by Dan Fante
I couldn’t hold food in my stomach so I began drinking water. Every time I swallowed I would immediately vomit.
Somewhere on the second day while doing my walking I turned the TV on. In a few minutes the noise began making me crazy so I turned it off. But there was still talking, like ten people whispering at once, coming from the set.
I washed my face then and went down to the check-in office to tell them to take the TV away. There was an out-to-lunch sign on the door so I scribbled a note on one of the check-in slips. It took two hands to do it and I printed in large child’s letters.
When the manager came to my room I was on the floor having cramps and unable to answer the door. We yelled back and forth. He said he couldn’t take the TV set away because the owner had strict orders that all rooms contain a working TV. TVs were not his responsibility.
The whispering in my room continued. Then there was an image on the TV screen. It was turned off, but a Road Runner color cartoon was playing. I finally unplugged the thing and set it outside my door, which then brought the manager back to my room.
When I opened up for him, he could see that I was filthy and soaked in sweat, with a cut on my head, and in bad shape. He looked into my eyes, said nothing, and then carried the set away down the stairs.
Later, sometime on the second or third day, still drinking only water, I finally went to sleep.
When I woke up I ate some of my Fritos with gulps of water, then puked on and off all morning.
A couple days later, still drinking only glassfuls of tap water, I was better. The shakes had been coming and going again but now, for the most part, they were gone. I changed my clothes and took a shower. At the check-in window downstairs I saw a calendar. I’d been at the motel for five days. Then I walked several blocks to a diner and ordered eggs and toast.
On the way back I vomited again in the bushes but I knew I was better. The worst was over.
That Sunday, a Sunday like any other Sunday—a non-holiday Sunday—I went back home to my apartment.
At the market I got everything I needed to cook a turkey dinner for myself. Potatoes and corn and mince pie and peppermint ice cream and cranberry sauce and rolls and a ten-pound bird. I couldn’t find a cab outside the market, so I carried all the bags down First Avenue, fifteen blocks, stopping every few blocks to readjust my load.
It took me four hours to put the whole deal together, but when I was done, I sat down by myself with a bottle of Pepsi and some fresh Italian bread. Going without alcohol went against everything in my DNA, but I had done it. I had accomplished sobriety without a shrink or Bellevue Hospital or the goddamn twelve steps or a girlfriend. I had willed myself sober. I was thirty years old. I saw this as my last chance at a normal life.
Chapter Twenty-two
A Real Private “Dick”
One afternoon, a week before I began my self-detox, I had picked up an odd fare in my taxi on the Upper East Side. A big middle-of-the-day drunk dressed in a business suit. For New York City taxi drivers, it is important to immediately visually size up everyone who gets into your cab. This occupational paranoia can save your neck, and you pick it up quickly if you want to stay alive.
I’d discovered that most daytime juiceheads in business suits who took cabs were found in the Wall Street area, ducking out of stock-trading houses, or on Madison Avenue in midtown, where all the ad agencies and magazines thrived. But not on the Upper East Side.
The guy’s shirt was wrinkled and he had a red bruise on his forehead. He’d either been in a bar fight or slept in his clothes all night. One or both.
He was cheerful and half-gassed and heading for midtown, telling me he was on his way to work.
“You’re going to work,” I asked. “Like that?”
“Yeah. Sooo? You got a problem?”
“Hey, not me,” I said, “but maybe your boss will. You look like you’re having a rough time—and you’re half in the bag.”
“That, young man, is no problem at all. For your information, I am the boss. The chief crook and nozzle bosher.”
We both laughed.
Then we began talking: about politics and current events. The guy referred to anyone who opposed the Vietnam War as a pansy peckerhead or a dickless coward.
Our fifteen-minute exchange ended when he left my cab at Forty-fourth and Madison Avenue. He gave me a good tip, then tossed his business card on the front seat. “Look,” he said, “for a dickless pinko coward, you talk like you’re a pretty bright guy. And you look presentable enough. If you ever get your head out of your ass and want to quit this shit job and make a few bucks, gimme me a call.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You know, for a redneck Nazi moron, you’re not a bad guy either.”
His business card read “Buckley ‘Buck’ Schroeder, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS.” Beneath Buck’s moniker were listed three associations of current and former FBI members. In the upper left-hand corner of the card was a big gold FBI emblem with the word “Retired” under it.
I had come to hate the taxi business after having been held up twice and stabbed, and now that I was sober I decided it was time for a change. A day or so later, I telephoned Schroeder’s midtown office and left a message with his answering service. That night I was at home after a two-mile walk to subdue my mind when I heard my phone ring. It was Schroeder. There was no exchange of pleasantries. “So, you wanna job, Fannee?” he snarled.
“It’s pronounced Fante—like Dante,” I said. “You’re a private detective, right? What would my job description be?”
“You’re a smart guy, Fannee. What do you think it’d be? You detect. You assist me. That’s the job description. Show up tomorrow at ten a.m. Can you type?”
“Sure, I can type.”
“Come in tomorrow. We’ll talk it over.”
Click.
Schroeder was a pornography degenerate, a drunk, and a very smart, darkly humorous scoundrel. His people-less four-room office suite was a fluorescent tomb—evidence of the employees he’d cheated and burned. The empty desks were their headstones.
In his large private office, mounted on the wall behind his expensive leather executive chair was a nickel-plated .45 automatic, a gift from one of his FBI buddies at his retirement. It was the same kind of gun, according to Buck Schroeder, that General George Patton carried on each hip during the Battle of the Bulge.
In his closet were a few starched shirts and expensive, worn suits. He slept on the couch in his apartment on the nights he went home to his wife. On other nights he slept at the office.
My new employer was a career drunk and adept at hoodwinking. He’d ripped off his creditors and his landlord and owed everyone money—except the phone company, which made obvious sense. This all became clear to me midway through my first week on the job.
At the end of that week, before leaving, now aware of the guy’s reputation, I demanded cash for my salary. I was handed a fistful of crumpled twenties and tens. I also received a box of two hundred fifty business cards. Opening the box I saw my name in bold type across the front. The title beneath was “Special Investigator.” On the upper left-hand corner was a gold badge with the letters “PI” beneath it. Our office phone number and my own home number were at the bottom.
When I objected to my telephone number appearing on the card, Schroeder scoffed. “This is a twenty-four-seven gig, Fannee. The number’s for emergencies. Get used to it.”
“What emergencies?” I said.
“Things come up. It’s part of the job.”
“I don’t want my number on the card.”
“Tough shit, kid. Take it or leave it.”
Buck insisted that I only answer our office phone on the third ring. Never sooner. He’d launch into a red-faced tirade if I forgot and picked it up before the third ring.
My daily duties were pretty simple: I was Schroeder’s front man. I answered the phone in an authoritative tone, warding off bill collectors, angry ex-clients, and his wife. I gave the impression we were
operating a business. Schroeder’s own job description involved staying drunk all day and occasionally working a case.
I helped carry on the sham and managed to remain boozeless. Buck was a good example of what was down the road for me if I went back to my old ways. It was the first nine-to-five gig I’d had in several years.
At night I followed husbands and took photographs of the men and their girlfriends. My boss’s only investigative trade tip on surveillance was to always brings two hats. “Hats are the best decoy, Fannee. Always take the hats with you.”
“They’re your hats. They don’t fit me.”
“Go buy your own.”
“Okay, but that’s a business expense. Schroeder Investigations should pay for uniforms.”
“I take it back. Don’t wear any hats.”
Buck Schroeder was two years behind on his office rent. Because he had been high-level FBI, his landlord was powerless to act against him. I hated his right-wing politics and his harangues about the war, but working for the guy gave me a welcome rest from the twelve-hour days that hacking demanded.
During the mornings, while I sat at my desk, I did weekly security background checks—job candidate screenings—for one of Schroeder’s two steady-paying accounts, a life insurance company. My boss showed me how to type the reports up Fed style, with appropriate cop investigative terminology.
I was put in contact with several of Schroeder’s ex-Fed buds, a couple of whom were also in the PI business. From that day on I had easy and open access to police and public records, and favors, when needed. I’d get all the information I needed regarding potential employees, and if there was little direct data available on someone, Buck told me to make up the details.
For me, the fun part of doing an executive background report was the summary—the candidate’s lifestyle. The high-level insurance company job applications were thorough and confidential, and when I lacked solid information about the people applying for a job, or their lifestyle looked boring as hell, I began to extrapolate. For instance, say the prospective employee had occasionally gone hunting or had been a mountain biker. I’d go into details of his adventures and often add in a narrow escape or two. Usually my narrative went on for a couple pages. The applicant never saw his employee dossier, so I was in the clear.
Schroeder was a big man, over six feet and easily two hundred thirty pounds. He could take most men down in two or three moves, and I would witness this on more than a few occasions. The Buckster never shied away from a confrontation. Occasionally, a frustrated creditor appeared at our office or an angry ex-client demanded to speak to my boss. I always tried to talk them down in the hall, but if Buck was in and drunk there was often a situation.
When Schroeder was out, my standard reply varied only slightly. “Sir, I apologize. At present Mr. Schroeder is involved in an important surveillance and cannot be contacted.” Or, “Mr. Schroeder is in Washington, D.C., on a high-level priority assignment. I won’t know until next week when he will return.” Or, “Mr. Schroeder’s aunt passed away suddenly and he has flown to Sacramento (or Seattle or Schenectady) to be at her funeral and to administer her estate.” Apparently, in his past, some misguided state government had issued permission for Schroeder to practice law.
Chapter Twenty-three
Real Detective Work
Then things changed suddenly. In my second month with Schroeder, through one of his FBI contacts, we began representing a newly formed group of West Side landlords. Schroeder’s rich clients were intent on having the tenants of several aging New York apartment buildings evicted so that the buildings could be remodeled or torn down, nullifying rent-control guidelines. Schroeder, for once, stayed reasonably sober. The influx of cash and business had him at least temporarily back on track.
My boss expanded our office staff by two: a secretary and a paralegal. Buck was determined that this stepping-stone for his company would eventually make Schroeder Investigations a big-time Manhattan PI firm.
My boss began training me seriously, teaching me as though I were some kind of FBI recruit. I had never seen Schroeder’s jacket—his personal FBI file. After reading it I learned that he had worked directly for Hoover. Schroeder, when sober, was a first-class detective, and his personal association with J. Edgar had opened many doors.
We spent three to four hours a day together, going over Buck’s old cases as he explained the evolution of each one and drilled me on the methodology of FBI investigations. My tightwad boss even gave me money and told me to go to Macy’s and buy suits, shirts, ties, and shoes, and to “get a fucking haircut.”
A few days later, we made a presentation in our clients’ boardroom offices and laid out our strategy for handling their tenant situation. Schroeder introduced me as his #1 man, and as having a master’s degree in criminal science.
My surveillance training was strictly on-the-job. Schroeder was a good teacher and when we were in the field he walked me through every option and always explained his reasoning.
For months we were strapped everywhere we went. On three occasions I had to defend myself. Buck’s gun was legal. Mine was not. When I told him I needed a carry permit, he laughed. “You got me, Fanneee. I’m your carry permit. With me around you could shoot a nigger on a bench in Washington Square Park, or one of your pinko demonstrator pals, and I’d have you sprung by dinnertime.”
We had opened our investigation with the red flag building tenants first—occupants who had suspect backgrounds and/or appeared to spend beyond their means of support. The list came from our landlord clients, and Schroeder augmented it with their personal IRS records and any available FBI or police data.
Our pattern was to do surveillance on each name on our list for two weeks, including photographs. If and when we determined there might be illegal activity, we would enter their apartments to gather evidence.
In the 1970s in New York City, the surface of the PI business was a mixed stew of ex-lawmen, lawyers, and freelance husband-chasers. But the deeper you got in, the darker, more unstable, and more treacherous the waters became. In hindsight, Schroeder should have known better than to take on the assignment, but Buck was a cowboy at heart.
He had good skills as a lock man. In most entry attempts, we got in without a problem on the first try.
Our first real break came when we made entry into the ground-floor unit of an apartment manager named Otto Alemenova. Schroeder, of course, was point man.
The week before, our background check on the guy had revealed what appeared to be a bogus part-time job at a transmission repair store on Eleventh Avenue. We had gone to the shop with mickeyed City Labor Board IDs. We’d then asked the owner, a cousin of Alemenova’s, to see the employment files for a routine compliance check. Alemenova’s name appeared on none of his cousin’s store’s job records, though his job application was in the shop’s files.
Then, in our surveillance and photographs, we had seen Alemenova and his wife and a total of eleven male visitors enter and leave the unit over a one-week period. The visitors usually arrived late in the evening, by taxi. Our local precinct contact obtained the original pickup address for each visitor. Three of the pickups originated at precise numbered addresses, as recorded on the cabdriver’s trip log. The noose was tightening.
Using our flashlights we first cleared all the rooms in the apartment: two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. No one was present.
Then, returning to the living room, we carefully and quietly tossed the bookshelves and cabinets. Eventually, we located a safe on the floor beneath a coffee table. It was made of heavy steel and bolted to the floor. The lock was a phone-pad type with four exterior lock components. Schroeder shook his head. No way.
Moving on to the kitchen we continued our search, always careful to put things back where they had been.
In the refrigerator’s freezer compartment, in a stack of frozen TV dinner boxes, Schroeder located Alemenova’s stash. The living room safe had been a decoy. There was over $30
,000 in banded stacks of what looked to be uncirculated cash. My boss held his nose to signify his suspicion. Then he slid one bill out of a stack by using his penknife and forefinger and placed it in a brown envelope from his jacket’s inside pocket. He whispered to me: “I’ll have this checked out.”
In another frozen dinner box was jewelry: several gold bracelets and watches and chains, and an assortment of jeweled rings.
Buck was grinning. Now, with our surveillance records, we could track the three men with known addresses who had visited the place and have possible hard evidence that could constitute probable cause with law enforcement. With Buck’s connections a warrant could be obtained. There was no question, we’d hit pay dirt.
Schroeder quietly spread out the cash and jewelry on the kitchen counter’s yellow, square-tiled surface and prepared to take photographs. My boss gestured for me to turn on the kitchen light so he could use his Nikon.
After I’d switched the lights back off we returned everything to the freezer compartment exactly where it had been.
Just as Schroeder was closing the freezer compartment we heard a sound from another room.
We stopped and waited.
Then the sound repeated. It appeared to be coming from the bedroom immediately across from the kitchen. Schroeder unholstered his piece, a long-barreled FBI-issued .38. I did the same with my snubnose, pulling it from my belt in the rear waistband of my pants.
We moved to the hall outside the bedroom, each taking a position on either side of the door. At his signal, guns ready, we moved inside and crouched to shooting positions.
The room appeared empty.
Schroeder hit the wall light switch. The bulb would not ignite. Again, we heard a rustling-shuffling noise. It came from the wall to our right. This wall contained a long, built-out closet with a sliding door. We had cleared all the closets, but when I had swept this one, after moving the coats and dresses aside, I hadn’t noticed its tiny rear panel.
