They both laughed. Seemed that the snake dancer had once been a law student in her youth. Yvonne’s expertise in criminality hadn’t impressed her in the least. The tenant was prepared to charge the detective with everything from harassment and illegal search, to violation of the Civil Rights Act. And had no qualms about loudly expressing it. Turned the episode into a public commotion, with other neighbors filling the hallway. Things had started to get out of control and didn’t calm until a pair of uniformed patrolmen hurriedly appeared on the scene. Unknowingly to anyone, another tenant, hearing the row and afraid that violence was about to start, had called 911 — the emergency phone number for the police.
“Thing was, she was right,” Yvonne conceded after her laughter had subsided. “Technically, anyway. We didn’t have the right to come inside her room without a warrant.”
“One of the few times I saw you bested.” He shook his head bemusedly. “I’ll never forget you hanging tough with the lady, while the snake tried to wrap itself around your feet.”
Yvonne flushed. The woman had threatened to sue the city of New York if any attempt was made to take away her companion. Left Yvonne feeling more than a little embarrassed and foolish. Since neither she nor Resnick nor any of the neighbors were prepared to pursue the matter and make a formal complaint, the matter was better left dropped. The python, as far as Yvonne knew, still maintained a home in the hotel. Parenthetically, the coroner’s report revealed that the corpse had not been a homicide victim after all. He’d died of natural causes.
It occurred to Yvonne that a cop’s sense of humor must be among the most perverse to be found anywhere. In what other profession could you go sleuthing to find the reason for someone’s death and come out with a ludicrously funny story to tell?
“World is filled with weirdos, Warren. What else can I tell you?”
They came through the tunnel and into the streets of Manhattan. Cars were stopping tail light to tail light heading downtown. A rainy rush hour was the worst of all possible worlds in New York.
Warren clenched his hand on the steering wheel.
Heavy traffic always bothered him. Made him feel closed in, claustrophobic.
“It’ll clear up. Don’t get fidgety,” Yvonne said.
“Sometimes I hate this city. Everything about it. The noise, the dirt, the stench.”
Wet litter was clogging the sewer at the curb, backing up the drainage. Yvonne stared at a gum wrapper swirling around in circles, unable to fall through the sewer grating. “Maybe you should have been a cop someplace else,” she teased. “Carolina State Trooper. Sunglasses and a big hat.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have been a cop at all.”
“I don’t buy that for a second.”
“No? And why not? Since when is your life so fulfilled?”
“Cheap shot, Warren.”
Cars were beginning to honk their horns. A traffic cop in a raincoat at the intersection seemed all but helpless to unclog the mess. Pedestrians scurrying between the vehicles weren’t helping matters any.
“Seems to me you also gave a lot of thought to leaving P.D.,” he reminded.
Yvonne fixed her gaze at the monotonously slapping wipers. “I still do sometimes. At least when I think about Paul.”
“Ah, Paul. So he’s still in your life?”
She shrugged. “Not so you’d know it.”
“Getting rough?”
“No rougher than before.” Glumly she added, “Actually, we hardly ever see each other anymore. Makes it better. No chance to go for the jugular. A quiet wrap up and fade out.”
“I’m sorry.”
The traffic was stalled, and Warren took his hands off the wheel, looked at her fully. “It’s not fun anymore, is it, kid?” he said.
“Hasn’t been fun for years, detective. No one gives a damn.”
“I do.”
She began to say, “because you’re my partner,” corrected it to, “You were my partner.”
“What ever happened to the wide-eyed psych major who was gonna set the department on fire? Blaze new horizons, probably become the first woman to head a Citywide detective unit, maybe even become a commissioner?”
“She got drowned in a river of shit.”
It wasn’t like Yvonne to curse; it surprised him.
She bit her lip, angry at herself. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to dump on you. God, you don’t deserve that.”
He reached out and touched a lock of her hair with his fingertips. “Just a streak of bad luck, Yvonne. It’ll turn. Always does. Try another roll of the dice.” Their eyes met and locked.
For a moment she seemed to return to being the naive, innocent young woman he’d once known. Awed by her surroundings, frightened. Stripped of her certainty and cockiness. A girl lost in an ugly grown-up world. Her lips were trembling. “It’s okay, kid,” he assured. “Really.”
The concern for her was genuine, she knew. The caring real. Suddenly, helplessly, she couldn’t hold back her tears anymore.
“Oh, God, Warren, I think I’m falling to pieces.” She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. Her shoulders shook, tears spilling between her fingers. Warren had realized things were going hard for her — his first glimpse at her yesterday had assured him of that — but not this much. Not this bad.
“What’s going on, Yvonne? What’s happening?”
“My mother may be dying,” she confided. “She’s in the hospital. God forgive me, but I haven’t been able to visit her … ” She wiped her eyes, struggling to keep her voice from cracking. “I don’t have anywhere to turn. Now my sister Fran’s getting divorced, totally breaking down. She’s looking to me for help. Expects me to be there and help carry her burdens. It’s too much. It isn’t fair. I don’t have anyone. I live alone in an apartment I hate, feeling caged like an animal. The telephone never stops ringing. Winnegar, Downtown, Fran bawling, Paul berating me. I can’t cut it anymore, Warren. Sometimes I jump out of my skin when the damn phone rings. I’m scared to death. What if it’s the hospital this time? What if my mother’s died and I don’t even know it? Wasn’t even there with her at the end? Who am I supposed to call? Who do I lean on? Who’s there for me?”
She continued to cry. Warren sat in morose silence. She was spilling her insides out to him, her deepest feelings and pain; as openly as she’d ever done. She was wracked by guilt and weariness, at the limits of endurance. Yvonne DiPalma was a remarkable woman. Strong, able, confident. He’d always held her in esteem, long before they became partners. Sometimes, though, even the best can run out of reserves to draw on. No reservoir left to call up for one last fight. How well he knew it. Yvonne had been the only one there for him during his worst days. The times when he was becoming unglued. He wanted to be there for her now — if she’d let him.
Cops have one of the highest suicide rates of any profession. How often had some poor fool found it easier to stick the barrel of his revolver into his mouth and squeeze the trigger, instead of facing up to his life.
Courage is the stuff heroes are made of — only there are no heroes. Even among cops. Only mortal men and women. Frightened and fragile. Her sobs turned to normal crying, and slowly the tears ebbed. Yvonne searched her purse for more tissues, couldn’t find any.
“There’s a fresh pack in the glove compartment.”
“Thank you.” She took them, blew her nose, wiped her eyes. Her mascara was smudged, her cheeks streaked wetly, eyes red and swollen.
“I didn’t know about your mother — and I am sorry.”
“Thanks. So am I.” She was slowly regaining her composure. “Forgive the outburst, okay? I don’t do it very often.”
“Maybe you should. It helps. Get it out of your system. Share it with someone you trust. Best therapy in the world.”
“Hey, Resnick, who’s the shrink around here?”
“You have the degree, so I suppose you are.”
She managed a small laugh. “DiPalma knows best, huh?”
“Sure.
You’re the tough cookie, not me.”
VIII
“It may not be much, but it’s something.”
“You didn’t hear me complain,” Yvonne said to Link.
“Talk in El Barrio is cheap,” Link continued. “It’s not macho in the community, though, to tell your brothers something and then not deliver like you said. Makes you look like a gringo asshole in their eyes. A real pussy.”
“We get the picture,” drawled an impatient Spinrad. Detective Washington’s penchant for giving news in a roundabout, storytelling way was beginning to grate on his nerves.
“Spill it, Link,” said Yvonne. “What have you found?”
“Just this. Someone’s been talking big. Making threats. I got it from a small-time crack pusher who’s kept his ass clean by spilling his guts to us before. Usually reliable. He tells me there’s this guy, Julio, who’s been shooting off at the mouth. Talking about the explosion, boasting to his buddies there’ll be another one coming.” Link paused. “Doesn’t claim he had anything to do with the first personally, but says he knows … “
“Knows what?” said Spinrad.
“Whatever’s supposed to be next,” Link replied with a shrug.
“This Julio’s a pusher?”
“Nothing heavy. Just enough to keep himself fixed. A regular space cadet. Flying high most of the time.”
“Not a very reliable lead,” offered Warren.
“Nope. But it’s talk on the street. See, Julio’s sister was involved with a radical group of Puerto Rican extremists. Los Campions de Liberdad. Champions of Freedom, they called themselves.”
“I know the name,” said Yvonne. “More talk than action. Dogmatic politics. FBI had a make on them about four years ago. They’re believed to be disbanded since their leader was convicted of armed robbery. Armed holdup in the Bronx. I can get a rundown from the computer, but as far as I know, he’s still doing time in Attica.”
“Julio’s radical friends are still out on the streets, though. Free as birds. Want to catch one to see if they’ll sing?”
Yvonne looked at Link. “Better pull this junkie in. Right away.”
Link held up his palm. “Whoa — if we can find him.”
Yvonne’s face grew tight. “So find him.”
“There’s a Latin bar where my contact makes his connections. Julio isn’t a regular, but he goes there now and then. Strictly to buy. Never hangs around much. We know his girlfriend, too. Junkie, turns a few tricks whenever she can. Supports them both. She’s more messed up than him.”
“When did your contact see this Julio last?”
“Maybe a week, a little more. He isn’t sure. But Julio’s due. Any time now. Some fresh crack began hitting the street, and he’s a number one buyer when he can scrape up some money.”
“Then we’d better stake out the place fast, before we lose him.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. Find him, intimidate him. Only bust him if we absolutely have to. Drag his ass somewhere, and keep him off the street until he needs a fix so bad that he freaks out and breaks.”
Holding a suspect incommunicado like this was highly illegal, they all knew. However it could be sanctioned, and had been when absolutely necessary. Now was one of those times, in Yvonne’s view. They only needed to find some safe place where he could be held, watched, and questioned.
“What’s the name of the bar?”
“El Dorado. South Bronx dive. First class dump. Mix of hookers, drunks, freaks. But mostly legit. Any dealing is done quietly — outside. Owner pays off when necessary, but keeps a low profile. Doesn’t want any serious trouble. Local cops don’t hassle him.”
Yvonne drummed her fingers nervously. “What do you think, Link? Begin staking out El Dorado tonight?”
“Two of us can manage it. One inside, one out. Meanwhile, somebody can keep tabs on the girlfriend, in case he shows up there first.” He constrained his smile. “Anybody wanna be my first volunteer?”
“I’ll go with you,” said Warren.
“Okay. You’re my man.”
*
The smell was nauseating. A young Hispanic staggered toward the alley. He paused by a pair of overflowing garbage cans and unzipped his fly. A cat scurried from a pile of trash as the addict urinated.
A small knot of youths — Warren was sure none were more than fifteen — stood talking and laughing in Spanish at the edge of the alley. They were eagerly passing around a joint, and didn’t seem bothered by anyone or anything going on around them. One of them noticed the peeing junkie and pointed as he urinated. They all laughed loudly.
“Pato!” One shouted out at him.
It meant “duck,” a Spanish slang for faggot. The junkie didn’t seem to hear, or if he had, didn’t care. He finished relieving himself, shuffled away with his fly unzipped. The youths jeered after him, giving him the finger.
The door of the bar opened and a couple walked out. The man was fat and fiftyish, sporting a Zapata moustache, wearing a gray sport jacket, an orange shirt, and jeans. A bosomy blonde in a tight sweater and tighter leather pants held his arm. She was maybe eighteen, her face painted like a doll’s. Blood red lipstick was smeared over her lips. He was high; she was smashed. She giggled as she staggered, holding onto her companion. Warren remained quiet in the shadows across the street as the couple passed him by obliviously.
The deep throbbing of a bass accompanied by bongo drums could be heard from where he stood. Occasionally the blare of a Latin trumpet wailed. The sound of the singers was muffled by the band.
The bar was crowded, hardly beginning to thin. Warren glanced at his watch. The time was 1:30 AM. He’d been outside since before 11:00. Link was still inside, and it didn’t look like he’d be coming out anytime soon.
Except for the noises from the bar and those hanging around it, the rest of the street was silent. The shops on the street, a few bodegas, groceries, one fruit store and one appliance shop, were boarded up tight with iron gates. The other shops were vacant, planks crisscrossed where display windows had been. Graffiti in both Spanish and English were scrawled with spray paint across the fronts of nearly every edifice. There was little traffic to speak of; an occasional car cruising the area’s hookers, a few in search of a local pusher. A dark sedan was double parked on a distant corner with its lights out. When a patrol car from the local precinct passed nearby, the sedan moved on.
The neighborhood was run down, but not abandoned. The streetlights cast a gloomy pall over the rows of tenements, all of them identical five-floor walk-ups with rusting fire escapes. Instead of glass for windows some had board. Here and there lights were on in the windows; Warren could see the flickering reflections of a few televisions.
The street was littered with assorted trash. In places it was piled in heaps. Plastic bags ripped open, contents spilled. Food for the scavenger dogs and rodents that dwelled in nearby abandoned buildings. In the gutter, poured beer mingled with the dog feces and urine, causing a foul and virtual permanent stench that even a heavy rain wouldn’t wash away. The rotting garbage was a health hazard, and a violation of the city’s strict health code. Sanitation trucks were scheduled to make pickups only twice a week, and even then they frequently didn’t show up at all. Sometimes out of negligence, sometimes out of sheer fear of being in the neighborhood.
Warren was becoming restless. He didn’t like this kind of duty. Waiting, waiting — and worrying. The area was mixed: Hispanic, some black, and generally not very friendly to any outsiders. As a young black with a good knowledge of Spanish, Link could get by, probably stay out of trouble. At least for a while. Sooner or later, though, someone might take a closer look at the black, and wonder why he was hanging around El Dorado.
It wouldn’t take much for Link to find himself in jeopardy.
Warren rubbed his hands together. The rain had long stopped, but it was chilly. Plumes of white air streamed from his mouth as he exhaled. He was dressed in worn street clothes, faded leather jacket with an empty wine
bottle obtrusively stuffing his pocket for effect. The short-barreled Smith & Wesson .38 was stuck inside his belt, covered by his untucked shirt. Within easy reach. He clung to his shadowed spot in an abandoned doorway, sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees.
Time passed slowly. A handful more patrons came out of the bar. Several lingered outside for a short time, then went on their way. It all seemed like a futile and wasted night’s work to him, when the bar door opened one more time. Peals of laughter rang from within.
Three men came out. All tall and lanky. Two appeared to be dark-skinned Hispanics, one was black. Warren tensed. It was Link.
Link was standing leisurely with both hands in the pockets of his jeans, the collar of his black leather jacket pulled up. He glanced casually over toward where Warren stood, motioned, then faced his two companions.
One was acting very nervous, edgy. His eyes kept darting, here, there, finally shying away from the lights of an oncoming car as if it were blinding him. He kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
The second man was calmer and relaxed. He withdrew a small packet from his raincoat and teasingly held it in front of the anxious one. “Forty for a bag,” he said, quietly but loud enough for Warren to overhear.
“Take twenty, okay? The rest tomorrow.” His accent was thick.
“All now,” said the first. “I don’t give credit. Try a bank.”
The nervous one slapped his hands in agitation. “I ever gone bad on you, man? Ever?” He was visibly upset.
The dealer turned his back on him coldly. He spoke to Link. “How much you have to spend?”
“A hundred.” Link paused. “If the stuff is good.”
“Bueno, a hundred. It’s good shit. You can have as much as you want. I like to keep my customers happy. Brings them back.” He grinned.
Link took his money out, counted it. The transaction was made so fast it could hardly be followed by the eye. Link put a finger on the packet, licked it, nodded with satisfaction. “Okay. Stay cool,” he said, made to go.
“Hey, where’s mine?” the nervous one called after him. Link stopped and turned. “What?”
Black Midnight Page 7
