“Joey, how did it get there? It was destroyed. You saw it yourself.”
“You’re the logical one. You tell me.”
“The Mafia king hired a carpenter and had it rebuilt.”
“Jerry’s no pingpong magician. He was never in your club, not until it was totaled.”
“Joey, Joey,” Schiller said. “A Mafia king can do whatever he wants.”
And he walked away from Barbarossa, who hadn’t been with Isaac in a week.
The Pink Commish had hurled himself into some sort of exile. He wouldn’t page Barbarossa. He watered his plants. Barbarossa didn’t like all this silence. He was Isaac’s chauffeur, or else he wasn’t. He went to One PP and drifted into Isaac’s office. The begonia had climbed up the windows and was strangling the walls. Isaac had the look of a jungle creature. His sideburns had begun to grow into a beard.
“I can’t get to Jerry. He won’t give me a meet.”
“You shouldn’t have kidnapped Raoul.”
“I called the melamed. He swears Jerry’s sitting on the moon … I had to grab the kid. There was no other way.”
“You can’t get close to Jerry, with or without Raoul.”
“He’ll budge. You’ll see.”
“Boss, I’m not trying to get familiar, but if you ask me, you have your own dick in your hand.”
“I’m not asking you, and you are too familiar,” Isaac said. “Keep away from my daughter.”
“I met her once.”
“That’s almost half a history with Marilyn the Wild.”
“I like her,” Barbarossa said. “I won’t lie.”
“She’s a married woman. Keep away.”
“Boss, nine husbands aren’t much of a marriage.”
“Her marriages have nothing to do with Joe Barbarossa. I don’t want you near Indian Road.”
“What if she comes to Schiller’s again?”
“That’s no problem. Schiller’s doesn’t exist.”
“You’re wrong. Schiller got his club back, with Coen’s table. It’s risen out of the black dust.”
“I’m glad,” Isaac said. “If Marilyn comes through the door, you hide from her.”
“Can’t,” Barbarossa said. “You’ll have to kill me, boss.”
He walked out of Isaac’s office, hopped into the Dodge, and raced up to Indian Road.
Leo Sidel was much sturdier outside the tombs of a department store. Barbarossa had to wonder if he was wearing stolen pants and a stolen shirt. But he didn’t have that feckless feel of Isaac’s delinquent brother. Indian Road had once been a privileged address, the home of aristocrats who preferred the calm of upper Manhattan, with Inwood Hill and Spuyten Duyvil Creek. But most of the aristocrats had left. And Leo was part of some lost tribe that was sliding down from gentility. He couldn’t have afforded the rent without Isaac.
“I was looking for Marilyn,” Barbarossa said.
“Come inside, Mr. Policeman.”
“I’m Barbarossa.”
“I know who you are … my rescuer. Marilyn mentioned you. It’s a pity. She just left. She likes to shop. We both have a weakness for bargain basements … you look like a youngster.”
“I’m thirty-seven.”
“And a very notorious cop. Medals follow you around, I hear, and a couple of corpses.”
“Did Marilyn tell you that?”
“Mr. Barbarossa, you have a reputation. You escort the police commissioner. You fight his battles. You wear a mask sometimes. The news starts to travel.”
Barbarossa sat with Leo in a window seat that looked out upon the heights of Riverdale, where his sister lived.
“I keep getting calls from the biggest Democrats. They offered me a bounty if I can persuade Isaac to run. Becky Karp is sinking. She had a terrific dive in the last opinion poll. But I couldn’t recommend my brother. On top of being a bandit, he’s a real shit.”
Leo served coffee from a silver pot. Barbarossa’s cup had a golden rim. “My mother’s china,” Leo said. “She was kicked to death by a gang of young hoodlums … am I wrong about Isaac, Mr. Barbarossa? I was his accomplice when I was a kid, a tremendous thief.”
“I came for Marilyn, Mr. Sidel. I can’t judge Isaac. He doesn’t want me to visit your niece.”
“Of course not. He found her second husband, did you know that? And then sabotaged the marriage. He’s like that. You can’t fight him. He feints, he counterattacks. You have to lose. He had a girlfriend once. I was in love with her. A Roumanian princess. She disappeared. I still have dreams about her, Mr. Barbarossa.”
“You shouldn’t. She’s surfaced, Mr. Sidel. She kills people for the FBI … I have to go. Could you please tell Marilyn I’ll try again.”
“Does she know where to reach you?”
“Yeah. Manfred Coen’s pingpong table.”
Barbarossa went down into the street. Indian Road. But this wasn’t the land of the Nez Percé. Chief Joseph. Barbarossa would have to lead his own children’s march against the U.S. cavalry. He couldn’t stop thinking of Riverdale. He rode up to Macabee’s. His sister was asleep. He knocked on the bursar’s door. There was a tiny cluttering noise, and then the door opened. The bursar’s face peered out of the darkness, like a bloodless valentine.
“Joe Barbarossa,” he said. “My sister is on the second floor … I’m a little behind in my rent bills.”
“You aren’t behind at all,” the bursar said. “In fact, your payments are a year in advance.”
“I’m lost,” Barbarossa said. “I haven’t been slipping cash under your door.”
“But that was rectified this week.”
“Who paid my bills?”
“We received a lump sum.”
“Was there a name attached to the money?”
“Yes,” the bursar told him. “The name was Raoul.”
Barbarossa left the sanitarium, his hand twitching under the white glove.
13
He didn’t care if the universe collapsed in upon itself, or if the arrow of time was hiding under Isaac’s Dodge. He took his own rocket to the moon and arrived in Bath Beach. He got into a shoving war with Jerry’s bodyguards, who were stationed outside Alicia’s building on Bath Avenue.
“Hey, stupid, you can’t come here. It’s off limits. The street belongs to Jerry.”
“Raoul’s my teacher, and I came for a lesson.”
“Don’t joke about the little prince.”
Two of the bodyguards had him by the hair, but Barbarossa held his Glock between their throats. A window opened under the roof. Jerry stood against the sill, wrapped in his white coat, and called down to his bodyguards.
“He’s harmless. A pingpong player. Let him up.”
Barbarossa climbed the stairs to Alicia, Jerry, and Raoul. He felt like a moron, wagging his finger in Jerry’s face.
“Mr. DiAngelis, no one, no one pays my bills.”
“Ah, sit down. Have a bite. Raoul loves you.”
“But I’m not one of your warriors.”
“Come on. You were kind to the kid.”
“The Maf can’t meddle in my sister’s affairs.”
“I wasn’t meddling. It’s a gift. No strings.”
“There are always strings,” Barbarossa said.
Jerry rolled his eyes. “Raoul, will you calm this crazy cop?”
“Mr. Joe,” the boy said, with all the directness of a little prince. “Sit down and eat.”
Barbarossa sat down at the table. Alicia smiled. He couldn’t get over how beautiful she was. He’d never had a comare … or a wife. He was Barbarossa, the robber policeman and remote relative of an Indian chief. He’d have to remain Roz’s little half brother for life.
He had a thick soup made with corn and pimentos. He had pies filled with spicy meat. Jerry’s comare had been raised in Argentina. She had a drop of Castilian blood. She could have married a playboy or a diplomat. But she loved Jerry D., and she lived among the Sicilians of Bath Beach, accepted the confines of a hidden marria
ge. She had Raoul.
Barbarossa stuffed his mouth with meat pies. He started to sweat.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Joe?”
“It’s nothing,” Barbarossa said. “A mild case of malaria.”
“Were you in the jungle?” Raoul asked.
“No. I caught it in Saigon … there were tremendous mosquitoes during the rainy season.”
“And the mosquitoes bit Barbarossa’s ass,” Jerry said.
“Papa,” said the little prince. “Malaria’s not a joke.”
Jerry D. had dark splotches on his cheeks. “Didn’t I tell you, Joey? Raoul loves you.”
“Is that why you have bodyguards in the street?”
The splotches disappeared from Jerry’s face. “You work for Isaac, and you ask me that? People get ideas. They learn from the police commissioner. He comes into the house with a mask, he runs off with my boy, and I’m supposed to welcome the news? LeComte is a copycat. He could let one of his Mormons put on a mask … I’m not giving any second chances.”
Barbarossa apologized. “Now tell me how your carpenters resurrected Manfred Coen’s pingpong table.”
“It was easy … Raoul. The kid has a photographic mind. He kept crying, ‘Coen, Coen.’ I trust Raoul’s instincts. He made a thousand sketches of the club.”
“Papa, don’t exaggerate.”
“Joey, they’re works of art. I got me the best builders in town and I said, Follow every fucking detail’ Didn’t I, Raoul?”
“It’s nothing special,” Raoul said. The little prince was forlorn. His only friends were adults, and he had to endure their odd behavior. They liked to scream and show off. Mr. Joe had a little more sense. He didn’t scream so much.
“Son of a bitch,” Barbarossa said.
“Don’t disappoint Raoul,” Jerry said. “I told him how you were losing money driving Isaac around, how you had to support your own big sister, and he said, ‘Papa, we have to help Mr. Joe.’ Honest to God. No strings.”
“Where’d you learn about Rosalind?”
“From LeComte … or one of his spies. He doesn’t own the street. I do.”
“Then do me a favor. The boss is dying up on the fourteenth floor. He has puppets in his head. And some mysterious mother called Peppinninu. Will you meet with Isaac before he melts away?”
“He’s a stronzo. Worse than any stranger.”
“Then you’ll have another PC on your hands, because Isaac won’t last. Sit with him.”
“Ah,” Jerry said, looking at Alicia and Raoul. “I’ll think about it.”
Barbarossa was like the pingpong ball between a pair of strategists. Isaac and Jerry D. were knocking him around over the net. Barbarossa couldn’t even have one simple secret about his suicidal sister. Isaac owned him, and what about Jerry and LeComte and Raoul? He was the perfect puppet … and pingpong ball. No one had the right to separate him from his sister. He could have pulled Rosalind, found her another sanitarium. But he’d begun to feel like a man on the run. And what excuse could he give to Roz?
He had to hunt down Sidel. The boss wasn’t at Police Plaza or his flat or his Newyorican restaurant. Barbarossa discovered him on Delancey Street. The boss was wandering like a bum. He loved to live in the dark under some bridge. And this was our next mayor. The champion of schoolchildren. The great detective. The guy who’d been glocked. Barbarossa had to get out of the car and escort Isaac to his usual front seat.
“Joey, what’s happening? Have you been guarding my calendar?”
“You don’t have a calendar, boss.”
“Where you been? With my daughter up on Indian Road?”
“I missed her by half an hour.”
“Joey, remind me to break your leg.”
“I was with Jerry D.”
Isaac emerged from the collar of his shabby coat. He had a brittle smile. He was clutching his Glock, digging its plastic nose against Barbarossa. “I was listening to LeComte’s stoolies on tape. There was talk about my chauffeur grabbing money from the Maf.”
“I’m not your chauffeur, boss.”
“What would you call yourself?”
“The Black Stocking Boy. I run a kindergarten class.”
“But Jerry D. is still paying for your sister’s room up in Riverdale.”
“Not Jerry, boss. Raoul.”
“That kid must have a terrific allowance.”
“I didn’t like it, boss. And I went to Bath Beach. I ate some of Alicia’s gaucho pies.”
“They welcomed you, huh?”
“Raoul adopted me. Jerrys spies learned from LeComte’s spies that I was behind in my bills. So Raoul adopted me.”
“It’s a classic situation.”
“Go on, glock me, boss. You can believe it or not.”
Isaac put his plastic gun back inside his pants.
“I have to believe you, Joey. Do I have a choice? Raoul adopted you. We’ll leave it at that.”
“There are benefits, boss.”
“Like what?”
“Jerry agreed to a powwow. You’ll have your meet.”
“Now I am suspicious,” Isaac said, wriggling inside his bum’s coat.
The PC’s just another homeless person, like I am, Joe figured to himself. But Joe had Blue Eyes’ pingpong table. And yet he didn’t. It had turned into a table according to Raoul. And Barbarossa couldn’t tell who the real author was. Raoul or Manfred’s ghost.
“Joey, where’s the meet?”
“At the Baron di Napoli social club.”
“That’s some meet,” Isaac said. “We go into Jerry’s main headquarters without our masks?”
“Boss, what can I tell you? Take it or leave it.”
14
Isaac took the meet. It was either sit with Jerry or go to hell. He couldn’t get that puppet master out of his rotten skull. Peppinninu. He didn’t care about the rude economics of fifty dolls. The “merchandise” could have a billion backers and buyers. Isaac wasn’t an entrepreneur. He needed all the folly of a mad quest. But first he had to solve his war with the don.
He arrived at the Baron di Napoli with one lonely knight. Barbarossa. And Jerry had his captains, who sat with rifles in their laps, since the Baron di Napoli was also a rifle club. These captains mocked Isaac, who’d been chased out of the Family. They squinted into their telescopic sights, aiming at Isaac and clicking their teeth.
“Cut it out,” Jerry said. He wasn’t wearing his white coat. His red blazer had bone-colored buttons that seemed to match his silver hair.
Isaac pointed to the ceiling.
“Stronzo,” Jerry said, “I’m not scared of LeComte’s microphones.”
“Good. Then I’ll be blunt. You wanted to kill me at Chinaman’s Chance. You started the war.”
“I came to the Chinaman’s for Sal Rubino. You shouldn’t have been there.”
“I’m a cop. I go where I have to go.”
“You killed my baby brother.”
Isaac groaned. “Is that the source of it, Jerry? Is that where the wound begins? Nose followed me to a baseball diamond. He would have whacked the cardinal and a lot of innocent kids. He was unwired … I didn’t pull the trigger.”
“I know. Your detectives shot him, Barbarossa and that pretty boy, Caroll Brent. But I can’t blame Joe. He did his job. You were the triggerman without a trigger.”
“Jerry, he was LeComte’s rat.”
“That doesn’t absolve you. He was a dopey kid. He got confused.”
“He was knocking off your captains.”
“He got confused, I said … LeComte, are you listening? I fuck you where you breathe. You and your stronzo sweetheart, Isaac Sidel.”
“Joey, let’s get out of here. I can’t have a conversation with this mutt.”
“You’ll stay,” Jerry said. “I haven’t finished.”
“I beg your pardon, Jerry dear … Joey, are you coming or not?”
“Boss,” Barbarossa said, “listen to the man.”
“I get it,�
�� Isaac said. “Raoul turned Joey around. You can have him. He’s your soldier.”
Jerry’s captains wagged their heads at the former Don Isacco, who looked like he belonged in a hospital for bums.
“Stronzo, my kid doesn’t train soldiers for me.”
“Then he’s a charmer,” Isaac said, marching to the door.
“I should have whacked you, Isaac, and I will.”
Isaac turned to face the don and his cavaliers, captains with telescopic sights. “I’m ready,” he muttered.
“Steal my kid, you cocksucker. That’s a capital offense.”
“How else could I get your attention, huh?”
“Attention? Isaac, you’re marked for life.”
“Don’t complain. Didn’t Raoul have the best chaperone in the world? Barbarossa.”
“That’s a trick of fate. It means nothing.”
“Good-bye, Jerry. Good-bye, Joe. I’m leaving.”
“Boss,” Barbarossa said, “this was supposed to be a truce.”
“A truce with him?” Isaac said, pointing to Jerry D. “He has his shooters. I have mine. I can live without you, Joey. I’ll create a thousand Black Stockings. I’ll bomb all his clubs.”
“Jesus, Jerry,” Barbarossa said. “Talk to him about Peppinninu.”
“I aint in the mood.”
“Ah,” Isaac said. “The dummy sold all his dolls. I got that from the horse’s mouth.”
“Some fucking horse,” Jerry said, and started fumbling with a lock. He opened a closet behind the Baron di Napoli’s coffee bar. The closet had a steel door. Isaac peeked inside. His head started to swim. His knees sank a little. On a wall, at the rear of the closet, hung five dolls, with the fury of combat on their faces. They were knights of their own particular realm, with painted cheeks, enormous wooden mustaches, big dark eyes, and jeweled skirts. The metal rods rising out of their helmets were attached to hooks in the ceiling that held the dolls in place. Each warrior had a slightly crooked sword in one hand and a shield in the other, and a green or red or violet mop trailing from his helmet, like another head of hair.
“Mr. Sidel, meet my paladins, the dolls of Sicily.”
“Do they have names?” Isaac asked, grabbing his own pathetic knees.
“Ah, call them whatever you like.”
Montezuma's Man (The Isaac Sidel Novels) Page 8
