“I have to confess something, Joe. I dreamt about you before we ever met.”
“Marilyn, the man is supposed to say that, not the lady … stuff about a dream girl. But I have a hard time remembering my dreams.”
“I don’t. I dream and dream. Are you embarrassed, Joe?”
“Embarrassed? About landing in your dreams? Yeah, I’m embarrassed.”
She touched his hand, not to tease him, but to give him comfort. And he almost cried. “My sister,” he said. “She has a place … we could go there.”
“Joe, whatever you like.”
They walked past the spectators’ gallery and out of Schiller’s. He drove her down in Isaac’s Dodge. They never kissed, not once in the car, but Barbarossa could feel all the static. He wanted to rock this skinny girl in his arms. No one would have to kill him. He’d die of tenderness.
He parked on Thirty-fifth and Second. Roz’s place was on Tunnel Exit Street. What kind of address was that? She’d lived over the Midtown Tunnel, in a mountain of fumes. Your face would get black from standing near the window. But Joe had kept the apartment. All of Roz’s belongings were here, closets of clothes. And it was the first time Barbarossa had brought a guest.
Marilyn didn’t complain. She ran her finger along the soot on the windowsill. She watched the cars come shooting out of the tunnel like shiny ghosts. The landscape appealed to her, and she wouldn’t let Joe pull down the blinds. It was like living in a concrete yard.
Joe was on a dream walk. His body touched Marilyn’s and the two of them made love on Roz’s bed, drowning in sheets that Joe had bought his sister, to prepare for some homecoming that would never happen. He couldn’t even feel his own maleness. He didn’t have any desire to bite Marilyn, or imprison her. He’d had girlfriends, mistresses, and “matinees,” sweethearts for an afternoon. He couldn’t spend the night, not with any of them, and here he was falling asleep with Marilyn the Wild in his sister’s apartment on Tunnel Exit Street.
He was Barbarossa, the man who never smiled. It was peculiar, because he couldn’t bear another body sleeping next to him, and now Barbarossa and Marilyn cuddled like a pair of dolls in a baby carriage …
He woke to the smell of coffee and the usual tunnel roars. Marilyn had composed some kind of breakfast. She was wearing one of Rosalind’s robes. There was marmalade but no milk, almonds and an old apple that had been lying in the fridge.
“You were playing pingpong in my dream,” she said.
“I’m not Coen,” Barbarossa said, starting to shake.
“It wasn’t Manfred … that’s the whole point. But I couldn’t recognize you until we met.”
“Anyone can play pingpong.”
“It was you, Joe. Can’t you accept the responsibility for it?”
“I’ll try.”
They had their breakfast, Barbarossa savoring the coffee Marilyn had brewed for him, while he was surrounded by his sister’s things.
“I have my own secret,” he said. “I held on to the apartment, but it wasn’t only for Roz. It was for me and you. It wasn’t conscious. It was inside my head.”
“Did my father talk about me? Marilyn the Wild.”
“I wasn’t thinking Marilyn. But it was you. I could feel it the minute you walked into the club that first time.”
“It was like a click.”
“Not a click. A small explosion.”
“You think we’ll ever get married? I’m not pressuring you, Joe. I was wondering, that’s all.”
“My sister will have to come to the wedding. I couldn’t get married without Roz.”
“Isaac will kill us.”
“Who cares? Let him kill us.”
“Where will we live?”
“In Roz’s apartment,” Joe said. “She wouldn’t want us to live anywhere else.”
“Couldn’t we make a compromise? I mean, move your sister’s clothes to another apartment, one that we picked?”
“But we’d have to keep a room for Roz. She’ll cry. She used to say, ‘Joey, get married. You shouldn’t live alone.’ And I’d say, ‘Roz, what do I want a wife when I have you?’ And now she’ll be as happy as hell.”
“What if she doesn’t like me?”
“Ah, she’ll like you.”
“But what if she doesn’t, Joe?”
“Don’t say that. Roz has to like you. If she doesn’t, it’s on account of her craziness. And I wouldn’t let her craziness spoil our marriage.”
She’d seen Barbarossa’s raw gray hand without the white glove. He’d stroked her with the hand, which had all the texture of an emery board with chicken pox, and she hadn’t said a word.
He put on the glove. “We should go for a walk.”
“Where, Joe? Into the tunnel?”
“Tudor City,” he said. “It’s on a hill. We can look down over the United Nations. ”
“And pick out all the diplomats.”
He laughed. “You can’t see a diplomat from the top of the hill. But it’s quiet. It has its own garden. It’s not like being in New York.”
“Good,” she said. “I’ve never been to Tudor City … could we afford an apartment, Joe? I have a little trust fund from my mother. She’s very rich.”
“Marilyn, I have to tell you something. I used to be a drug dealer when I had the time.”
“It figures. Isaac called you a murderer and a thief.”
“That son of a bitch,” Barbarossa said.
Marilyn couldn’t stop laughing. Both of them got dressed. They kissed in front of Roz’s mirror, each one looking at the other’s eyes.
“You’re kind of beautiful for a combat veteran,” Joe said.
“What veteran?”
“Nine marriages.”
“Oh, my God,” Marilyn said, cupping a hand to her mouth. “I forgot. I can’t marry you right away. I have to get a divorce from Mark. He’s my husband.”
“Your father told me. A Legal Aid lawyer.”
“He’s kind, but I don’t love him. I shouldn’t have married Mark.”
There were bits of static in Barbarossa’s blue eyes. “I could turn out to be another Mark.”
“I never had any clicks with Mark. Not even the smallest explosion.”
“I’d hate it if he started to haunt our marriage.”
He clipped on his gun and his handcuffs and went into the street with Marilyn. The sidewalk shivered with that constant tread of cars.
They walked up to Second Avenue and away from the tunnel. Joe had a big surprise. There was a boy sitting in the back of Isaac’s Dodge. Raoul.
“Jesus, kid, how did you get here? This is my future wife, Mrs. Daggers.”
Raoul shook Marilyn’s hand. “My father brought me … so you wouldn’t be alarmed.”
“Alarmed about what?”
“I’m not sure, Mr. Joe.”
The don himself stepped into the car, Jerry D., wearing his white coat like a king’s mantle. “Glad to meet you, Mrs. Daggers.”
“We’re engaged,” Barbarossa said.
“Then I’d like a ticket to the wedding, if there is a wedding.”
“Jerry, you shouldn’t threaten me like that.”
“Well, there’s been an accident. Don Roberto was kicked to death.”
Joe’s blue eyes didn’t register the slightest sign. “Let Marilyn out of this.”
“I can’t, Joey. That’s why I brought my kid. She might run to a pay phone and call the Commish. She’s Isaac’s girl, aint she?… I won’t harm Mrs. Daggers. But she’ll have to come with us.”
“Where?”
“To the fucking remains of Don Roberto’s puppet theater.”
17
The boy wasn’t allowed into the cellar. He sat upstairs in the deserted social club across the street from the Baron di Napoli. He had two bodyguards. Jerry and Marilyn and Joe descended into the cellar. The don wasn’t even wearing a gun. He didn’t make eyes at Marilyn or menace Barbarossa.
Don Roberto was lying on the cellar f
loor, wrapped in his own curtain, with images of Saracen and Christian knights. His entire face was covered with swollen blue marks. Joe could barely recognize Don Roberto. His ears and nose and mouth were in the wrong place. His eyes were pits in his head, with a lot of jelly.
“Mrs. Daggers doesn’t have to see this. She’s not the coroner, Jerry. And she has no interest in the dolls. ”
Marilyn squeezed Joe’s hand. “I want to stay. ”
“Jerry …”
“No. I want to stay.”
The puppet theater had been torn to pieces. The stage had collapsed. Only the scaffolding stood, and Joe could imagine how Don Roberto had manipulated the dolls. It was like a very low ladder, with a robust upper step that served as a platform. The maestro would have had to live in a permanent crouch as he pulled the rods and strings of a doll.
“Where’s young Robert?”
“Dunno.”
“You found the old man like this?”
“I didn’t find him. My soldiers did. They were bringing Roberto his lunch. ”
“And you figure it has all the signs of the Black Stocking Twins.”
“You and Isaac were the last to see him alive.”
“You were there, Jerry. You were also a witness.”
“But I didn’t kill him. I bring you to the maestro. He does a performance and he’s dead.”
“So Isaac and me are the bad guys.”
“Roberto was a cautious mother. He wouldn’t have let strangers into the house. He’d have had to recognize his own killer.”
“And what was our motive? ”
“Dolls, Joey, dolls. All the Peppinninus he’d buried are gone.”
“Okay. We whack the maestro and force young Robert to dig up his dolls. Is that the picture? But why would I need the money? Raoul is paying my bills. And Isaac gives whatever he has to the Delancey Giants. He’s like a monk.”
“A monk who’s running for mayor.”
“He hasn’t declared himself, has he?”
“There’s no one else but Isaac. And he’ll need a treasure chest.”
“So we take the dolls and turn them into liquid. Who’s our broker?”
“Papa Cassidy.”
“Jesus, that son of a bitch hates Isaac.”
“But he’d put out for the next mayor of New York.”
“Look at me, Jerry. Did I kill this old man?”
“You’ve killed for much less of a reason.”
“Did I kill Roberto and roll him inside the curtain?”
The don began to waver. He couldn’t seem to say yes or no. And then a masked man came charging down the stairs. He had a Glock in his hand.
“Boss, will you take off that fucking mask. We’re having an innocent conversation.”
Isaac twisted the stocking off his head. “Jerry, you shouldn’t have got my daughter involved in this.”
“I came with Joe,” Marilyn said.
Isaac peeked at the maestro lying in his own tapestry of knights while the don shoved his chest into Isaac’s gun. “Where’s Raoul?”
“Upstairs. His two babysitters are a little unconscious, that’s all.”
“Isaac, did you bring an army into my streets?”
“I’m not that stupid,” Isaac said.
“How’d you make us? We just got here.”
“I have a microphone in the back seat of the Dodge. ”
“You bugged your own fucking car?”
“Jerry, lemme bring my lab men down here. They’ll solve this caper. They’re geniuses.”
“No cops. I don’t want this shit in the papers. The Feds will start climbing on my ass.”
“Then I’ll just have a look,” Isaac muttered, seeking clues with each turn of his head. It wasn’t the Maf. The Maf wouldn’t have wrapped Roberto inside a funeral flag. The marks on Roberto’s face had come from a different company.
“Isaac, you’re not welcome to look.”
Isaac would have persisted, but Barbarossa squeezed one of his eyes. They’d developed this telepathic language between them. Isaac didn’t have to dance around a corpse. Barbarossa had “read” the riddle of the puppet master’s death.
“All right, Jerry. I surrender.”
Isaac walked upstairs with Marilyn, Jerry, and Joe. Raoul’s babysitters were lying on the floor, with handkerchiefs stuffed into their mouths. Six of Isaac’s detectives, wearing black leather coats, were performing magic tricks for Raoul, who sat on the coffee bar with his legs crossed.
“Jesus,” Jerry said, “you did bring your troops.’’
“My daughter was in the cellar. I couldn’t take any chances.”
“And if they had to hurt my kid?”
“Come on. Did Raoul complain once? They’re teaching him tricks.”
Jerry hurled himself at the six detectives, who squinted at Isaac, shrugged, gathered up their magic material, and fled the social club without saying good-bye to Raoul.
“Isaac, get off my streets.”
“Ah, Jerry,” Isaac said, with Marilyn and Barbarossa at his elbows.
“Mr. Joe,” Raoul said, “you have a beautiful wife.”
“She’s not my wife.”
“But she will be,” Raoul said, and Isaac began to wonder if Jerry’s little bastard was a wizard with brutal insights.
He walked out with Marilyn and Barbarossa into a street filled with cops. There were fifty of them, with the same long leather coats. Barbarossa despised them.
“Boss, you shouldn’t have brought your musketeers.”
“And you should have kept away from Marilyn.”
“Stop it,” Marilyn said. “I’m with Joe.”
They got into the Dodge, the three of them sitting up front, like a row of angry children.
“Joey, tell me about the riddle.”
“Later, boss. After we take Marilyn home.”
“Now,” Isaac said. “I can’t stand the suspense.”
“Well, stepping on a man’s face and throwing him into a blanket, that’s a Frannie Meyers special. It was his trademark in Nam. He’d get into a fight with some dealer from the Chinese district, hire a gang of local brats to kick the dealer’s brains out, and then stuff him inside an American flag.”
“But Mulberry Street isn’t Vietnam. Someone would have seen Frannie Meyers breaking into one of Jerry’s clubs.”
“Not if the door was left open.”
“Who would have done such a thing? Raoul?”
“No. Young Robert.”
“Betrayed his own dad?”
“Why not? He wasn’t exactly in love with the old man.”
“And Frannie’s coca babies did the job?”
“Yeah, they have a funny habit of wrecking people and places.”
“Joey, they’re twelve-year-old kids.”
“Some of them are fourteen, boss. And I recognized their signature. I’ve been doing deals in the Bronx.”
“What’s a coca baby?” Marilyn asked.
“Ah, that’s a lovely question of law,” Isaac said. “A skunk like Frannie Meyers will hire thirteen-year-old sheriffs to guard his drugs and go to war, because they’re untouchable. They can’t be tried for murder. They can’t be sentenced. They can’t sit in jail.”
“Yeah,” Barbarossa said. “They come with their mothers to juvenile court, sing a sad song, and they’re out on the street.”
“They’re kids,” Isaac said. “Kids like to sing.”
“Boss, you saw their work.”
“Any mutt can step on an old man’s face.”
“Not with that viciousness. It’s their signature. A Bronx trample. Believe it. And Frannie made the flag.”
“Suppose it was a different, gang, trying to copy Fran,”
“I thought of that,” Barbarossa said. “But no one can kick like those babies. It was Fran.”
Isaac poked his head out the window and waved to his musketeers, who had assembled inside a big brown bus. The bus began to follow Barbarossa.
“Boss,
can’t we do without your death squad?”
“They’re good boys,” Isaac said.
“I’d rather trust the coca babies.”
Barbarossa drove up to Indian Road with the brown bus behind him. He parked in front of Leo Sidel’s apartment house. Marilyn kissed Barbarossa and got out of the car.
“You’re going to murder children, aren’t you?”
Isaac shook his head. “She’s always jumping to conclusions, that daughter of mine.”
She touched Barbarossa’s ear. “When will I see you, Joe?”
“Soon,” Barbarossa said, reluctant to make appointments with Marilyn around her dad. He wasn’t going to talk about Tunnel Exit Street.
“Joe, can’t you tell? It’s Manfred all over again. I know my father. He’ll get you killed.”
“I’m not Coen,” Barbarossa said, and Marilyn ran into the apartment house, her hair blowing against the wind off Spuyten Duyvil Creek.
18
It was called Crazy Corners, where Valentine Avenue bumped into Kingsbridge Road, a little east of Poe Park. But Frannie Meyers’ fortress was only a building with a very deep court. He bought the building in 1979 and tossed out every tenant until he became the sultan of Valentine Avenue. He would watch Poe Cottage from his slanted roof. The author of “Annabel Lee” had spent two years in that little bungalow, where his wife Virginia had died. Poe lived like a poor mouse. He had to sell his furniture to bury the wife. He’d married Virginia when she was thirteen. Frannie loved that part of Poe’s life. Edgar Poe was his favorite drug addict.
Frannie donated thousands of dollars to the upkeep of Poe Cottage. He was a “citizen” of Valentine Avenue. He wouldn’t package drugs at Crazy Corners. He had other outlets—abandoned factories, inconspicuous storefronts, hidden apartments—where he maintained his crack houses and oficinas. Crazy Corners was a dormitory and a playpen for his child wonders, who lived with Fran. Some were orphans who’d disappeared from the Bronx shelter, but most of them weren’t. They were kids with a sense of industry in their hearts, who earned hundreds of dollars a day and supported their mothers, sisters, uncles, absentee fathers, and aunts. They were also truants, but no officers from the Board of Education ever bothered about them. Frannie managed to have their names removed from each of their schools’ attendance sheets. They were floating brats with their own Board of Ed: Crazy Corners.
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