“Soto,” Sandro said to Mike. “Get on the other phone. When I count three, we both pick up.” Mike went back to his post.
“Ready?”
“Yeah,” Mike answered, nodding.
“One, two, three.” They raised the receivers.
“Hello?” said Sandro.
“Hello, Mr. Luca. I’m at work, a phone booth outside. I wanted to call you because I think I know a girl who lived in the same building where the cop was killed. She moved now, but she’s a friend of my wife. And she was talking to my wife, and she said she knows something about this case.”
“You know that fellow Salerno you told me about,” Sandro interjected. “He was in jail the day the cop was killed.”
There was no sound on the other end. “I’m just trying to help,” Soto explained. “I can’t help a guy acts funny. I’m just trying to tell you everything I hear. I didn’t know.”
“Okay. Who is this other woman? What’s her name?”
“I think she’s called Concepcion. She’s a friend of my wife,” Soto repeated.
“Was she at the station house that night?”
“I didn’t see her when I was there.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“I’m going to find out for you. I thought if you could come over to my house, I’d get the information, and I’d go with you to her house.”
“Fine. Let’s see when I can make it.” Sandro looked at his appointment book.
“And then, remember,” Soto added, “you said once that maybe you and me, we’d go speak to some of the witnesses so that I could translate for you, or something?”
Sandro thought for a moment. He could remember no such conversation. “Yes?” he said tentatively. He glanced in to Mike. Mike shrugged, shaking his head.
“Well, maybe we could do that, too, when you come here,” said Soto. “I’ve got some time. I could go with you.”
Sandro still remembered no such conversation. “Perhaps we could do that,” he said, stalling. Mike was riffling through a small notebook he had pulled from his pocket and was now gesturing to Sandro.
“We could, ah, maybe talk to some, I don’t know, witnesses, something like that, you said. Can you come over to my house tonight? About eight o’clock?”
“Can you hold it just one minute, Robert. I’ve got another call coming in. I’ll just tell them I’ll call back.” Sandro pushed the Hold button, and Mike hung up.
“Do you know what the hell he’s talking about?” Sandro asked.
“There’s nothing in my notes about that,” Mike answered. “There’s something fishy. I don’t trust this guy.”
“I can’t figure him out.” Suddenly, Sandro felt a flush of anger. “I’ll be a son of a bitch!”
“What?” Mike asked.
“I’ll lay my life on a bet that this little bastard in his dumb way is trying to pump me for information.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know, but he’s fishing for something. Let’s not keep him waiting too long.”
They picked up their phones.
“Now, where were we?” Sandro asked calmly. “Oh, yes, about getting together to do that investigating. I’m not sure I can make it tonight, Robert. I’m all tied up.”
“Well, er, maybe you can make it tomorrow night?”
Sandro’s mind was working logically again. If it’s information he wants, Sandro thought, that’s just what he’ll get. “I’ll have to call you on it, Robert. You see, I’m so jammed up with work trying to get some kind of defense for Alvarado that I can’t even see straight. I’m trying to find an alibi for him, find some people who might know where he was the day of the killing. But I can’t find a single person, not a single one, to testify for him.”
He looked over to Mike. Mike nodded approvingly.
“You see,” Sandro belabored it as much as he dared, “I haven’t been able to find one person who can testify where Alvarado was the day of the killing. I’m very worried, and I’m trying desperately to find some kind of story I can tell the court when we have the trial. Right now it looks impossible. I haven’t any alibi. But I need your help, too. You’ve been terrific till now. I’ll call you the minute I get a break. Then I’ll come over, and we can see this woman you’re talking about, okay?”
“I guess so. When do you think you can make it?”
“I’ll call you, Robert. Perhaps the beginning of next week. Meanwhile, if you hear anything else, please let me know right away, okay? It’s very important to Alvarado.”
“Okay.” They hung up.
“I never liked that little fink,” Mike said.
“What would you say if I told you that’s Mullaly’s work?” Sandro asked quietly.
Mike took that in. “Sure,” he said at last.
“Soto’s working both sides of the street. No wonder he acted funny when we wanted to take a statement from his wife. Did you notice that?” Sandro asked.
“Yeah. That fink, spic bastard.”
At another time Sandro would have laughed.
“I thought he was just worried about her being involved. He was afraid she’d let something slip.” Sandro sat in his chair, staring at Mike.
“That’s the explanation for that crazy Salerno story!” Mike exclaimed. “How about the rest of it?”
“Mullaly. Feeding us bullshit. Every time we see Soto, he runs and tells Mullaly.”
“Son of a bitch,” Mike said. “That Mullaly has been screwing us good.”
“That’s his job. He’s not dedicated to making our life easier.”
“Listen, Sandro, I know cops, and he’s doing a job all right. On us. Every rock we look under, he crawls out. All the pawnshops. He put a hold on all the stolen goods, the signature cards. You didn’t see him take that stuff to headquarters for evidence. He’s just leaving it there to rot. He’s screwing around with this case.”
“If he really wanted to screw around, he could take the evidence and destroy it.”
“But then it’d look worse if anyone found out,” Mike countered. “And he knows Hernandez’s alibi, knows he wasn’t on Stanton Street when Lauria was killed. And these false leads he’s throwing us.”
“He’s outmaneuvered us, that’s all. We’ll have to try harder.”
“No. I don’t buy it. Mullaly’s trying too hard, you know? He’s over there all the time—Soto told us and Mrs. Salerno and even Hernandez’s wife—talking, investigating. It’s not the only case he’s got.”
“It’s probably the only cop-killing.”
Mike looked at Sandro with exasperation. “Will you stop, already? He’s breaking his stones for some reason, and it’s not his job.”
“Let me see your notes from the first night we spoke to Soto,” Sandro said abruptly. Mike handed him the notebook.
“There. That’s what I’m looking for,” Sandro said, sliding the book to Mike. Mike read where Sandro pointed.
“I wrote here that an Italian girl was at the station house, and she said she saw Alvarado on the fire escape.”
“That’s right. That was before Mullaly got into the fantasy game and started filling Soto’s head.”
“How do you know when Mullaly got into this game?”
“We saw Soto the first time about three days before the arraignment. See, the date on the notes is August second. About two weeks later, I went to the station house and told Mullaly I was going to knock some holes in this case. Now look at the date for the next time we saw Soto. August thirty-first! He called to say he’d been going around gathering information for us. And he even told us he had been talking to Mullaly.”
“So, what’s that prove?”
“Come on, Mike. You’re my Sherlock. Part of Soto’s story still stands up. The first part he told us. Mullaly just shoveled bullshit on top of it. So we’ve still got to cover the Italian woman, and Asunta, and all the rest, just like it’s all for real. Nothing has changed, except we’ll be a little more careful.” Mike didn’t look mollif
ied.
“At least Soto is still working for us,” Sandro said.
“He’s what?”
“Passing on information. If he runs to Mullaly with the story that we still haven’t got an alibi, we’ve hurt them more than they’ve hurt us. Cheer up, things could be worse.”
“Yeah, so he cheered up. And, sure enough, they got worse.”
CHAPTER XXVI
Footsteps echoed down a corridor. They stopped. There was the sound of knocking on a door.
“Quién es?” The voice sounded muffled. It was coming through the door.
“Rivera.”
“Quién?”
“Rivera.”
After a few seconds, a squeaking noise, as if the door were opening.
“And then this little, skinny, dark-skinned broad in her late twenties is staring at me,” Mike said. He sat with Sandro in the car parked around the corner from Stanton Street. They were listening to the small tape recorder Mike had hidden in his briefcase play back his visit to Asunta. “You should have been there to see it. I thought I was going to be killed.”
“I thought you had been,” said Sandro. “You were gone twenty-five minutes. Another five minutes, and I would have been knocking on that door, even if it would have screwed up everything. What the hell is all that howling?” Sandro asked as the tape continued. The voices in the background varied from a single, rapid-fire Spanish to a howling, screaming, mass confusion.
“Asunta had her sister-—she’s about the size and color of a gorilla—and some guy and some other dumb broads there. Man, as soon as they knew who I was, they began screaming, yelling. They told me I was okay, but you were a pain in the ass and a fuck.”
“They said that, just like that?”
“That’s not all they said,” added Mike.
“Why me?”
“Cause you’re always nosing around the neighborhood. You’re an intruder. As bad as that cop Mullaly.” Mike winked. “Listen, here’s the important stuff, now. She said here that she didn’t know anything about the killing of Lauria.”
“She said she didn’t know anything?”
“That’s right. She said she was at her sister’s apartment. The fat gargantua was her sister. Here, that’s her sister screaming. She had some mouth on her,” Mike chuckled. He translated her remarks for emphasis. “Now she’s saying Asunta was at her house on Norfolk Street when the cop was killed. She came back to her apartment only after the cop was already shot.”
“You sure they said that?”
“Sure. I had them repeat the story a couple of times. Don’t worry, it’s there on the tape. Nobody could mistake it.”
“What about identifying Hernandez’s car to the police? Did you ask her about that?”
“That she did. She was standing down in the street in front of her house watching the ambulances. The cops started thinking it was funny that a car was double-parked with the window open. It was raining, right? So they asked if anybody knew whose car it was. She said she told them it was Hernandez’s. That’s all.”
“Was she down at the station house that night.”
“Yeah, I asked her that,” said Mike. “She said she went down there. Soto was there only the last minute or so before she left. She left with that Salerno broad—some combination!—and Alma Soto came in as they were going out. Asunta said she told the cops she never saw the colored guy before in her life. She told me she was telling them the truth. She doesn’t know Alvarado from a hole in the wall.”
“I guess Alvarado just had his witnesses confused,” said Sandro. “He couldn’t see who was on the other side of that mirror.”
“And we just about told that bastard Soto that we were worrying if Asunta identified Alvarado. He passed it on to Mullaly, and Mullaly must have told him to play it up.”
“Well, it eliminates a witness for us. That helps,” said Sandro. “Won’t she be surprised to hear her own voice making her a liar if she is a witness at the trial. Let’s go. It’s just about time for Dr.Schwartzman to be in his clinic.” He glanced at the clock in the lighted window of a bodega. “It’s already ten o’clock. You know, we ought to get Sam Bemer out here doing some of this leg work. Keep him in shape.”
“Yeah, what about that guy? What the hell is he doing on this case?” Mike started driving again.
“He’s waiting for us to bring him the stuff. What the hell, he’s letting me have a free hand. I can’t complain about that. I hope I know what I’m doing.”
“What street does Dr. Schwartzman have his office on?”
“I think it’s Catherine Street near the river,” replied Sandro.
After a short drive, Mike stopped the car in front of a tenement-type building. Sandro stood on the sidewalk. He could smell the river spicing the air. A short stoop led into the building. To one side was a storefront with great panes of glass painted dark from the inside. A group of people huddled about the entrance to the store.
Sandro and Mike made their way through. Eyes in the crowd viewed them suspiciously. On the door was a small sign, ARNOLD SCHWARTZMAN, M.D. Sandro knocked. A narrow strip of light appeared as a girl opened the door only enough to see who was knocking.
“I’m Alessandro Luca. I’ve an appointment with Dr.Schwartzman for ten.”
“Just a minute.” She shut the door. Sandro turned to see the eyes watching every move. In a few moments, the door opened wide. “Come in, please.” The voices of the throng behind Sandro stirred into activity for an instant, dying as the door was closed again. Mike and Sandro were ushered into a small office.
The man sitting behind the desk was talking on the telephone. He was about thirty-five, with thinning black hair. There was an unusual, pale, bluish quality about his lips. His face was trim.
“You’re clean now? That’s swell, great,” the doctor said. “See what you can do if you really try? Now I want you to keep working.” He motioned Sandro and Mike to sit. “And if you have any difficulty at all, I want you to call me. I don’t care what time it is. I’m always available to you. You feel good? That’s swell. I just want you to stay that way. Okay. Let me hear from you right away if anything starts going wrong. Okay?”
The doctor hung the phone back on the cradle. He looked at Sandro. “That was a fourteen-year-old kid who got hooked, and now we’re getting her off the stuff. Her old man came in here one night to the clinic crying, actually crying about the kid. And now we’ve got her clean for three weeks, and working, and the old man is ecstatic.”
“Fourteen years old? That’s a little young, isn’t it?” asked Sandro.
“It sure is, as years go. But to become a junky, they’re never too young. They’ve just got to be pushed enough, cramped enough, and then they break and they need some stuff, and there’s always some punk around to give them a fix or so.”
“Well, you’re doing a fine job, Doctor. I’ve seen you on television, discoursing on narcotics, about what it does, about what the city hospitals aren’t doing for addicts,” said Sandro.
“I’ve been on television a lot. Matter of fact, on Lew Reston’s network show twice. He’s going to be at my dinner as M.C. We’re trying to raise six hundred thou’ to build a hospital for addicts here in New York. Instead of treating them like criminals, they’ve got to be treated like patients. Addicts have just given in to human weakness, but instead of being addicted to gambling, whiskey, cigarettes even—some escape—they’re addicted to narcotics. It’s different, sure. But junkies are junkies for the same reasons some people drink too much and others even eat too much. They need relief from pressures around them.”
“You mean to say fat people are junkies?” Mike asked.
“Sure. Food-junkies. But it’s not different—not the reason they start. The ones who get involved with this stuff, most of the time, Puerto Ricans, Negroes, they got nothin’ going for them in life. Junk gives them kicks, you know?” The doctor spoke the street argot easily.
“And you run this entire project yourself?” Sandro a
sked.
“You’re not kidding. I’ve got my regular practice, and then I’ve got this clinic every night from ten to three in the morning. I’ve got one of the only ambulatory addict clinics in the U.S. of A., and I put up all the bread to keep this joint going. Fortunately, we’re getting a lot of people interested in the project.”
“I know. I see your name all over these days.”
“We’re going to have a terrific dinner on the twenty-fifth of April. You can buy a couple of tickets if you want,” he urged. “Twenty bucks a throw.”
“Maybe we can do that,” said Sandro.
“Mary. Bring in some of the folders you’re sending out, will you?” Dr.Schwartzman called to a secretary in the other room. The girl who entered was not the same girl who had let them into the clinic. “Here’s some of our literature.” He handed the leaflets to Sandro. Sandro handed some to Mike. They described the history and purpose of the clinic, and there were pictures of the doctor in clinics, pictures of the doctor with television personalities or celebrities, as well as abstracts from magazine articles written about the doctor.
“I don’t want to waste too much of your time, Doctor,” said Sandro. “I’m here, as I told you over the phone, because I’ve been assigned to represent an addict charged with murdering a cop on a rooftop over on Stanton Street last July.”
“Yeah. I know the case. I remember it. The guys that come here were all talking about it after it happened.”
“I need your help, Doctor. You’re one of the only ones in New York, it seems, who knows what this junk stuff is about and how it affects people. My man says he was beaten and he never confessed. The other fellow says he was beaten and named my man when he couldn’t think of anybody else. I want to find out how debilitating the habit is. If a guy on the stuff gets a beating, can he withstand any punishment, or is it torture in itself just to stand around and wait until he needs a fix?”
“These guys all give the same bullshit,” the doctor exclaimed.
Mike looked at Sandro.
“You know, I don’t like to get involved with these guys,” the doctor continued. “They go in, do whatever they do, and then want to blame it on junk. You know, when a guy is on the stuff, he still knows goddamn A that he’s pulling a trigger. So don’t let them give you that shit that they didn’t know what they were doing.”
PART 35 Page 19
