by Ed McBain
‘Where were you last Friday night at eight o’clock?’
‘Right here. On Fridays I play here from eight at night to two in the morning.’
He looked Parker dead in the eye.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
Parker took that to mean Good-bye.
* * * *
The two detectives from Narcotics thought dope was what made the world go round. They were convinced that 9/11 was all about dope. So was the Iraq War. Everything had to do with dope. If we really wanted to end the war on terrorism, if in fact we wanted to end all wars, for all time, then all we had to do was win the war on dope. Dope was evil. Dope dealers were evil. Even people who used dope were evil. This is why they had no sympathy for the sixteen-year-old girl who’d dropped dead from an overdose of Angel Dust in the alley outside Ninotchka.
‘She had it coming,’ Brancusi said.
He was the bigger of the two Narcotics dicks. You would not want to struggle with this man over a dime bag of shit.
‘You know what Angel Dust is?’ his partner said.
As tall as Brancusi, but not as broad in the shoulders or thick in the middle. Irishman named Mickey Connors. Meyer and Carella sensed a bit of condescension here; they both knew what Angel Dust was.
‘Angel Dust is phencyclidine,’ Connors explained.
‘PCP,’ Brancusi further elucidated.
‘It’s also called crystal, hog, or tic’
‘You forgot zoot,’ Meyer said.
‘Are we wasting our time with these guys?’ Connors asked his partner.
‘No, go ahead, enlighten us,’ Meyer said.
‘Go to hell,’ Connors said. ‘Let’s go, Benny.’
‘Stick around,’ Carella advised. ‘We’re talking a pair of homicides here.’
‘What is that supposed to do, the word “homicide”?’ Brancusi asked. ‘Make us wet our pants? You know how many drug-related murders we see every day of the week?’
‘That’s why we’re here,’ Carella said.
‘Yeah, why are you here?’ Connors asked.
‘Drug-related. Two of our vics may have been users. And one of them was killed outside the club where you guys caught a sixteen-year-old who overdosed on the peace pill.’
‘Her own hard luck,’ Connors said.
‘Also, the manager of Ninotchka took a fall for dealing ten years ago. So we’ve got a dead duster and now another vic outside the same club, who may or may not have been using, and the manager once dealt dope, so maybe there’s a connection, hmm? So we want to know all about this girl.’
‘Naomi Maines,’ Brancusi said.
‘She walked out of a club up the street, disassociating, that’s for sure, maybe hallucinating, too…”
‘Then La Paglia was giving us the straight goods.’
‘Who’s La Paglia?’ Brancusi asked.
‘Manager of Ninotchka. The ex-con.’
‘Oh yeah, him,’ Brancusi said, remembering. ‘A scumbag.’
‘Told us the girl just wandered by Ninotchka. We think she may have walked over from the other club,’ Meyer said.
‘Yeah, that checks out,’ Connors said. ‘Her sister and a girlfriend told us she dropped two tabs of dust inside there.’
‘That’ll do it, all right,’ Brancusi said.
‘Must’ve started convulsing as she came up the alley, dropped dead outside Ninotchka, the garbage cans out back there.’
‘Just stopped breathing,’ Brancusi said.
‘What’s this other club called?’ Meyer asked.
‘Grandma’s Bloomers.’
‘Cute.’
‘Clean, too. Naomi didn’t buy the stuff in there, that’s for sure.’
* * * *
There was a time not too long ago - five years? ten years? - when this stretch of turf was lined with rave clubs. These nocturnal dance clubs were characterized by pulsating, deafening, techno (or so-called ‘house’) music, blinking strobes, dazzling laser lights, and… oh yes… club drugs like Ecstasy, ephedrine, ketamine, GHB, methcathinone, LSD, magic mushrooms, methamphetamine, and - well, you name it, we’ve got it. A crusading mayor padlocked these rave joints all over the city, and the party scene today was a lot milder than it was back then: new mayor, new definition of what was bad for the health; as for example, smoking.
On Austin Street today, only two clubs remained: Ninotchka, dedicated to geriatric lovers of violin music, and Grandma’s Bloomers, a 30,000-square-foot space that used to be called The Black Pit when it attracted thirteen- to twenty-year-old ravers, lo, those many years ago. The manager of GB’s, as it was familiarly called, was a man named Alex Coombes. Pronounced it ‘combs,’ like what you use in your hair. He was in his forties, looked like the kind of father you’d want if you were about to ask for the use of the family car. Gentle brown eyes. Pleasant features. Nice smile. All-around good guy. But a sixteen-year-old had dropped two tabs of Angel Dust in his club six months ago.
‘I don’t even know how she got in here,’ Coombes said. ‘Our strict policy is no admission unless you’re twenty-one or over. We card at the door, search bags and bodies. No drugs in here. Not then, not now.’
Now was eleven fifteen on the morning of June twenty-second. Connors and Brancusi had given them Coombes’s home phone number, and he’d agreed to meet them at the club.
‘Was that your policy six months ago?’ Meyer asked. ‘Twenty-one or over?’
‘It’s been our policy always. In fact, nowadays the average age is even older than that. Late twenties, early thirties, a nice eclectic mix of straights, gays, and who-can-tell-whats. Two or three months ago, our DJs were spinning techno, reggae, and hip-hop, but now they’re moving more toward funkier stuff like the Rolling Stones, T-Rex, MC5, Iggy and the Stooges, all that. We sell alcoholic bevs, yes, mostly exotic, cutesy-poo drinks this age group seems to favor. But drugs? Nossir. Never. I can absolutely guarantee that Naomi Maines did not buy that dust here at GB’s. Nossir.’
‘We think she swallowed two tabs of it in here.’
‘You think wrong. I just told you. We don’t sell
‘Did you see her that night?’
‘Not that I would know.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means if she was here, if she somehow got past the door with a phony ID, I wasn’t aware of her.’
‘Would she have left the club at any time that night?’ Meyer asked.
‘She might have,’ Coombes said. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Who would know?’
‘Al. Bouncer at the back door. Aldo Mancino. He’d have stamped her hand.’
‘Is he here now?’
‘This is a nightclub,’ Coombes said. ‘He doesn’t come in till nine tonight. If you want to come back then…’
‘No, we want his home address,’ Carella said.
* * * *
Aldo Mancino’s landlady told them he usually went over to ‘the club’ this time of day. The club was the Italian American Club on Dorsey Street all the way downtown. This was now one in the afternoon. Mancino and some other men were sitting outside at round tables, enjoying the rest of this mild day, drinking espresso from the coffee bar next door. Inside the club, Carella could see a television set going, some men shooting pool.
Mancino fit the description his landlady had given them. Big and burly, thirty years old or so, with dark curly hair, bushy eyebrows, and brown eyes, he sat in a tank-top undershirt and blue jeans, muscles bulging, grinning as he delivered the punch line to a joke. The two men with him burst out laughing, then stopped abruptly when they saw Carella and Meyer approaching.
‘Mr. Mancino?’ Carella said.
Mancino looked up at him.
‘Detective Carella,’ he said, and showed his shield. ‘My partner, Detective Meyer. Few questions we’d like to ask, if you can spare the time.’
‘Uh-oh, what’d you do now, Aldo?’ one of the other men asked.
‘I guess I’m about to find out,’ Mancino s
aid, and grinned. He had an engaging grin. Nice-looking man altogether. Couldn’t have been anything but a furniture mover or a bouncer. He knew he wasn’t in any trouble here; his manner was relaxed and receptive.
‘Gentlemen?’ Meyer said.
‘I guess he’s saying this is private,’ the same man said.
‘We won’t be long,’ Carella said.
Both men rose. One of them clapped Mancino on the shoulder. ‘Let us know where we can bring cigarettes,’ he said.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Mancino said.
The two men went inside the club. Carella and Meyer took their empty chairs.
‘Grandma’s Bloomers,’ Carella said. ‘Six months ago.’
‘That again, huh?’ Mancino said.
‘Sorry, but something’s come up.’
‘Naomi Maines, right? Cause, you know, they talked me deaf, dumb, and blind already. The two Narcotics cops.’
‘This is a new case.’
‘What’s it got to do with me? I’ll tell you just what I told the narcs. Bobby cards everyone at the front door, even if they look old enough. He would’ve carded her, too.’
‘Who’s Bobby?’
‘Bobby Nardello. He screens everybody going in. Admission is free, but you gotta show ID. And he checks bags and pats you down. There’s a girl does the girls. Her name is Tracy.’
‘We understand you’re on the back door.’
‘Right. We don’t like a lot of smokers hanging around outside the front of the club. You’re not allowed to smoke inside, you know. So we ask them to go out back, in the alley. I stamp their hands when they leave, check them when they come back in.’
‘Did Naomi Maines leave the club anytime before her death?’
‘Is that a trick question, or what?’
The detectives looked at him.
‘Of course she left the club. They found her dead up the street, so she had to’ve left the club, am I right?’
‘Before then, we mean.’
‘I think so. I’m not sure. You know how many people come out of that club for a smoke? The die-hards come out every ten minutes or so, just gotta have that cigarette, you know. I must stamp a hundred hands every night. Maybe more.’
‘You think you might’ve stamped Naomi’s hand?’
‘I think so. They showed me her picture, the narcs. Attractive blonde girl, very mature looking. Meaning great tits. Never would’ve thought she was only sixteen. Dress cut down to here. No bra.’
‘So you do remember her.’
‘I think so. If she’s the one. But she didn’t immediately reach for a pack of cigarettes, the way most of them do. She just sort of strolled up the alley. Well, lots of them do that, too. The smokers. They light up, take a little stroll, puff their brains out, then come back inside again.’
‘Up the street toward Ninotchka?’ Carella asked.
‘Yeah. Well, yeah, in that direction.’
‘Naomi, I mean. Did she head toward Ninotchka?’
‘Yeah. If she’s the one.’
‘How long was she gone?’
‘You mean, before she came back in again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ten, fifteen minutes.’
‘Could you see her all that time?’
‘I wasn’t looking.’
* * * *
From his cell phone, Carella called Narcotics and asked Brancusi what the sister’s name was.
‘Her and the friend both,’ he said.
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ Brancusi said.
‘Naomi Maines. Her sister and her friend. How do we find them?’
‘Why do you want them?’ Brancusi said. ‘This is a cold case.’
‘Not anymore, it isn’t,’ Carella said.
* * * *
Both girls were checkers at a supermarket called Garden Basket. Naomi Maines used to work there, too. They were on their break now, smoking out back. Meyer wondered if either of them knew that smoking caused cancer.
The sister’s name was Fiona Maines. The other girl was Abby Goldman. They were both older than twenty-one. They both knew young Naomi was breaking the law when she used a fake driver’s license to get into the club. They also knew it was against the law to send her out looking for some ‘stimulants,’ as they called them. But they figured her youth and innocence would attract less attention than if one of the older girls smuggled the stuff in.
They knew they could score here at Grandma’s Bloomers. They’d talked to people who’d been here, they knew the place was wide open. The beauty part was they carded you at the door, checked your handbags, patted you down, went through all the routine; it was like you were a terrorist going through airport security. Fiona was surprised they hadn’t been asked to take off their shoes.
‘But, you know, that’s all a show,’ she said. ‘When the place was still The Black Pit, they got raided a lot. So now they weren’t taking any chances with the law. Two or three visits, the cops saw all the precautions - hell, you aren’t even allowed to smoke in there - they figured the place was clean, they didn’t bother with it anymore.’
‘Also, there may be a little payoff there, hmm?’ Abby suggested, and winked at Carella. ‘You guys know all about payoffs, don’t you?’
‘Sure,’ Carella said, and winked back. ‘In fact, we’re late for a pick-up right this minute.’
‘I believe you,’ Abby said.
‘Don’t,’ Carella said.
‘What I’m trying to say,’ Fiona said, ‘is once you were inside, all you had to do was ask any of the waiters where you could get something a little stronger than a Maiden Aunt, one of the gin drinks is called, all pink with oranges and cherries, and he’d tell you, “Ask Al.” So Al is this big guy Aldo at the back door, he stamps your hand when you go out for a smoke, and you hint to him you might be interested in some powder or pills, and he tells you, “Ask Dom, up the street.”‘
‘Dominick La Paglia,’ Meyer said.
‘You guessed it,’ Fiona said.
‘Manager of this old fart place,’ Abby said.
‘Ninotchka,’ Carella said.
‘Is the name of it,’ Abby said, and puffed on her cigarette. ‘You guys done your homework. Who’d suspect any drug stuff going down there? Naomi goes up the street, talks to a guy at the back door there, tells him Al asked her to ask for Dom. So Dom appears, and takes her inside to this little room where he’s got a whole grocery store of goodies. She comes back with the two tabs of dust for herself and a cap of X each for me and Abby.’
‘Good stuff, too,’ Fiona said. ‘Sometimes, they mix a lot of other shit in with it that can kill you. But pure Ecstasy never hurt anybody.’
‘Pure Angel Dust killed your sister,’ Carella said.
‘Yeah, but nobody done anything about it, did they? You see Aldo in jail? You see Dom in jail? You see them clubs padlocked? We told all this to the two narcs six months ago. You see them doing anything about it?’
‘Little payoff there,’ Abby said, and winked again.
This time they believed her.
* * * *
‘Let’s say we have a place that used to be a rave club,’ Carella said.
‘Let’s say,’ Meyer said.
‘Lots of drug use going down there.’
‘No question.’
‘The Black Pit. And let’s say the former mayor closes it down in his crusade…”
‘Right…’
‘… and it reopens as Grandma’s Bloomers.’
‘Squeaky clean.’
‘Nobody allowed in unless he’s twenty-one.’
‘Cutesy-poo cocktails.’
‘No dope.’
‘Especially no dope. But let’s say the customers might still crave a little taste every now and then.’
‘Too bad. We don’t have any, kids.’
‘Ah, but maybe we do.’
‘By George, maybe we do,’ Meyer said.
‘Just see the club just up the street,’ Carella said. ‘Where the
manager took a fall for possession with intent.’
Meyer nodded sagely.
‘You think a judge would grant a search warrant?’ Carella asked.
‘Maybe,’ Meyer said.
‘Have we got probable cause?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Shall we give it a shot?’
‘Nothing to lose,’ Meyer said.
* * * *
Well now, by golly, who’d have thought they were going to make a drug bust at a hangout for geezers? But when you thought of it, what made more sense than strolling up the alley to a nice clean establishment where the elderly sat holding hands at tables in the dark as violinists strolled and meanwhile at the back door a man who’d been convicted of possession with intent was back at the old candy stand again?
La Paglia said they were out of their minds.
But they were there with a search warrant, you see.
Probable cause.
Sixteen-year-old girl in attendance at Grandma’s Bloomers, a club that meticulously IDs anyone seeking entrance, and she later takes a little stroll up the alley to Ninotchka, and yet later is witnessed swallowing two tabs of dust, and then she’s found dead outside Ninotchka, now isn’t that a remarkable coincidence, Your Honor?
Isn’t that probable cause for a search warrant, Your Honor?
Petition granted.
So what say you now, Mr. La Paglia?
‘I say talk to your pals at Narcotics. They’ve been here already. They know the score. Talk to them.’
‘You gonna let us search the premises?’ Meyer asked. ‘Or you gonna give us trouble here?’
La Paglia decided to give them trouble.
He was a big man, not as tall as either Meyer or Carella, but thicker and beefier than either, and he had no intention of going back to jail, especially on charges that might include the death of a sixteen-year-old girl, there was no way anyone was going to put him back in there with all the butt-fuckers, pole-smokers, and peter-gazers. All you had to do was take one look at prison slang, and you figured in a minute that it wasn’t a hell of a lot better doing a grip of time here in America than it was doing it over there in Iraq. There was no way anybody was going to send Dominick La Paglia up again, a three-time loser this time, no way in the world!
