“You’re in the wrong playground, Fran. You should have stuck to Valentine Avenue. You’ll talk to me about Don Roberto … and the dolls.”
“Not here,” Fran said, his pirate’s kerchief sitting like a dunce cap on his head.
“You’ll talk.”
“Everybody’s watching us,” Fran said. “My own kids will call me a rat. I’ll meet you in an hour … in front of Poe Cottage. Not with Barbarossa. I won’t talk around Joe.”
“Better not disappoint me, Fran.”
And Isaac ducked back into the crowd of dancers, feeling like a maiden aunt. He didn’t do drugs, didn’t have connections to the Chinaman’s teen culture. He met Barbarossa at the mouth of the cave.
“Poe Park,” he said.
“What?”
“I have a date with Frannie Meyers.”
“Boss, it’s a war zone after midnight.”
“You’ll drive me to Fordham and you’ll wait in the car.”
“And if it’s a trap?”
“I’ll sing to my patron saint. Edgar Allan Poe.”
The gate to Poe Cottage had been unlocked. Isaac crossed the lawn and stood on the porch, near the cottage’s slanted roof. Poe had lived here with his tubercular teenage bride and his mother-in-law, Mrs. Maria Clemm, who was also his aunt. Mother Clemm had to find vegetables and fruit in the countryside of the Bronx to keep the family from starving. Isaac had a quarrel with Poe. He disliked Auguste Dupin, Poe’s fictional detective and impoverished chevalier, who could solve a crime with his own “diseased intelligence” and a love of enigmas, conundrums, and hieroglyphics. Isaac would mock Dupin in his classes at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. “He’s all right when the murderer’s an orangutan. I’m not Dupin, but even I could uncover the M.O. of an ape. It’s not the labs, not the technique, or the linen shirt of a chevalier. It’s your informants, the reliability of your rats.”
But standing on the gray floorboards of Poe Cottage, without a single light, the Pink Commish began to appreciate the chevalier Dupin. The dolls of Sicily had their own hieroglyphics. And conundrum was only another name for a shitstorm.
Poe Park was caught in its own blue midnight. Isaac could see gangs of junkies outside the gate, hawking stolen video cameras and household wares to motorists on the Grand Concourse. He should have arrested them. He was a cop. But he was waiting for Fran.
He thought of his own bartering under the bridge. If Isaac had been some time traveler, could he have gone back to ’44 and arrested little Leo and himself, confiscated all the sugar bags and books of ration stamps? It would have been a merry roust, the middle-aged detective confronting his own boyhood self.
While Isaac pondered, Fran appeared, like a time traveler in a kerchief. Isaac had to read his face in the dark.
“Why all the intrigue, Fran? We could have had a chocolate milkshake at Crazy Corners. Didn’t I spot a malted machine next to your throne?”
“The kids use it for drinking blood.”
“Afraid of your own warriors, Fran?”
“Sure I’m afraid. I can’t meet up with their expectations. I don’t have their purity, Isaac. One day they’ll build a bonfire on the sixth floor and I’ll be in it.”
“That bad, huh Fran? Come on. Tell me, did they step on Don Roberto, did they trample him?”
“Yeah.”
“And young Robert let you in the door.”
“Yeah. It was like clockwork … a Bronx commando raid. We weren’t on Mulberry Street more than five minutes.”
“How much did you pay young Robert to set up his dad?”
“Not a nickel. He hated the old man.”
“And who was your employer, Fran? The FBI?”
“I’m not a fucking pigeon … I told you. The kids have scruples. They’d punish me quick if I ever hooked up with the FBIs. I do LeComte little favors, that’s all. We’re both fighting Jerry D. Jerry wants the Bronx. He can’t have it … but it was Sal. He’s my employer.”
“Jesus Christ, Sal belongs to the Bureau. He’s LeComte’s boyfriend.”
“He is and he isn’t,” Frannie said. “He has his own capers.”
“And you think that was one of them?… was Margaret Tolstoy part of the package?”
Fran started to twitch. “Forget Margaret Tolstoy. She’s my intended.”
Isaac clutched the Glock inside his pants. He was getting murderous under the cottage’s low porch roof. He could have wasted Fran. Barbarossa wouldn’t have whistled. And the baby commandos could have had their bonfire on the castle’s sixth floor. “Intended?”
“We’re gonna get married soon as LeComte finds another nurse for Sal. I gave her a ring.”
“She’s always getting rings,” Isaac muttered. “She was engaged to Sal’s cousins in New Orleans. Martin and Emile. The two cousins gave her rings … and tried to kill Margaret.”
“She’s still my intended. I don’t care. She could have a hundred fiancés, a million. Margaret’s marrying me.”
“Was she at the slaughter, Fran? Did she come with you to Mulberry Street?”
“Nah. The kids wouldn’t allow no woman on a raid.”
“But she knew about it.”
“She’s Sal’s nurse, aint she? Sure she knew. I don’t keep secrets from my intended … only my partners.”
“Like Mario Klein.”
“That son of a bitch, he’s partners with everybody. I don’t trust him. Mario’s been threatening me.”
“I thought you’re his dealer.”
“I am. But it makes no difference to Mario. He sends his sweethearts around with a collection box.”
“Sweethearts?”
“Wig and all his people.”
“Dollars and dolls,” Isaac said. “What did you do with the dolls you found in Don Roberto’s cellar?”
“Gave them to Sal. He warehouses the dolls, uses them as coffins.”
“To carry dope.”
“Or diamonds. Or passports and bonds. It’s a Sicilian trick. The first smugglers came from Palermo. That’s what Montezuma said.”
“Was he a friend of yours?”
“Montezuma was a genius. He revolutionized drug trafficking. The old-line bandits used religious articles. But the carabinieri caught on. They ‘arrested’ every fucking statue and statue maker. And Montezuma hit on the idea of dolls. He invented a pedigree, some fucking robber with a shriveled prick who carved dolls while he was hiding from the police.”
“Peppinninu.”
“That’s him. Montezuma created his own market for the dolls. He opened art galleries, got in touch with museums. He fakes a new fucking art form. And meantime he’s moving drugs from Sicily to Hamburg to Düsseldorf to Marseilles and Manhattan.”
“And getting himself killed.”
“It was an accident. He shouldn’t have done business with Barbarossa.”
“Or ask people to murder his own mom and dad.”
“I wasn’t privy to that information,” Fran said.
“The FBIs were running Montezuma, weren’t they, Fran?”
“Yeah. But he was also running rings around them until he got burnt.”
“And where did Don Roberto fit? Was he Montezuma’s people?”
“Yeah. He had his own workshop. He’d find old dolls in some heap, dress them in the right clothes, give them the Montezuma touch. The traffic was exploding. And Montezuma couldn’t keep up with his own market.”
“Then Montezuma dies, and Don Roberto fills the vacuum.”
“Yeah. For a little while. But he took sides in the war between Jerry and Sal.”
“He’s Jerry’s cousin, for Christ’s sake. He’s a DiAngelis.”
“Cousins don’t count. He should have stayed neutral, like Montezuma did.”
“So your little warriors trample Roberto, you give the dolls to Sal, and now Sal has an inventory. But where does he keep his stock of dolls? With the FBI?”
“Dunno,” Fran said.
“And where is young Robert
?”
“Dunno.”
“Try a little harder, Fran. Because that kid is the whole fucking key. How did Sal get to him?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Then give me a description of what happened from the time you arrived on Mulberry Street, blow by blow.”
“It wasn’t much. Robert lets us into the club. We go down the stairs and surprise the old man. We finish him …”
“And the puppet theater.”
“That was my instructions. ‘Leave a message for Jerry,’ Sal said. He asked me to total the theater and I did.”
“And Robert helped you?”
“Nah. He watched. He didn’t smile or laugh or cry. He watched.”
“Did he walk out of the club with you?”
“He stayed behind. Downstairs. In the mess.”
“Did you catch the look in his eyes?”
“Isaac, there was no look in his eyes. Nothing.”
“Where is he, Fran?”
“Isaac, I gotta get out of here. Sal is dancing with Mario, and Mario owns the police.”
“I’m the police, Frannie.”
“Yeah. You’re a foot soldier in center field. And Mario has all the bats and balls. Mario and his henchman, Wig.”
“Wig’s the foot soldier. I can flop him, Fran, send him to Mars.”
“Isaac, will you walk with me? I’m scared.”
Isaac took Fran’s arm and led him out of the park. It was like strolling with an invalid. Frannie was lost without his throne.
“I’ll handle Wig, I promise.”
Fran paused in the middle of Kingsbridge Road. “Stay here, or the kids will spot you … Isaac,” he said, “that boy, Robert, he’s in Palermo. I brought him there myself. I was his chaperone.”
And Fran continued across the road, disappearing into the sunken concrete of Crazy Corners.
Part Five
22
Isaac returned to One PP and scattered the entire detail of Rebecca’s cops, shoved them into exile, like so many lost sons. He found another police lieutenant to put in Wig’s place. Lawrence Quinn, a rough, handsome Irisher who could charm Rebecca Karp and dance around Mario Klein. He was the grandson of a homicide detective, with the lantern-jawed eloquence of a boy who’d discovered language in the streets. He’d been part of the detail that stood with Cardinal Jim during the St. Patrick’s Day Parade.
“You’ll pick your own detail, Larry, men and women who won’t dishonor us or disappoint the mayor. And you’ll report directly to me, not any of the chiefs.”
“Will do,” Larry said with all his playful handsomeness. But he was back at Headquarters within a week, his lantern jaw quivering with rage. “Commissioner, you should have told me there would be two details.”
“What two details?”
“Wig was at Gracie Mansion when I arrived with my lads. He was drinking lemon soda on the porch.”
“That’s impossible. I flopped him last Monday. I gave Wig away to the harbor patrol. I put him in charge of all the lobster pots.”
“Commissioner, sir, he held a gun in my face. Said we had no business at the mansion.”
“Larry, I’ll settle this. Wait here.”
And Isaac strode across the hall to his own First Deputy, Sweets.
“I flopped Wig. Who let him back inside Gracie Mansion?”
“Me.”
“Is it fucking favoritism, because Wig is black?”
Sweets leaned over Isaac with a bloodless anger in his eyes, an anger he’d learned to control. He didn’t have Barbarossa’s white glove; his huge hands were trembling. He could have squashed the Pink Commish, shoved him into the floor.
“Sorry,” Isaac said. “I didn’t mean to …”
“Protocol,” Sweets said. “The mayor can approve her own detail. It’s an unwritten law of the Department.”
“Did Rebecca complain about Larry Quinn?”
“No, boss. It wasn’t Rebecca. It was Mario Klein.”
“And a little secretary has more say than I do?”
“Boss, he’ll put Rebecca on the phone, and she’ll shout whatever Mario tells her to shout.”
“It’s prejudicial,” Isaac said.
“Sure. Me and Wig have our own thing. We’re the Harlem Twins.”
“You’re not from Harlem, Sweets.”
“Makes no difference. Harlem is still home country.”
Isaac had to drag his tail out of Sweets’ office. He went in to see his trials commissioner, Martin Malik, the hangman of Police Plaza. Malik was a Moslem whose dad had come out of Istanbul. The Republicans were grooming him to run against Rebecca as a “minority man” who frightened criminals and cops. Isaac had rescued one of his own detectives, Caroll Brent, from the hangman.
“Martin, I’m worried about Lieutenant Wiggens. He’s started a dope club inside Gracie. I’d like to kick him out of the mansion.”
“That’s easy. Suspend the mother.”
“I can’t. Mario is protecting him.”
“Then go to Poplar Street with your dossier. Give it to Internal Affairs.”
“And do what? Investigate Mario and the mayor, start a civil war? But you can do it, Martin.”
“I’m not a prosecutor, Isaac. I’m your in-house judge.”
“But a word from you, a hint, and Wig would lose his Gracie Mansion address. Martin, he’s a menace.”
“Then lock him up, but leave me out of it.”
Isaac returned to his office. He had to eat his own spit in front of Lieutenant Quinn. “Larry, there’s a complication. I’m sort of powerless at the moment. Rebecca’s having a breakdown … that’s confidential. And a new detail might get her anxious. Would you like to guard the cardinal for a couple of days?”
Isaac began to seethe once Larry was gone. He had one of his deputies worm the weekly calendar out of Mrs. Dove, the mansion’s chief of staff. A gang of Dutch high-school teachers from Utrecht would tour Grade’s public rooms tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock …
Isaac was on line with the Dutch teachers at a quarter to three, Barbarossa beside him, wearing dark glasses. Isaac had his fedora pulled down over his eyes. They got through the gate. The Dutch teachers had adopted them, thinking they were part of New York’s homeless population.
There were no other cops in the house. Isaac had summoned Rebecca’s entire detail to the police firing range at Rodman’s Neck in the Bronx for some phony target practice. Now Isaac was king, with his fedora and the Glock in his pants. But he didn’t have the slightest sense of propriety. / hate it here, he growled to himself. I’ll never live at Gracie Mansion. Never.
Aurora Dove, the chief of staff and chatelaine, welcomed all the teachers from Utrecht. She was Becky’s girlhood pal, born Annette Davidovich. They’d gone to kindergarten together in the Rockaways. Rebecca was the beauty queen. Aurora was the actress, six feet tall, with reddish hair at the roots. She’d toured America as Lady Macbeth, married a doctor who’d died on her, and was now mistress of the mansion. She’d lost Rebecca’s roughened accent. Aurora Dove spoke like a musical dictionary.
“Consider us Dutch,” she told the teachers from Utrecht. “The very site you’re standing on once belonged to the Dutch West India Company, who sold the land to a prosperous farmer, Sybout Claessen, in sixteen hundred and forty-six. He called his tiny spit of land ‘Hoorn’s Hook,’ in honor of Hoorn, his hometown. He quarreled with the local Indians. The Indians burned the little gardens he’d planted and wouldn’t let him build his own mansion. But he had a double dose of bad luck. Hoorn’s Hook happened to be a pirates’ den. The pirates would bombard Sybout’s huts with hot pitch. They drove him off the property. It lay barren, without a farmer’s hand, for over a hundred and twenty years …”
Isaac was disturbed by this dark tale. It sounded a little phony. “Mrs. Dove,” he said, under the refuge of his fedora. “Sybout Claessen wasn’t the first farmer on this site. What about the Indians? Didn’t they plant corn and squash?”
�
��I suppose,” said Mrs. Dove, already suspicious of Isaac’s hat.
Barbarossa had to nudge him. “Boss, you’ll let the cat out of the cradle. She’ll recognize us.”
“You’re part Indian, aint you?” Isaac muttered. “Defend your own fucking people.”
“The Pierced Noses never got to New York.”
“That’s circumstance,” Isaac said and continued his attack. “Mrs. Dove, I hear old Sybout was a pirate himself.”
“Who are you?” asked Mrs. Dove.
“Tommy Netherland,” Isaac said. “A boy from Sybout Claessen’s hometown.”
Mrs. Dove ignored him. She brought the group into the Samuel Dunne bedroom, where the former mayor had lived with yellow tulips on the wall. Sam had been laughed out of office, but his private bedroom had passed into the public domain. He’d had his own rocking chair, like Rebecca Karp. The room was devoid of mirrors. Sam was always suspicious of his own face. Isaac was forlorn in the Samuel Dunne bedroom. He’d once served under Sam.
“Boss,” Barbarossa whispered, “what are we doing in Sam’s bedroom? I’m tired of this shit.”
“Shhh,” Isaac said. “We’ll have our reward.”
They followed Mrs. Dove to the basement, which housed a miniature museum. The current exhibition, “Bouwerie Lane,” charted the Dutch influence on modern New York, from the introduction of almshouses, to public hospitals and synagogues, to Peter Stuyvesant’s pear tree. Isaac and Joe hid behind a huge cardboard replica of the first almshouse in North America as Mrs. Dove marched upstairs with her troop of teachers. She turned out the lights, and Isaac had to fumble in the dark with a box of kitchen matches he’d brought to the mansion. He kept striking matches against the sole of his shoe.
He searched and searched, groping for hidden doors, but it was Barbarossa who stumbled upon a long metal chest in a tiny alcove behind the museum. Isaac snapped open the lock on the chest with a huge pair of pliers he’d kept under his coat.
Montezuma's Man (The Isaac Sidel Novels) Page 13
