by Paddy Kelly
Each room was large enough to permanently house a family of four, and was just as plushly decorated as the lobby.
“And they call us crooks!” Lanza said in a low voice to Guerin as he closed the door behind them. Straight ahead, down the long hall, was some sort of sitting room, and off to either side of the hall were four other rooms, two on each side.
Socks and his lawyer walked down the hall poking their heads into each room until they found the one which was occupied.
“What the hell’s he doin’ here?” Socks blurted out. He was standing in the doorway of the last room on the left, pointing as Guerin caught up with him.
“I’m just here to baby-sit, Socks.” Gurfein, seated in the corner, was basking blissfully in Lanza’s surprise.
Lanza recalled how easy it was to bait and evade the cops when they chased him as a teen and quickly composed himself. “Your tax dollars at work, eh, Murray?”
“At least we pay taxes, Lanza!” Gurfein was easily goaded.
“We pay taxes too, councillor,” Socks retorted in a matter-of-fact tone. “The taxes you haul in from the people we employ alone, more than pays the salary of everyone in City Hall, with some left over to help the war effort. Of course that’s only a rough estimate. It’s very difficult to know exactly how much is extorted from us in graft.”
“Gentlemen! We’re not here to play cops and robbers.” It was the man seated behind the broad wooden desk, an impressive figure dressed in civilian clothes. He looked to be late forties, early fifties, but well built. Socks was impressed with the man’s presence and shook his hand with respect as the man introduced himself.
“Mr Lanza, Lieutenant Commander Charles Haffenden, thanks for coming.”
Gurfein smirked silently as he thought to himself, Mr Lanza! Gimme a break! Socks sat down in the chair facing the desk. Guerin stood, as there were no more chairs in the room. The lawyer, in his sixties, was visibly uncomfortable.
“Mr Lanza, I’m told you can help us.”
“Please, Commander, call me Socks,” Lanza said, pretending not to notice Gurfein’s glance. “What is it I can do for youse?”
Commander Haffenden had been briefed about Lanza’s legal situation, and so understood fully the relationship between Gurfein and Socks. He also knew why the DA’s representative was there. It had very little to do with Lanza. He would no doubt be tripping over himself to report back to Hogan the instant the meeting was over. Little did he realise he was out of his league.
Charles Haffenden had not only been in service since 1917, he was considered a founding father of Naval Intelligence. He played in the same playground as Aaron Banks and ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan. While people like Hogan and Gurfein were paying for tips and blackmailing petty criminals, men like Haffenden were spying on heads of state and collecting data as field operatives behind the lines in enemy territory.
“Well, I believe your lawyer has already filled you in on the details of the difficulties we’re having with our shipping?”
Guerin had no idea what Haffenden was talking about, but kept quiet. Lanza caught on right away.
“Yeah, all the details,” he responded. Gurfein sat up straight and looked at Haffenden.
“Good. What can we do?” Haffenden continued. Socks reached into his pocket and produced a pen. He wrote two phone numbers on a piece of notepaper he took from the desk and slid them across to the Commander.
“Call me at either one of those numbers in a day or so, sir.” Lanza stood along with Haffenden, and they shook hands.
“Nice to have met you, sir.”
“Likewise, Socks.” Gurfein remained seated.
Lanza left first and as Guerin was putting his hat on, he turned to Gurfein and quipped, “Told ya he’d do it.”
Commander Haffenden put on his coat as well and indicated to Gurfein that it was time to leave. Gurfein tried to get a look at the piece of paper on the desk, but Haffenden scooped it up and put it in his pocket.
“Commander, I have a right to know what’s on that paper!” They started down the hall towards the exit.
“Ya know, Murray, I get the impression you’re the kinda guy likes ordering secretaries around.” Haffenden stopped to open the front door to the suite. He reached in his pocket and produced a piece of paper. Outside in the hall, he addressed Gurfein again.
“I’m told you’re an expert in Sicilian?”
“Yeah, So?” Haffenden handed him the piece of paper and proceeded to walk down the corridor towards the stairs.
“Get back to me with a translation on that, will ya?” Haffenden was about to set the ground rules for the NYCDA’s relationship with his intelligence network.
Gurfein stood in the middle of the hallway and unfolded the paper.
In bold, block, hand written letters, was a single word in Sicilian: FANCULO!
Chapter Eight
Louie stood against the granite wall of Central Park pretending to read the early edition of the Daily News in the morning cold, as he shelled his breakfast of salted peanuts. Columbus Circle was buzzing with activity by 8:00 a.m., and Mancino had his work cut out for him. Mrs Birnbaum had told Doc that Ira always walked to the Circle in the morning on his way to work. Louie’s assignment was to spot Birnbaum, follow him to whatever mode of transportation he would utilise to get downtown, and then call Doc, who was waiting in a phone booth in the Woolworth Building, around the corner from the Church Street office. Doc really didn’t need Louie to do this, but he needed him even less hanging around Downtown bugging him. He didn’t mind teaching Louie, but he wasn‘t a babysitter.
Strategically positioning himself behind the line of cabs parked along Central Park South, where he was able to see the subway kitchen on the corner of Broadway and 59th, Louie’s eyes darted back and forth across the pack of pedestrians.
Louie took the photo Mrs Birnbuam had given Doc out of his jacket pocket and studied it for the tenth time. It was taken at a family function of some sort, and showed Ira and Norma sitting at a table alone while dozens of others around them danced and ate, almost as if the old couple weren’t there. Louie was still puzzled by the age of the subject he and Doc were to investigate. If this guy has got something going on the side it’s gotta be one for the record books! he thought.
Louie looked up with an unshelled peanut still in his mouth. Five foot two, balding, glasses, dark suit and bow tie. Bingo! As Ira was descending into the subway, Mancino had to fight his way across The Circle, leaving a trail of peanut shells and dodging traffic to reach his subject in time.
The fresh smell of ozone greeted Louie as he took the steps two at a time leading down to the subway platforms and rounded the bend, past the crowded news kiosk to the turnstiles. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a handful of change, and mixed among the hodge-podge of coins were two ten cent tokens. He selected one and inserted it into the slot and pushed through the clicking ratchets of the wooden turnstile and walked onto the platform pretending to read the paper. But something was wrong.
He looked up and down the platform. No Ira!
There were less than a dozen people milling about. Jesus! Was this guy that good? How could he have known he was being tailed? The space between the edge of the platform and the wall was too narrow for him to step back and peer behind the only place to hide, the wide steel girders supporting the ceiling. To compound his problems, Louie could hear the screeching of steel wheels growing louder as the Downtown express approached the 59th Street station. Walking rapidly to one end of the platform he saw no sign of the old man. Shit! Doc won’t let this one go! Bad enough he has to pay forty-seven dollars for a new office window, now I drop the tail! Louie ran back up to the turnstiles. He heard the train squeal into the station, and had a brain-storm. He double-timed back downstairs and as the passengers began to board, he ran over to the centre car, stood in front of the door and sighted straight down either side of the train, to observe who was boarding. He peered left, and as he turned to look down the other side of t
he train, a group of five or six commuters pushed into him.
“Excuse me, sir, you’re blocking the door.” Louie looked down, and gasped. He’d found Ira.
Meanwhile, around the corner from Church Street, over on Broadway, Doc was milling about in the elaborate mosaics in the cruciform lobby of the Woolworth Building, near a bank of phones. Asecurity guard looked up for the fourth time in the last quarter of an hour, suspicion etched a little deeper into his grizzled face. Doc did the only thing he could, he smiled, waved and cursed Louie.
The subject of Doc’s anger was now making his way to the back of the crowded car to put some distance between himself and Mr Birnbaum. When he reached the rear of the car, he remained standing, carefully hiding behind his New York Daily News. Ira was opening a pack of Wrigley’s, and Louie tried to note the stations from the blur of signposts in the windows.
Finally, the train began to slow and eventually came to a stop at the Wall Street station. Birnbaum stepped off, Louie was right behind him, and as they ascended to street level, Louie checked his watch.
Looking up from his watch, Doc noted Louie was twenty minutes late with his call. McKeowen made a decision to walk around the corner to Church Street and chance an intercept with Birnbaum.
Doc was annoyed, but not really angry with Louie. He had long since taught himself to control his anger where friends and family were concerned. He thought about his father telling him not to join the force, and how the discussions about medical school gradually deteriorated into shouting matches.
Turning the corner onto Church Street, Doc was struck by a strong, cool breeze. Glancing across the street, he shook his head and fought back a smile. There was Louie, standing in a phone booth, stamping his feet to keep warm, and dialling the phone. As Doc crossed the street and walked up to the phone booth, he could hear Louie giving someone on the other end a physical description and asking for Mr McKeowen.
Doc rapped on the glass and Louie half turned, covering the receiver with his hand, while yelling to the intruder.
“Sorry, pal! Find another phone. This one’s – hi, Doc.”
“Hello, Mr Tracy.” Louie slowly hung up and stumbled out of the booth. “Where’s Birnbaum?”
“He’s in there.” Louie pointed to the marble-façaded Art Deco building across the street. Alarge double glass door served as the entrance to the multi-story structure and the lobby could be seen through the glass. The number 90 was smartly lettered in gold leaf above, on the transom.
“How long ago did he go in?”
“Exactly one minute and seventeen seconds.” Louie held his sleeve pulled up over his watch and hoped the precise time he tried to bullshit Doc with would carry some weight.
“Alright, I’ll go check on Birnbaum. You go back to the office and see what you can find out about 90 Church Street, start with who owns the property. Call down to the city engineer’s office and ask for the grid and plot number on the city plan for the Federal Building. When you get that info, cross-reference the owners in the City Property Guide and the phone book. Maybe we can find this guy’s department. You got all that?”
“Doc, I’m sorry about mucking up the tail.”
“Don’t sweat it. You remembered the first two rules of a successful tail. Find out where he’s going, and never let them see you up close.” Louie looked down at the ground. “Now go back to the shop, get that info and wait for my call.”
To be sure Birnbaum was clear of the lobby Doc took his time crossing the street. Once on the other side, he turned down the fur collar of his brown leather bomber jacket and stuffed his ball cap into his back pocket. Approaching the entrance at an angle, he looked up and down the street, then swung through the glass doors.
He was immediately surprised by the size of the lobby and how sparsely decorated it was. However, he was more surprised to see Birnbaum being fussed over by a beautiful, well-dressed, auburn-haired woman who easily stood eight or nine inches above the old man. Doc pretended to ring for the elevator, as he continued to keep tabs on the couple standing beside the large, marbled reception desk. The lift hit the ground floor, the doors opened and Doc stepped off to the side to tie his already tied shoelace. After about a minute of fussing over his tie and jacket, the women kissed Birnbaum on his balding head and bade him goodbye.
“Son-of-a-bitch! At least the old guy’s got taste,” Doc mumbled to himself. Watching the woman walk around and take a seat behind the reception desk, he saw Birnbaum disappear through a pair of doors at the end of the hall. Doc decided to roll the dice.
Approaching the desk, he could hear the auburn-haired woman, who was obviously the receptionist, having trouble with some of the plugs on the switchboard, occasionally jiggling them to get a clearer connection. Shirley noticed Doc first, and nudged Nikki.
“Having trouble with your connections, Miss?” She gave him an annoyed look as she answered another call, still having to jiggle the cable and hold it to hear clearly.
When she finished, he spoke again.
“We have the same type of switchboard in my office. Usually it’s just a loose jack plug,” Doc said, eyeing the board and cables over the counter top. Shirley stopped typing, and swung around in her chair to face Doc and Nikki. Using both arms, Doc leaned forward on the marble top.
“Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type who knew a lot about equipment,” Nikki responded.
Leaning over the desk, Doc took one of the plugs and held it up, pretending to study it.
“You’d better be careful. Some of this equipment is pretty old.” Nikki addressed Doc in a condescending tone.
“Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it don’t work good. Besides, once something’s aged a bit, it usually… fits in better.” Shirley grabbed her mouth and pinched her nose to suppress a laugh. “With its job, I mean.” He fiddled with the end of the phone cable.
“I’m told the newer models function better.” Nikki folded her arms across her chest as she spoke. Doc continued to inspect the cable.
“Maybe, but they usually don’t stand up as long.” Twisting the brass jack plug and the cable in opposite directions, he tightened the brass jacket clamp around the cable.
“There you are, Miss. Good as new.” Doc returned the cable to its position, purposely leaning too far over the desk, and making direct eye contact with Nikki. “All they need is to be handled every once in a while. Like it says in the instructions.”
“You want me to buzz him?” Shirley asked, moving closer to the secret red button.
“Not yet, Shirl.” She spoke to the typist without breaking eye contact with Doc. “Why do I get the feeling you’re the kinda guy who doesn’t follow instructions very well?”
“Rarely need them. Always know where all the parts go.”
“Lemme buzz his ass!” Shirley chomped at the bit with her finger on the button. Nikki raised a hand.
“What exactly is it I can do for you? Mr…?”
“McKeowen, Mike McKeowen. My friends call me Doc.”
“What exactly is it I can do for you, Mr McKeowen?”
“That little fella that just came in?”
“Ira Birnbaum?”
“Yeah, Birnbaum. Does he work here?”
“He’s our mail clerk. Who wants to know?”
“Just curious.”
“Yeah, and I was born during the day. But it wasn’t yesterday. What’s the story? You a cop?” Nikki was genuinely curious. Doc just became a little more interesting.
“No, I’m not a cop. Does he always work odd hours?”
“No more than the rest of us since the war started.”
Since Pearl Harbor, Doc realised.
“Well, if you’re not a cop, and you’re not investigatin’ for the DA, who are you?”
“Who says I’m not with the DA?”
“Because if you were, first thing you woulda done was flash your badge to show me what a big man you were. Then you woulda tried pressuring me into answering your questions after
I told ya ta take a flyin’ leap fer hittin’ on me. And for a grand finale, you’d threaten me with some arcane law like you were some kinda bey or something.”
Doc was unprepared for the barrage, but found it entertaining.
“Sorry, just thought I knew the little guy. My mistake. I was looking for the Woolworth Building.”
“So you’re a private investigator.”
“I’m impressed.” And he was.
“You’re a PI, and you’re following Ira ta see if he’s fooling around on his wife.” This girl was a little too cocky, she knew something.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Well, is he?” Doc persisted.
“You’re pullin’ my leg!”
“No. But it would be a nice start.”
“Da’s it! Buzz time!” Shirley was growing anxious to see the two Marine guards escort Doc out.
“Relax, Shirl. He’s harmless. Just a little confused.”
“So I can’t buzz ’im?”
“Not yet. But keep your finger ready.” Shirley raised her hand and started repeating a finger exercise while glaring at Doc. Nikki leaned forward and put both arms on her desk to get a running start at Doc before she pounced.
“Go back and tell that ungrateful old bat that that man was offered retirement two years before the war broke out. But because he’s the only one with a Top Secret clearance, he volunteered to stay on until they could get someone else in there.”
“Easy, sister! Don’t go breathing fire at me. That old bat, as you called her, sits at home all day cryin’ her eyes out wondering what the hell he’s doing. Just because these two people have been around since Christ was a corporal doesn’t mean they’re made of stone, you know!”
Nikki sat back in her chair. Shirley was impressed and lowered her finger.
“You got a point, I guess. I never really thought about her end of it.” Nikki was touched by Doc’s defence of Ira’s wife.
“Look, I’m sure they’re both good eggs. But there’s no way they could have been prepared for this. How’s about I go back and tell Norma that he’s not foolin’ around and, if you feel you know him well enough, maybe you could mention that he oughta let the wife in on the scoop down here. Fair deal?”
