The Angel of Montague Street

by Norman Green

  The sounds of the bar up over his head receded as he went along, and he found himself facing an ancient iron door, dimpled by time and rust. It was in what had to be the exterior foundation wall of the building above him. Just like old times, he thought, and he pulled his pistol out and clicked the safety off. Come on, he told himself. That fucking O’Brian does this, get on with it. You didn’t see him peeing his pants, did you? He checked the perimeter of the door with his flashlight carefully, then slowly pushed the door open. Behind it was a brick-lined passageway just wide enough for a man to walk through. Should’ve brought bread crumbs, he thought, just to keep from getting lost . . . The passageway was only about thirty feet long, and he made his way to the other end, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other. He was sweating profusely, finding it hard to breathe, but then at last he stepped through the far end into what was, by comparison, a vast chasm.

  It appeared to be what Ed had told him it would be, an abandoned railroad tunnel. The round ceiling soared far over his head, and a single set of railroad tracks ran down the center of the tunnel, receding in the darkness in each direction. He pointed his light at the ground, thinking that he would continue to follow the trail through the dust, but it was not necessary. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the chair.

  It was on the far side of the tracks, up near the wall. There wasn’t much left of the guy who’d been sitting there. The bones were still there, though a few had been scattered or dragged away, but most of the clothing and some of the skin was intact, dried a hard and dusty black. The chair itself was stained black, as well as a dark circle of ground underneath the chair, and a forest of rodent footprints ran through the dust.

  He shone his light on the guy, mouth sagging open but empty of all but a few teeth, strands of hair stuck to the top of the skull, copper wire ligatures still knotted around what had been wrists and ankles. It was the Dutchman, Silvano didn’t know why but he was sure of it. “Lenny Deutch,” he said softly, “I don’t know what you did, but it’s hard to believe you deserved this.” He shut the light off then, letting the darkness wash over him as he listened, wary for the sounds of humans still alive, but there were none.

  He clicked the light back on and turned to go. Over against the far wall, right next to the opening he’d come through, he saw a metal footlocker. He went over and opened it up.

  Yeah. Well, he thought, it always comes down to money. He shone his light up and down the tunnel, every nerve ending in his body screaming at him to leave, but he knew he had one more thing he had to do before he could go.

  SEVEN

  HENRY’S APARTMENT BUILDING was a six-story brick walkup that fronted on Clinton, with an alley going down one side where the garage was. It was a three-car garage, and all the garage doors were chained and locked. There was a personnel door at the end of the garage closest to the building. Henry fished around in his pocket for a key ring and unlocked the door. “You don’t have to come and go this way, if you don’t want,” he said. “There’s another door inside that unlocks with the same key, that way you can just go down the hallway on the first floor next door, and use the main entrance on Clinton, or you can go out the side door on the other side.”

  “Okay.” Silvano had been watching his back, peering down the alley through the predawn darkness, watching the taxi pull away. Henry had called the guy, and he had met them outside the back door at Henry’s factory building. Silvano had watched out the back window during the ride over, and if someone had been following them he had not seen them, but that did not mean they were not there. And the alley could be a bad spot, too easy to cut you off once you entered it. Henry must have been reading his mind.

  There were three cars in the garage, all of them covered with canvas tarps topped with a coating of dust. A set of stairs went up the back wall behind the first car. “You gotta lock this door behind you,” Henry said, clicking the deadbolt closed. “I should fix that, so she locks when she closes.” The apartment went the full width of the garage, and it was mostly one big room, with a small bedroom at one end and a tiny kitchenette at the other. There were bars outside all the windows, and ratty green shades were pulled halfway down.

  “Damn.” Silvano was looking in the kitchenette. There were two cockroaches in the sink, an inch and a half long apiece. “Damn, Henry. Those things roaches or are they Dobermans?”

  “Water bugs,” Henry said, flicking the light on. As soon as he did, the bugs jumped out of the sink and scrambled down behind the stove. “Those ones eat the regular kind,” he said. “I’m surprised to see ’em, tell you the truth. Ain’t nobody lived in here for ages. I wonder what they been living on.”

  “You could put saddles on ’em and give pony rides.”

  “I got stuff to kill ’em,” Henry said in a mildly wounded voice. He turned and looked at Silvano. “I’ll drop something off this afternoon.” He watched Silvano a minute. “First time I seen you smile,” he said. “I was beginning to think your face was broke.”

  “I’m fine, Henry,” Silvano said, wondering at himself, trying to understand this strange mood he was in. “Don’t worry about the bugs. I’ll take care of ’em.”

  “All right.” Henry clicked the light off. “I used to rent this out as a furnished apartment,” he said, “but over the years, I guess the furnishings left with the outgoing tenants. I don’t know if there’s even a bed in here anymore.”

  “I’ve slept on the floor before.” He walked over and looked out the window, listened to the sounds of his footsteps on the wooden floor echoing in the empty room. What is it about this place? he thought. Maybe it’s just that it’s not a barracks or a hotel room. Or a tent.

  “Listen,” Henry said. “There ain’t a lot of people know that I own this place, or the other place, neither. Most of the folks living here think I’m sort of a handyman, or maybe just a harmless old fart losing his marbles. I’d kind of like to keep it that way.”

  Silvano looked over at him, shaking his head. Crazy old white dude, long white braid, wearing jeans as old as he is, ratty old sweatshirt, sneakers that look like they already walked around the world. “No danger there, Henry. Way you dress, nobody would believe me if I told ’em. What you get for rent for this place?” He was shocked when he heard the question coming out of his mouth.

  “Well, I get extra from folks that insult my sartorial situation.”

  “That right?” He had already decided to stay. All the reasoning and logic come after the fact, he thought, you just want to justify something you already decided to do. The hell with it, anyway. No more running.

  “Don’t you want to see it in the daylight, at least? Wait until the sun comes up? Besides, you can stay here as long as you want.”

  “I appreciate that, Henry, but I don’t want to stay here. I want to move in. Is that all right with you? You weren’t keeping this place empty on purpose, were you?”

  “No. Not really. I’ll rent to you, if you’re sure. You made up your mind on this kind of sudden. I figured you were gonna take the smart way out, take your lady out to see the world, get you both out of harm’s way.”

  “I never claimed to be smart.”

  “Well, all right, then.” Henry shrugged, started taking keys off his key ring. “Glad to have you,” he said. “You still got a tough row to hoe, here. You gonna keep me posted on current events? Hate to get a new tenant all broke in, then have somebody shoot him.”

  Silvano was looking around, feeling his way. “Things look better in the daytime,” he said. “I got a feeling the next couple days ought to tell the story. I’ll do a wire transfer tomorrow. You want cash or a check?”

  Henry was laughing, shaking his head. “Wire transfer,” he said. “And here I was, thinking you was a poor homeless grunt.”

  “Homeless, maybe.”

  “I’ll leave you the address for the real estate company. Send ’em a check, the end of the month.”

  AT FIRST LIGHT the traffic moved freely on the BQE overpass and only
a few pedestrians dotted the sidewalk, early birds beating the rush. An ambulance rolled up to the hospital emergency room entrance, but the attendants took their time unloading their cargo. The sheet on the gurney was pulled over the occupant’s face. The city was grinding into gear, powering up for another day.

  Joseph O’Brian was already in, Silvano could see the beat-up Maverick parked in its usual spot in Black and White’s parking lot. The sun rose, burning in behind his shoulder and reflecting off the buildings in Lower Manhattan. The Statue of Liberty looked lost and lonely, small and green out on her island with New Jersey in the distance behind her, but Silvano’s glasses were not strong enough to show him anything that far away. Four suits in an unmarked sedan pulled up on the other side of Atlantic Avenue, all of them with hair cut so short that he could see the whitewalls with his naked eye from 10 floors up, but at least they had the sense to park the car somewhere out of sight. Soon after that, the traffic began to slow and thicken, more and more people making their way to work. The hardhats showed up at Black and White, seemingly all at once, and then after them came the regular drivers, off-duty or retired cops, mostly. The only ones he recognized were Frankie and Roland. The morning rush was in full swing by then, and Sean arrived last, parking his Caddy out in the middle of the lot with the door open while he went to have an argument with Lee, the carpenter foreman. Silvano watched through his glasses as Sean shouted and waved his arms around, then stopped abruptly, turned on his heel, and walked away holding his head. I wonder how much he remembers from yesterday? Silvano thought.

  Two delivery trucks pulled up in front of the grocery store, momentarily blocking his view of that section of the storefront and the sidewalk, but then one of them pulled out and double-parked on the avenue to leave the fire hydrant clear. The drivers both rolled up their rear doors and began unloading cardboard boxes and stacking them on hand trucks, wheeling them into the store. A guy from the store came out and stood on the sidewalk, ticking items off on a clipboard. Ordinary guys, Silvano thought. Ordinary life. He allowed himself to envy them, just for a moment.

  By this time the BQE overpass was clogged with cars, everybody in the world, it seemed, headed for Manhattan, and he wondered how there could be space for all of them on that small island, and why there wasn’t a better way to transport them all there and back, and why the hell would they do it, anyhow, sit in traffic like that every morning and every night, wouldn’t it turn you into a raving lunatic, after a while?

  His coffee had grown cold. He sipped at it anyway, and watched, trying to empty his mind. The armored vehicles did not leave Black and White’s yard until rush hour had begun to ebb. The drivers had to go through their morning routines, getting their assignments and loading their vehicles. Most of that took place out of sight, inside the big room where Elia sat behind her desk. Something about her, he thought, something that made you feel better. You weren’t so bad, how could you be, when she smiled at you that way that she did? Funny how some women can do that to you, he thought, just give you a look, make you think that maybe you’re not such an asshole after all, maybe you’re a real human being, underneath all of your bullshit. It seemed he always walked out of Elia’s presence looking at the world through slightly different eyes. I bet she doesn’t even know she does it, he thought. Bet she doesn’t even think about it.

  One of the trucks outside the grocery store finished up and left, but an ice cream delivery truck took its place a few minutes later, double-parking in the same spot. Silvano watched through his glasses, trying to keep his mind from speculating, trying to simply gather information, noting where the trucks were from, what the drivers looked like, but then a Lincoln Town Car double-parked in front of the ice cream truck. What a stupid car for the city, he thought, too long to park very well, too wide for clogged streets. Who would buy such a thing? The driver of the car got out and went to stand on the sidewalk in front of the store, looking in both directions. It was the same guy who’d been the lookout in front of the Hotel Montague. Probably had to promote the guy, Silvano thought. The guy stopped looking around and made a motion with one hand, and Ivan Bonifacio got out of the backseat of the Lincoln, unconsciously patted his coat pocket, and went into the store.

  Information, Silvano thought. Don’t jump to conclusions, gather information. He swung his glasses to the building where the FBI was set up, wondering if they were looking at the same thing he was, but of course, there was no way to tell. The angle didn’t seem right, though. You would have to lean out of a window in the front of that building to get a really good look at the sidewalk in front of the grocery store. He looked back, the driver was still standing there, and Ivan was still inside.

  Joseph O’Brian came out of the yard over at Black and White, pushing his bicycle, looking faintly ridiculous in his green work clothes and white running shoes. He pushed his bicycle out of the front gate, waiting until Sean came out to lock the gate behind him. The two of them stood there jawing at one another for a few minutes, and then the older man pushed his bicycle across the avenue, mounted up, and began pedaling up the hill. Ivan Bonifacio came back out of the store, walked over to the rear door on the driver’s side of the car and stood there with his hand on the door handle, waiting. O’Brian pedaled past, watching the cars coming down the hill at him, and he nodded slightly at Ivan on his way past, and Bonifacio returned the nod, just a tiny bob of his head.

  Son of a bitch, Silvano thought, those two bastards know each other. Don’t jump to conclusions, he heard Henry’s voice saying. Could have been saying, thanks for waiting, for not forcing me out into traffic to get around you . . .

  Yeah, sure. He swung the glasses back to the building where the feebies were, waiting to see if any of them came out to chase O’Brian on his bike, but none did. They’re probably sick of following the guy around, he thought, same routine every day. Guy’s got a heart condition, that’s what I assumed, does this twice a day, most days, trying to exercise, trying to stay alive.

  Sure he is. They’re waiting for someone connected to show up, and meanwhile the guy is stealing his own money, walking out with it right under their noses. And he and Bonifacio know each other.

  Silvano stuck his glasses up on the ledge in the stairwell and ran down the stairs.

  IT WAS A LONGER RUN this time because he was winded from his trip down the stairwell and O’Brian had a head start on him, but he felt a little better than he had the first two times, his breath came a little easier, and besides, he hadn’t had a cigarette since that first time he’d met Bronson in the St. Felix. When he crossed Court Street four blocks up, he could see O’Brian waiting at the next light, and he eased up the pace, coasted down the hill. Slow down, he told himself. Let the guy go on ahead. Give him room.

  Joseph O’Brian’s bike was chained up to a parking meter when Silvano got to Flatbush Avenue. He leaned on a mailbox and waited. Joseph O’Brian came up the steps and out of the bar entryway, blinking in the sun, looking like he’d seen a ghost and not just a dead guy.

  Silvano stayed where he was. “O’Brian!”

  Joseph O’Brian stopped, looked over his shoulder at Silvano. His face was white, and he looked away, distracted. Silvano walked on over to him. O’Brian was staring at his shoes. Guy looks like one of the nuns just caught him jerking off, Silvano thought. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the picture of his brother.

  “You seen this guy before?”

  “Huh? Yeah. No, I mean. Don’t know him.” His hands fluttered, and he looked around, looked out at the cop directing traffic in the middle of the intersection of Flatbush and Atlantic.

  Guy looks like he’s having a stroke, Silvano thought. “You want it back?”

  O’Brian swung back, his mouth wide. “What? What? You . . .”

  “Got time for me now, don’t you, motherfucker?”

  “You took my money?” He looked over his shoulder, out at the cop again.

  “Look at the picture,” Silvano told him. “You wann
a talk to me or you wanna tell the cops?”

  He swallowed convulsively. “Not out here, not out on the street.” His eyes darted around, nervous. “It’s not mine, not all of it. They’ll kill me . . .”

  “I don’t give a fuck whose money it is,” Silvano told him, “or whether they kill you or not.”

  THEY SAT AT A TABLE in the back of a coffee shop on Atlantic, a block up from the bar. Silvano watched O’Brian wordlessly, let him tell it his own way.

  “You get used to it, I guess. After a while, you could just as well be counting books, or record albums, or cabbages, for that matter. Even after my divorce, after my ex got done raking me over the coals, I never really gave it much thought. And I was in a real pinch, there, for a while, but the only thing that bothered me about it was that I had to scale back what I was doing with the Church.” He was looking down, avoiding eye contact.

  “I didn’t mind losing the house. I actually prefer my apartment, at least it’s quiet in there. I don’t mind driving the Maverick, not even when I park it next to Sean’s Cadillac. Taking the money never really crossed my mind, until Noonie.” He looked up, his face haggard, and quickly looked back down at the table. “Your brother. I don’t mean to suggest that it was his fault. Your brother was a good person, and I’m not saying that now to try to get out of trouble. He was pure, there wasn’t a hypocritical bone in his body. He was one of a kind.

  “Where I made my mistake was, the first mistake, he was hanging around in the office one day when we had the safe open. We had gotten a big delivery the day before, for the vans that go around doing payrolls. I was showing off, I guess, and I showed him a stack, it was about half an inch thick. ‘Ten thousand bucks,’ I told him. ‘Every one of these little bundles is ten thousand bucks.’ I don’t even know why I bothered, because I’m not sure Noonie really appreciated the difference between five hundred and five hundred grand. Hell, he used to like Sean to pay him in ones. Made him feel like a rich man, he would be so happy, he made the rest of us feel rich, too. Anyway, he says to me, ‘I bet one of these would hardly make a lump in your pocket.’ And he winked. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, after that. I started playing games, take ten grand, put it in my pocket, carry it around for a couple days, put it back. I was taking something of a chance, you know, because every so often we get an audit, the FBI or the IRS will come in and look at the books, count up all the money, and it had better come out right. It always had, before that.