by Bob Mayer
“I don’t quite recall which is which,” Kane said. “Is Patience on the left as you go up the stairs?”
Pope smiled. “Ah, you show your knowledge of your birth city. You have me stumped on that one, William. Why do you ask if I entered your apartment?”
“Someone opened my door.”
“Were you robbed?”
“I haven’t gone in yet.”
“Then how do you know someone was in there?”
Kane explained the matchstick.
“De omnibus dubitandum,” Pope said.
“I tend to be,” Kane said.
Pope was surprised. “You know Latin?”
“I was an altar boy. Went to Catholic school for twelve years.”
“Ah, one of those wonderful parochial schools grandly titled Our Lady of Perpetual Agony or some such.” Pope peered at Kane over his glasses and under the brim of the straw hat. “I don’t see the altar boy in you.”
“He wandered away a long time ago.”
Pope nodded. “I remember the exact moment I lost God. Rather, I should say, He lost me. After all, He is the all-powerful Being, not I, thus it would seem logical He has all the responsibility in the relationship.”
“You’ll have to tell me some day,” Kane said, “but right now I’ve got to see if I have a guest. I recommend you stay here. If you hear shots, call the cops.”
Pope removed the reading glasses. “And an ambulance?”
“If I shoot call a hearse.” As soon as he said the words, Kane regretted them. Not because they were a boast, but because they portended a possibility he’d vowed never to visit again.
Kane exited and stood just outside Pope’s front door on the high stoop. He scanned left and right. A couple walked down Jane Street to the east, heading away, but otherwise the sidewalks were empty. None of the parked cars appeared suspicious. Kane went down Pope’s steps. Drew the .45. He opened the gate and took the steps slowly. That familiar dread stirred.
Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.
The door was locked which could mean several different things. Kane unlocked and pushed the door open, staying out of the line of fire. Waited twenty heartbeats.
He entered fast, as he’d been trained, crouching low, gun high, eyes following the barrel as he swept the sitting room, finger light on the trigger. No one. He moved on to the bedroom and bath and then kitchen, muzzle of the gun leading. No one. The back door was locked.
Kane stopped at the small kitchen table he used as a desk. Someone had been in here.
Kane swung about, bringing up the .45 as he heard noise from the sitting room.
“Everything all right?”
“I asked you to stay upstairs,” Kane said, holstering the gun.
“You are not only suspicious of all,” Pope said, “you are prepared to deal with all.”
“I’m a real Boy Scout,” Kane said.
“Anything stolen?”
“Not that I can see.”
Pope was looking around. “None of the furnishings. Not that I packed the place flush with objects d’art. I appreciate your maps. One can literally see the history of the city in their flow.” He frowned as he saw the bed. “That’s exactly the way I make my bed.”
“It’s the way you made this one,” Kane said.
“That was a year ago,” Pope said. “Do you perchance sleep in a coffin? Should I pinch some garlic from the garden to protect myself?”
Kane pointed at the closet. A thin sleeping pad and camouflage poncho liner were underneath a hanging row of similar denim shirts and black jungle fatigue pants. A brown leather jacket bookended the wardrobe on one side. A heavy winter coat on the other.
“Do you have an aversion to beds?” Pope asked. “A phobia? I’ve heard of more esoteric fears. We all have foibles.”
“A bed is where someone expects you to be,” Kane said.
“Ah.” Pope nodded as if he understood, or was humoring Kane. “You’re also not very diverse when it comes to wardrobe.”
“One less decision to make every day.”
Pope smiled. “I’ve never been a fashion mogul.” He spotted the pegs and board above the bathroom. “That’s new.”
Kane went to it, jumped and grabbed the pegs. He pulled one out and reached across, inserting it another hole. Did the same with the other. A couple of pull-ups. Let go and dropped. “A decent upper body workout. I’ll fix the drill holes when I leave.”
“Intriguing,” Pope said. He turned back to the bedroom. “Perhaps a false alarm? Your matchstick slipped?”
Kane shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Pope pointed up. “Would you like some tea? Good for the nerves.”
“I thought that was booze,” Kane said as he followed him.
“Ah, son, you must learn my lexicon.”
They re-entered Pope’s kitchen and he turned on the overhead fluorescent, pushing the darkness away. The room was neat and orderly, other than the reading material on the table, much like the man. He reached into a cupboard, retrieving a bottle of scotch. Poured a jolt into his teacup. “Tea for calming the nerves.”
“No, thanks,” Kane said as Pope made to pour into another cup. “I gave up on hard liquor a long time ago.” He took the cup and poured some tap water into it.
Pope sat down. “Who would break into your apartment yet take nothing?”
“Apologies. I misspoke,” Kane said. “Something was taken. An envelope I hadn’t mailed yet.”
“Was it important?”
“To some people.” Kane apparently changed the subject. “Did you cover the mafia when you were at the Post?”
“I was on the city beat,” Pope said. “In New York that necessitates covering the current iteration of La Cosa Nostra. More accurately known as the Five Families beginning in 1931. Thus, I know a little but would not qualify myself as an expert compared to those who are.”
“What do you know about the Cappucci family?”
“That’s a broad topic,” Pope said. “Do you desire something specific?”
“Why did the Families make the eldest Cappucci leave town?”
Pope thought for a moment. “Technically it wasn’t the Families who ordered that, it was the Commission. That’s the top of the food chain for the mafia in the United States. However, I do believe there is a trans-nation organization, a supermob if you will, of which the mafia is only an obvious and rather blunt part, but that my friend, would have to be a discussion for another day and require considerable patience on your part and is, as I note, only a theory. I’ve often thought of writing a book on it but never had the time.”
“What’s the Commission?” Kane asked.
“Did you not see The Godfather? Or Part Two?”
“They came out while I was overseas. I usually do books.”
“A man after my own heart. However, if you get a chance, partake and savor. Both were well done. There is a book the first one was based on. I have it around here. I’ll lend it to you, although I have specific rules about lending books. Given the number of volumes in your abode, I’m surprised you don’t possess it.”
“I’m still working on my to be read pile.”
“As we both will be until the day we pass on,” Pope said. “The Commission consists of not just the Five Families from New York, but also the Outfit in Chicago, which runs LA, plus the families in Buffalo, Philadelphia and Detroit. The Commission was formed to keep internecine fighting between the different factions to a minimum so they could focus on the profit margin. Cappucci ignored their warning about a specific issue and had one of his enforcers kill someone in the Rosado family.”
“Which enforcer?”
“A fellow named Quinn.”
“Why wasn’t Quinn punished?”
“How do you know he wasn’t?”
“He joined me for breakfast this morning. He looked healthy.”
“Interesting. So, this is relevant. I was wondering about the change in topic.”
“Why did Quinn kill whoever it was?”
“The hearsay is this Quinn chap was acting on Cappucci’s orders when he did the murderous task so the blame was not technically his. He allegedly committed the act, to properly legalese, as he was not arrested and no proof has been uncovered. Thus, the eldest Cappucci was banished and his son took over as Don. It’s still a Don Cappucci running things, just a generation younger. Their territory is a slice of Brooklyn and some pieces here and there in Manhattan. The mafia treats the city as a smorgasbord, with each family taking profitable portions.”
“Anything else on Quinn?”
“Not in my frontal lobe at the moment. What happened at breakfast?” Pope asked.
“Cappucci’s son-in-law Alfonso Delgado, wanted something from me.”
“Did you give it?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“Photos I took when I was surveilling him.”
“If you don’t mind, why were you following this Alfonso Delgado?”
“His wife wants a divorce. I was looking for grounds.”
“Did you?” Pope asked. “Until ’67, adultery was the only legal cause for divorce in New York State. I believe it’s expanded since then, not that I’ve participated in the sacrament or the unraveling of.”
“Found exactly that and took a photo. A copy was in the envelope that was stolen.”
“Interesting. I could find out more about Delgado and Quinn?”
“If it’s not much trouble,” Kane said.
“I still have friends at the Post. One of them knows considerably more about the mafia than I. I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks.”
Pope had been forcibly retired from the New York Post two months ago when an Australian, Rupert Murdoch, bought the venerable New York City newspaper. Murdoch immediately cleaned house and was shifting the New York institution, founded by Alexander Hamilton in 1801, from serious newspaper to sensational tabloid in a bid to increase circulation.
Pope took a sip from his teacup and took advantage of Kane’s silence. “What do you make of this Son of Sam tragedy?”
“Why?”
Pope was slightly taken aback by Kane’s reaction. “It’s the topic everyone in the city is discussing. Those I know at the Post are being roasted by Mister Murdoch to come up with something, anything, factual or not. The paper is doing an abysmal job of legitimate coverage, sensationalizing it for sales. Of course, that’s sadly working in terms of circulation. Thus the ignorant reward their exploiters. But the press should answer to a higher calling.”
Kane nodded in apology. “It’s just strange you should mention it. I saw my uncle, who’s a detective on the case, today. He invited me to the Omega Task Force HQ tomorrow.”
Pope leaned forward, forgetting his ‘tea’ for the moment. “Really? I’d love to chat with you afterward.”
“I can’t speak out of house,” Kane said.
“Off the record, of course.” Pope said. “I wouldn’t give those gangaroos Murdoch flew in anything.”
“’Gangaroos’?”
“The Australian reporters he brought with him. All they know how to do with expertise is drink to excess. They believe they can understand a city by simply getting off a plane. It takes decades to imbibe the essence of New York City.”
“How long have you been here, Pope?” Kane asked.
“You’d think after thirty-two years I’d be saying boids and toitles from da Bronx zoo.”
Kane chuckled. “My sisters talk like that. I don’t think my Bronx is that bad. Thirty-two years?” He did the math. “Right after World War II? Did you serve?”
“In a manner of speaking. His Majesty’s forces wouldn’t take me as I was a tad young when the war broke out so I became a reporter to do my bit. Seems no one wanted my references or cared about my age for that job, just that I was willing to travel and could string together a coherent sentence. I accompanied His Majesty’s forces around the world. North Africa. A stint in Italy. Even Yugoslavia for a few months. Then France and across the Rhine with the boys. The end of the Thousand Year Reich.”
“You probably saw more combat than most soldiers,” Kane said.
Pope looked out the back window into the darkness for a moment. “Possibly. And I wish never to see any more.”
“Amen to that.” Kane raised his cup and Pope lightly touched it. They both took a sip.
“That still doesn’t explain why you came to the US,” Kane said. “Unless you don’t want to talk about it.”
“I was present when a camp in Poland was liberated,” Pope said. “Between that and having nothing holding me in England, Europe was done for me. I wanted a fresh start. All your exuberant GIs indicated this might be the place. A different spirit than a war-weary continent. My home island was exhausted after two World Wars and the Empire was experiencing death throes; not a pleasant spectacle.”
“Did you get one? A fresh start?”
Pope quaffed the rest of the Scotch. “Best I can do is arise each morning and get through the day making the most of it I can. The human condition. I had my job and that consumed me. Now, I have the library, my books and the garden.” He poured into his cup. “I find it intriguing that Alexander Hamilton died nearby. One of the reasons I gravitated to this abode years ago.” He pointed with the teacup in his hand toward the front door. “Directly across the street. The original house is long gone, but there’s a little plaque commemorating his passing. Few passersby’s notice.”
“Thought he died in Jersey,” Kane said. He’d looked for and found that sign the first day he moved in. “Where everyone is already dead.”
Pope chuckled at the weak joke. “No. He and Burr scurried over to New Jersey to assuage their manhood because dueling was outlawed in New York. The stories of how the duel unfolded are varied; a case of differing witnesses with after the fact agendas to skew their account. What is of no doubt is that Hamilton was gravely wounded. His friends rowed back across the Hudson while he was still clinging to this mortal coil. Carried him to a house across the street where he expired the next day.”
“Dueling seems kind of stupid,” Kane said.
“There was a pretense of honor about the entire affair, but it’s like war. When two sides go too far and then neither has the courage to back down.”
Kane raised the cup. “Truth.”
Saturday Morning, 9 July 1977
MEATPACKING DISTRICT, MANHATTAN
Kane put the five spot on the edge of the table. Three meat drivers held quiet court in a booth. A guy in a cheap security guard outfit sat at the counter, reading a comic book. He had a pair of handcuffs and a short billy club hanging from his belt. Enough stuff to get him hurt. An old beyond her years hooker with a tan raincoat draped over her slumped shoulders sat at the counter and chatted wearily with Thao.
Morticia placed the cup of coffee and glass of water with two ice cubes in front of Kane. Then she broke routine and sat across from him.
She indicated the diner. “Most of the vampires have crawled off to their coffins. We won’t see the weekend crowd for a bit.”
Kane cradled the mug, feeling the warmth. “Right.”
“That’s called making conversation.”
“Right.”
“I’m told you been coming here for a while,” Morticia said. “I asked Thao about you.”
“What did he say?”
“You know Thao better than me, don’t you? What do you think he said?”
“Not much.”
“’Not much’,” Morticia agreed. “He called you dai yu. What’s that mean? It didn’t sound like he was cursing you out. You know, like someone would say asshole in another language.”
“That’s Vietnamese for captain.” Kane glanced toward the counter where Thao was pouring the hooker a refill and passing her some meds in a brown paper bag.
“Was he in the South Vietnamese army?”
“Not exactly. He’s a Montagnard. They live in Vietnam, but
they’re a separate tribe.”
“What’s the difference?”
“He’s one of the mountain people.” Kane lifted the cubes and plunked them into the coffee.
“Now I know more about him from you, than you from him,” Morticia said.
“Why do you want to know anything?” Kane asked.
“I’m bored,” Morticia said. She leaned back in the booth. “Got no one else to serve at the moment and Thao has the counter. You know he gives some people medicine?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. So, you’re all I have for conversation.”
“Lucky me.”
“Unlucky me,” Morticia said. “What was with the peppers yesterday?”
Thao looked over, smiled, poured the security guy a refill, and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Ask Thao.”
“I did. He just shrugged.”
“You’re awfully curious this morning.”
“I’m concerned for my welfare,” Morticia said. “Those guys were bad news. But you’re bad news too, Kane. You had your gun out. The other guy had a gun. What were you going to do if the conversation turned ugly? Turn this place into the O.K. Corral?”
“You’re not really bored,” Kane said. “What did his gun look like?”
“Comparing sizes?”
Kane sighed.
“What’s that?” Morticia indicated the bracelet on his right wrist. “Thao has one. They’re pretty.”
“It’s a Montagnard bracelet,” Kane said. “Hand-made from the brass of expended shell casings. Thao’s people gave it to me.”
“Why?”
“It was part of a ceremony in their village to accept me as one of them.”
She expressed mock surprise. “They liked you?”
“We fought together. That’s stronger than like.” He frowned. “But yeah, I guess.”
“Thao’s always here,” Morticia said. “He’s the only cook I’ve worked with. Does he take any days off?”
“Ask him,” Kane said.
“I did. He just smiled. It’s like he lives here.”
“He does.” Kane pointed. “On the roof.”
“’On the roof’?” Morticia was puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“He built himself a place on the roof,” Kane said. “Reminds him a little bit of home. You know. Concrete jungle. Looks like a hut but it’s pretty cozy.”
