Stan and Sonny walk one long block down to the taproom at the corner of Bridge and Jackson Streets. Stan stops when he reaches the corner, shoves his hands in his pockets because he doesn’t know what else to do with them.
“What are you doing here, Sonny?”
“Boy’s really getting big. Love to meet him one of these days.”
“You know that’s never gonna happen.”
Sonny nods his head like, yeah maybe, maybe. He looks around the neighborhood, taking it all in. This isn’t his neighborhood. Wouldn’t live here if you paid him. He’s from Port Richmond, the Polish enclave nestled near the waterfront. Sonny still can’t figure why Stan would move to a place like this.
“Come on. Lemme go back and at least say hi to the kid. You just tell him I’m an old war buddy.”
“No.”
“Doesn’t seem right, seeing who’s he named for and all.”
Now Stan can’t keep his fists in his pockets anymore. The right one comes out and whizzes through the air and slams into Sonny’s face so hard his fedora goes flying off the top of his head.
Sonny staggers back a step, shakes his head, tightens his own fists, wondering if they’re really going to do this. Yeah. They’re really going to do this. Stan is already at him again with a left. Bam. With a right. Pap.
Sonny recovers enough to charge forward and tackle Stan in his midsection. There’s enough weight and muscle behind Sonny to slam Stan backward into the side of a brick wall. It hurts, but also breaks his fall. Stan comes out swinging again, probably faster than Sonny realized, because he lands a few good shots in his ribs, but Sonny starts defending himself.
They used to fight in their youth, no-holds-barred brawls that would only end when one of them would stoop low enough to take a shot at the balls or the lower belly. They’ve fought before as adults, too, but pulled back before taking it too far. When you’re a kid you think you can recover from anything. When you’re older it’s a different story.
And Sonny’s heart isn’t in this—he’s throwing back punches to save face, but there’s no anger there. So Stan loses heart, too. What does he think he’s doing?
They break away and huff and puff and examine their knuckles for cuts, feel their ribs to make sure there’s nothing more than bruises.
“That was a cheap shot,” Sonny says bitterly.
“What do you want, Sonny?”
Sonny spies the bar across the street. “I want to talk to you about something. Come on. Let’s discuss it over a drink.”
Inside, Stan orders his usual glass of Schmidt’s while Sonny orders a Scotch and Drambuie with a lemon twist on the rocks. Look at the fancy guy. Almost nobody’s in the bar, since it’s 4 p.m. on a Tuesday. After Rohm and Haas lets out, the place will start to fill up.
“You see what happened in Alabama last week?” Sonny asks. “Murzyns walking right up to the cops, telling them off. All because Martin Luther Coon comes down and tells them to! Unbelievable.”
Stan picks up his beer but doesn’t drink. “I don’t think that’s what happened.”
“Oh, did your partner tell you all about that?”
“I read the papers.”
“Keep reading those papers. And keep your eyes open. You got a housing project just a few blocks from here. Just wait. One day you’ll be chasing coons in the Jungle and some loudmouth will give the order and they’ll all come spilling out, breaking into houses and setting them on fire. Can’t think you’d want that for Rosie and Jimmy.”
Goddamned Sonny, always looking for an angle on his family. Stan can’t let him anywhere near them. Sonny Kaminski belongs in the past, not his present. He wishes the man no ill will, but he can’t let worlds collide. For a while there, a decade ago, Stan thought he could do it; he learned otherwise.
“You gonna tell me what you want? I’ve got to get back home.”
“I don’t want anything, Stanisław. I’m here to give you something.”
“What’s that?”
“Some good advice. Get the hell out of the Jungle, any way you can. And stay away from your murzyn partner. He’s got a past you want no part of.”
“Don’t we all?”
Sonny shakes his head. “That’s how you see it, huh. What a shame. What a fucking waste.”
“I’ve gotta go,” Stan says as he rises from his stool. He’s not worried about the tab. Sonny Kaminski’s got plenty to throw around town.
But Sonny reaches up, grabs Stan’s upper arm, squeezes it tight. “Listen to me, dammit. Just give me a few more minutes of your precious time. You owe me a little time, at the very least.”
This is not the place for another fistfight. Stan allows Sonny to steer him back to his seat.
“I know you’ve been down in the old neighborhood, hanging out on Front Street. I don’t know what he told you, but you’re stepping in a world of shit.”
“We were chasing a suspect.”
“Don’t give me that horseshit, Stan. You don’t know what the hell you’re doing. It’s all him, isn’t it? Following his lead, listening to his wild stories?”
Stan picks up his beer, takes a long swallow, finishing it. Signals for another, which the bartender gives him quickly before retreating to the opposite end of the bar. He must recognize Sonny from the papers and doesn’t want to get caught up in any of this.
“George Wildey is bad news,” Sonny continues. “No better than those murzyns you lock up every night. Only difference is, he somehow got himself a badge and a gun.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s not in it for the job. He’s in it for revenge. Did that murzyn ever tell you about his father? He was a cop, back in the twenties and thirties,” Sonny says. “Worked down on the waterfront. Guarding liquor warehouses. Any of this ring a bell?”
Stan’s guts turn to ice. He doesn’t want to hear this. None of this.
“Ambitious guy, John Quincy Wildey. Clearly he had something to prove. And boy, did he like locking up white folks. This was a murzyn with a big chip on his shoulder and something to prove. Just like his kid.”
“I’ve gotta go,” Stan says. “Rose is expecting me.”
“Sooner or later you’re going to realize that we can’t mix with those people, that shit between our species will never be right. I can help you. I’ve always been here to help you. I know Rose would want that.”
Stan shoves a finger in Sonny’s face. “Stay away from my wife. And don’t ever come back here again.”
Sonny flashes that patrician smile of his that he turns on for all the newspaper photographers. “All I’m saying is be careful. Don’t let some murzyn do your thinking for you.”
Never mind about my murzyn, Stan thinks as he walks back home. Rosie isn’t home from work yet. He closes the door and hears that awful guitar lick come to an abrupt halt. Jimmy comes running down the stairs. Stan’s had a beer and a half but he could use another two or three right now.
“Who was that, Pop?”
Stan is tempted to just tell him the truth already. He’s going to find out someday, might as well be now.
But instead Stan says,
“He’s a gangster.”
Jim and John
November 5, 1995
John DeHaven is not only listed, but he’s just a few blocks away in a well-kept trinity on Delancey Place. Great starter pad in an excellent neighborhood for an aspiring whatever he is.
Jim hears loud machine-gun fire from a computer game. He pushes the door buzzer for three full seconds. The gunfire dies. Jim pushes the buzzer again, three full seconds, and hears someone running down the steps from the third floor.
The young man who answers is, indeed, easy on the eyes. He’s got the regal look of someone who often says, Yeah, I did some modeling for a while, but what really excites me is urban politics.
“John DeHaven?” Jim says, showing him the badge. “Detective Jim Walczak, Philadelphia Police. Can I talk to you for a moment?”
“Of course,
Detective, come on in.”
DeHaven leads him into the house, which is small, like all trinities. Three floors: kitchen and modest living room area on the first, master bedroom and bath on the second, and office on the top floor, which is where they talk.
“We’ve actually met before,” DeHaven says. “Can I get you a beer?”
“Yeah? Sorry, I see a lot of faces. And no thanks—I’m on the job.” Jim looks around at DeHaven’s desk, his books, his computer, the art on his walls. All neatly arranged and hip. “Where did we meet?”
“At Penn. You spoke in a journalism class once. About what the media gets wrong about homicide investigation.”
“You’re a Penn grad,” Jim says, nodding. “And you’re what, twenty-four?”
“Twenty-five.”
“And already considered an up-and-comer. One of the top thirty Philadelphians under thirty.”
DeHaven nods. “I thought you might be stopping by because of that. You’re probably working your way down the list.”
Jim shakes his head. “No, just you.”
If DeHaven hears this, he pretends like he doesn’t understand the significance. “I still can’t believe what happened to her. We met only once, but she seemed like such a strong young woman.”
“You met her twice,” Jim corrects.
“No,” DeHaven says, then lets a confused smile bloom on his face. “Fairly certain it was just the once. I keep track of all my appointments.”
“You know, that’s funny. Because so did Kelly Anne Farrace.”
Of course now John DeHaven excuses himself on the pretense of checking his appointment book, even though his desk is up here, on the third floor. Kid going to get a gun? Jim doubts it. He’s the kind of Alpha Chi thickneck who picks on girls, not grown men. Kid going to run for it? Jim thinks, let him. We’ll have fun chasing him down and wrapping this thing up.
For the first time since he caught this thing, Jim likes somebody for this crime.
Up from the stairwell comes murmuring—DeHaven on the phone. If he’s smart, he’s calling his lawyer.
Their next exchange will be crucial. Jim knows he’s bluffing and running on instinct here—all he has, really, are three initials in a weekly minder. The defense attorney in his imagination would have a field day with that, coming up with thousands of other names that fit those letters, including Jim Da Homicide cop. (“So you admit, Detective, that you were drunk and prowling for pussy the night before Kelly Anne Farrace’s murder?”)
So Jim has to let DeHaven think he knows everything—then sit back and let him confirm it.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” DeHaven says. “Thought my appointment book was home, but I called my assistant and it turns out it’s back at the office. I’m happy to have a copy sent over first thing in the morning.”
“We’ll get back to that,” Jim says. “What I want to talk about is this past Wednesday night. So I understand you met Kelly Anne at Circa…”
“I didn’t see Ms. Farrace Wednesday.”
Jim spreads his hands. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m just here to fill in some gaps in her schedule. The more dots I can connect between Kelly Anne leaving the bar and her body being dumped on Pine Street, the sooner I can catch who did it.”
“Like I said, I didn’t see her Wednesday. Otherwise, I would have come to you guys to tell you what I know.”
They go round and round on this for a while, but DeHaven’s either smart or he’s been expertly trained. Admits nothing, sticks to his story. Jim will bet he has a titanium-clad alibi for all his movements the Wednesday night through Thursday morning.
Still, though—he likes this guy for it.
Something about his face, his eyes, his demeanor, is extremely familiar to Jim. This is because Jim has sat across from dozens of killers before, and after a while, they all begin to share certain characteristics. A family resemblance. The clan of Cain.
And this smug bastard is one of the tribe.
But Jim knows he’s reached a brick wall tonight. He’ll pick it up first thing in the a.m. with Aisha, attack DeHaven’s alibi with everything they’ve got, then haul in this son of a bitch officially and crack him.
“Have a good night,” Jim says.
“You, too, Detective,” DeHaven says. “I’ll walk you out.”
As Jim makes his way down the stairs, he notices again how clean and orderly everything is. Maybe it happened here. Did he lead you back to his lair, Kelly Anne, for an off-the-record session? Did you not give him what he wanted? Did the spoiled brat punish you for that, then have Mommy and Daddy pay for a cleaning service to wipe all traces of you away?
On the ground floor DeHaven rushes around Jim to reach for the door. Jim tenses for a second, waiting for some kind of attack—but the kid’s just opening the door.
And standing there on the sidewalk is Sonya Kaminski, with a combination of fury and disgust on her face.
So this is who DeHaven called. His family has pull with the mayor’s office, too.
“You know John here?”
“Know him?” Sonya says. “I gave birth to him.”
Audrey and Barry
May 14, 2015
There is no luncheon after the funeral; instead the family gathers back at Staś’s house in Jenkintown, a small suburb just outside the city limits.
While there’s no law that prohibits cops from living outside Philly, most of them choose to live in the city they police. Staś was one of the exceptions. Bethanne is from upstate and hates the city with a passion. Jenkintown was the compromise. Good schools and a reasonable commute for Staś.
Barry, to his credit, seems perfectly at ease with the Walczak clan, even as Cary gives him the crazy eyes. “This is Barry,” Audrey says by way of introduction, and adds nothing further. It’s probably driving all of them crazy. Barry? Where did this Barry come from?
Audrey excuses herself to go pee. But really it’s just an excuse to go snooping around upstairs.
The house is bigger than she thought and also shabbier. Guess they were taking the remodel-one-room-at-a-time approach. The second-floor bathroom is bright and clean and sleek…and all in stark contrast to the three disaster areas that are the kids’ bedrooms. Clothes and toys scattered around like an accident site, scuffs and marker streaks on the walls, unidentifiable stains on the ancient wall-to-wall carpet that might have been shag once. It is strangely familiar to Audrey.
Hah hah, Staś, you were cursed with three slobs just like me for kids.
Staś always resented that (a) Audrey got her own bedroom and (b) it was a complete and utter wreck at all times.
The third floor features an unfinished, stripped-down-to-the-plaster bathroom (guess that was next on Staś’s to-fix list), Staś and Bethanne’s pristine master bedroom, and a small bedroom off to the right.
The bedroom.
Audrey twists the knob; it’s unlocked. Inside, it looks like an office. Exactly what she hoped to find.
Staś wasn’t much of a reader. Most of the office is high school sports trophies, CDs, and cardboard banker’s boxes full of files. There are empties in the trash can. A set of Sony headphones draped over a boom box at least fifteen years old. Now Audrey understands the purpose of this room. This was Stan’s refuge from the rest of the house, just like the Captain’s basement lair.
And it looks like Staś brought some of his work home with him. On a small dresser there are a notebook and a couple of files on top of a blue binder.
Blue fucking binder. Wait wait…
Audrey flips the files aside and holy shit there it is. The missing murder book. The Philadelphia Police Department uses the same blue binders for all their homicides. In a city like this, with hundreds of bodies dropping ever year, they most likely purchase them in bulk.
What was Staś doing with this one?
She’s not proud about the horrible thoughts flooding her brain. That Staś is somehow involved in a family cover-up, that nobody wants Audrey to figure out the truth,
because the truth would be too awful. That her dad knows, too, and…
But when she opens the cover she realizes it’s not the murder book she thought.
This is the one about the jogger who was raped and strangled twenty years ago—Kelly Anne Farrace. Audrey has dim memories of this case. She was only five years old at the time but remembers her dad was out of the house a lot for this one. And every few years, someone would do an anniversary piece on the killing, asking the same question: “The Pine Street Slaying: Is Anywhere Truly Safe?”
Staś, why were you looking at Dad’s old case?
You weren’t homicide. Always suspected you didn’t have the stomach for it.
She flips through the pages, speeding through the case. The way she remembers it, two scuzzbags were charged with the murder. But when it came to trial, the whole thing collapsed. DNA didn’t match. Or something like that. The real killer apparently got away—though most people went on assuming the scuzzbags did it and got lucky.
What were you doing, Staś? Trying to one-up Dad?
As if echoing her very thoughts, an angry voice startles Audrey.
“What are you doing?”
It’s Bethanne, in the doorway, hands on her hips, eyes puffy, mouth twisted up in rage. A million comebacks spring to mind but Audrey checks herself. The woman just lost her husband. Even Audrey’s not low enough to give her attitude now.
She can also choose to lie, or come up with some ridiculous excuse about looking for a tissue or a piece of loose-leaf here in Staś’s office. But again, Bethanne doesn’t deserve subterfuge. Audrey uses her feet to pivot the chair so she’s facing her sister-in-law.
“I don’t think Staś killed himself. I want to find out what happened.”
Audrey steels herself for Bethanne to go nuclear. Instead she takes the seat across from Audrey. She’s so close their knees almost touch.
Revolver Page 22
