by Toby Ball
“Mr. Dorman.”
“That’s right.” They shook hands.
“We’re going to get the truck loaded up, then we’ll move out. We’re going to have to put a sack over your head. Just precautions.”
Dorman wasn’t prepared for this and looked to Insua who nodded.
“It’s okay, Mr. Dorman. You’ve got weight here.”
“It’s for your protection,” the driver said.
Sure it was.
The driver joined his partner and the guards as they unloaded building materials—mostly copper pipes—from the supply trailer into the panel truck. The driver kept checking his pocket watch, growling at the men to hurry up, they were running late.
Dorman found the quiet of the site unnerving. The sounds of the men’s footsteps on the gravel seemed amplified, their mutterings in Albanian—behind it all, rhythmically, relentlessly, the hammering of the pile drivers on the river.
58
GRIP REALIZED THAT HE WASN’T THINKING CLEARLY. FATIGUE HAD STARTED to dull his mind. He’d caught a couple of hours of sleep at the White Rhino, paying by the hour, not feeling comfortable staying there for long. Too many people had seen him on the street. Better to go where he wasn’t known, he thought, where there wasn’t anyone around ready to sell him to a cop for ten bucks.
He walked through the empty streets of upper Capitol Heights, the part of the neighborhood that gave the place its name. Nobody knew him here, that was certain, but the stillness of the place left him feeling vulnerable. Any prowl car moving through couldn’t miss him. He listened for cars as he walked, spotting places to hide if one seemed to be nearing his block. He felt like he could hear his nerves humming—the neighborhood was so fucking quiet.
He found Frank Frings’s townhouse on a block of expensive walk-ups. He checked his watch—four in the morning. He rang the bell and waited. A light came on in an upstairs window. Light appeared in the three tiny windows high on the front door, followed by the sound of footsteps. The door opened a few inches and then jerked to a stop at the full extension of the security chain. Grip leaned over so that Frings could see his face. The door pulled closed. He heard the sound of the chain being undone, and the door opened wide to Frings standing in a dressing gown and slippers, his short hair sticking up on one side, his eyes swollen from sleep.
“Detective,” he murmured.
“You were looking for me?”
“Come in.”
Grip stepped inside. Frings closed the door, engaged the deadbolt, reattached the chain. Frings inspected Grip in the light of the hallway.
“You look terrible.”
Grip felt terrible. He shrugged.
“You want some coffee?”
“I wouldn’t turn it down.”
Grip sat at a small kitchen table, watching Frings make coffee in silence. The place was nice, must be worth what Grip made in ten years. Fucking Frank Frings, how’d he do it? Dated those beautiful singers and actresses, made a mint. Watching the guy move around the kitchen, Grip saw that he wasn’t all that good-looking. So what was it? And why didn’t he have any of it?
When the coffee was ready, Frings joined Grip at the table with two cups.
“So Wayne gave you my message?”
Grip registered the surprise in Frings’s voice. “He’s an asshole, but he likes to be in the thick of things, likes the conspiracy.”
Frings nodded. He looked better now, his eyes clearer. Grip’s lids felt heavy. He fought to keep his concentration.
“I tried to reach you at the station. Seemed like they hadn’t heard from you for a while—they put me through to Ving.”
Grip frowned. That sounded about right—Ving assuming that Grip was AWOL because of Ben Linsky’s murder, keeping tabs on who was interested, because Ving was himself interested. “Why were you calling for me?”
“I heard about Ben Linsky being murdered.”
“And that made you think of me?”
“A few days ago, I met with Ben Linsky, he mentioned that you were all over him for some reason. So, when he turns up dead, yeah, I’m interested in talking to you.”
Grip nodded, it made sense. “So?”
“So why were you interested in Ben Linsky? Why were you asking if he was in Kollectiv 61?”
Grip’s head swam. He was reluctant to talk to Frings, whose politics were near the opposite of his—and a journalist to boot. But after days of confusion and conspiracy, he was desperate for an ally, for someone who was fucking sane. Frings was an unlikely choice, but they were both concerned over what happened to Ben Linsky, and Frings’s word had always seemed good. Still, he wasn’t sure. “You know that explosives theft from the Crosstown site on Kaiser? I know your pal Art Deyna’s all over it.”
“I heard.”
“I got a tip that pointed to Kollectiv 61, but it turned out the snitch had been put up to it.”
Frings had a funny look on his face. “Who’d you get the tip from?”
“A snitch. Nobody special.”
“We got a tip, too. From inside the Force. That’s how Art found out.”
Grip fought his exhaustion, trying to make sense of this. Somebody in the Force had set him up and leaked the same shit to the press. “You know who?”
Frings shook his head. “Art’s pretty happy keeping that a secret.”
“You need to find out who.”
Frings nodded. That was obvious. But it seemed unlikely that he’d be able to. Hell, he’d kept the identities of some of his sources secret for decades. There was no reason why Deyna couldn’t do the same.
His elbows on the table, Grip ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, thought for some reason that this might clear his mind. He wasn’t sure how much he was willing to tell Frings, his natural suspicion fighting the urge that he felt to share his thoughts with someone, get them out there.
“What is it?” Frings asked.
Grip looked at Frings, working to keep his eyes open. Trust or not? What did he have to lose?
“What I’ve been wondering—look, I’ve been on the Force for twenty-five years, I know how things work. But in the last week, things have been happening that I can’t figure. That snitch, who pointed me toward Kollectiv 61? He’s a lowlife scumbag, but it turns out he has protection inside the Force, which I think is because they used him to set me up.”
“Who’s that?”
“Hold on a sec. Next, Ben Linsky, I found out he has protection—or I guess he had protection.”
“Do you know why?”
“Maybe because he’s a snitch?”
“Do you know, or are you asking?”
“I’ve got reasons to think so.”
“Who warned you off him?”
“You talked to him.”
“Ving?”
Grip nodded. “And when it’s Ving, it’s the chief, Kraatjes. All the way to the top.”
Frings seemed to think about this. “How about the snitch, who’s protecting him?”
“Cop named Zwieg.”
“And this guy was your snitch, too?”
Grip nodded.
“So, I’m trying to get this straight. Zwieg and Ving, are they working together on something?”
“No way. They don’t see eye to eye.”
“Okay. So you think Zwieg is protecting your snitch because he set you up? What did he do?”
“He gave me a story—pointed me toward Kollectiv 61 for the Kaiser Street heist.”
“Why?”
Grip shook his head. That was the question, and his fatigue was keeping him from thinking it through clearly. “Zwieg wants me to go after Kollectiv 61 for the dynamite. Don’t ask me why, or why he did it this way. I don’t know.” He didn’t have the energy to tell Frings about his other suspicion—that Zwieg thought the investigation was too dangerous, which was why he’d shielded himself behind Patridis and Grip.
“Do you need some sleep, detective?”
Grip shook his head again, the motion making him
light-headed. He needed to keep moving, take care of things.
Grip let Frings walk him to the door, the floor seeming to list under his feet. Frings paused at the door.
“You know a guy named Andy Macheda?”
Frings narrowed his eyes. “I’ve met him, why?”
“Know where I can find him?”
“No I don’t. He’s a tough guy to track down. Why do you want to know about him?”
“No reason,” Grip said.
59
DORMAN DIDN’T TRY TO KEEP TRACK OF TURNS OR DISTANCES. HE leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes inside the hood, thought about what he was doing. The feel of this meeting, the precaution of the hood, made it seem more dangerous than it probably was. This was the dark secret of the New City Project—the arrangement that Canada and the board of Consolidated Industries had with the underworld. Controlled theft kept the gangs in money and allowed Canada to hide cost overruns by tallying the losses and keeping the book so that the repurchased stolen materials were recorded as new—purchased at the full rate.
Dorman had been appalled when he’d first heard about the agreement. He’d thought it was a capitulation to the criminal gangs. But Canada had walked him through the books, showed him that this was the only way to make the New City Project work. There will always be corruption, he’d said, and the key is to maintain it on your terms.
HE REALIZED THE RIDE WAS OVER BY THE CHANGE IN THE QUALITY OF the sound as the car entered a warehouse, the noise suddenly more immediate. He heard a metal door slam somewhere behind him.
“I’m going to take off your hood.”
Dorman squinted against the light. He heard saws, pounding. The volume increased as the car door was opened, a huge man gently pulling Dorman from the car. His eyes adjusted, and Dorman took in the scene. Stacks of lumber and girders, palettes of tools, bags of concrete, hardware—storage for stolen goods. Beyond the stacks, men sawed down boards, performed some kind of torch-work on steel, packaged rivets, wires, other supplies. Sparks plumed and the sound was deafening.
Dorman watched a man walk toward them, another big guy, ample chest, ampler belly, round face, receding hair.
“Mr. Dorman,” he said boisterously. “Nathan Canada’s man. The man who makes the Project go. About time we met.” The man extended his hand. They shook.
“Mr….”
The man shook his head. “Not necessary for you to know. Call me Jones.” The guy spoke with the trace of an accent, as if he’d come over from the old world sometime in his teens.
“Okay.”
“You don’t mind …” Jones mimed spreading his arms and legs.
Dorman hesitated, looked at the man questioningly.
“Make sure you don’t have a wire.”
Dorman sighed and spread. The big man who’d helped him from the car gave him a quick pat-down.
“How do I know you don’t have a wire?” Dorman asked.
Jones smiled. “Trust.”
Dorman snorted a cynical laugh. “Trust.”
Jones nodded to his left. “Follow me.”
The big man accompanied Dorman and Jones as far as Jones’s office door, then stayed outside. Jones shut the door behind them. The office was filthy—oil-smudged papers on clipboards, smoke stains on the ceiling, a pinup calendar nailed to the wall. It was quieter in here, though, a relief.
“So, I hear you’re here to talk about Kaiser Street.”
Dorman nodded. “The explosives.”
“It wasn’t us. You know that.”
“I’m willing to assume that.”
“It would make no sense for us. It upsets the whole process.”
This was the reason why Dorman was pretty sure that the usual groups were not involved. They had a great arrangement, as long as they toed the line of the agreement. The explosives broke that agreement, and for not much gain.
“Are you doing anything about it?” Dorman asked.
“What, us?” Jones looked at Dorman as if he was crazy. “That’s your job, fella. This is one for the cops.”
“No. We can’t let the word get out. It would undermine the public confidence in the Project. We need to keep it secret. There are people working on it, but not many.”
“Well, that’s your business.”
Dorman’s heart pounded. He was isolated here, didn’t know how much he could push. “It’s your business, too. The whole agreement is in question.”
Jones straightened up in his chair. He spoke quietly. “What is this?”
Dorman leaned his forearms on Jones’s desk, meeting his eyes, thinking about how Canada would play it. “This is a fucking crisis. If something happens with that dynamite, whether something gets blown up or the press finds out it’s missing, whatever—if either of these things happen, the Crosstown is in jeopardy, the New City Project is in jeopardy, and your arrangement is sure as fuck in jeopardy.”
Jones stared back at him behind half-closed lids.
“Look,” Dorman continued, “we have a shared stake in this. I need you to do your part, have your people listening on the street. Okay? You’re criminals, for god’s sake.”
Jones’s face had become blotchy. “What’s your angle on this? Who are you looking at? Heemies?”
“Maybe Kollectiv 61.”
Jones frowned. “I guess that’s where the smart money is.”
Jones stared at his desk, thinking. Dorman listened to the sound from the warehouse, metallic screaming; heavy objects being dropped onto thick concrete.
Jones looked up. “That’s not my world, man. We can keep an ear out, but I wouldn’t expect anything.”
That was probably as good as Dorman could hope for. “Another thing that I’ve been wondering about.”
“Yeah?”
“Those guards, the ones from the Kaiser Street site.”
Jones’s mouth pursed in concern. “Yeah, I heard that. Nasty business. Baseball bat to the head.”
“They lined them up. It was an execution. You know who’d do it that way?”
Jones shook his head. “I’ve been studying on that and haven’t got anywhere. That’s like something from the ’30s—lawless bullshit. We don’t truck with that.”
“What about debts? Maybe they were in the hole to someone in the neighborhood.”
Jones thought for a second. “Hard to collect when they’re dead, you know. Maybe if they were sending a message—but then the word would be out, they’d be taking credit. I don’t see it.”
“Alright, so that’s it?” Dorman asked.
“That’s it. I’ll keep my ear to the ground, man, but I don’t figure I’ll hear anything.”
Dorman stood to go.
“You know,” Jones said, “if you want to get the word on the street, a cat you might want to see is Ed Wayne.”
“Okay,” Dorman said. He’d heard the name from Gerry Svinblad, and from others, too. The guy provoked strong feelings.
“Catch the guys that did this,” Jones said. “Last thing we need is some fool blowing this for all of us.”
60
FRINGS WALKED THE CHILLY SIDEWALK PAST THE SPIRALED TURRETS OF THE City’s original post office into a neighborhood known as Marrakesh, or just the Kesh. Women wore long black dresses under their coats, burkas on a few, scarves over the hair of the rest. The men were dressed for work, some in suits, some in laborers’ garb. The store signs in the Kesh were in Arabic, the street signs printed in both Arabic and English. The cold air carried the smell of food from warmer climates.
He arrived at a block where paper condemnation notices written in English had been tacked to every door. A small group of men huddled around something on the far end of the block. He saw Andy Macheda moving in their midst. He seemed to be assembling something. Frings leaned hard on his cane as he walked until, halfway down the block, he stopped, taking a seat on a bench in front of a shabby market. His knee burned.
Not even ten and already the day seemed exhausting, starting as it had with Grip’s vi
sit. Frings hadn’t returned to bed and had arrived at work just after dawn. He’d spent the time skimming through the daily newspapers, thinking about Grip and Ledley. He’d had it in mind to visit Ledley that morning, but decided it could wait when Conroy showed up at his office and dropped a sheet of paper covered in his small, neat script.
“This is from the film?”
Conroy settled into the guest seat. “I went last night.”
“Okay.” Frings read down the list, street names, a park, a few addresses thrown in as well.
“I wrote down the places that I could identify in the film. Blocks, addresses, whatever I could figure out.”
Frings nodded. A number of the streets on the list had been demolished, at least in part, to make way for either the City Center or the Crosstown. Others, Frings thought he recognized as areas soon to be razed. Then there were a few that he really couldn’t place, couldn’t understand how they were related: Vilnius, Oregon, de Gama, Debrecen. Still, he felt sure that he was missing something—something that he should have been able to see.
After the movie, Conroy had chatted with some people who he thought were “in the know”—this was his phrase. From them he’d found out where Macheda would be filming that day. So the visit to Ledley had been postponed, and Frings hopped a cab that dropped him at the edge of the Kesh.
He took a deep breath and pushed himself up from the bench. He walked stiffly over to where Macheda was now trying to line up a shot with a movie camera mounted on a sturdy tripod. The men who had earlier surrounded him had retreated a few yards to give him room to work. Macheda pulled his eye away from the camera eyepiece and saw Frings approaching. Frings thought he saw a quick scowl.
“You’re a tough gink to track down.”
Macheda shrugged. “People find me. Can I help you with something, Frank?”
“Did you ask around about Sol Elia?”
“Sure. Nobody’s seen him.”
He was lying. “You’re sure?”
