He lived in that speckled world of a candidate who was about to declare. Reporters parked outside his office. A television crew from Munich wanted to spend seven days and nights with him. “And sleep in my bed? Nothing doing.” Women would hug him in the street. “Our king.” But Isaac couldn’t concentrate on his most immediate tasks. He dreamt of Palermo. He couldn’t forget the hailstorm, the lights that went out all over the place, the brioschi con gelato, the skeleton bishops in their long hats. Palermo had captured him, become his mythical kingdom.
And then he’d rage against LeComte and Margaret Tolstoy. He went on a midnight tour with his musketeers and shut down Chinaman’s Chance. He could have arrested Delia St. John for exhibiting herself in a club without a license, but he wouldn’t get at Papa Cassidy through his child bride, and Delia wasn’t even a proper child. He closed all the clubs she’d ever danced in. It wasn’t out of spite. They were drug cribs. He began to realize that Delia St. John must have been a spotter for LeComte, the girl who traced the routes of LeComte’s drug caravan. Wherever Delia danced, that’s where the drugs could be found.
He hadn’t bagged a single ounce of heroin. He had to act on blind faith—and his diseased logic—that he was slowing LeComte, hurting his caravan routes. He couldn’t fuck LeComte in Düsseldorf or Cologne. But the caravans had to end in Manhattan, and Isaac would break him here. The town was getting very tight on anything to cook, shoot, or blow. Isaac had an active barometer on all this: the methadone clinics were filling up with poor souls who couldn’t find any junk on the street.
He sat in his office and waited … waited for what? He was Charlie Chan, the infallible detective who could read the darkness, discover ribbons of light. Those ribbons arrived in the shape of that former dead man, Montezuma. He wore dark glasses. He was incognito. The collar of his coat was up around his ears, like a commonplace assassin.
“Cavaliere, how is the jewelry business?”
“Bene,” Montezuma said. “But I have other grief. Young Robert. He’s been plotting with the little kings.”
“But you’re his padrone,” Isaac said. “He owes you everything.”
“He has different ideas. I couldn’t even run to the bank. Had to escape with the shirt on my back.”
“And jewelry in your pockets.”
“Niènte. I’m a pauper, Don Isacco.”
“Cavaliere,” Isaac said, “no titles. I’m not part of your clan. And why should the little kings suddenly turn against you?”
“La dròga,” Montezuma said. “The flow has stopped. I can’t provide the kings with their ration of dollars.”
“Then go to LeComte,” Isaac said. “He’s the fucking mastermind.”
“Frederic has abandoned me.”
“Then what can I do, cavaliere? I’m a police chief who’s ready to resign. I don’t have Frederic’s resources.”
“But you could hide me, signore.”
“Where? I have a railroad flat on Rivington Street. I …” And then Isaac remembered. He did have an odd piece of real estate, a house he might inherit. He dialed Gracie Mansion and got Lieutenant Quinn. “Larry, the mayor is going to have a guest … how long? Dunno. He’s a jeweler by profession. He can repair all the mansion’s clocks … his name? Montezuma. And Larry, he’s not to leave the house … recognize him? You can’t miss. He looks like an Aztec.”
Isaac put down the phone. “There, it’s done. You’ll live at Gracie Mansion.”
The cavaliere tried to kiss Isaac’s hand. “Padrone,” he said.
“I’m not finished with you. This isn’t Palermo, and I’m not Santa Claus. You want asylum, I’ll give you asylum. But you’ll pay with your blood, cavaliere. You’ll talk Margaret Tolstoy.”
“Signore, what can I possibly tell you about LeComte’s favorite girl?”
“Did you sleep with her, cavaliere?”
“She was a twelve-year-old bride … in Odessa.”
“I didn’t ask you about Odessa.”
“But it’s important. She visited Palermo with her husband, Antonescu, the Butcher of Bucharest … and a bunch of Nazi generals. That’s where I met her. Before you ever did.”
“If it’s another one of your phony resurrections, I’ll …”
“I was a boy,” Montezuma said. “Eleven years old, waiting on tables at the Palme Hotel.”
“It always comes down to the Palme,” Isaac muttered.
“It was a honeymoon hotel for the Nazis … Wagner, Nietzsche, the German High Command. And she was having lunch with the generals. She was Magda then. Magda Antonescu. She noticed me. I spilled soup on a general’s lap. I was punished. Magda screamed at the generals for slapping a gypsy boy.”
“You’re not a gypsy,” Isaac said.
“We’re Sicilians. We have gypsy blood. We’ve had so many conquerors, we’ve all been fucked in the ass. Phoenicians, Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Byzantine kings, Muslims, Norman knights, Catalan counts, Bourbons, the British, Mussolini, Hitler, General Eisenhower …”
“Cavaliere, save the laundry list. It’s ninteen forty-three. You’re a busboy at the Palme. What happened?”
“We were children. We didn’t have time for romantic interludes. Bombs were falling. The generals could have been eating shrapnel with their soup.”
“What happened, cavaliere?”
“We kissed twice … in a closet.”
“She was already a bride,” Isaac spat. He was numb with jealousy. Nothing was sacred. Not even his own wartime idyll. He didn’t count Antonescu. Antonescu was an adult. But Montezuma had been there first. “And afterwards?’
“Signore, we met by chance. I didn’t have a clue that she was part of Frederic’s entourage. We recognized each other …”
“And resumed your fucking romance.”
“There wasn’t the same passion. She was FBI material. I treated her like that.”
“And I could kill you, cavaliere.”
“But you won’t.”
“Yeah, that’s my nature. I’m tight as a tit. But I can’t let you walk out of here alone. You have enemies all over the world. I’ll have to lend you Barbarossa. Remember him? Good luck, cavaliere.”
He sat in the car with Joe. He couldn’t have told Sidel that he’d lived with Margaret for a month while young Robert was preparing a new shipment of dolls. He’d taken all his meals with her, at the Palme, where they’d flirted in a closet thousands of years ago. The Palme had its own magic force. The hotel of musicians, philosophers, kings, and Magda Antonescu. The cavaliere had to reconsider. Had Margaret blinded him to young Robert’s maneuvers? Was their lovemaking only a stab in the back? But he couldn’t ruminate very long. This driver of Sidel’s was a dangerous man.
“I apologize.”
Barbarossa said nothing.
“I was under orders, Joe.”
“Don’t you ever call me Joe. I’m Mr. Barbarossa, you scum-head. The boss is a baby. He believes your lies. But I know what you are. An FBI suck. You don’t move from Gracie, Montezuma. That’s where you have your wet dreams. You can plot with Mario all you want. But if you walk out of the mansion, you won’t survive that walk.”
“It was LeComte’s game, Mr. Barbarossa. I had to disappear. LeComte picked you as the agent. He never consulted me. He didn’t eat your bullet, I did.”
“I’d like to strangle you with that bag of blood you were wearing over your armored vest. Did you laugh a lot, Montezuma? Did you say, ‘Joey’s a fool,’ to Lecomte’s other people?”
“There were no other people,” Montezuma said. “Just Margaret Tolstoy.”
“Did she laugh too?”
“Not at all. But she did think it was clever.”
“Well, ‘clever’ won’t get you out of the mansion, Montezuma. Nothing will.”
He deposited the cavaliere.
His face was quivering on the drive up to Indian Road. Montezuma’s Man.
He couldn’t hide his own particular wound from Mrs. Daggers. They kissed on Leo’s di
van, fumbling with each other’s clothes.
“What’s wrong, Joe?”
“Had to deal with a ghost,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
“You’re the ghost,” she said. “Like Blue Eyes. My father always wins.”
“I’m not Coen,” he said, and his pager started to sing. It was Roz’s nursing home. He dialed Macabee’s. Roz had slashed her wrists with the shards of a broken mirror she’d hid in her room. His love for Mrs. Daggers and his work for the Pink Commish had blunted his devotion to Roz. He’d neglected his suicidal sister. Macabee’s had got her to the Allen Pavillion. That was Barbarossa’s one piece of luck. The hospital was five minutes from Indian Road.
Marilyn wouldn’t let him run there all alone. Rosalind lay in a room overlooking Spuyten Duyvil Creek. Both her wrists were bound with gauze. She wasn’t pale. Joe had never seen her with such a rosy complexion. She smiled at Mrs. Daggers. Her lips were as red as those dolls of Isaac’s, the two Giuseppinas. But Roz wasn’t a brigandess.
“Is this your sweetheart, Joe, the girl you want to marry?”
“Mrs. Dag-dag-daggers,” Barbarossa bumbled.
“I’m Marilyn Sidel,” Marilyn had to say. She wasn’t hysterical, like Joe. The two women seemed to calm him. They laughed like sisters under their own private sun.
“I wasn’t depressed or anything,” Roz said. “It happened. I didn’t hear voices. It happened.”
Joe was blubbering.
“He’s a crier,” Marilyn said, “like my dad.”
“No,” Roz said. “It’s something new.”
“Men,” Marilyn said. “They can’t control themselves.”
“But Joe’s a doll,” Roz said. “I raised him. Did you know that?”
“He doesn’t like to talk about his personal history.”
“We have an Indian chief in our past. Joey’s named after him.”
“Ah,” Barbarossa said. “You shouldn’t boast. Mrs. Daggers will think we’re royalty or something.”
“We are royalty,” Roz said. She looked up and saw a man. He must have been born under Saturn’s rings, he had such a blackened brow. It was Sidel. The nursing home had called his dispatcher, looking for Joe. And Isaac had to bum a ride up to the Allen Pavillion. He hadn’t expected to meet Marilyn with the suicidal sister. He was carrying flowers and chocolates he’d swiped from concessioneers next to Police Plaza. He didn’t really know what to bring. But he could smell a marriage. Both these women were in love with Joe. And Isaac would have to accept his own twin as a son-in-law.
Barbarossa.
31
He’d never accumulated so much power by doing nothing at all. He inhabited this fat country of the future king. His silence bothered the political chiefs. They couldn’t bear the uncertainty. He had a visit from the Republican Party boss, Tyson Hammer.
“We could run Malik. But we’d rather keep him under wraps. He’ll be our own dark horse for the governor’s seat.”
“What are you saying, Ty?”
“We’ll consider a fusion ticket.”
“Not a chance. I never voted Republican in my life.”
“All right. We’ll go through the motions. But I want assurances that you won’t hurt us.”
“How can I hurt you?”
“By waging war on the Republican Party.”
“That’s not my style.”
“Your own Party will pressure you, Isaac. They’ll want scapegoats. White Anglo-Saxons. Rockefeller. The big banks.”
“You have my word, Ty.”
“Then we’ll support you … via the back door. No Republican candidate will have a bad word to say about Isaac Sidel.”
“Come on, Ty. I’m the Pink Commish. They’ll call me Stalin’s baby brother.”
“Not if they want to hold onto their heads.”
“I don’t mind a fight.”
“Isaac, whoever our man is, I’m warning my captains to vote for you.”
“That’s indecent,” Isaac said, smiling at Tyson Hammer. But he brooded after Hammer left. Isaac was a little too electable. He’d have to go against straw men, run without a race.
He couldn’t keep clear of the petitioners outside his door. But he didn’t have the heart to deal with a fucking army. He’d flown out of Palermo with Margaret Tolstoy and hadn’t seen her since. They’d held hands in the sky, drank Alitalia wine, kissed, and then Margaret had crawled back into her usual black hole of being Sal Rubino’s nurse.
Isaac stood near the door and peeked at all the petitioners. Christ, there was a brat among them, the little prince, Raoul, with his enormous eyes. Isaac had to encourage this baby Galileo. “Come in, come in.” Raoul darted into Isaac’s office. He couldn’t take his eyes off the two Giuseppinas.
“How’s your dad?”
“He’s in trouble,” Raoul said, like the consigliere of his father’s clan. “Jerry wants to see you.”
“And he sends you to sit in my outer office?… where’s the melamed?”
“He couldn’t make it. Grandpa Izzy’s in mourning.”
“He’s not your grandpa. And what’s he mourning about?”
“The money he’s losing because of you.”
Isaac muttered good-bye to his warrior ladies and followed the little prince. Papa Cassidy was in the vestibule, with Isaac’s other petitioners. Isaac whispered in his ear. “Home from the Sahara, eh, you son of a bitch?”
“We have to talk.”
“Tell Delia I’m sorry about Chinaman’s Chance.”
“Isaac,” Papa said, and the Pink Commish whirled past him with Raoul. He didn’t have to collect his wits. He followed the little prince. They trudged under the arcade of the Municipal Building, sidled around City Hall, which seemed like a huge enchanted cottage without Rebecca Karp, and entered Rowena’s Restaurant. Rowena was a fallen beauty queen, like Rebecca. She’d been Miss Long Island many years ago. Her restaurant had become a hangout for female detectives and assistant district attorneys. It was always jumping with women. But Rowena rarely surfaced. She would count receipts in a back room. And Isaac began to wonder if Raoul had gotten lost. Rowena’s wasn’t a Mafia haunt. He nodded to the female detectives, who’d never encountered Isaac at Rowena’s in the company of a little boy.
“Hello, Commissioner.” Rowena herself had come out of isolation to greet the Pink Commish. She was sixty or so. She’d bonded with Rebecca, catered most official functions at City Hall, and was president of Lesbians for Rebecca Karp.
“You’re not dethroning our sweetheart, are you, Commissioner?”
“I have her blessings, Rowena, I swear.”
“That’s not how Mario tells it. He says she’s a prisoner at the mansion.”
“She’s withdrawn from the world. But she’s no prisoner. I’ll take you uptown. Ask her yourself.”
“I believe you, Commissioner. But I can make trouble. You might not get to Gracie without the lesbian vote.”
She brought Isaac to a table across from the bar, where Jerry DiAngelis sat in the kingdom of his white coat. Raoul immediately climbed on his lap, and Rowena disappeared.
“I don’t get it,” Isaac said. “Rowena’s Restaurant?”
“It’s flooded with lady detectives,” Jerry said. “I’m safe at Rowena’s.”
“Safe? The war is over with Sal.”
“That’s part of the predicament. Sal is dead.”
“Don’t kid me. Sal dies and I don’t even hear about it? Who’s police commissioner?”
“He drowned in his bathtub. LeComte buried him in some backyard.”
“I have my own rats, Jerry.”
“But they’re compromised. You pay them with the money you get from LeComte … Isaac, dead is dead.”
“Is Margaret in the story? She was looking after Sal.”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“You tried to kill her at Chinaman’s Chance.”
“Yeah, and you stole my kid … it’s memories, Isaac, that’s all. And we have a real p
roblem. I mean, young Robert’s on the rampage. He has a loose wire in his brain. He isn’t satisfied with the puppets. He wants the whole mountain.”
“What mountain?”
“All our junk.”
“I happen to admire the boy. You shouldn’t have advertised him as your own little cousin. You lied to me, you put on little puppet shows, pretended that the dolls were part of your fucking history.”
“Hey, not so loud,” Jerry said. “Raoul is here.”
“He ought to learn about his dad … you used me, and I don’t like it.”
“Everybody uses you,” Jerry said. “You’re Sidel. You cry like a baby. You fall in love with a phantom. Peppinninu.”
“You and Sal concocted that tale with a little help from Montezuma and the FBI.”
“I’m entitled,” Jerry said. “You have a twin. Well, I have a twin, a poisonous twin. Sal. I hated him, but sometimes we had to dance. And we needed you to get LeComte off our back.”
“But Sal was LeComte’s favorite little man.”
“He was … and he wasn’t. I’m talking millions, Isaac. And here I am, Jerry D., in a partnership with Sal Rubino and the FBI. And I’m getting fucked. Don Roberto’s mine, young Robert’s mine, and I’m getting fucked. LeComte borrows my ideas, my men, and keeps trying to indict me.”
“You shouldn’t have gone into business with the FBI.”
“Did I have a choice? LeComte has the trade routes. He has the galleries, he has connections with all the museums. We couldn’t have gotten the junk through customs without LeComte.”
“And what did the melamed have to say? He’s not stupid.”
“We didn’t have a choice. LeComte is the only game in town, that’s the bottom line. It costs money to have your own mob. Can you figure the handouts I have to make? I’m the boss. I have captains. I have crews. I have to find them work. I have to beat LeComte’s indictments. Its no picnic. I have six lawyers on retainer, around the clock. They have to bribe witnesses. That doesn’t come cheap.”
Montezuma's Man (The Isaac Sidel Novels) Page 19
