by Bob Mayer
He withdrew the manila folder. It was thin. Sat at Toni’s desk and opened the file.
It wasn’t about him. It was a divorce settlement initiated by Taryn. On top was a copy of a notarized version, signed by Taryn with Antonia Marcelle as attorney and Mrs. Ruiz as witness and notary.
Kane tried to process it. Toni hadn’t handled their divorce. He’d signed the form Taryn had mailed him, agreeing to everything she wanted, which wasn’t much of anything except to be divorced and left alone. This was different.
He read through. It requested sole custody of Joseph, citing William Kane as an unfit father. The list of supporting facts was a chronology of Kane’s military service and absences; a claim from a doctor that a head wound like the one he’d received could cause mental instability; and finally the murder charge in Vietnam and the fact he was in military prison.
Kane turned back to the first page.
Dated 14 November 1969. The day before he landed at LaGuardia.
Tuesday Night, 12 July 1977
GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN
The .45 rested on Kane’s small kitchen table, sandwiched between a copy of the divorce decree and the letter Kane had stolen from Toni’s desk. His copy of the same photo she kept on top of her desk: Kane, Ted and Toni at Trophy Point right after graduation parade, sabers crossed, was under the pistol grip. A single bulb in a table lamp projected a cone of light around the objects on the table. The remainder of the basement was dark.
Beyond the .45 was a tattered shoebox, the corners crumpled, the writing faded. The top was off. Inside was a stack of photos of various sizes and a handful of letters.
It was three in the morning, the time when sentries are the drowsiest. When only the night shift or the restless are awake.
Kane reached over the .45 and retrieved a picture from the shoebox.
Wan, bleary-eyed, but smiling brightly, dark-skinned Taryn held a newborn Joseph in her arms. In a clinic in bumfuck Alabama, while Kane was doing pushups in the sawdust pit at Camp Darby, Fort Benning.
Kane put that picture on top of the .45.
He ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the polaroid, to the rough grip of the pistol, then back, lingering on Joseph’s face. Ted’s middle name. Taryn had outright refused Theodore and grudgingly given in on Joseph. Kane had nicknamed him Lil’ Joe, but Taryn had never liked that. He hadn’t been around enough for it to really get under her skin.
‘It ended Ted’s life.’
Toni had been honest, yet withholding, when she said that at Vic’s. Not just introducing Ted to West Point, but that cadet, that man, who had been Kane’s company commander at Hill 1338. He should have been Ted’s commander. Kane reached inside his shirt and pulled the dog tags off. One was his. One was Ted’s. Kane should have been the one lying dead in the blood, urine, feces, and viscera with the back of his head blown out. Stripped of his equipment and uniform. Hands bound by barbed wire.
Why hadn’t Ted told him who the Charlie company commander was? Why hadn’t Toni? Something had been off from the moment Kane and Ted choppered in to the 2/503rd during that movement to contact. Kane had sensed it and reflected on it often, never being able to pinpoint, always ascribing it to the randomness of which company had been ordered to be in what place in the attack. But it went deeper than that. It came all the way back here to New York.
‘We’re both in over our heads. Sometimes I wonder if Ted was the lucky one. Walk away, Will.’
Kane knew there was no walking away. He’d tried running to the other side of the world, drinking away, drugging away, fighting away, sexing away, working it away and nothing had served. It was just getting worse, faster and faster.
‘Man, you’re a shitstorm, Kane.’
Strong was right about that.
‘Here’s to Malcolm. He’s probably in a better place.’
Kane slid the picture of Taryn and Joseph aside.
He scrawled I’m sorry, Toni on the bottom of the letter from his company commander.
He picked up the .45 and put it to his temple. Put his finger over the trigger. Closed his eyes. Saw Ted lying there, brains blown out.
Remembered the mess and he couldn’t make Pope clean up that up.
Kane walked to the small bathroom, flipping on the fluorescent. The lip of the stained sink was crowded with the chemicals he used to develop pictures. He stepped into the tiny shower stall. The light was unsteady, as it always was, flickering.
Another mistake. The round would go through his head, through the wall. And the bullet was the one Morticia had caught.
Kane went back to the kitchen, laid the .45 on top of the letter and retrieved the High Standard. Returned to the shower stall. He’d bleed, but like Cibosky, there wouldn’t be any brain matter for Pope to deal with or bullet through the skull and wall. Pope could simply turn on the shower and wash away the traces of Kane once the body was carted away.
As Malcom’s blood had been hosed away on a grimy New York street.
Kane made sure there was a round in the chamber. Turned the bulky suppressor toward his right eye and reversed his grip, thumb on the trigger.
Amazed that the tiny .22 bore could appear so big. A black hole waiting to engulf his life.
Kane focused his left eye in the distance, through the door, into the bedroom, which blurred out the other eye’s image of final darkness.
As his thumb put pressure on the trigger, the stack of NY Times next to the bed came into focus.
Tuesday Morning, 12 July 1977
GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN
Kane lay on his back, the .45 on his chest. He stared up through the plant leaves at the hazy smog, imagining there were stars above. The smell of the tilled earth almost held back the incessant odor of the city, but not quite. Rotting garbage, vehicle exhaust, industrial smoke, and a whiff of salt water as the breeze wound through the buildings from the west. At two in the morning, the noise level was at low cycle; a distant siren, a ship’s horn in the harbor, the rumble of a descending plane arriving late to Newark across the river. A car passing, tires chattering on cobblestone.
The sound of glass breaking.
Kane rolled and knelt, safety off. A beam of light flickered through his kitchen window. He scurried to the back door, keeping low. The wood door was open, the screen door closed. Hushed voices crept through the screen.
“Where is he?”
“Fuck if I know. Maybe upstairs?”
The sophisticated level of vocabulary indicated two fools blundering about in darkness and ignorance. It wouldn’t take them long to search the tiny apartment. Their dark forms and lights entered in the kitchen.
“Outside?” one whispered.
“Why would he be outside?”
Kane could see them on an angle as he pressed against the brick, peering through the screen door. They had flashlights in one hand, guns in the other.
“Door’s open,” the other keenly observed.
Kane felt the weight of the .45 in his hand. He slid it into the holster. The screen door creaked open, a revolver leading, then an arm.
Kane grabbed the wrist, applying pressure on the joint while simultaneously twisting and dragging it down and around the man’s side. The gun fell from the man’s hand as he let out a yelp. Kane kept the momentum on the wrist, into the small of the man’s back, then up, tearing ligaments in the shoulder as it bypassed the normal range of motion. That elicited a scream.
Kane pushed forward, shoving the man into his partner.
“What the fuck!” the second intruder yelled, stumbling back into the kitchen, flashlight beam wildly arcing.
Kane threw aside the disabled gunman and kicked at the second guy’s gun hand. The toe of the jungle boot hit and the revolver went flying.
“Who the—“ the guy began, but Kane knocked the rest of the sentence out of him with a sidekick to the solar plexus that sent him flying out of the kitchen into the bedroom.
Kane spun about, his internal clock warning him.
The first intruder was on his knees, trying to locate the gun with his good hand.
Kane stomped on that hand, bones crunching. Another scream. Snap-kicked the gunman in the side of the head and he was out.
Kane walked to the bedroom. The second idiot was curled in the fetal position, moaning.
“It was only one kick,” Kane said, shaking his head. They didn’t make henchmen like they used to.
The guy raised a hand. “All right! All right!”
“What’s all right?” Kane asked. He flipped the light on, did a quick check behind but the first gunman was still unconscious. “Just two of you?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone waiting outside? In a car?”
“Nah.”
“What are you doing here?”
“We’re looking for Alfonso.”
“Delgado? You think I keep him in the kitchen?”
The guy sat up with his back against the bed Kane had never slept in. “He’s gone. Nobody can find him.”
“I don’t think he’s gonna be found,” Kane predicted. “Who sent you? Cappucci? Quinn?”
The guy shook his head. “He’s our capo. We been looking all over town for him.”
Kane’s hand went to the .45 as the screen door creaked, but relaxed when he recognized Pope in a robe, skinny, pale legs above fuzzy slippers.
“I heard a scream,” Pope said. He looked about. “I see the reason. I assume these are not friends of yours?”
“From Alfonso Delgado,” Kane said. He returned his attention to the guy against the bed. Drew the .45 and aimed it. “Any last words?”
“Hey! Hey! Hey! No, man, no. We was just looking for the boss.”
“You came with guns,” Kane said. “A gun for a gun.”
Pope stood behind Kane’s shoulder, but silent.
“We wasn’t going to do nothing,” the guy pleaded. “You got a bad rep.”
“Is that a good thing?” Pope asked.
The guy shifted his attention to the ex-newspaperman. “Come on, old fellow. Help me out.”
“I should ask him to shoot you for the ‘old fellow’ comment,” Pope said.
“You drive here?” Kane asked.
The mobster nodded.
“Keys?”
He dug the keys out of a pocket and tossed them to Kane, wincing as he did so.
“What kind of car?”
“Caddy.”
“Where is it parked?”
“Across the street. Down the block.”
“Which way down the block?” Kane asked patiently.
“What?”
“Toward the river or city?” Kane asked.
“City.”
Kane snap kicked the guy on the jaw. His teeth smashed together with a loud clack and his head bounced back against the bed. As it came forward, Kane executed a turn kick into the side of the head, knocking him out.
“That didn’t hurt your foot, did it?” Pope asked.
“Nope.”
“What now?” Pope asked.
“They should be out for a while,” Kane said. He held up the keys. “I’m going to bring their car out front. Then I’ll load them and take ‘em away.”
“Will they remain in their current condition?” Pope asked.
“I would hope they eventually feel better,” Kane replied.
“I was concerned about the breathing part,” Pope said.
“They’ll remain breathing,” Kane assured him.
Tuesday Morning, 12 July 1977
GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN
“Morning, lad.” Pope was sitting on the stoop as Kane exited his apartment.
“Good morning,” Kane said as he closed the lower level gate. “You’re up early.”
“It was a somewhat abnormal night,” Pope said. “I wanted to catch you before you’re off to breakfast.”
“They’re fine,” Kane reassured Pope. “Well, not fine, but alive. I dropped them near the emergency room.” He had the map case looped over his left shoulder and wore his daily attire of black jungle fatigue pants and gray t-shirt under denim.
“Did you get any sleep?” Pope nodded toward the brownstone. “I noticed you spent the other night in the garden. That’s taking the not being in the bed thing a bit far or do you prefer nature?”
“I got a couple of hours. And it was a good thing I wasn’t in my bed last night.”
“True,” Pope said. “You seem troubled.”
“Is that your reporter sense?” Kane asked, trying out a smile.
“My old man sense,” Pope said.
“Shouldn’t I be, given recent events?”
“You handled those two hoodlums with relative ease. I sense you’re troubled by something deeper. I noted earlier this morning during the kerfuffle that you had photographs spread on the table.”
“I learned some disturbing things about the past last night prior to the encounter,” Kane said.
“Interesting,” Pope said. “So the history is the same, it’s your perception of the history that has changed in light of new knowledge.”
Kane checked the street in both directions. “Say again?” He sat next to Pope.
“Whether we know something or we don’t,” Pope said, “the reality of the past is the same. What happened, happened. That’s the goal of a reporter. To uncover and report on the facts, not the perception of the facts. You’re viewing the past differently based on new information, but that doesn’t change what happened. You just didn’t know all the facts.”
“I still don’t,” Kane said. “Do we ever?”
“Not really. But we muddle through the best we can.”
“Muddle is an appropriate word for it,” Kane said. He noticed that Pope had his notebook on the stoop. “What’s going on?”
“Sean Damon,” Pope said. “Associate of mine at the Post sent a messenger by yesterday.” He waved a hand. “It slipped my mind in the hub-bub of the moment while you were dealing with those buffoons and then I thought it could wait and we both needed some sleep.” He picked up the notebook. “Quite interesting. Seems Mister Damon got closer to his roots.”
“How so?”
“Quick version. Damon’s parents came from what many like to call the ‘old country’. He grew up in Hell’s Kitchen, and ran with an Irish gang of hooligans called the Westies. He had higher aspirations and used his street smarts to connect the political machine with the street gangs for the benefit of both. He rose steadily until he ran the machine.”
“I was told by my uncle that a few of his friends from the Westies are still with him.”
Pope nodded. “The Unholy Trinity. A bad lot.” He rummaged through his notebook and retrieved an old newspaper clipping. “One of the few photos of the triumvirate.”
Kane leaned over. He recognized them from his visit to Toni’s office last Friday. The muscle waiting next to the gold limo.
Pope pointed, one by one. “Winters. Dunne. Haggerty.”
“They look a bit long in the tooth.”
Pope passed the clipping to Kane who studied the three. “There’s many a departed soul whose last vision on this planet was these fellows’ ugly countenances. Don’t underestimate them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Kane pulled out his notebook and wrote the three names along with a brief pertinent so he’d be able to connect name to person.
Pope continued. “Damon always paid lip service to various Irish-American organizations in the city as needed, but his real focus was politicians, city hall, the street vote, the Irish gangs and the Italian mafia. In the years since he’s come back from prison, though, he’s become closely involved with Noraid, the Northern Aid Committee, under the guise of his newly resurgent faith.”
“You say ‘guise’,” Kane noted as the first streaks of sunlight slanted over Manhattan. It was already hot and the day promised to be sweltering. The forecast was grim for Wednesday: a massive heat wave threatened to boil an already over-heated city.
“There’s money i
n it now,” Pope said. “The grail Mister Damon worships above all else.”
“Tip jars on bars,” Kane said. “I saw one the other day.”
“It’s the Irish,” Pope said. “There’re lots of bars.”
A woman walked her dog by. It paused to piss on the tree in front of the brownstone. The walker didn’t look at either of them, following the time-honored city tradition of never make eye contact. The dog however, gave them a disdainful once over before finishing its business.
“For widows and orphans,” Kane said.
“That, my young friend, is bollocks. The majority of the money never leaves the United States. It’s used to buy weapons. My source says ninety percent of IRA guns are smuggled from the States. They have a particular fancy for your AR-15. Purchased with Noraid money. Damon is rumored to be brokering quite a few of those deals, since he has the connections.”
“And he takes a cut.”
“Exactly. Those guns kill British soldiers and Irish civilians. Hundreds have died in the Troubles.”
Kane nodded. “Someone told me recently that money is at the root of all wars and rebellions.”
“True, but it’s the guns and bombs that kill.”
“How much are we talking about?” Kane asked.
“Best estimate around ten million a year.”
“What percentage would be Damon’s?”
“Perhaps a third.”
“That much?”
“It’s illegal,” Pope said. “Cost of doing business. The Provos maintain the widows and orphans façade, but it’s the guns they want.”
Kane stretched his legs out. “Seems Damon has his fingers in a number of pies, not just Noraid.”
“What have you learned?” Pope asked.
“Based on the numbers, Damon’s big prize is Westway. I have photos of maps in Thomas Marcelle’s conference room of the proposed project. Looks to me as if he and Damon plan to carve up the work to various contractors.”
“Intriguing,” Pope said. “The potential for graft is sizeable.”
Kane retrieved a manila folder from the map case and slid out the stack of photos he’d developed. Passed them to Pope. As the old man perused them, Kane watched the sun creep long westerly shadows along the street.
