by Andrew Kane
“It’s just,” Martin continued, faltering, “I don’t feel like I’ve been into it recently.”
“You mean you have been distracted?”
“I guess you could put it that way.”
“This woman?”
“And other things.”
“What other things?”
“Life, I suppose.”
Reddy looked empathic.
“There was another woman recently,” Martin continued, “in Chicago.” He searched for Reddy’s reaction, but the man was not surprised. “It was, how should I put it, confusing. My head was a mess.”
“Women can do that.”
“Not like this. I swear, Ashok, I was ready to check myself in someplace.”
“Hey guys,” Vic Stern interrupted. “Cut the yapping, it’s time to hit.”
Reddy looked at Martin. “To be continued.”
The four men hit their drives. This time, Martin pushed his ball too far to the right, landing in a fairway bunker. It would be hard for him to recover. Reddy clocked one straight down the middle of the fairway, a good 250 yards. Stern and Ahn also hit respectable shots, though not as far as Reddy’s.
Back in the cart, Reddy resumed the conversation. “It seems this woman may be getting to your golf game.”
Martin smirked. “Nothing gets to my golf game, Ashok.”
“If you could say the same about your professional life, everything would be all right.”
Martin felt chastised but not angry. He deserved the comment, he could even have predicted it, and he wondered if it was perhaps what he needed. “You’re probably right,” he replied.
“I am right.”
They approached Martin’s ball, but the foursome in front of them was once again too close to hit.
“Look, Marty,” Reddy continued, “I know it is difficult listening to people’s problems all day, especially when you have a few of your own. I don’t have any words of wisdom for you, except to say that you carry a lot of guilt and anguish in your heart. I am not one to judge whether that is right or wrong, and God knows how I would be in your situation. All I know is that you are a talented psychologist. If you are slipping, it’s no tragedy, so long as you know it and do something about it.”
“And what am I supposed to do about it?”
“That I do not have the answer to, but somehow you have to figure it out. Who knows, maybe your psyche is telling you that it is tired of all the pain it has endured, that it wants to move forward, while another part of you refuses to do so? Maybe it is time to allow yourself to heal?” Reddy stopped himself, seeming unsure whether he was overstepping his boundaries.
Martin looked at his friend warmly. The words, neither eye-popping nor disturbing, were the truth, pure and simple. He had known all this, but hearing it from someone he respected seemed to put it into perspective. And perhaps, he admitted to himself, he had just needed someone to talk to. “It’s okay, Ashok. I appreciate it,” he said, squeezing Reddy’s shoulder.
“Good, now hit the ball.”
Martin got out of the cart. “What’s the distance to the hole?”
“At least 230. Ever hit a three-wood out of a sand trap?”
“A wood in a trap?” Martin asked.
“I have seen pros do it.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to be a pro.”
“You can always play it safe and hit an iron, but then you will be out of the hole,” Reddy said with a grin.
“No, I’ll go with the wood.”
Reddy chuckled. It was a risky play at best.
Martin stepped into the sand and dug his shoes in a little for stability. The lie of the ball wasn’t all that bad, he told himself, the right swing, and he could do it. He took a deep breath, took the club back and smacked the ball with all he had. He saw that he had hit it “clean,” just as he’d intended. But out of the sand, it was anyone’s guess where it might fly. He lifted his head and watched with glee as it landed right on the edge of the green.
Reddy applauded, as did Ahn and Stern from the other side of the fairway. “It often amazes me what a person can do,” Reddy said, “if he puts his mind to it.”
chapter 15
Dan Gifford felt uneasy about having canceled his appointment with Martin Rosen. Despite the demands of his job, he had always kept his therapy sacrosanct. Now, with his suspicions about the men in the Mercedes growing, he was determined to get some answers, and the only way to do so required he be somewhere other than the doctor’s office at that particular time.
Bobby Marcus had reported to him that police surveillance of Rosen had been uneventful. For the past week, there were no cars seen outside Rosen’s office, nor anyone following the psychologist. This only compounded Gifford’s resolve. Although it was unlikely that a pair of Colombian hit men would be driving around in a vehicle with classified license plates, Gifford couldn’t afford to dismiss the possibility altogether. There was little, if anything, that couldn’t be arranged by paying the proper people. And if the men in the car were Colombians, they might have allowed themselves to be seen as a warning, to scare him into botching the case. On the other hand, they could have just been watching and waiting for the right time to take him out, and had gotten a bit sloppy with their camouflage. Whoever they were and whatever they wanted, Gifford intended to find out now.
It was Monday morning, 8 a.m., the time he usually left Rosen’s office. It was a reach, he knew, but he figured that this was just about the best opportunity for them to get at him, since it was a steady appointment and the bad guys knew he would be alone. The rest of his schedule was not nearly as predictable.
He and Bobby Marcus sat in his car. He looked over at Marcus and smiled as the black Mercedes pulled into the exact same spot it had been in a week ago. “Well, well, what do we have here?” he said.
“Looks like you were right,” Marcus responded.
Gifford looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. “That Nassau County guy is late.”
“Hey, it’s a favor.”
Just then, someone walked up beside Marcus’ window and stuck his head in. “Anthony Marcus, it’s been a while,” the stranger said.
“Sure has,” Marcus said, reaching to shake the man’s hand. “Mike Calderone, meet Assistant DA Dan Gifford.”
Gifford shook hands with the Nassau County detective, noting the firm grip. Calderone was tall, dark-haired, green-eyed, had a soft looking face and was impeccably attired, looking more like a lawyer than a cop.
“So, what’s up?” Calderone asked.
“It’s like I told you on the phone, Mike. Suspects are sitting across the street now, as we anticipated, in a black Benz, twelve cars up. We just want to roust them a little, find out what they’re up to. It’s your turf, so I figured…”
“Yeah, you figured I got nothin’ to do with my time out here in the burbs, so I might as well volunteer for some part-time interdepartmental liaison duty.”
“Sort of,” Marcus replied.
“Look, detective,” Gifford jumped in, trying to sound official even though this whole operation was anything but, “it was our hope that you would do the rousting, this being your beat.”
“Don’t sweat it, counselor. Anthony and I go back some. He got me out of a little jam in your wonderful county a few years ago, said he might come calling, and here he is. So let’s just do it and get it done with.”
Marcus looked at Gifford. Gifford nodded and Marcus got out of the car. “Be back in a few,” Marcus said.
“Careful,” Gifford said.
“Always am.”
The two cops crossed the street and slowly approached the Mercedes from behind.
“Good day, gentleman,” Calderone said as he looked in the driver’s side window of the Mercedes.
Marcus made his presence known on the other side of t
he car, watching both men, his hand glued to his gun, still holstered under his jacket.
The men in the car looked at each other but made no move to resist.
Calderone flashed his badge. “Could you please step out of the car?”
“What’s this about, officer?” the man in the driver’s seat asked.
Marcus immediately recognized the accent as Middle Eastern. His curiosity swelled.
“Just step out of the car, please,” Calderone said.
The driver looked at his partner again, nodded, and the two slowly exited the car. Marcus noticed immediately that both of them were packing guns under their jackets.
The driver stood nose to nose with Calderone. “I demand to know what this is about!”
“May I see some ID?” Calderone asked.
“I think you ought to tell us what this is for,” the man who had been in the passenger seat said, sounding somewhat calmer than his partner.
“Look, buddy,” Calderone snapped, “I don’t know where you’re from, don’t much care either, but in this country, when a police officer asks you for something, you cooperate.” He knew what he was saying wasn’t completely true but figured a bunch of foreigners wouldn’t know any better.
The men looked at each other silently, neither reaching for his wallet.
“ID please,” Calderone repeated.
“I want to know what this is about,” the driver repeated, his tone suggesting that he wasn’t going to be intimidated.
“Okay, that’s it,” Calderone said, putting his hands on the driver, turning him around, placing him up against the car and spreading his legs.
Marcus didn’t like where this was going, but he followed Calderone’s lead and did the same thing with the passenger. It seemed to him that, while these strangers were submissive for the moment, they were more than capable of resisting had they been so inclined.
“What do we have here?” Calderone asked, lifting a Beretta from under the driver’s jacket.
Marcus found a similar weapon on his man.
“We have permits for those,” the driver said.
“I’ll bet you do,” Calderone said. “Let’s see ‘em.” He smiled at Marcus, they were about to find out who these guys were.
The passenger glanced at his partner, then reluctantly reached in his pocket for his wallet, pulled out his permit and handed it to Marcus. The driver did the same with Calderone.
Marcus and Calderone examined the permits. “These are diplomatic, Israeli Consulate, interesting,” Calderone said. “And what brings the Israeli Consulate out to this neck of the woods?”
Marcus was growing uneasy with Calderone’s approach. These guys were obviously professionals, probably a lot more dangerous than Calderone was assuming.
“I demand to know why you are harassing us,” the driver said. He turned around to face Calderone and Marcus. “What you are doing here is illegal, and a violation of our diplomatic immunity.”
“Well I’m more concerned with what you’re doing here,” Calderone said.
“I appreciate that,” the passenger said, again sounding more measured than his partner. “But as my colleague stated, we are protected under diplomatic immunity from answering your questions. Surely you don’t want to start an international incident.”
“That is correct,” Marcus interjected. “The last thing any of us needs is an incident. I’m sure you gentlemen have a perfectly reasonable explanation for your presence here, one that will satisfy us so that we don’t have to take this further.”
“Yes, officer, we do,” the passenger responded. “But I believe that we should have an explanation as to the reason for this treatment.”
Marcus looked at Calderone, who held up his hands as if to say, it’s your call. “Okay,” he said, “we’ve received some complaints of loitering from people who live in these buildings. The description of the vehicle and suspects fits the two of you.” It was pretty lame, he knew, but it was the best he could do. He looked at the passenger. It was quid pro quo time.
“Well, you see,” the passenger said, appearing embarrassed, “it is rather awkward, and we hope you will be discrete.”
Marcus nodded. Calderone remained stone-faced.
“We are attached,” the man said, “to a certain senior Israeli diplomat who is presently enjoying the company of a young lady who lives in that building. We accompany him wherever he goes, and he comes here a few times a week. He is a very important man in our country, married, with several children, so you can understand our difficulty.”
Marcus understood that he was getting just about as good as he gave. He would learn nothing else from these two. He handed back the permit and gun, and Calderone followed suit.
“We are sorry if we were, what you call, loitering. We will try to be more inconspicuous,” the passenger said.
“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” Calderone said.
“Is that all, officers?” the driver asked.
Marcus looked at Calderone, indicating that they’d stalemated. It was time to go. “Okay, gentlemen,” he said, “sorry for the trouble.”
When the two cops were far enough away, the driver turned to the passenger. “What the hell was that about?”
“Good question. I’m not sure.”
“Well, we are going to have to find out.”
In the distance, through the rearview mirror, the driver watched Marcus shake hands with Calderone, then get into a car in which a third man was waiting, while Calderone got into another car. It all appeared very curious. The car with Marcus and the third man pulled out and started down the street, and as it passed, the driver committed the license plate to memory. “Yes, that we will do.”
Gifford was completely bewildered. “What are two Israelis with guns and diplomatic status doing hanging around outside of Rosen’s building?”
“You don’t buy the bit about a diplomat banging some broad?” Marcus asked.
“Not much, what about you?”
“Ditto. And I bet they didn’t buy our explanation any more than we bought theirs.”
“What did Calderone think?”
“Who knows, he’s hard to read. He seemed to enjoy himself a bit too much, but in the end, he was simply repaying a favor, did his part and went home. Probably doesn’t want me to call anytime soon.”
“What’s his story?”
“Referring to what?”
“The favor he owed,” Gifford said.
“Just got him out of a jam once, that’s it,” Marcus responded curtly.
“What kind of jam?”
“You really want to know?”
“Sure. The lives of cops interest me.”
Marcus appeared lost in thought for a moment.
Gifford knew that Calderone’s problem had no relevance to anything concerning him, but what Marcus had once done for Calderone was another matter. Cops usually helped each other, it was part of the job, even when that help stretched the bounds of the law, and Gifford was curious to see just how far Bobby Marcus would go.
“It was about five years ago,” Marcus began. “Remember when our esteemed mayor wanted to improve the quality of life in this great city by ridding the streets of drugs and prostitution?”
“Last I heard, he’s still working on that.” Gifford’s voice was neutral. His opinions on the mayor were mixed, but he knew that the rank and file of the police department despised the guy.
“Yeah, well, he and the PC came up with this terrific idea: raid the brothels, massage parlors, juice bars; arrest everyone, johns, pros, pimps, you name it; sort it all out later.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Anyway, one night I’m in the 109th on graveyard and two wagons are on their way in with a bunch of pros and johns from a local rub joint. Word’s out, one of the perps is a Nassau County dick. Rememb
er, the order was to arrest everyone, no exceptions. And a sergeant and a lieutenant are present on the scene to make sure it all goes according to Hoyle.”
Gifford already knew where this was heading.
“So I hear what went down,” Marcus continued. “The guys inside are burned up that a cop’s being brought in on a rap like this. I’m the ranking officer inside, so they come to me. Frankly, I thought it stunk too. I go downstairs and catch the wagon as it pulls in, see what I can do before the guy goes through the system. The lieutenant, who will remain unnamed, is a poker buddy of mine. The Nassau dick is trying to be cool, but underneath I could tell he’s scared shitless. He’s got a wife, three kids, ten years in, and he’s about to lose it all for a hand job. Long and short of it is, I get him lost before the fingerprinting. I’m saving the details for my book.”
“Proud of yourself?”
“I did what I had to do.”
“What about the other johns?”
“Hey, it sucked for them too, but I can’t help everybody.”
Gifford sort of understood, it was the thin blue line. He let it drop. “So, what do we do about these Israelis?”
Marcus shrugged. “It’s your call,” he said.
Gifford realized that to anyone else, Marcus would have recommended leaving it alone. It was unlikely that the Israelis had anything to do with the Colombians or Gifford’s trial, and nobody, as far as they were concerned, was in danger. So basically, it was none of their business. But Gifford was a bulldog. Once he had his teeth into something, he had trouble letting go. “I just can’t help wondering what they’re up to.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
chapter 16
Martin Rosen sat in his chair and made himself comfortable. “So, how are you doing today?” he asked.
“Quite all right, I must say,” Benoît replied, his face once again full of cheer.
Martin was growing accustomed to Benoît’s exhilarated starts. “That’s good,” he said. “It’s always nice to see a patient feeling well.” Translation: Nice, but a waste of my time.
