by Cleo Coyle
“Come on, Clare. There are a lot of Yankee caps in New York City. Probably a million.” But even as he said it, I could tell Matt was wavering.
“It’s too much of a coincidence,” I insisted.
He gazed up the block, in the direction Neils had disappeared. “Maybe.”
“What should we do now?” I asked.
Matt frowned, glanced over his shoulder. “I guess I’m going inside that damn pawnshop.”
AS I followed Matt through the door, a buzzer went off beside my ear. Loud and piercing, the sound startled me. I heard the fat man behind the caged counter chuckle at my reaction.
Inside the pawnshop, the air was warm and close. A radiator hissed somewhere nearby, and the place smelled of mildew and old paper. With each step we took, the warped hardwood floor bumped hollowly.
The shop itself had a strange layout. There was merchandise in the window, but nothing at all in the front of the store, not even shelves. Instead, all the items were piled onto aluminum racks on the other side of the cage. The items were identified by cardboard tickets attached with strings. Prices were scrawled with black magic marker on the tags. The prices seemed absurdly low, but how did one gauge the value of a used and dented microwave oven, anyway?
The wall on the right of the room was the building’s original exposed brick—highly desirable in a SoHo or NoHo loft. Oddly, the wall on the opposite side of the room was covered floor-to-ceiling by sheets of plywood painted a faded and dirty white.
There was a large square hole cut into the wood close to the ornamental tin ceiling. I would have thought it was some kind of ductwork for the heating system, but Matt warned me before we came in here to be careful—there could be a man with a loaded gun watching us through that hole right now.
“Need any help?” asked the fat man behind the cage.
He was either smiling or sneering, I couldn’t tell which. But as Matt approached the steel bars, I could see the man sizing up my ex. From Matt’s wardrobe (he still wore the formalwear from the Beekman party) the clerk could guess Matt wasn’t from the neighborhood.
Matt smiled through the bars at the fat man, who stared with close-set eyes over a pug nose.
“I believe a man came in here a few minutes ago,” Matt began. “Blond guy. Track suit. Sneakers. Yankee cap . . .”
The fat man nodded, bored.
“So you know him?” Matt asked.
“He’s been in and out for the past couple of days,” the fat man replied, regarding Matt with rising interest. “Why do you want to know? Are you a cop or something?”
I sensed no hostility in the man’s response, only wariness.
“Nothing like that,” Matt said quickly. “Van Doorn is a friend of mine, that’s all.”
“That’s his name? Von Doom?”
“Van Doorn,” Matt corrected. “Didn’t you know?”
The clerk shook his bald head. “We don’t ask for names around here. Not his. Not yours. We respect our customer’s privacy.”
“I see. Very commendable,” Matt said, humoring the man. “I appreciate your discretion in this matter, as well. You see, Van Doorn is a friend of mine. Lately I’ve become concerned. He seems to have fallen in with a bad crowd. He’s been gambling, and I’m rather afraid Mr. Van Doorn might have accrued some debt with a local gangster.”
The fat man snorted. “Do tell.”
“If you could answer a few questions, I would be very appreciative.” While Matt spoke, he laid a fifty-dollar bill on the counter. The fat man’s meaty hand slammed down on the bill like he was swatting a fly. When he lifted his hand again the money was gone.
“What sort of business does my friend do here?”
“Look around, pal,” the fat man replied. “This here is a pawnshop, and he ain’t been buying.”
“So he’s pawning things? Valuable items?”
The man behind the counter shrugged. “A cigarette case. A money clip. Cufflinks. A couple of rings. The other day he brought in an Omega watch. Today he brought in a Rolex. Took three hundred bucks for it.”
Matt pursed his lips. “And you say Van Doorn’s been doing this for a week.”
“Maybe longer,” the big man said, showing a bit of sympathy for the first time. “Folks get in trouble—”
“I know. And they have to sell their lives away, piecemeal.” Matt cleared his throat. “Roughly how much money have you paid Mr. Van Doorn for these items?”
The fat man scrunched up his face. “Hard to say, buddy. He didn’t always take money. Sometimes he traded his stuff for other merchandise.”
I was surprised and baffled. In this sea of junk, I could find nothing Neils Van Doorn would need or want. But Matt didn’t miss a beat.
“I see you have a collection of military items in the window,” he said. “Did my friend trade his jewelry for something like that? A knife, perhaps? Or something more lethal?”
The question dangled in the close air. The fat man studied Matt for a moment. My ex-husband slipped his hand into his pocket and produced another fifty dollar bill. Slowly, he slid it across the counter. But this time, when the fat man’s hand came down on it, Matt didn’t let go.
“What did Van Doorn buy from you?” he asked in a firm voice.
The fat man leaned close, until he was eye to eye with Matt. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “Listen, buddy, I don’t want no trouble and neither do you.” The fat man’s eyes drifted up to the hole in the wall. “Let’s just say your friend took something a little more dangerous than a bayonet and leave it at that.”
“Are you saying he bought a firearm?”
The fat man yanked the bill out of Matt’s hand, leaned back. “You said your friend was in trouble, right? That he got in deep with the wrong guys, right?”
“That’s right,” Matt said with a nod.
“Then take my advice. Instead of buying his stuff back, just give him the money you were going to spend. Tell Von Doom to pay off the guys carrying his marker, and throw that .38 he’s packing in the East River.”
“Then you did sell him a gun,” Matt pressed.
The fat man spread his arms wide and grinned. “Gun? Who said anything about a gun? You sure didn’t hear it from me.”
The man sat back in his stool, peered down his nose at Matt.
“Now beat it. You and that nervous-looking babe over there. I don’t want no trouble.”
Matt grabbed my hand and practically dragged me out of the pawnshop. In the street, the wind was blowing off the Hudson River, but the misty drizzle had ceased. We walked almost two blocks before Matt spoke.
“Call Quinn. Tell him what we found out.”
I pulled out my cell, speed dialed his precinct number. To my surprise, I got through to him. While we headed east, back to Midtown, I filled Mike in on what we’d learned. I told him about my suspicions, about the hat Van Doorn was wearing, and how the man who mugged Ric that night was wearing the same kind of cap.
“It’s a nice theory, Clare, but there are several holes in it,” Mike told me.
“Holes? What holes?”
“For starters, this Neils Van Doorn has no connection to Ellie. As far as I can see, he never even met Mrs. Lassiter. And anyway, Ellie wasn’t shot.”
“Then why did he buy a gun?”
“Maybe he didn’t,” Quinn replied. “Matt was feeding cash to the guy at the pawnshop. He was probably telling tales to keep the payoff flowing. If the only proof you have is the word of that pawnshop scumbag, you really don’t have much at all.”
“But owning an unlicensed handgun in New York City is illegal, right?” I argued. “There’s no way it could be licensed. The pawnshop clerk didn’t even know Van Doorn’s name!”
I could hear Quinn’s sigh over the cell phone. “I’ll look into it,” he said.
“How about putting a tail on Van Doorn,” I suggested.
“We don’t have the manpower to chase everyone we think might have an illegal handgun.”
I did
n’t know what to say to that, and I was beginning to think maybe I was on the wrong trail again.
“I’ll look into it, Clare,” Quinn finally said. “That’s all I can promise.”
I thanked him and closed the phone. When I looked up, I noticed Matt was on his own call. He spoke for a minute, and then hung up, frowning.
“I just spoke to Monika Van Doorn’s personal assistant. Mrs. Van Doorn is unavailable. She’s making preparations for tonight’s Dutch International Halloween party.”
“Great. How are we going to talk to her about Ric’s decaf scheme?”
“Come on . . .”
Matt bolted for the corner of Eighth Avenue, where he frantically tried to wave down a cab.
“Where to now?” I asked.
“We’re going to see my mother. She’s been invited to Monika’s big party tonight. We’re going with her. We’ll crash it if necessary.”
“But, Matt, it’s a costume party! Do you know what the population of this burg is? Every masquerade shop is certainly cleaned out by now. Where are we going to find costumes in New York City on Halloween?”
TWENTY-FIVE
“SORRY, ma’am. We can’t be going any farther. There’s craziness ahead.”
I could hear exasperation behind the limo driver’s Caribbean lilt. His Lincoln Town Car was completely surrounded by the mob of people. There was no going forward, or turning back.
“I tried to tell you two,” Matt said. “Traffic’s blocked by the parade. We’re lucky we got this close to Sixth Avenue.”
Madame sighed. “Very well, we shall walk from here.”
Matt climbed out of the Town Car. Adjusting his Zorro hat over his black mask, he circled the car and opened the door. Madame lifted her hand. With a dramatic flourish, Matt tossed the ebony cape over his shoulder, pushed back his plastic sword, and took his mother’s hand. Madame’s elaborate red and white gown rustled as she exited the car.
“Welcome to the Halloween parade, Your Majesty,” Matt said with a deep bow.
The Queen of Hearts curtsied, eliciting a smattering of applause from the spectators, many of whom were also in costume.
Madame’s outfit was suitably outrageous. Her faux Elizabethan dress, with a large scarlet heart bodice, ballooned when she stepped onto the sidewalk, and the crowd parted to give her room to pass. She wore a tasteful tiara in her upswept silver hair and long red opera gloves on her arms. A heart shaped mask with a sequin-covered handle completed her disguise.
When we’d arrived at her penthouse apartment earlier in the day, Matt and I found Madame assembling her costume. We explained our situation, and our desire to crash the party, and Madame declared she had the perfect costumes for both of us.
“Matteo shall wear the costume with which he dazzled the ladies back in his early twenties. You remember that year?” she asked Matt. “Both you and Ric went to the Dutch International party dressed as Zorro. You made the ladies swoon, and confused them, too. They never knew who they were kissing!”
“I can’t believe you still have that outfit,” Matt replied.
“You forget how much of an impression the pair of you made. The company’s trade magazine, the Dutch International Journal, even published your pictures and a lengthy caption.”
Matt winced. “My fifteen minutes of fame.”
Madame produced the costume, sealed in Mylar like the bulk of her vintage fashion and accessories. After some adjusting for size and hasty pressing, Zorro walked the wild frontier once again.
Thankfully, my costume proved to be much simpler. Madame raided her closet for vintage fashion from the Swinging Sixties, and once again I was to play that iconic First Lady, Jackie O, as I had when we were investigating a stock scheme a year ago. This time I was playing her in a simple yet stunning Cristóbal Balenciaga black dress in silk gazar (according to Madame).
“Cristóbal is not nearly as well remembered as Christian Dior, but I so adored his look,” Madame said. “He never achieved true immortality because Balenciaga was a perfectionist who closed down his house of design in 1968 rather than see it compromised in a fashion era he did not respect.”
I’d slipped into the impeccably cut black dress that ended at the knee, and stood before the full-length mirror. The dress featured the popular “sixties silhouette,” but the seven-eighths sleeve that widened into a bell gave the garment an ephemeral, fairy-like air.
“That type of sleeve also flatters women of a certain age,” Madame observed. “Balenciaga was a sycophant to the imperfect body. His clothing always looked elegant, even on women whose bodies did not fit the popular standards of beauty—not that it matters to you, Clare. You are as beautiful as you were in your twenties. Isn’t that right, Matteo?”
Matt, who was struggling with his sash, nodded. “In my opinion, she’s more beautiful.”
Oh, lord. I thought. Madame really does want to be the Queen of Hearts.
Now, while the Queen strolled toward the Village sidewalk, Matt opened the door for me. I draped a vintage Balenciaga lace veil over my straight black wig, then slipped on the oversized Jackie O sunglasses. Wobbling on four inch heels, I stepped onto Eleventh Street.
The time was only seven forty, but the sun had set over an hour before and the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade was in full swing. The mile-long parade was the largest event of its kind in the world. Costumes weren’t the only attraction. Dancers, artists, musicians, and even circus performers strutted their stuff beside floats, live bands, and street theater troupes.
Though we were only about a block away from Sixth Avenue, I couldn’t see the parade beyond the crowd on the sidewalk, but I could hear the blaring music—everything from swing to rock and roll to traditional Tibetan chants. And I could make out the tops of large animal puppets bobbing up and down over the heads of the massive, costumed crowd.
The puppets didn’t surprise me. It was a puppeteer who’d started the whole thing back in 1973—Ralph Lee had staged a wandering neighborhood puppet show to entertain the children of his friends and neighbors in the Village. A few hundred people attended that first event. Within eight years the simple street show had expanded into a parade and pageant that attracted over 100,000 participants. These days we were seeing as many as two million attendees, which didn’t even include total spectators since almost one hundred million people watched the parade on television worldwide.
While Madame boldly pushed through the mob, I followed, and we made our way down the block to the edge of Sixth Avenue. We’d already waded through zombies, ghosts, ghouls, superheroes, politicians, and bugs (spiders, flies, and a pair of New York cockroaches), as well as inanimate objects (chairs, couches, tables, iPods, a pizza box, and a can of Campbell’s soup—no doubt a homage to Andy Warhol).
Matt joined us at the curb. The Dutch International party was at a chic new eatery on Mulry Square. We were on Eleventh, and the square wasn’t far—but to get there we had to cross the crazily crowded Sixth Avenue parade route.
“I guess we’ll wait for a break in the march,” Matt said uncertainly.
I was about to reply when I heard an electronic voice. It was robotic, like a computer’s . . . and I whirled around in time to see an elderly Asian man with a box full of round plastic disks decorated with creepy creature faces.
“Robot voice, five dollar,” he said, speaking into the plastic disk.
The man’s voice came out the other end of the electronic device sounding like a combination of Darth Vader and Stephen Hawking.
I tapped his arm. “How does that work?” I asked.
“Robot voice, five dollar,” he replied, obviously not understanding.
I gestured to the object, and the man finally nodded. He showed me a button, pressed it. Then he put the disk to his lips and spoke into it. This time no sound emerged. He held out the disk, pressed the button again.
“Robot voice, five dollar . . . Robot voice, five dollar . . .” came out of the tiny speaker.
“So it records,
too . . .” I murmured. Just like the prerecorded message Ric said he’d heard the night he was mugged. . . .
The man pressed a second button and the machine amplified and distorted the recording. Impressed, I fumbled for my wallet. I intended to show this device to Mike Quinn, and play it for Ric, just to see his reaction.
“I’ll take two,” I said, handing the man a ten. He gave me two disks, one blue and one red. I slipped them into my purse and faced Madame, who was huffing impatiently.
“We’ll never get across if we wait,” she declared, stepping off the curb.
Matt’s head was turned—a beach-bunny float carrying a dozen young women wearing nothing but the skimpiest bikinis imaginable had caught his eye—and I tugged his arm.
“Will you control your mother!” I cried.
“Too late,” Matt said. Madame was already blocking the parade. Her son shrugged and followed her into the street.
Boldly, Madame strode into the path of the marching mob. I rushed to catch up, and block anyone who might knock the frail woman to the ground. But a long chorus line of garishly clad transvestites stopped dead in their tracks to allow Madame to pass.
“After you, Your Grace,” Carmen Miranda called, adjusting a headpiece made of waxed fruit.
“Jackie O, that dress is so divine,” Tina Turner called in a voice much deeper than any recording of the Acid Queen I’d ever heard.
Jayne Mansfield whipped a white feather boa around her closely shaved throat. “Well, I never,” he/she snorted.
“You don’t really love Jack!” a gold lamé-clad Marilyn Monroe called in a silky voice. “Set the President free so I can have him!”
A man in Yankee pinstripes waved a plastic bat at Marilyn. “I told you to stay away from those Irish boys. They’ll be the death of you,” the Joe DiMaggio look-alike complained.
We passed Elizabeth Taylor, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, and Divine. (A drag queen imitating a drag queen. Too surreal.) Finally we arrived at the opposite side of Sixth Avenue. The crowd on the sidewalk parted for Madame, and we were on our way to Mulry Square.
The Dutch International party was being held at Han Yip’s Rice Shop, an upscale restaurant designed to resemble a downscale Chinese joint. The tables were green Formica, the floors covered with matching linoleum. Han Yip’s menu was displayed on a huge backlit sign over the kitchen counter. Instead of showing faded photographs of chicken chow mein and pork fried rice, there were striking photographs of pan-Asian fusion delicacies beautifully presented on bone white porcelain plates, with no price less than thirty dollars.
