Novels)

by Jerome Charyn

  “Sure, Vice-President Sidel.”

  He was careless on his walk uptown. He landed on a deserted part of Crosby Street. A blue sedan appeared like a fat, lazy shark. He heard the shark’s motor at the back of his mind. But he couldn’t stop dreaming of Doug and Doug Jr. He was trying to choreograph a killing.

  The blue sedan barreled down upon Isaac, and a body tackled him, knocked Isaac on his ass … and out of the car’s fucking path. Isaac groaned. It was his Secret Service man, Martin Boyle.

  “Boyle,” Isaac said, “have you been following me? You weren’t supposed to do that.”

  “I have my orders, Mr. President.”

  Three men wearing pillowcase masks, like the Ku Klux Klan, popped out of the car, clutching shotguns. Isaac groaned again. He was fond of Boyle. He didn’t want his own Secret Service man to die of birdshot wounds, protecting Citizen Sidel. Isaac got off his ass, stood in front of Boyle.

  “Sir,” Boyle said, “you can’t do that.”

  “But I am doing it.”

  Isaac took out his Glock and shot the trunk of the sedan. There was a terrific boom on that dead street. The men in pillowcase masks seemed uncertain now. People began to arrive from different corners, drawn to the sound of Isaac’s Glock.

  “Children,” Isaac said to the three masked men, “you can go back to Elizabeth Street and tell your master that you saw ‘The Citizen,’ and ‘The Citizen’ doesn’t scare.”

  The three men returned to their sedan, mumbled something, and drove away in their masks.

  His Italian suit was dirty. His tie had been torn when Boyle tackled him. But Isaac wouldn’t change his clothes. He arrived at the Garden with a hundred cameras in his face, Boyle half a step in front of him, already attached to Citizen Sidel. Reporters screamed at Isaac.

  “Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, was it an assassination attempt?”

  There were already images of Isaac on the huge television screens inside the Garden. Commentators were interviewing witnesses of the shoot-out on Crosby Street.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” a woman said. “Three men had come to kill our mayor. They wore masks. They wanted to butcher Isaac. But he’s no schlemiel. He pulled out his gun …”

  Tim Seligman grabbed him by the arm, kidnapped Isaac, led him into his own mandarin headquarters, under the air-conditioning ducts.

  “Look at you,” said the prince of the Party, who’d been a fighter pilot in Vietnam. “We’re in a shitstorm, and Michael’s running mate comes back to us in rags. We could lose the nomination in a single fucking nanosecond. That’s how fast the weather changes.”

  “What can I do, Tim?”

  “Dance. Entertain. Talk to delegates. Show them you’re a regular guy.”

  “A regular guy?” Isaac said. “Manhattan doesn’t breed regular guys.”

  “Then pretend a little, Your Honor.”

  “Timmy,” Isaac said, “I can’t. One of my policemen is sitting in a dark cell. He killed his own son. Another policeman drove him to it. Barton Grossvogel, captain of the fourth precinct. It’s a fucking crime school, Tim. But some super-agency is protecting this Grossvogel.”

  “We’ll close his crime school. But not today. Put on a fresh suit.”

  “No,” Isaac said.

  “We’re hanging by a hair. If Mississippi and Texas shun J. on the first ballot, we’ll lose momentum.”

  “Then why doesn’t J. show up and shake a couple of hands?”

  “It’s a bad strategy. It will look like he’s grubbing for votes. He can’t appear until he clinches the nomination.”

  “But I can grub,” Isaac said. “I can be the beggar.”

  “It’s only natural. You’re his running mate.”

  And they stepped out onto the fury of the convention floor. There were huge balloons of the Democratic donkey, the Party’s favorite animal, floating above Isaac’s head. He wasn’t made for politics. He couldn’t dance, he couldn’t convince delegates.

  Half the Mississippi delegation strode across the floor to welcome their vice-president. They’d watched Sidel on the huge television screens, wanted to discuss the shoot-out on Crosby Street. A whole little story began to boomerang off the Garden’s walls. Isaac Sidel, Manhattans favorite son, had left the convention floor to visit a policeman in distress. A mobbed-up captain, Isaac’s mysterious enemy, had tried to cancel him somewhere in Lower Manhattan. The Secret Service had helped rescue Citizen Sidel. It was an American fairy tale, and Isaac was only one more Indian fighter. He could have been a native of Texas or Louisiana and Mississippi.

  “Your Honor,” the Mississippians said, looking at the Indian fighter’s torn tie. “Are you all right?”

  “Fit as a donkey,” Isaac said, and the Mississippians laughed.

  Reporters hovered around him, with a brace of microphones.

  “Mr. Sidel, Mr. Sidel, is there a war inside your police department?”

  “Not that I know of,” Isaac said. He couldn’t accuse an entire precinct. The convention would panic, run to another town. All he could do was smile in front of the cameras and microphones. “Had a little tussle with the bad guys, that’s all.”

  “But who are the bad guys?”

  “I’m not a cop,” Isaac said. “You wouldn’t want me to prejudice a criminal investigation.”

  Grossvogel would self-destruct like some musclebound toy. His rabbis would desert him soon enough. They couldn’t afford to have Citizen Sidel nosing around on national TV.

  “Is Captain Knight innocent, sir?”

  “Lads,” he said to the men and women with microphones, “he hasn’t been arraigned yet. Give him a chance.”

  And he pulled away from the reporters. He’d never understand what had happened between father and son. He could have been there with his own television camera. He would have captured nothing. Family warfare was too fucking intimate for instant replay. Like a hammer in the heart. He could only mourn young Doug and his dad.

  A huge, kicking donkey flashed onto the electronic signboard under the Garden’s dome. The donkey’s legs were everywhere. Smashing Republicans, Isaac presumed. The donkey disappeared … and different particles of a face emerged on the board. A cheek, a mouth, an eye, until conventioneers recognized the traces of Isaac Sidel. With a Glock in his hand. The Garden began to cheer. There was a kind of gleeful pandemonium. The Democrats had found their hero in the mean streets of Manhattan. The balloting could begin.

  2

  He couldn’t even write his own acceptance speech. Isaac wanted to talk about poverty and drugs, and the dying borough of the Bronx. But Timmy wouldn’t let him.

  “We have a candidate to sell. You’re a known quantity, the mayor of New York. But Michael is still in the woods.”

  The new czar of baseball didn’t carry a Glock in his pants, like Isaac did.

  “Kid,” Tim said, “you’ll take the back seat. We have to groom Michael, paste a lot of feathers on him. You’ll talk about Michael, not about yourself and the City’s problems.”

  “Jesus, Tim, don’t we have a platform?”

  “Not on prime time,” said Tim Seligman. “No ideas, Isaac. Just stories. You’ll reminisce, remind America how you fathered J.”

  “I didn’t father him. I kept him out of jail when he was a student radical.”

  “But you’ll soften the blow. Half the world was rebelling in sixty-eight. You won’t mention that Michael was a Maoist. He was championing student rights at Columbia, against a harsh administration. He’s a doer. He doesn’t stand still.”

  “I paint a portrait, huh?”

  “Perfect. You hit the nail right on the nose. A portrait, Isaac, with a lot of white space. We appeal to America’s imagination.”

  “Create Michael, spin him out of cotton candy.”

  “Isaac, whatever we do, we make it sweet.”

  Isaac wanted to strangle Tim, or blow his brains out. He was already sick of being a Democrat, of luring the convention to his town.

  He could r
esign, shove out all the delegates, but his own people would consider him a big baby. What right did he have to cry. There wasn’t a vacant room in Manhattan. The Dems had brought a week of prosperity. But he couldn’t mouth the words of Tim Seligman’s speech writers. “Our future President is a family man.”

  Clarice, J.’s wife, was having an affair with one of Isaac’s detectives, Bernardo Dublin. And who knows how many mistresses J. had? He and Clarice had plotted to pull millions out of the Bronx with a real-estate scam. And the mayor had to be mum, couldn’t accuse the Party’s warhorse. But how could Isaac sing the Democratic song? “He’s as American as baseball, and almost as tough. J. Michael Storm.”

  J. had tried to have Clarice killed, so he could collect insurance money. He’d hired Bernardo Dublin, Isaac’s detective, who was also a thug. But it was like Shakespeare in Isaac’s Manhattan. Bernardo and Clarice fell in love. And Clarice would only become Michael’s First Lady if she could bring Bernardo along to the White House as her bodyguard. It was a fucking sitcom, a soap opera for idiots, and Isaac had to join the ride.

  He returned to Gracie Mansion after his sit-down with Tim. He had to get away from the convention floor. Delegates were ripping off pieces of his shirt. He met with Mississippi for half an hour. The whole delegation wanted to handle Isaac’s Glock.

  But he wasn’t alone at his mansion. Michael’s daughter, Marianna Storm, was baking cookies in the kitchen.

  “Marianna, shouldn’t you be with your mom and dad?”

  “And smile at a million photographers? I’d rather hide with you.”

  “But it’s politics. The Dems will eat me alive if they ever find out.”

  “We won’t tell them, will we, Mr. Mayor?” And she began to feed him butterscotch cookies. All the bitter slag of the convention fell off with the first bite. He’d kill for one of Marianna’s cookies. He’d have hired her as his chef, but not even Isaac could get Marianna working papers. She was only twelve.

  Seligman was counting on her green-eyed beauty to mask the coldness between Clarice and J. Images of Marianna had begun to invade America’s networks and magazines. Newsweek called her the most photogenic little lady on the planet. She couldn’t go into the street without men and women gawking at her. And so she hid out at Gracie Mansion with Isaac Sidel.

  “Darling,” she said, flirting with the mayor and poking fun at him. “I read your speech … it stinks.”

  “I know it stinks. But Seligman shackled me with it.”

  “You can’t say all those things about my father. They’re lies.”

  “And what’s my choice? They’ll crucify me.”

  “Isaac,” she said, “be a man. You’re the mayor. And the next vice-president. You don’t have to eat crumbs off Tim Seligman’s plate … I’ll help you rewrite the speech.”

  “I’m scared,” Isaac said. “I can handle gangsters and cops, but not sharks like Tim.”

  “You’ll turn him into a pussycat. I promise. Just give me a pencil.”

  She had more brains than Isaac and a better writing style. She began to scribble in the margins, cross out every other line, while Isaac gobbled a whole fortune of butterscotch cookies.

  “I’m tired,” she said, after an hour.

  Isaac barked at his chauffeur. “Mullins, come here.”

  “Boss, you want me to drive the little lady?”

  “I’m not a little lady,” Marianna said. “And I’m not going to live in the White House with Mama.” She kissed Isaac on the mouth. “I hope you like your speech.”

  His hands were trembling. He could barely clutch the pages of his speech. Marianna wouldn’t have poisoned him with her cookies, but he had a bellyache and he was going blind. He couldn’t read a word Marianna had written. All the lines had liquified.

  He fell asleep in his chair. He dreamt of a sailor on a ship. But the ship was stationary. It didn’t move. The sailor was clutching a red harpoon. He had no eyes. He wore a helmet with a strange antenna on top, like the leaves of a rusted flower. The fish he attacked had orange mouths and patches of color, like a quilt. They were locked in some design, as stationary as the eyeless sailor and his ship. Isaac had become a genius in his sleep, could dredge up images, dream of paintings on a wall, a masterpiece. Ah, if people could only die with such perfection.

  But he heard a cruel ring, and he had to rouse himself. He had a telephone in his fist.

  “Isaac?”

  He recognized the voice of Clarice. He’d have to get used to campaigning with Michael’s First Lady. “What’s wrong?”

  “Marianna’s missing.”

  “What the hell do you mean? I sent her home with Mullins.”

  “She was with you?”

  “It’s no secret. She has the run of the house. She likes to bake cookies.”

  “Past midnight?”

  “It wasn’t even dinnertime … she should have gotten to Sutton Place before dark.”

  “Then you’re an idiot. She never got to Sutton Place. Find my daughter, or I’ll tear your teeth out,” she said, talking like Sidel.

  The Big Guy had been cheated, tricked by his own dream. The eyeless sailor was Sidel himself, hunting in the dark with a red harpoon. He paged his chauffeur. But Mullins never called back. And Isaac didn’t have a clue, not one idea where to look for Marianna Storm. He blinked. Somebody was sitting across from him in his own living room. The Big Guy groaned. It was Martin Boyle.

  “Who let you in? This house is a fortress. I’m protected day and night.”

  “Mr. President,” Boyle said, clutching a ring of skeleton keys. “I went to housebreaking school.”

  “I told you a million times. Don’t call me Mr. President.”

  “I apologize, sir. But facts are facts. The Republicans are frightened of you, not J. Michael Storm. They’ll drive right over him. But you’re a wall.”

  “You still haven’t told me what the hell you’re doing here. Can’t I have a little privacy?”

  “Not when you’re on the Democratic ticket. I eat with you, I sleep with you. I’m Crazy Glue.”

  “That’s my reward,” Isaac said. “Crazy Glue. Marianna Storm is missing.”

  “I’m aware of that, sir. She’s as naughty as you are. She ducked out on Joe, went right off the screen.”

  “Who’s Joe?”

  “One of us, sir.”

  “Marianna has her own Secret Service man?”

  “It’s mandatory, sir.”

  “She’s twelve years old, for Christ’s sake. A little girl.”

  “She’s still the daughter of a possible President.”

  “Who kidnapped her? Arafat? The Colombians? Fidel?”

  “I’d start closer to home. Wouldn’t rule out the Republican National Committee or the Democrats themselves. They’re always goosing each other. Why not grab Michael’s daughter? There’s a lot of embarrassment value to be gained … by both parties.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Isaac said.

  “I could be wrong. You have lots of enemies, Mr. President.”

  “We can’t sit here, Boyle. Who’ll help us solve this case?”

  “We don’t need help. You have enough clout. The Citizen could get anyone he wants on the line. Should we try the Bureau?”

  “The Bureau hates my guts. I’m in love with their secret agent, Margaret Tolstoy.”

  “She’s cute. She runs around Washington in a wig.”

  “You know Margaret?”

  “I had coffee with her once at the White House. She came with some foreign gentleman. He had lots of medals on his chest.”

  “Margaret visits the White House?”

  “The Prez loves to give soirees.”

  “Did she ever come with the Bull?”

  “No, sir. The Prez doesn’t like to socialize with Bull Latham.”

  “That’s a pity. Latham can’t be seen in public with his master spy.”

  “Should I get him on the phone, sir?”

  “Bull wouldn’t talk to me.” />
  “Wanna bet? You’re the hottest guy in the country.”

  “It’s three A.M., Boyle.”

  “He’ll take the call.”

  Boyle grabbed Isaac’s telephone, got the Bureau’s switchboard on the line. “Bull Latham, please … you’ll have to wake him. It’s Isaac Sidel.”

  Boyle winked at Isaac and handed him the phone. Isaac’s knees were shaking. Bull Latham was a linebacker with the Dallas Cowboys who went to law school and joined the FBI. He didn’t like to sit behind a desk. Latham would rush into the line of fire with his own men. He’d get into fistfights, tackle Mafia chieftains. He ran the FBI like a football team.

  “Mr. Director?” Isaac whispered into the wire.

  “Call me Bull … what can I do for you, Sidel?”

  Isaac wanted to sing Margaret Tolstoy’s name, but he didn’t dare. No one questioned the linebacker about his own business.

  “I have a problem, Bull … J. Michael’s daughter is missing.”

  “Kind of disappeared after she left your mansion, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, Bull. And I was wondering if …”

  “I could have sixty agents at your door in half an hour, Sidel, but you wouldn’t appreciate that much firepower. And you can’t afford the publicity … not until you and Michael have made your speeches. How can Michael address the convention without his darling daughter at his side? It’s a bit of a dilemma. Wouldn’t you say so, Sidel?”

  “Who took Marianna away from me?”

  “Not us,” Bull said, “not the Bureau … can we talk policeman to policeman? It’s a local matter, Sidel. Your own cops stole Marianna Storm.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Then I’ve failed you. But I’ll have to say good-bye. Can’t function without my beauty sleep.”

  The Big Guy prowled his own living room. “My cops are working for the Republican National Committee?” The sailor with the red harpoon flashed in front of his eyes. But Sidel wasn’t napping on his feet. He was having one of his revelations, interpreting his own dreams. Isaac realized the particular fish he had to harpoon.

  “Boyle, get your hat. We’re going places.”

  “I wasn’t wearing a hat, sir.”

  “Then imagine one, because we’ll have to depend on our thinking caps.”