AHMM, October 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Haven't seen her,” Judy told me.

  "All day?"

  She beckoned another kid over. Roger Tuohy, the Artful Roger, she called him. Ten years old, he was, and already something of a slippery character. Where she'd come up with this literary label, I wasn't to know. Maybe it was accident, or she'd spent overmuch time in the public library, a warm place for the homeless and otherwise dispossessed.

  "Gone,” he said.

  Gone from her usual haunts, I asked him, or disappeared?

  "Just gone,” he told me.

  They had their secrets, and I wasn't meant to intrude. They had a private language, a coded vocabulary, from which I was excluded.

  "Where might she go?” I asked Judy.

  She shrugged.

  I bit the bullet. “Somebody very much like you, a girl who grew up in the streets, she asked me to look out for Maggie."

  Judy, being who she was, went straight for the weak point in my argument. “Why?” she asked. The same question I'd asked, because it was the obvious one, of Dede.

  "She said the girl reminded her of herself, at the same age and in much the same circumstance."

  "I never thought of you as sentimental, Mickey."

  Meaning she'd felt the back of my hand in times past. “The street's a stricter discipline than mine, Judy,” I reminded her.

  "You want us to find her for you."

  "That's what I asked of you before."

  "No, you asked me if I could gain her confidence."

  I smothered a smile. Kids can be very literal, almost lawyerly. It comes, I'd imagine, from their heightened sense of unfairness. “Same difference, if she's gone missing,” I said.

  "Okay,” she said, accepting the arbitrary gap in logic.

  "Work in pairs,” I told her.

  "One of us gets pinched, the other one's around to tell the tale?” she asked mischievously.

  "I was considering your safety."

  "Tell the truth and shame a liar."

  "The cops are sniffing around the edges of this, so there's more to it than meets the eye. I'm thinking the Italians."

  I was telling her more than she needed to know, and she saw I was residing a trust in her.

  "Watch each other's back,” I said. “Don't get careless."

  She gave me a contemptuous thirteen-year-old's look, and turned away.

  "Jude,” I said.

  She swung back, impatient with my secondguessing her.

  "Something about this doesn't feel right,” I told her. “If it smells dangerous, back away."

  "Every time,” she said with a wink and an evil grin, then went off to round up her posse. The girl had more chutzpah than an Italian caporegime, and fewer doubts.

  * * * *

  Beneath the pavement, the city is a maze of service levels that go 60 feet down or more, a secret circulatory system, much of it unmapped and lost to living memory.

  My doubts began with Dede. I'd taken her at her word, but now I was beginning to think she might have taken me for a ride.

  An unworthy thought, so I put it to the test.

  We met, of course, like conspirators. I couldn't very well telephone her at home and have her husband answer. I used a method we'd arranged in advance, the after-hours delivery of her dry cleaning. A private note, ten bucks to the Chinaman.

  We were at a bar on Third Avenue, in the shadow of the El. This was back when there was a Third Avenue elevated. It was an anonymous kind of joint, but it was busy enough to give us cover. The dinner hour was fast approaching; any saloon in New York that serves liquor has to serve food, even if it's soggy steam-table discards, and the two of us together were as anonymous as the place. I was waiting on a stool at the near end of the bar, and she'd known enough to wear a plaid cloth coat, not mink.

  Dede and I didn't bother to act surprised to see each other. I stood up, she took a seat, I sat down again. I was nursing a weak scotch and water. She ordered a Canadian Club and soda. I paid.

  "Have you seen her, spoken to her?” she asked.

  "No,” I said, “but a couple of my runners have."

  "And?"

  "Nobody gets close to her, from what the kids tell me."

  "Could they?"

  "They're not a trusting lot, themselves,” I told her. “And she's not one of them."

  "Could you bring her into the fold, at least get her out of the life?"

  "It was somewhere in the back of my mind,” I admitted.

  "But she'd still be an outsider, not an initiate."

  "All my kids were outsiders, once,” I said. “That's the appeal of being in a gang, the sense of belonging. You have to understand something, Dede. They're clannish, they're tribal, they're protective of one another. It's a pack mentality. They won't accept just any stray dog who happens onto their turf."

  "In time, perhaps?"

  "Time we don't have,” I said. “As soon as I started asking around, it put the cat among the pigeons."

  "What do you mean?” She was genuinely alarmed.

  "I suggested to one of my kids that she try and get close to the girl.” I held up a hand, forestalling comment. “It wouldn't be clumsy sympathy, believe me. More an actively hostile approach, if I don't miss my guess, challenging the girl for dominance, or territory. It's a protocol."

  "I remember."

  "My own reconnaissance was less direct."

  "You talked to my doorman,” she said. She didn't smile.

  "Among others,” I said. “Thing is, you're not the only one he reported it to."

  "You're not a physical presence that goes unnoticed."

  I shook my head. “I didn't choose to make my presence threatening,” I told her. “I might not have been the soul of discretion, but I didn't see what harm could come of it. In the event, I was wrong."

  "What happened?"

  "Inside of two, maybe three hours, I'd attracted police attention. A lieutenant of detectives named Pat Gallagher, as crooked as they come. Not a man you'd like to have your name on his list."

  "What did he want?"

  "He wanted to know my interest."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "As it happens, he provided his own answer."

  "Which was?"

  "That it had to do with the Hannahs, expanding into new territory. I left him thinking that. It was the easy way. But now I want the truth."

  "I told you the truth."

  "You told me a half truth,” I said, “which is as dangerous as a lie. And when I went into it blind, I got ambushed."

  "I never meant to put you at risk,” she said.

  "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, Deirdre, but you never would have come to me in the first place if you'd thought there was no risk attached."

  "My husband—” she began, turning the glass in her hands.

  "Your husband knows you were a whore,” I said, interrupting her. It was a purposely unpleasant choice of words.

  She stopped fooling with her drink and met my gaze. There was enough sorrow there, and steel, that I dropped my eyes. “My husband,” she said, evenly, “has taken advantage of this girl's services, just as he once took advantage of mine. But we made a deal, something he's been gentleman enough to let me forget."

  "Until now."

  "We all make compromises, Mickey,” she said.

  "And even a van Rensellaer needs his ashes hauled,” I said. “Once in a great while."

  "He never felt the lack,” Dede said, sad but defiant.

  She was so vulnerable and forlorn, I had to relent. “How come you didn't tell me any of this before?” I asked her.

  "You would have read the worst into it,” she said.

  "I'm reading the worst into it now,” I said.

  "Even if it were a half truth, Mickey, it was still honest. She reminds me of me, and the choices I had to make."

  "Fair enough,” I said.

  "Are you going to help her?"

  "She's vanished."

  "How can that be?"


  "My kids tell me she hasn't been seen on the street for the last day and a half.” In case she missed the point, I made it more specific. “She might have slipped through the cracks, but nobody's noticed her since you came and asked me whether I could get chummy with her."

  "This isn't good, Mickey,” she said.

  "You're telling me?"

  Dede ducked her head. “I'm telling you,” she said.

  * * * *

  The runaway truck flattened me about an hour later, when it came full dark, eight o'clock that night, say.

  It was my own damn fault.

  I'd seen her home, from a discreet distance, of course; she never knew I was there.

  Then from Beekman and Sutton, I'd walked over to the UN construction site. Why it conjured much up, I couldn't say. It was still a morass.

  There were cops all over the place. I should have walked away, and I started to, but O'Toole caught me looking.

  First he cuffed me. Then, with my hands behind my back, he cracked me across the face.

  "Give over that,” a voice said. It was Gallagher.

  I was leaking blood and snot, and I could do no better than wipe my nose on the upper part of my sleeve.

  "You were asking about this girl,” Gallagher said.

  I hawked up a gob. My face hurt. “Which girl?” I asked.

  "The dead one,” he said. “What reason did you have to kill her?"

  I was behind in the pitch count.

  "Aw, now, Mickey,” Gallagher said, leaning in close, “you'd be the last one to have seen her alive, I don't miss my guess."

  "When would that have been?” I asked.

  "Last hour or so,” he said. “Back of her body's still warm to the touch."

  I couldn't very well use Dede for an alibi, although she'd have been eager to give it, in spite of the embarrassment. “How do you mean, the back of her body?” I asked him.

  "After the rape, you drowned her in three inches of water,” he said. “Held her facedown until she choked."

  "You're telling me she's not even stiff yet?"

  He shrugged. “There's no rigor to speak of. You ready to come clean with me?"

  "You're sucking air, Pat,” I said. “You've got no gas in the carburetor. I had no motive to kill the girl, for one, and if she died in the last two hours, I've got witnesses who'll place me elsewhere, and I don't mean the kind of witnesses I can buy. Now get over yourself. Take off the cuffs."

  "It was worth a shot,” he said, and signaled to O'Toole.

  O'Toole unlocked the handcuffs and left my hands free.

  "Get lost,” Gallagher said, turning away.

  I massaged my wrists. “Tell fat boy not to do that again,” I said.

  Gallagher swung around. I felt O'Toole's whiskey breath on the nape of my neck.

  "Fat boy, is it?” Gallagher inquired, dangerously.

  "I'll take the gun back too,” I said. O'Toole had frisked me and taken the .38 Super autoloader.

  There was a moment where it could have gone either way, but pride gave way to the practical. Indecision, or loss of nerve? I couldn't say. Gallagher knew I had a Sullivan Act card, which meant I could legally carry a firearm concealed. He raised his chin. O'Toole handed me the .38, butt first. I reversed it and tucked it inside my waistband at the small of my back.

  "All right, then,” Gallagher said, dismissively.

  "Show me the victim,” I said.

  He hesitated, and then shrugged. “Why not?” he agreed.

  We made our way down into the enormous trench. The soil was loose and the footing treacherous. Banks of emergency lights cast deep pools of shadow. Up on more solid ground, a diesel generator hammered. Gallagher and I stumbled through the muck, earth sucking at our shoes.

  The dead girl was at the bottom of the slope, her clothes disordered, her limbs splayed out akimbo, the exposed skin pale and clammy, tinged with a bluish cast. Skin and bones, Dede had said. The body looked to weigh no more than eighty pounds. I glanced upslope toward the lip of the trench. There were footprints everywhere. Whatever might have been there to see, once upon a time, had been trampled across, twice over. I knelt down beside the corpse. Her hair was dark, stringy and matted, clotted with mud. I lifted a strand away from her face. Her eyes were still open, but without depth or reflection. The dead are like that, their eyes lightless. I grunted to my feet.

  "What do you know about this, Mickey?” Gallagher asked.

  "No more than you,” I said. “Probably less.” I looked up, studying the slope again. “But she didn't die down here."

  "Why would you think that?"

  "Educated guess,” I said. “I'd imagine you could gain access to the site through a break in the hoardings.” I pointed up at the plywood barrier at street level. “Ease through the fencing, you'd be in darkness, have some privacy. Enough to get your business done and not be interrupted."

  "Her business was on her knees,” Gallagher said.

  I nodded. “A man your size, or mine, how much trouble would it be to strangle her with your thumbs?” I asked him. “Or break her neck? As easily as a pigeon's."

  "Or a soiled dove,” he remarked.

  "There's bruising on her throat, Pat,” I said.

  "Dirt,” he said.

  "No,” I said. “Black-and-blue marks."

  He looked at his feet. “You figure he killed her up there and then slid her over the edge."

  "Take her to Bellevue,” I said. “Have a coroner examine the body. I doubt that she drowned or suffocated. I'd say she died before she got to the bottom of the hole."

  "Waste of time,” he said. “She's just another runaway."

  Discarded. It put me in mind of Judy. “I'll make it worth your while,” I said.

  "Will you?” He looked at me, his interest rekindled. “Why would you do that?"

  I looked down again at the dead girl at our feet, her white limbs spilled crossways in the dirt. “A debt,” I said.

  "What do you owe a dead whore?” he asked me.

  "The future she never had,” I told him.

  * * * *

  So there it was, for all to see. Mickey Counihan, a fool for sentiment. I didn't much care how it looked, and it might even play to my advantage. Pat Gallagher was a man who'd be quick to probe an imagined weakness.

  I held a war conference. My troops were battle hardened, after a fashion, wise in the ways of grown-up perfidy, but green where politics were concerned, which I feared they might be.

  The captains I chose were Judy and her Artful Roger. “It's the same assignment,” I told them, “but the stakes are higher. We're fudging with a homicide investigation, and the cops won't welcome our attention. Don't tangle with either Gallagher or O'Toole. They're dangerous men. Gallagher because he's crafty and smart, but O'Toole because he's cunning and stupid."

  They were both very solemn.

  "Why did she die?” Judy asked me.

  "I'm thinking she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it could happen to any of you,” I said.

  "But it won't,” she said.

  "Not if I can help it,” I told her, “but you're going in harm's way, and I admit I'm putting you there."

  "Is this about her, or us?” she asked.

  Fair question, I thought.

  "I mean, isn't this personal with you, Mickey?” she asked.

  "Ach, it's all personal, Judy,” I said. “She stands in for the rest of you."

  "But she got thrown away."

  Wise beyond her years. “Somebody threw her away,” I said.

  "And you want us to find out who."

  "Find out who she was, first,” I said.

  "Maggie, that was her name on the street."

  "You can call her that, then."

  "We called her that."

  I took a breath. “Judy, a girl was killed. You can decide on the name. It doesn't matter to her."

  She gazed at me evenly. “Matters to us,” she said.

  * * * *

 
; There were too many variables.

  I'd been drawn in on the oblique. Dede. And now her husband. And why was Gallagher so ready to paper it over? He was a man with an eye for the main chance, which meant it was political, in the narrow sense, that of self-interest—but all politics is about self-interest, so perhaps it boiled down to whoever, or what, Gallagher was protecting. Turf, or an investment, which probably led back to one or another of the Mafia families, but that seemed too generalized. Bid-rigging on construction, short pours for concrete, mob influence in the building unions. The UN project, for one, was an enormous undertaking, with plenty of wiggle room to inflate costs, but that in itself was either too large, or altogether insufficient, to explain Gallagher's proprietary attitude. He had something more specific in mind. It strikes me funny, now, looking back on it, that he'd been so ready to let me off the hook. The murder charge wouldn't have stuck, but he could have taken me off the streets for seventy-two hours on suspicion, or as a material witness, and he'd held his fire, he'd held his temper, he'd kept O'Toole on a short leash. I had the uncomfortable feeling he was only giving me enough rope, and the phrase that came to mind was stalking horse.

  Which brought my thoughts around to Dede again. Unworthy thoughts, yes, but she was no unsoiled dove, and our history was such that I could be manipulated.

  On the other hand, if I took Dede at face value, gave her the benefit of the doubt, and further, if I considered the very real possibility that Pat Gallagher might be fishing on an empty hook, trawling dark waters without any bait, then the situation presented itself in a different light. They were none the wiser than I was.

  Something missing, then. A different actor, off-stage, or a different play completely. We'd come to rehearse one drama, and been given the wrong script. Somebody else had all the good lines. We were only extras.

  * * * *

  Judah Benjamin, the Negro doorman at the Sutton Place address, wasn't on duty when I dropped by the next morning. The guy working the shift, also colored, but a younger man, was less than forthcoming about when Judah would be there, so I left it alone. I didn't want to give him reason to remember me, or draw too much attention to my movements.

  Call me overcautious, but the whole business seemed to be getting too deep, and Maggie's death was in itself an object lesson. It could have been, of course, an unhappy accident, one of the hazards of her trade. I imagined otherwise.