Mission

by Patrick Tilley

  I looked at them both. ‘Wait a minute. Just what the hell’s going on?’

  The smile left Greaseball’s face. ‘You’re blocking the stairs, friend.’

  I stepped aside. Flat Cap was still holding my arm. He glanced around, then eyed me earnestly. ‘Let me ask you something. Do you want to ruin your client’s trip to New York?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Neither do we,’ said Flat Cap. ‘Do yourself a favour. Don’t make waves. You’ve got enough problems.’

  I let it slip by me at the time, but I’m still wondering just what he meant by that remark. ‘Thanks for the advice,’ I said. I turned away from their mocking faces and went on up the stairs. I tried to figure out what could have happened and kept coming up with the same answer. They must have pocketed the bag of dope on the way down. If it really did contain six ounces of uncut coke, or heroin, the package had to be worth around fifty thousand dollars on the street. Not a bad night’s work for Messrs Ritger and Donati. It was a classic squeeze play. I couldn’t accuse them of theft, or raise the cry of police corruption without putting The Man on the spot. So much for Law and Order. But let’s face it, it wouldn’t be the first time that our boys in blue had cut themselves in on the street action.

  A plainclothes cop directed me to Lieutenant Russell’s office and told me in passing that he wasn’t part of the drug squad. He knocked on Russell’s door and checked to see if it was okay for me to go in. I heard a murmur of voices then the door opened and three guys in well-cut suits came out. They all gave me the once-over as they walked past. I don’t know what it was, maybe it was their conservative taste in ties, but they left me with an odd impression. They looked more like bankers than cops. Or politicians. I never found out which. But maybe somebody else knows the answer to that part of the puzzle.

  It turned out that Ritger had given Russell my business card and had warned him of my impending arrival. The Lieutenant was not only pleased to see me; he wanted to ask me a few questions. The Man sat with his hands clasped in his lap, facing Russell’s desk. Russell was a stocky, grey-haired guy in his mid-forties. Lined face; bushy eyebrows; washed-out blue eyes. The jacket of his three-piece plaid suit was hung over the back of his swivel chair. There was a dark-haired guy in a suit leaning against the wall to the right of Russell with folded arms. He had a thin slit of a mouth with eyes to match, and his receding hairline had left him with a high-domed forehead that made him look a bit like Ming the Merciless without the moustache.

  Russell introduced him as Detective Frank Marcello, then pointed a finger at the fourth guy in the room. Rabbi Weinbaum. A small Levantine gnome; his face pale from countless hours of indoor study of the Scrolls. In his high black hat, yeshiva curl, and with his hollow-cheeked face half-buried in a beard that covered his tie, he looked as if he’d come straight from an audition for a Broadway re-run of Fiddler On The Roof.

  Weinbaum eyed me over the top of his steel-rimmed glasses. ‘Shalom.’

  I nodded in reply and turned back to Russell. ‘Does this gentleman also work for the Police Department?’

  ‘No,’ said Russell. ‘He’s just helping us out.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand,’ I said.

  Russell exchanged a glance with Marcello. ‘When your client was arrested, you forgot to mention to the officers that he was only able to converse in Hebrew. All that we’ve had out of him so far are quotations from the Bible.’

  Rabbi Weinbaum nodded in solemn agreement.

  ‘Got it.’ I looked at The Man. His eyes told me the whole story. I had to bite my cheeks in order to keep a straight face. ‘Is everything okay?’ I said. Only it didn’t come out that way. I heard myself asking him the question in Hebrew.

  Now, if you’re Jewish, you obviously pick up a few words here, the odd phrase there. But apart from the usual religious incantations, I had never put a colloquial sentence together in my life. Yet here I was, not only speaking it, but also aware of possessing an intimate knowledge of the language and the ability to speak it fluently. It was truly the Gift of Tongues. Pure magic.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘These gentlemen have been very kind. Thank you for coming.’ His Hebrew persona was somehow more compelling than his twentieth-century image; his voice had more depth and resonance. But maybe I was responding to it on a more primal level. Something within me awakening to the voice of the God who had watched over our race since this struggle began.

  I turned to Lieutenant Russell. ‘I understand that my client, who was held for questioning in connection with a suspected drug offence, is now not going to be charged. May I take it that he is now free to go?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Russell. He shuffled the sheets of paper in front of him. From where I was sitting, I couldn’t see what they were. Probably the dope sheet they had made out for The Man and a report from the two hoods that had pulled him in. He then looked up and fixed me with the stare that policemen usually reserve for wrongdoers. ‘There seems to be some confusion about Mr Sheppard’s actual identity.’

  Of course. It was such a stupid thing to do. I’d fed Ritger and Donati a variation of the same shit I’d laid on Linda. When they’d stopped us, my brain had stalled. It just hadn’t occurred to me that they might check up on that part of the story. Now we were both in trouble.

  Russell pulled out a piece of paper on which my lies had apparently been recorded. ‘There may have been some confusion in your mind at the time of the arrest,’ he began. Another wise guy. ‘But you are down here as saying that your client arrived today by air from Israel and had his identity papers stolen from JFK.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ I said. ‘But – ’

  You don’t need to be clairvoyant to guess what he enjoyed telling me. No one by the name of Yale Sheppard had arrived on any of the flights from Israel. Nor was there a Y. Sheppard listed as a passenger on any other flights arriving at JFK from overseas destinations. In fact, Immigration at JFK had no record of anyone with that combination of name and initial arriving in the last two weeks.

  I didn’t even bother to look surprised. I had exhausted my capacity for comic invention. I just sat there, trapped in my own web of lies while Russell continued to review various, not unreasonable, hypotheses; such as the fact that my client was not on record as having arrived by air might explain why the theft of his wallet, passport and personal papers had not been reported to any of the airlines, or the airport police. Had he, perhaps, arrived by some other means of transport?

  He had indeed, but I was not about to open that can of beans with Lieutenant Russell and the sphinx-like Marcello.

  Weinbaum eased himself tentatively to his feet. ‘Excuse me. Is it all right if I go now? Mr Resnick can translate any questions you want to put to his client.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Russell. ‘We may want you to tell us what they are saying to each other.’

  Weinbaum subsided. But by now, I was badly rattled. I was in shtuck if I remained silent, and whatever I said would only put us deeper in the hole. Especially if it was the truth.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I really don’t understand why we are pursuing this line of questioning. My client was arrested on suspicion of illegal possession. He was clean. I have been told there are no charges pending. If so, there is no case to answer. I am therefore asking you to release my client as of now, and I would like to point out that, unless you arraign him on some other pretext, neither of us are required to submit to further questioning. And one other thing. Not only were we manhandled and held at gunpoint without due cause, the two officers involved were also verbally abusive. I want to make it quite clear that if we are subjected to any further harassment, there is going to be a formal complaint on Larry Bekker’s desk first thing tomorrow morning.’

  One hundred per cent pure bluster.

  Russell was distinctly unimpressed. He waved me patiently back into my seat. ‘Come on. Let’s cool it.’ He fingered the business card I had handed to Donati, and which was now stapled to the pi
ece of paper on which my earlier mis-statements had been recorded.

  ‘Mr Resnick,’ he said. ‘It says here that you’re a lawyer. You must therefore be aware that, when acting in your professional capacity, you are an officer of the court, and that law enforcement officers tend to give credence to any statement you make in connection with an investigation by the police of a suspected felon or possible criminal activity.’ He treated me to a Teddy-bear smile. ‘In other words, we expect you to tell the truth. Or at the very least, an account of the relevant events which, while endeavouring to favour your client, has its basis in objective reality.’

  That was all I needed. A cop who read philosophy instead of watching ABC’s Wide World of Sports.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Where do we go from here?’

  Russell shrugged. ‘You tell me. Immigration have asked us to hold your client overnight on suspicion of illegal entry into the United States. And if I don’t start getting some joy from you, I’m going to hold you as an accessory. If you choose to consider that as harassment, I suggest you call Mr Bekker.’ He nodded towards the phone.

  I wondered if he knew that was the last thing I intended to do. Nyehhh. What the hell, I thought. At least it will save me from another bad day in court. ‘I don’t think there’s anything I can say that will be of help,’ I said.

  ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ replied Russell. ‘Let’s try a few questions. It will save everybody’s time in the morning.’

  What could I do? Tell him I wanted to call my lawyer? And then plead the Fifth Amendment?

  ‘Where and when did you first meet Mr Sheppard?’

  I shot a quick glance at The Man and decided to stick as close as I could to the truth. ‘At the Manhattan General Hospital. Nine days ago.’

  Russell received this with a nod. ‘So he didn’t arrive from Israel today …’

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘All I can tell you is that he turned up in my office this morning. He told me that he’d been back to Jerusalem since our meeting at the hospital so I assumed that he’d come back the same way. By air. He indicated that he was in some kind of trouble and needed the help of a lawyer. I arranged to see him this evening to talk things over. We met for a drink, then walked down to Times Square and that’s where he got lifted by two members of the drug squad that operates out of this building. End of story.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Russell. ‘What were the circumstances of your first meeting with Mr Sheppard at the hospital?’

  I suddenly felt lucky. Russell had given me the chance to play my long shot. I took a deep breath and gave it my best Federal Grand Jury delivery. ‘I met him through a doctor I know who works in Emergency. Apparently, Mr Sheppard had been brought in unconscious as the result of some kind of accident. This particular doctor knew that I was a claims lawyer and called me in with a view to acting for Mr Sheppard who, at this juncture, I was not able to speak with. I explained that I normally only handled corporate work but that I would endeavour to find him a suitable attorney.’

  ‘And did you?’ asked Russell.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I was busy. In fact, I didn’t give it another thought until he turned up in my office this morning. As it happened, I was due in court on a big case. Dr Maxwell had not called to advise me of his visit but I assumed that she had sent him along to me to follow up on my offer to find him an attorney. In the course of our conversation, it transpired that Mr Sheppard had arrived at my office with no money, credit cards, or any means of identification. On top of which, he had this language problem. I didn’t have time to go into it in detail. I had a really tight schedule. So I got my secretary to book him into the Mayflower Hotel and, as I’ve explained, made a date to see him later in the day. Which brings us back to here. All I know of Mr Sheppard is derived from the information he has supplied to me.’

  Russell greeted my little speech with a series of sober nods. Marcello picked his nose, then studied his finger as he cleaned the nail out with his thumb.

  I looked at The Man and hoped to God that he would step in if I fell flat on my face. Then I smiled at Rabbi Weinbaum and apologised to him in my new-found language. ‘I’m sorry to take up so much of your time.’

  ‘It’s a privilege,’ said Weinbaum. ‘Believe me.’

  I translated our brief exchange in Hebrew for Russell’s benefit and couldn’t help noticing that his earlier assurance was now besieged by doubt.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Resnick,’ he said. ‘Are you in the habit of bankrolling strangers who walk in off the street and try to bum the services of an attorney?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I replied. ‘It was only because I thought he had been sent along by this doctor, who happens to be a friend of mine, that I felt obliged to help. And also because he told me that he was a rabbi.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Weinbaum. He looked at Russell and Marcello. ‘This man is a great scholar.’

  I smiled at Russell. ‘And as you are no doubt aware, we Jews have been known to help one another.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Ring Manhattan General,’ I suggested. ‘Ask for Doctor Miriam Maxwell. She may be able to give you some more information.’

  Russell eyed the three of us, glanced at Marcello, then lifted the phone and dialled the switchboard. ‘Get me a Doctor Maxwell at the Manhattan General. And move it along, will you? I don’t want to be here all night.’

  Maybe it was the way he slammed the phone back on the hook but I got the impression that he would have preferred to call in the SS.

  ‘Is Doctor Maxwell Jewish, too?’ he said.

  I almost gave him the full ethnic shrug then decided not to overdo it. I raised my eyebrows instead. ‘You know how it is. The clever ones become doctors, rabbis, or musicians, and the others scrape a living as lawyers or comedians.’

  ‘You don’t look as if you’ve had to scrape too hard,’ said Russell.

  The phone rang just as I was about to get lippy. The switchboard operator had Miriam on the other end of the line. Russell explained who he was.

  ‘Doctor Maxwell,’ he continued. ‘Do you have any record of a patient by the name of Yale Sheppard? I understand that he was under your care some nine days ago.’

  I hid my hands under my arms and crossed my fingers as Miriam went into her number. I had no idea what story she had concocted. I just hoped it would be a good one. Russell was no dummy. But, on the other hand, it’s amazing how people will go along with what doctors have to say. And that’s what I was banking on.

  Russell’s eyes dwelt on each of us in turn as he ‘uh-huh-ed’ several times into the phone, then said, ‘Yes, sure. We’re holding him here right now.’ He listened some more then concluded by saying, ‘Third Floor. I’ll ring the desk and tell them to expect you … Yeah. Thanks, Doc.’

  He rang off, then lifted the phone again and rang the desk. While he waited for them to answer, he looked at Marcello. ‘The guy’s a yoyo …’ The Desk Sergeant came through on the line. ‘Benny? … Russell. Listen. There’ll be a Doctor Maxwell – a dame, right? – from the Manhattan General, arriving in the next fifteen to twenty minutes.’ He listened and shook his head. ‘No, Benny. We didn’t kill anybody. We picked up one of their patients. Just send her on up. Okay?’

  Russell put the phone down and looked at me. He almost smiled, then thought better of it. ‘You may have to forego your fee on this one. Your client beat an intern over the head with a bed-pan, stole some clothes and broke out of the hospital sometime on Sunday night.’

  Beautiful. I contrived to look concerned. ‘I see …’

  ‘What’s more,’ said Russell. ‘His name is not Sheppard. That’s something the doctor came up with to put on the bed chart. They don’t know who the fuck he is. All they know is he shouldn’t be loose on the streets.’

  I frowned, and gave Weinbaum and The Man a worried look. Real Actor’s Studio stuff. ‘Did they say what was wrong with him?’

  ‘Psychotic cathexis,’ said Russell. ‘Whatever the hell
that is.’ At least he was honest. He gathered up the few sheets of paper that constituted The Man’s dossier and held them above his trash basket. ‘May I take it that you don’t intend to sue us for violation of civil rights or any other kind of shit?’

  ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘I’ve wasted enough time.’

  Russell junked the paperwork. He pulled a couple of cigarettes out of a Lucky Strike pack, gave one to Marcello, then tossed the pack across the desk towards me. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I offered it round. Weinbaum and The Man shook their heads. I took one as I passed it back, lit up and took a deep drag in an effort to stop my heart pounding. ‘By the way,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry I unwittingly dragged Immigration into this. Will you call them and explain what happened?’ I gave him an Honest Joe-look of concern, then smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want them to feel deprived.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Russell. ‘We’ll take care of all that.’

  It was the right reply but I got the feeling that, sooner or later, the bloodhounds would be back on our trail. I leaned towards Russell and indicated The Man with a sidelong glance. ‘I think maybe I should tell him what’s happening. But I won’t mention the doctor.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Russell.

  Once again I found myself speaking fluent Hebrew. Not that I needed to tell The Man what was going on. But we had to play it right down the line. I explained that the arrest had been a mistake; that Lieutenant Russell and Detective Marcello offered their apologies on behalf of the NYPD; and that a friend of mine was coming to pick us up in a car. I had the feeling that The Man had made a covert ally of Weinbaum but I kept it straight just to be on the safe side.

  The Man absorbed the news with the frowning attention of someone trying hard to keep a grip on reality, then treated Russell to a jerky smile and asked if he could have a drink. If all else failed, it was clear that both of us had a future in summer stock.

  Russell went to the door and bellowed an order for three Cokes and two coffees to someone called Tony. But this time, Miriam arrived before the refreshments. She had a raincoat over her white smock, and was carrying a black bag. I suppressed an insane desire to leap up and hug her. I just sat there and tried to sound like a man with a grievance. ‘Glad you could make it …’