New York Minute

by Bob Mayer

  Strong turned left off 14th onto Park Avenue.

  “You got anything to say?” Strong asked.

  “I’m exercising my right to remain silent.”

  “I haven’t Mirandized you,” Strong said.

  “That’s been noted.”

  Strong slammed on the brakes and Kane had to use both hands to keep from eating the dash as horns blared behind them.

  The detective turned to him. “You’re a shit magnet, Kane. Some people are born one, some people become one. I don’t know which you are. But your history is full of it and your present is full of it and unless you want your future to be full of shit, you better understand one thing. You can be with me or against me. There is no middle ground. Decide now.”

  Horns blared, middle fingers were extended from taxis and cars edging around. Curses screamed. Strong was one hundred percent focused on Kane.

  Kane returned the stare. “What does that mean? With you or against you? What are you for, Strong?”

  “The law. The truth.”

  “Give me a break,” Kane said. “What world are you living in?”

  “The world where I could have slapped cuffs on you the moment I saw that gun on your hip,” Strong said.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Strong shook his head in amazement. “What is wrong with your brain?” He pointed. “I see the scar. You uncle said you took a round in the torso and one that glanced off your skull at Dak To.”

  A taxi driver stuck behind them leaned on his horn for five long seconds, a New York Hour, not deterred by the flashing light.

  Strong poked Kane in the chest. “What are you for, Kane?” Waited a few seconds. Poked him again. “Getting angry, Kane? Going to hit me?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re pissed.”

  “You are irritating.”

  “I can be a lot more than irritating.” Strong poked.

  Kane looked ahead. “Can we get to where we’re going?”

  “You can’t ask me to do a damn thing,” Strong said. “I came to get you as a courtesy. Did you know Malcolm? His father, James, said you were a friend.”

  “I knew him,” Kane said.

  “Were you a friend?”

  When Kane didn’t respond, Strong went on. “I don’t think you were. Because if your friend is dead, you don’t act like an asshole. You would want to know who killed him.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “The suspect is claiming self-defense. Against a guy in a wheelchair.”

  “What?”

  “Got your interest now?” Strong turned away and sat back the seat, large shoulders dropping. “With me or not?”

  “The law? Truth?” Kane said. “How about one of two? Truth.”

  Strong put the car into gear. “Good enough for now.”

  Kane spoke. “I didn’t take a round in the torso at Dak To. It was shrapnel. From a bomb dropped by a plane. A Marine plane. Killed a lot of good men.”

  “I wasn’t flying it,” Strong said.

  Park Avenue, right onto 20th.

  “Two of Delgado’s crew jumped me last night,” Kane said.

  Strong glanced over. “You seem none the worse for it.”

  “They are. They thought I killed Cibosky.”

  “It’s still a possibility. But you didn’t kill them, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “So you probably didn’t kill Cibosky.”

  Several patrol cars were scattered on Gramercy Park West, in front of the condominium. Lights were flashing. A killing here drew more attention than other places in the city. A patrolman waved Strong through.

  They pulled in front.

  “Where’s James?” Kane asked.

  “We had to send him to the hospital,” Strong said. “He’s taking it hard.” He opened his door and got out. Kane joined him.

  “Was he hurt?”

  Strong glanced at Kane as they walked to the door. “His son is dead. That’s hurt.”

  “I know that hurt.”

  For the first time, Strong was shaken. “Truce?”

  Kane nodded.

  They went in. Two patrolmen stood next to the open elevator. Strong and Kane got on. Strong did Malcolm’s job, pushing the lever to Farrah’s floor.

  Silence as the elevator shuddered upward. The doors opened to the corridor. A tipped over wheelchair was pushed against one wall a few feet into the corridor. A pool of blood under it.

  Kane waited as Strong didn’t exit.

  The detective recited to himself: “’Life is for the living. Death for the dead. Let life be like music. And death a note unsaid’.”

  “Langston Hughes?” Kane said.

  Strong was surprised. “One for the white guy. Maybe you’re not that dumb.”

  “Is that what you said to yourself in the Village, before coming under the crime scene tape?”

  “Words keep me sane in an insane world.” Strong pointed at the bloodstain. “Three rounds to the chest.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  “On the way to the morgue.”

  A blood spatter led from a spot five feet farther on to Farrah’s open door. Someone else’s blood.

  “The shooter is at the hospital,” Strong said. “Several superficial cuts. Nothing life threatening.”

  “Fuck,” Kane muttered.

  “Come on.” Strong led him into Farrah’s apartment.

  Blood was speckled, but not in significant quantities. Farrah sat on the couch, dressed only in panties, a towel held to her chest as a paramedic tended to her back. Flesh was split, blood oozing through gauze.

  “Coat hanger,” Strong said.

  “Will!” Farrah tried to stand, but the paramedic put a hand on her shoulder.

  Kane knelt in front of her, Strong hovering behind. “What happened?”

  She reached out and grabbed his hand. Her eyes were unfocused. “He crossed the line, Will. He did. I didn’t want to scream, but I couldn’t stop.”

  “I know.”

  Farrah was shaking her head. “He didn’t have to hurt me so bad. He didn’t. I told him the belt was okay. But not the hangar. He never did that before.”

  “It’s all right,” Kane said. “You’ll be all right.”

  “They said someone got shot in the hallway,” Farrah said. “I told them I wouldn’t talk to anyone but you. Did you shoot him?”

  Kane glanced up at Strong, who shook his head. “No. I didn’t shoot anyone.”

  “Good. I’m glad you didn’t shoot him, Will. I’m sorry I called the diner earlier today. I shouldn’t. I don’t want you in trouble. This is my problem.”

  Strong was nodding toward the door.

  “Let them take care of you, Farrah,” Kane said. “Go to the hospital. You’re going to need stitches.”

  She numbly nodded. Got up with the paramedic.

  They walked out.

  Kane remembered a few seconds too late.

  Farrah screamed in the hallway. “No! Not Malcolm!”

  Strong held out a hand, stopping Kane from going out there. “They’ll take care of her.”

  “You didn’t tell her who was shot,” Kane said.

  “She wasn’t a witness to that,” Strong said. “She’s high and not thinking straight so it doesn’t matter what anyone tells her. And she’s in pain.”

  “High? Fuck.”

  “We’re not sure what went down out there,” Strong said. “The only witness for the hallway is the suspect with the gun. He has his version.”

  “He gunned down a guy with no legs in a wheelchair,” Kane said.

  “Who he says was armed,” Strong said. “We found a gun in the vic’s hand. It didn’t look like it was planted. I’ve seen that. Do you know if Malcolm carried a gun?”

  Kane shook his head. “No idea.”

  “Truth,” Strong said.

  “I got no idea,” Kane said. “Doesn’t everyone have a fucking gun in this city? Knowing Malcolm, yeah, he probably had something un
der that blanket where his legs used to be. Did he get a round off?”

  “No. He was alive when the ambulance got here,” Strong said. “But couldn’t say anything. Died as they were loading him. I arrived at the same time. They’d ripped his clothes off working on him. He had tracks in his stumps. I’ve seen a lot, but that’s a new wrinkle. Did you know he was a junkie?”

  Kane walked to the chair he’d piled his clothes on the other day and sat down. “His dad thought it was his meds from the VA. I did too.”

  “The VA doesn’t dispense heroin,” Strong said. “Not yet,” he added, almost to himself.

  Kane looked up at Strong. “Who shot Malcolm? Who beat her?”

  Strong grimaced. “Sean Damon.”

  Kane was perfectly still.

  “You know who that is?” Strong asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re acting like it’s more than just know who it is. Have you seen him here before?”

  “No.”

  Strong indicated the apartment. “How are you involved in all this? Why’d she ask for you? Why’d she leave a message for you earlier? She seems a little out of your price range.”

  “I had to handle something here for the job.”

  “For the firm? Antonia Marcelle?”

  Kane nodded.

  “What was the job?”

  “That’s supposed to be confidential,” Kane said without much energy.

  “Truth.”

  “Toni told me someone was trying to shake down a friend. The doorman, James. Seems it was against his job description to cover for an escort working out of an apartment in the building.”

  “She doesn’t own the apartment.” Strong moved a stuffed pony aside and sat on the edge of the bed, checking his notebook. He wrote in it, then flipped a few pages. “That’s the other problem. The name on the lease is a company, Advantage LLC. When I asked her, I didn’t get anything coherent.” Strong looked up from the notebook. “I would assume there is some connection with the Marcelle’s given you were sent here by them. Which makes me wonder if the hooker is working for Marcelle?”

  “More likely a client of the Marcelle’s,” Kane said.

  “Still doesn’t make sense,” Strong said. “Why would your boss, Antonia Marcelle, give a damn about some doorman? Did you ask her?”

  “No.”

  “Were you curious?”

  “It’s a job,” Kane said. “I helped someone out.”

  “That’s when you met the hooker?”

  “Farrah. James introduced me,” Kane said.

  “Are you involved with her?” Strong waited. “I’ll take your silence as assent. How long ago did you first come here?”

  “I think it was in February.”

  “When was the last time you met the hooker?”

  “Friday.”

  “You’re in the wrong line of work, Kane.” Strong wrote in his pad. “Did it ever occur to you that the real client was whoever owned the apartment and the hooker?”

  “What’s Damon’s story?” Kane asked.

  “She pulled a knife and he defended himself,” Strong said. “She cut him. Not bad, but a couple of times. We’ve got the knife. He’s got the cuts. Not like he did that to himself. She didn’t deny cutting him. Said she did it after he hit her with the hangar. He says he hit her with the hangar after she cut him. He said, she said.”

  “Who do you believe?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Strong said. He snapped the notepad shut. “Guess who Damon’s attorney is?”

  “Thomas Marcelle,” Kane muttered.

  “You want truth?” Strong said. “Damon won’t get charged. Self-defense. Even if it wasn’t, it is.”

  Kane stared at the detective. “That’s the law?”

  “That’s the truth.” Strong nodded. “That’s a point for you, Kane. But you’re holding something back.”

  “My Uncle Conner says there’s two levels to the law. Says he’s a collar man. Are you?”

  “I’d take what your Uncle Conner says with some skepticism.”

  “What happened between you two?”

  “Ask him.”

  “Did you arrest Damon?”

  “No. He’s at the hospital getting stitched up.”

  “So you didn’t collar him.”

  “Already said that was a point for you.”

  “Who is Advantage LLC?” Kane asked.

  “Could be the Marcelle Firm,” Strong said. “Could be Damon. Could be both. Which means the hooker is owned like the furniture in here. Given he felt he could beat her like that, I’d go with Damon. He’s a wicked piece of work. Him and his Irish thugs, the Unholy Trinity.” He stood. “There’s something you should see.”

  Strong walked into the hallway, Kane following. Opened the door across the way. The bedroom had a large, king-sized four-post bed in the center. There were straps secured to bolts on each post of the bed leading to padded cuffs. The ceiling above the bed was covered in mirrors. There was an assortment of oils, gels, dildoes, and other objects of the carnal art on a large dresser. It had a tall mirror on top of it.

  “This is where she worked,” Strong said. “The way you’re looking around, she didn’t bring you in here?”

  “No.”

  “That’s interesting.” He went to the dark wood paneling to the left of the dresser. Shoved the palm of his hand into the edge of the wood, next to the mirror and a tall panel popped forward on hinges. He opened it and indicated for Kane to look. A 16mm camera was set on a short tripod facing the room, angled through the mirror’s one-way glass.

  “There are mikes,” Strong said. “The on switch for the camera and mikes is here.” He indicated underneath the top edge of the dresser which extended a couple of inches to either side.

  “How did you find it?”

  “I worked vice for fourteen months,” Strong said. “This could be one of a couple of things. Could be making movies and selling them to the peep shows around the Deuce. But I very much doubt that. It’s for whoever owns this place and her.”

  “Why?”

  Strong gave Kane the look. “To film whoever was in here. Blackmail, Kane. That’s what people like Damon are all about. Be glad she didn’t bring you in here or you’d be on film.”

  “It wouldn’t be much of a film,” Kane said. “Why did Damon really beat her?”

  “Who knows?” Strong said. “Some guys get off on it. Or he found out she was entertaining unsanctioned people. Like you. Since you were here last Friday.”

  “She’d been choked recently. Hard. Left marks on her throat.”

  “I saw them. Did she tell you who did it?”

  “Just some client.”

  Strong sighed. “We’ve both seen some shit, haven’t we, Kane?”

  “Yeah.”

  Strong indicated the camera space. “Notice something else?”

  “No films.”

  “No films,” Strong agreed. “We searched the place. Not a single one. That seems odd. The camera is loaded, though. Ready to roll.”

  “The films are taken away.”

  “You’re catching up,” Strong said.

  “You said you’ve got no case against Damon in regard to Malcolm. What about for what Damon did to Farrah?”

  “She cut him with a knife.”

  “Is he pressing charges against Farrah?”

  “I very much doubt he wants any part of this in a courtroom,” Strong said. “Where did she get the knife?”

  “I gave it to her.”

  “Thought so after seeing it. Professional, with perfect edges. Man, you’re a shitstorm, Kane.”

  “Why are you showing me this?” Kane asked.

  Strong led the way to the door. “To give you an idea what you’re involved in working for Thomas Marcelle. The kind of people he represents.”

  “I don’t see the connection,” Kane said, “other than Toni asking me to help here one time and Damon being Marcelle’s client.”

  “Are you delibera
tely playing dumb?” Strong asked.

  “I’ve got a lot going on,” Kane said. “Sorry I’m not at your speed, Detective.”

  “Actually,” Strong said, “I think you might be ahead of me on some things. You know more than you’re telling me.”

  “Why tell you anything?” Kane asked. “You’ve already said the law isn’t going to apply.”

  CIVIC CENTER, MANHATTAN

  Strong didn’t offer a ride back to Kane’s apartment, which was fine because that wasn’t where he wanted to go. His original plan, to follow Delgado once more, was gone. Strong hadn’t taken the .45 or checked the map case, which had implications.

  Kane paused for a moment outside the building where a pool of blood indicated the spot where Malcolm had been loaded into the ambulance. And where he’d died. A man in the same uniform James and Malcolm wore, had a bucket of water and he tossed it on the blood, dispersing it toward the sewer. Another bucket and there’d be no sign of what happened.

  Kane walked south from Gramercy on Park Avenue, among the scattering of pedestrians, inadequately juggling the pieces of his life and recent events. He reached Union Square Park and angled through when an image of Lil’ Joe flashed in his consciousness. It hit like a punch in the heart and Kane had to stop, just in front of the large statue of George Washington on his horse.

  Consciously he knew this sudden reaction was because some synapse had connected this location to death: Union Square had been built upon a former potter’s field. Brother Benedict had articulated a particular interest in places that were built on top of sites used for very different purposes, from graveyards to swamps to slaughter-pens to former garbage pits. Kane put a hand on the iron fence around the statue to steady himself. Closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He spotted a payphone.

  Kane inserted a dime and punched the numbers.

  It was answered on the third ring, the voice tinged with drunk. “Riley.”

  “Uncle Conner, it’s Will. Why did you call Toni Marcelle a dyke?”

  “What?”

  “The other day, at the yacht club, you called her a dyke. Why?”

  “Geez, kid. I don’t know. I heard something, somewhere. I don’t know.”

  “Think. Who told you?”

  “Scuttlebutt, Will. Not many female lawyers. She’s divorced. You know how guys talk.”