by Bob Mayer
“Anyway,” Trent dismissed. “So the analysts are like little hamsters on their information wheels, spinning away. You and I know raw information is not intelligence. But the computer has a list of alerts it’s programmed to and—oh, fuck it, I don’t know how the damn computer works. But I assume lights go off, a bell rings, whatever.”
“A bell rang and you came scurrying,” Kane said. “Like a rat in a maze.”
Trent sucked on the cigarette, the tip glowing, ash falling off onto his pants leg. He brushed it onto the floor. The fingers holding the cigarette were stained, the fingernails uneven.
“I was driven here,” Trent said, “because your name is on that long list of alerts. The bell rang earlier today when one of those analysts scanned a request from the NYPD to the FBI’s criminal database and entered the pertinent data.”
“That was fast,” Kane said.
“We’re efficient. Didn’t they teach you in the finishing school you went to at Bragg that timeliness is the most important aspect of intelligence gathering?”
“They did.”
A spark of anger from Trent. “Then why did you dumb fucks take ten days to liquidate Ngo? You almost blew the whole fucking war apart.”
“Would that have been bad?”
Trent calmed just as fast. “Anyway,” he said. “Your name came up.” He tsk-tsked. “Really. Murder, Kane? You should have left that behind in Vietnam.”
“I didn’t murder anyone in Vietnam. Or here.”
“I eventually pegged you as the trigger man,” Trent said. “That’s the one thing none of you gave up. Who pulled the trigger? We were putting bets on it at the Center, but it never came out. Still hasn’t. I wonder what happened to that pot?”
“Why does the CIA have me on an alert list?” Kane asked. “Why are you here?”
“I like New York City,” Trent said. “The rest of the country thinks it’s circling the drain, going under any day now. The city government might. But you’ve got the United Nations, all those embassies. Lots of foreigners. Lots of spies.”
“That’s the FBI’s job.”
“Boys in suits,” Trent said, his tone indicating what he thought. “We like to keep our own eyes on things.”
“The CIA can’t operate domestically.”
Trent mocked with an incredulous face. “Have you learned nothing? As I said. There’s a lot going on. I keep my finger on the pulse. And it’s not just the foreigners. Wall Street and the big banks are critical. Nothing happens without money. There are no freedom fighters, no terrorists, no covert ops, no wars, without money. In fact, wars are fought over money in one form or another.” He briefly hummed the Money refrain from Cabaret, which was lost on Kane. Seeing this, Trent ceased and chained another cigarette. Then continued. “We keep your name on a list, because you have a unique skill set, Kane. An interesting background and breadth of experience. One you’re pissing away.”
“You want me to work for you?”
“I want you as my asset.”
“No.”
“I can make this NYPD thing go away.”
“I didn’t kill that guy.”
“Yeah, that defense didn’t turn out too well in Vietnam. There might be some money in it for you.”
“No.”
Trent sighed and got to his feet. “Think about it.”
“I don’t have to,” Kane said. “You fucked me over once. Stupidity would be letting you do it again.”
Trent wagged the hand holding the cigarette, scattering ash. “Oh, no, no, no, Captain Kane. You fucked yourself over. You did it all wrong, Kane. You and your buddies.”
Trent waited. Tossed the remains of the cigarette in the ashtray without putting it out. “I’m gonna do you a favor, Kane. Give you a piece of advice you should’ve figured out by now. This world?” He twirled a finger. “It’s a machine. We’re all cogs in the machine. Didn’t you ever think that standing on the Plain at West Point. That you were just one more automaton standing at attention among a thousand other pieces like you? Interchangeable parts? Think it through. The Long Gray Line? In its essence, what does that mean?
“The key, Kane, is where in the machine your part fits. It’s either in a place that gets plenty of oil and serves a useful function or it’s in a dark, rusty place that is unnecessary and eventually gets tossed out on the scrap heap or ground down to nothing. I’m giving you the chance to get back in the machine and be useful.”
Kane remained silent.
Trent picked up his jacket and shrugged it on. Pulled a pen out of the breast pocket. Grabbed a paperback off the shelf. Scrawled something on the back, tossed it on the table.
“Call that number and ask for me after you’ve come to your senses. No rush. Unless you get arrested.” He walked toward the front door. “The matchstick thing is cute. Tradecraft. Oh yeah, by the way, if things go well and you do what we ask, there’s always the possibility of us reaching into records. Perhaps change that dishonorable discharge. It’s just a mark on a piece of paper. They get changed all the time.”
Trent began humming the theme song from the newly released Scorsese movie, New York, New York, as he departed into the growing darkness.
Sunday Night, 10 July 1977
GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN
Kane had no clue what Trent had been humming when he left. He was still in the chair, watching the thin tendril of smoke rising from Trent’s last cigarette, when Pope walked through the open door.
“You all right, lad? I saw that chap leave. Friend of yours?”
“No.”
“Ah!” Pope said, as if he understood. “I just returned from the Post. Doing the research we discussed and a few other chores.” He noted the overflowing ashtray and the smoke. “Your not-a-friend is messy. Would you like to join me upstairs for some tea while this place airs out? I have learned a thing or two that might be of use to you.”
“Coffee for me,” Kane said.
“I assume you mean that literally,” Pope said, “and are not introducing me to a taste of your vernacular?”
“I have to work tonight.”
“I believe I have some we can make,” Pope said. “As long as instant suffices.”
“I used to chew instant from c-rats on missions,” Kane said.
“I assume that means yes.” Pope led the way out.
Kane crushed the burning embers, and left the door to the place open since it seemed an ineffective deterrent against the company he was receiving.
Pope looked over his shoulder as they walked up the front steps. “If you don’t mind me asking, who was that man? A rather large car pulled up for him with an unsavory chap opening the door.”
“CIA.”
“Interesting with all that is going on.” Pope led him to the kitchen.
“You don’t know all of it,” Kane said.
“One never does, but we can strive for that grail.” Pope searched through one of the cupboards. “I’m sure I have some instant. A lass from the Daily News I used to liaise with every so often desired it in the wee hours of the morning. Such was my effect on the fairer sex. Ah.” He brought out a jar with a faded label. “The rest I will leave to you.” He sat down and topped his teacup.
Kane put the kettle on the stove. He filled Pope in on the crime scene and Cibosky’s murder with a brief overview of the previous encounters.
“Are you going to call this Trent fellow?” Pope asked.
“No. We have a history. He was the mouthpiece the CIA put on the stand in Vietnam. He testified that the Agency never authorized the killing, when, in fact, they suggested it.”
“That’s the past,” Pope pointed out. “Right now, it sounds as if you might need some assistance. He offered.”
“Like the devil in the desert,” Kane said.
“Waxing biblical. What will you do?”
“You didn’t ask if I killed Cibosky,” Kane said.
“You said you didn’t.”
“You take my word for it?”
Pope sipped some scotch. “Son, I’ve met all sorts. Camp guards who snatched screaming babies from their mother’s arms and tossed them into ovens. Soldiers executing POWs. Here, in the city, I’ve talked to murderers. Rapists. CEOs. Psychopaths. Wife killers. Children killers. You didn’t kill Cibosky.”
Pope paused as Kane turned off the stove and poured boiling water over the instant coffee. The stale granules struggled to dissolve. He carried it to the table and sat down.
“Nothing further on Quinn, I’m afraid,” Pope said. “And I’m leery of pursuing it. Her Majesty’s Secret Services don’t like poking in certain areas and the SAS is one of them, even a colonial.”
“That’s all right,” Kane said. He pulled out his notebook and checked. “Hey, what poet wrote ‘Only dumb guys fight’?”
“Langston Hughes,” Pope said. “The Harlem Renaissance. I believe he passed away in the last decade. Intriguing fellow. Met him once. That came out of nowhere.”
“Someone quoted it today. What did you find out about Thomas Marcelle?”
“That was less dicey,” Pope said. “At least the surface facts. He was nicknamed ‘The Hammer’ as a prosecutor because he went after organized crime and political corruption with a vengeance. Made his bones on it, to borrow a phrase from those he investigated. You postulated the common theory that Marcelle changed after his son died in Vietnam.”
Pope reached into the leather satchel and retrieved a composition notebook, stuffed with papers secured by two thick rubber bands. He removed the rubber bands, placing them around his wrist. Turned pages as he peered through the glasses on the edge of this nose. “Let’s see that was--”
“22 June, 1967.”
Pope looked over his glasses. “You are familiar with the event?”
“I was there. Close by,” Kane amended.
“Connections clicking into place.” He tapped the notebook. “Here’s the interesting part. Early in 1967 Thomas Marcelle was put in charge of one of the Southern District’s biggest cases. A notorious man named Sean Damon, head of the vestiges of Tammany Hall, was indicted on a number of charges. It was an attempt by the Federal Government to break that political machine once and for all and deal a powerful tangential blow to organized crime and corruption in the city.”
“Damon,” Kane said. “Dark glasses? Nice suit? Not much hair, slicked back?”
Pope raised an eyebrow underneath the brim of his hat. “The man to a T. He has a problem with his eyes that requires he wears the glasses all the time. At least that’s the story, but I’ve met a number of good hands at poker who sport dark glasses to hide their eyes, which are the window into the soul, the bluff and the winning hand. You know him?”
“I saw him the other day. With Thomas Marcelle.”
“’Curiouser and curiouser! Cried Alice’,” Pope said.
Kane nodded. “Yeah, we’re going down a rabbit hole. I thought Tammany Hall was done when LaGuardia was re-elected?”
“Almost,” Pope replied. “Damon is a holdover and he maintains considerable ties across the city.” Pope checked the notes. “Damon had, according to the charges, sold judgeships, steered municipal building, streetlight and parking meter contracts to companies with strong mafia ties while taking a percentage, and assorted other Federal charges, including tax evasion. Tens of millions of dollars were involved. The case was rock solid and it was expected Damon would be behind bars for the rest of his life.”
Kane stirred the cooling coffee, swirling crystals in muddy water.
Pope went through the papers, found what he was looking for. “There is a flow to history and a flow to news. This was in early 1967. On 12 June Thomas Marcelle stunned everyone by cutting a deal with Damon’s attorney. In exchange for a guilty plea, Damon received an eight-year term at a low security Federal prison, eligible for parole in three. All his assets and money were confiscated by the government.”
“Who did Damon give up in exchange?” Kane asked.
“That was the shocking part,” Pope said. “No one.”
“Then what was the deal?” Kane drank the coffee, imbibing intact granules.
“That’s what everyone wanted to know. The papers were signed before Marcelle’s own boss, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District, knew about it. Marcelle’s resignation was on his desk the next day.”
“Ten days before Ted died. Was Marcelle bribed?”
“Oh, that was most certainly looked into. The US Attorney and the Feds dogged Marcelle. Bank accounts, home, the entire financial spectrum. They investigated him for years. Nothing.”
“Except his new law firm,” Kane said.
“There is that,” Pope agreed. “However, Thomas Marcelle’s wife comes from old money. She funded the establishment of the firm and after that the revenue rolled in.”
“What is Damon up to now?” Kane asked.
“He got out in late ’70 after doing the minimum three years. Rebuilt his fiefdom. The biggest issue in the city at the moment is the election. Damon still has most of his old connections. He’s a player.”
“What would Damon want of Thomas Marcelle?”
“That is a mystery, but there are many possibilities, few of them good. I’ll investigate further.”
Kane washed out the coffee mug. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome to bad instant coffee and a chat any time, my young friend.”
“Not what I meant.” Kane stood. “Thanks for believing me.”
MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Kane raced north on 8th Avenue with lights off, weaving in and out of traffic on the Kawasaki, earning him belated blasts of the horn from startled drivers who spotted him as a blur going by in the darkness and the glimpse as he crossed their headlights.
It was easy to follow Delgado’s convoy of two black Cadillac’s. Kane had stationed himself near the Triangle Social Club, on Sullivan Street, below Washington Square Park, after leaving Pope’s. The Triangle was the first floor of a six-story tenement, with a dark door and two blacked out windows. Men with the same genetic code as Cibosky stood outside, making sure no one who wasn’t supposed to enter stepped into the mob hangout.
While it was owned by Vincent Gigante of the Genovese family, this was the third time Kane had tracked Alfonso Delgado to it in the evenings when he’d followed the heir apparent to the Cappucci regime from his home in Brooklyn. This wasn’t unusual as the various crime families shared many illegal interests and capos from various families passed through the Triangle.
This was the first time, though, that Delgado was traveling with some of his crew. As a capo in the Cappucci regime, Delgado had his soldiers who did the street work, mainly extortion and gambling.
The Cadillac’s flashed their lights and raced up on bumpers, scaring other motorists out of their path on the one-way street uptown. They hit the green lights in perfect order, something drivers could do late at night, running the entire length of Manhattan without ever stopping as the lights changed in a ripple.
As they zipped past 31st Street, the large oval of Madison Square Garden was to the right, occupying two blocks on top of Penn Station. Hookers, hustlers, pimps and their furtive customers blurred by as the convoy, Kane trailing. Times Square approached to the right. The cars didn’t slow as they went through the theater district above 42nd Street. There was a scattering of pedestrians enjoying their after-theater dinner and daring the muggers. Marquees advertised plays as diverse as Annie and for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf.
Kane slowed as the lead Cadillac signaled right. Both cars turned east onto 54th Street and their brake lights immediately lit up. Kane rolled past and saw the cause of the abrupt stop. The street was blocked by a festive and desperate mob. A black marquee on the south side of the street was lit with an angled 54.
Kane spun the bike about, bouncing onto the sidewalk on 8th Avenue. He chained it to a lamppost, then hustled back to 54th. The caddy’s were inching their way through the crowd, following a li
ne of limousines and high-end cars depositing their contents in a roped off area in front of the nightclub.
Kane walked down the far side of the street, skirting the wanna-get-ins outside the ropes. The ground was vibrating, the echoes of powerful base from Studio 54. There was a short man on a tall stool scanning the crowd, every so often pointing and directing someone from the mob into the sanctum. The doors to the club were blacked out and a doorman swung a center one open for the anointed.
None of these people seemed concerned about Son of Sam.
It took Delgado’s car ten minutes to creep past the barriers. The gangster exited the passenger side. The man on the stool was yelling and gesturing, rallying his bouncers and directing them toward Delgado’s gathering crew. The man hopped off the stool, disappearing behind the crowd.
Kane stepped up on the hood of a car for a better vantage. Delgado and five of his crew were faced by a dozen bouncers. The man from the stool pushed through, confronting the mobster. The two argued furiously. Kane didn’t need to hear the gist given what Toni had told him occurred on Friday night.
It appeared the mafia held little sway here. With a flurry of obscene gestures, Delgado and his crew remounted their cars. Kane jumped down and melted into the shadows of a storefront entrance half a block away, pressing back against the metal barrier. Leaving was quicker than entering for the cars, but they didn’t go far, double-parking on the corner of 54th and Broadway.
Delgado left a driver with each car and led the remaining five goons. Kane followed as they entered the alley behind the row of buildings on the south side of 54th. Kane checked his own trail, but the alley was empty to Broadway except for dumpsters overflowing with trash. Kane used those as concealment to follow the gangsters, none of whom were concerned about being shadowed, their focus on their leader.
A single bouncer stood outside a door. He was reaching for a walkie-talkie on his belt when one of Delgado’s goons charged him, wrapped the man in a bear hug and slammed him against the building. Dropped him like a rag doll.
Delgado tried the door and cursed.
