by J. A. Kerley
THIRTY-NINE
“Jesus, Jeremy, what is it? What was Day’s hold over Vangie?”
My brother jumped to his feet and walked to the fireplace, sat on the elevated brick hearth, leaning back with legs crossed elegantly at the ankles. He’d set a candle beside the fireplace opening, its flame quivering in the draft.
“Jimmy believes in tit for tat, Carson. Prowsie killed Jim Day’s boy, moi, by tracking me down for the FBI.”
“Tit for …?”
“TIT FOR GODDAMN TAT, CARSON! I’ll say it slowly: Prowsie …killing …Jimmy’s …boy. Now, what’s the inversion? Tat for tit?”
“The inversion would be Day killing Prowse’s girl.”
Jeremy winked lasciviously. “There you go, brother. You finally got your tits in a row.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“YOUR LOVE-MUFFIN, CARSON.”
“My love muf— …you mean Alice Folger?”
“Jimmy found little Alice when he went through Prowsie’s records. Jimmy must have felt like he’d hit the lottery. Prowsie’s girl in his own backyard. WHAT INCREDIBLE LUCK! No, not luck …Jimmy probably took it as a sign from God.”
I looked like a dolt when reality hit; mouth open, eyes staring numbly at my brother.
“You mean Alice is …”
“Proud Prowsie’s legacy,” Jeremy grinned. “Squirted from Mama Prowse thirty-two years ago. HI MAMA, I’M HERE! GET RID OF ME!”
“Rid of? You mean …” I was still tracking slow.
“Adoption, brother. Prowsie was afeared a kiddy would slow her steps. She had something of the huh-huh-hots for the daddy, but if he knew, she’d get tied down. Prowsie had a big career looming, nuts to open. She had no time to stick a busy titty in a screaming mouth.”
An early conversation with Waltz rang in my head …
“I get your point, Shelly. Folger has cop in her DNA.”
“Or overcompensating to create the genes …I always found families more custom and tradition than blood …”
Waltz had meant Folger wasn’t blood-related to the cop family, but worked hard to fit expectations. In the photo of Folger’s parents I had been struck by their smiling-potato blandness in comparison to Folger’s crisp, potent features. Now that I knew, Folger resembled Vangie more than Waltz, but with her own interpretation of both.
Jeremy said, “Prowse’s dah-dah was a cop. Myrt and Johnny Folger were family friends of Daddy Prowse. The Folgers were good stock, but older and barren, a boo-hoo situation. When Prowsie’s belly started puffing, she went off to ‘research’ in another city for a bit. She popped little Alice, made the hand-off to the Folgers. The deed was done.”
“No. It stung for the rest of her life.”
“Conscience is a hard piper to pay. Prowsie felt giving up Baby Alice displayed heartlessness, career over child, job over love, betrayal of the sperm donor …all those maudlin clichés. So Prowsie watched from a distance, making sure the little package she’d left in New York was doing all right. When Alice the New Detective Girl was living in a swamp, ol’ Prowsie bought her a house. So very motherly, so very late.”
A mystery solved. An angel revealed.
“Vangie made Alice safer. Don’t make light of her efforts.”
“I did my part, too.” He winked. “Jimmy Boy was diddling at your chicklet’s door a few nights back. I was doing my daily reconnaissance from Ludis’s cab. When I saw the movement at her window, I yelled in the voice of Hulk Hogan: ‘HEY YOU! WHAT THE HELL YOU DOING?’ You should have seen jumpin’ Jimmy run. I knew I’d better snatch up Miss Alice before Jimmy came calling again. As it turned out, he came calling a few hours later, right? But all he found was the curious lady upstairs. Jimmy was never very stealthy; that was my chore.”
“Why did you do it, Jeremy? You helped Vangie. You saved her daughter even after Vangie was dead. It’s …idealistic.”
My brother let a sound on the street draw him away, finding interest outside the window. He was quiet for a long time. When he turned, it was to change the subject.
“Is Prowsie’s lovechild a bimbo or a braino? She seems rather astute, actually.”
“Alice Folger is fascinated by the weather, Jeremy. Climatology. She studies upper-level books on the subject, runs a sophisticated weather station and network from her home. She’s been fascinated by meteorology from childhood. Sometimes the depth of the fascination freaks her out. She thinks it’s an illness, an obsession.”
He nodded, seemed pleased by the concept. “Science for Mommy, science for daughter. You can’t outrun DNA, it has its own special needs.” He clapped his hands and widened his eyes as if struck by a great idea. “Hey, speaking of special needs, brother, what say we go visit Jimmy Day?”
“What? You know where he is?”
“I sniffed out Prowsie’s bomb my fifth day here. I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”
Jeremy sauntered outside with me in his footsteps. I started pulling the door shut, then stopped, canted my head. I swore I heard a distant sound, as soft and muffled as if carried on the last beat of a dying echo.
Crying?
Not hearing it again, I shrugged, closed the door. A cab appeared like magic as we stepped to the curb.
FORTY
“You know De Niro? Bobby and me are LIKE THIS!”
Jeremy’s delusional Latvian drove with his head canted over his shoulder, talking between Jeremy and me. Sometimes he yelled at things I couldn’t see. Sometimes he sang. Jeremy pretty much ignored him.
“How did you find Day?” I asked. “He can’t be using the name.”
“No,” my brother grinned. “He’s using Knight.”
My mouth fell open. Jeremy said, “Prowsie made the conjecture. We added it to my interpretation of his needs. We were actually quite the little team, Carson.”
“Day needs control. I know that much.”
“Ah, but to exercise that control, he needs boys. Very special boys. So he’s where all the lost and troubled little fellows are, Carson. Where Jimmy can wait for the special lad that comes along maybe once a decade.”
“Juvenile detention?”
“Juvie detention is too busy an environment, Carson. Guards, social workers, parents, cops, shrinks running in and out. Too many curious eyes. You need time alone with your boy if you want to make him a man. A very special man.”
“Where are we going?”
“Long Island. It’s a bit of a trip. Damn, I haven’t eaten in seven hours, I need some repast. Is the Four Seasons near? They have a Chocolate Velvet that’s simply –”
“We’re in a hurry. There’s your choice.”
I pointed to a vendor on a corner. Jeremy got a skewer of beef, chicken for me. We ate as we crossed the East River and headed out to Long Island. The air began to smell of burned rubber and bitter chemicals as we wound past factories and warehouses. Ludis kept up a running dialogue with himself, seemingly oblivious to anything but the surrealist movie playing in his head.
After a half-hour, we passed a long stretch of hurricane fencing. On the other side, on a scruffy field, a guy in crisp military fatigues was putting several dozen teenage boys through a regimen of calisthenics. They’d do a few jumping Jacks, then the instructor blew his whistle and everyone dropped for push-ups. Another blast from the whistle and they were up and flailing again. Half the kids looked as if they were ready to pass out.
I looked ahead and saw a big red sign: CAMP WILDERNESS.
“Boot camp,” I said, putting it all together. “Juvie version.”
A juvenile boot camp was where hardened, streetwise kids were sent for rehabilitation through hard work and regimentation. They spent most of their days with the supervisory personnel, often cast in a mentoring position.
“Tough love for wayward lads,” Jeremy said. “But for Jimmy, it’s a bad-boy buffet.”
Ludis turned in his seat. “We been this camp place three times. You still gonna shoot a film here, Hollywood?”
“I think this location will play a big role, Ludis. It has an atmosphere of forebod—”
Ludis jammed on the brakes as a bright red Camaro fishtailed from the camp’s staff parking lot. A guy in shades was at the wheel, teeth flashing as he blew by.
“That was him,” Jeremy whispered. “Jim Day. James Knight, these days. He’s leaving early. He’s usually here until four.”
My phone rang. Waltz. I looked at Jeremy and put my finger to my lips, be quiet.
“What’s going on, Detective?” he asked, tension beneath his voice. Behind it, I heard a babble of voices.
“Things are unfolding, Shelly.”
“That’s all you can say?”
“Bear with me a few more hours. What’s the commotion in the background?”
“It’s the big event, remember? Pelham’s addressing the conference. She’s still an hour away, but the street’s jammed with supporters and protestors. Never seen so many goddamn signs. I got pressed into service. No, the Chief pressed me into service, showing the NYPD flag for Pelham. We hauled two guys from the crowd for wearing NEUTER THE BITCH buttons.”
“Does that go against free speech?”
“Underneath the words was an AK-47.”
“Gotcha. Any more dolls show up?”
“No.” His voice drew tight. “What have you got on Folger? What are you planning to –”
“Can’t hear, Shelly. You’re breaking up.”
I snapped the phone closed and we became a bolt of yellow lightning, picking up Day five blocks later at a red light. Ludis pulled three cars behind, yelling out the song “My Way”. Day drove without fear, as if unfettered passage was his due. He cut, swerved, dove across lanes, drawing gestures and horn blasts.
We followed to an industrial area just south of the Harlem River, watching from a distance as Day’s car roared toward a windowless brick building on a corner, a small two-story warehouse. Faded lettering on the building’s side said CASSINI’S PRODUCE.
An electronically controlled door rolled open and Day’s car disappeared inside.
Jeremy said, “We’re jumping out here, Ludis.”
“No,” I said. “Let’s take some time and figure out a –”
Jeremy was out and sprinting away. I cursed and jumped from the cab, following him around the corner of the building. I saw my brother pushing through a broken hurricane fence into an adjoining weed-strewn lot and studying the warehouse. I noticed something else: a surveillance camera mounted on the side of the building, maybe a hundred feet away. I saw another at the corner.
“Jeremy,” I hissed. “Cameras.”
He nodded from two dozen feet away, waved, crept to a loading dock piled with broken pallets, his attention riveted on the building. I ran after him. Stealth be damned, all I wanted was out of there. My brother was peeking around a corner toward the rear of the structure.
“Jeremy, come on. We could be in Day’s sight.”
“Just a sec. I’m checking to see if there’s another door.”
“Get over here. We’ve got to step back and figure how to …”
He leaned around the corner, looking away. “How to what, Carson?”
I couldn’t answer. I was looking into the eyes of Jim Day.
Detective Abel Alphonse Cluff sat in his office with his butcher paper pushed to the side, staring at two stacks of records on his desk. One was a computer printout of the clients Dora Anderson had served in her two years in Newark’s Children’s Services department, the other was admissions to the Bridges juvenile treatment facility during the same two-year period. Cluff shouldn’t have had either set of lists, probably, from a legal point of view, but in twenty-five years with the NYPD he had developed a network that moved information a bit more efficiently than official channels.
He looked down at the records, sighed. Page after page of names.
“This crap don’t ever go anywhere,” he wheezed, wishing he was out on the street with a real hand in the game.
FORTY-ONE
Day had snuck round the far side of the building, caught us from behind. Under .45-caliber gunpoint, my brother and I moved inside. We entered a concrete-floored area with targets on a far wall, a shooting range. I smelled powder and gun oil. At the other end of the room were exercise machines, free weights, kick bag and speed bag. Day’s car was inside the steel door, engine ticking as it cooled. The walls were two feet thick, window openings bricked solid to keep thieves out. It was a fortress, which fit everything I’d recently learned about Jim Day.
He was utterly calm, said, “I want you to put your hands against the wall.”
Day kicked my feet back further to keep me off balance. He reached into a metal box beside the door, pulled out a hand-held metal detector. It squealed at the Glock beneath my jacket and the .25 Colt holstered at my ankle. It found my two-inch pocket knife. And forty cents in change.
He studied my ID. “My, we are out of our district. I can’t imagine the stories Jerry’s told you. Not that it matters any more.”
He swept the wand across my brother. It beeped at his belt buckle and pocket. “Empty,” Day said.
Jeremy held out two quarters, one dime, and three Krugerrands. Day flicked the silver to the floor, put the gold in his own pocket. My brother started to back away.
“Uh-uh, Jerry. I need you to hokey-pokey.”
“Pardon, Jim?”
“You know, the old dance. You put your right foot in, you put your left foot out. Step the feet out, slow and one at a time.”
The wand beeped at Jeremy’s left foot. “Pull your shoe and sock off,” Day ordered.
Hidden in the curl of Jeremy’s instep, in a thin plastic sheath, was a small knife. Basically a razor blade with a grip, the knife would be deadly in experienced hands.
“Wasn’t I the one taught you to always keep a blade close?” Day grinned. “Trouble is, I was also the one taught you that hiding place, remember? Let’s go upstairs to more comfortable quarters.”
The wooden steps creaked. Upstairs was like walking into a snow palace, everything painted white: walls, floor, ceiling. I saw a steel-framed bed beside two chests of drawers, three couches arranged like the letter C, a hard wooden chair at the C’s mouth. A television was in the corner. The kitchen area was stripped to appliance essentials, restaurant-quality equipment. A beam-thick table and four chairs. Lighting was metal cones hanging from above. At the far corner an open door revealed a metal shower stall and toilet fixture gleaming like a new dime. The living area held one quarter of the space, the bulk of the area open floor.
Echoing Day, the living area was mostly empty, but the equipment in place was strong and efficient. Day stopped us in the center of the plank floor, outside the nest-like array of couches and chair. He would not be bringing us inside, so to speak.
Not good.
“I knew you’d stay ahead of the cops, Jeremy-boy. You have everything figured out. You always kept us three jumps ahead of ol’ John Law.” Day looked at me. “Jeremy’s wickedly smart. Give him enough time to plan and he could get into the main vault at Fort Knox.”
“Not bright enough, obviously. He caught your attention.”
“I been watching out for Jerry. Seems we been watching the same little lady.” He looked to my brother. “Where is she?”
I answered instead. “Alice Folger doesn’t know you. Why hurt her?”
Day whipped the gun across my face. The room exploded into crackling yellow stars. “Because her filthy mother stole him from me,” he hissed. “She stole my boy and killed him.”
“Your boy is back,” I spat, pointing at Jeremy, holding my hand against my screaming cheekbone, hoping something hadn’t shattered. “He’s right here, asshole.”
Day snapped a side kick into my knee and dropped me to the floor beside the back of the couch. He had no real interest in me; I was a loud bug itching to be swatted. He turned to my brother.
“You squealed on me, son. Ratted me out.”
My bro
ther’s chin started to quiver. He held his hands up, palms out. A tear traced down his cheek.
“I-I’m sorry, Jimmy. I kept quiet for years.”
Don’t fall apart, Jeremy, I thought. Keep it together, keep Day off balance. Resist. You can do it.
“Time ain’t nothing. A minute, a year, it’s all the fucking same. You don’t rat out your family.”
“I’m sorry, Jimmy. I was wrong. It was Prowse’s fault. She was evil. They’re all evil. Just like you always –”
Day’s hand slashed like a snake, slapping my brother’s face.
“STOP WHIMPERING! WOMEN WHIMPER!”
Jeremy knuckled tears from his eyes. “I w-won’t whimper, Jimmy.” He sounded like he was five years old.
I scanned my area of the floor for anything usable as a weapon, a light cord, screwdriver dropped under a couch, nothing near. All I saw was an empty cardboard box with black type on a white label.
Russian Nesting Dolls
Matryoshka – Mother
1 set, 7 pieces
Day turned to Jeremy. “I keep a juice bottle in the fridge, Jerry. Go fetch it. Use it on your cop buddy.”
Juice bottle?
“He’s not my buddy, Jimmy. I swear he’s –”
“GET THE GODDAMN BOTTLE, BOY!”
“Yes, sir.”
Wiping tears with the back of his hand, Jeremy went to the fridge and returned with a gleaming metal bottle. Day pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, tossed it to my brother.
“Juice him, Jerry. I want him kept down so we can talk.”
Jeremy put the rag over my face, looking away, like I wasn’t there. He poured. The cloth turned icy. Fumes blazed in my throat and nostrils. When Jeremy stood back, he was in slow motion.
Day begin raging at my brother. Words were cutting in and out like a poorly tuned radio.
“We could have …history together, Jerry …your brains and my …”
“I got tired, Jimmy …I couldn’t take any …”
“they hate us …teach them the knife …revenge for what they …”
Jeremy turned away and put one hand to his stomach, the other to his mouth. Started gagging.
