by Bob Mayer
“He ambushed Malcolm,” Kane said. “The way it must have played out is he called for the elevator, backed up holding the gun ready and when Malcolm drew his, killed him.”
“I’m so sorry,” Farrah whispered.
“You didn’t kill him,” Kane said. “Malcolm died years ago. He was just hanging on.” He reached out and awkwardly took her hand in his. “I got in trouble asking this the other day, but how old are you?”
She looked down. “Nineteen.”
“For real?”
“For real.”
“How long have you been working for Damon?”
“Two and a half years.”
“Okay. Were you saving money, like you said?”
“I tried,” Farrah said. “I had a stash. Six thousand, four hundred, and thirty-two dollars.”
“Damon found it.” Kane made it a statement.
“How did you know?”
“Were you using before he found it?”
“No. I swear. But once the money was gone . . .”
“’Hold fast to dreams’,” Kane whispered.
“What?”
“Something a wise man once wrote,” Kane said. “Damon didn’t want you getting away. You knew about the camera?”
“Yeah. Film whoever Damon sent.”
Kane pulled a picture of Thomas Marcelle out his map case. “This guy?”
“No.”
Another picture. “His daughter, Toni?”
“No. Always men. But some of the men, Damon would tell me to bring in a friend. Sometimes another girl. Sometimes a guy. You’d be surprised how many of them wanted a guy.”
“Not really,” Kane said. “Was one of them a tall, thin, red-head guy? New Zealander?”
She shook her head. “I think I’d remember someone like that.”
But Kane caught the shift in her eyes. “Is he the one who choked you?”
“Told you. Nobody like that was a client.”
“What happened to the films?” Kane asked.
“Damon or one of those creepy old guys who work for him would get them. At least once a week. Sometimes right after if it was someone special, I guess.”
“Do you know the names of the people he had you entertain?”
“A few told me, but not many. I can’t give you names, Will. He’ll kill me.”
“He’ll kill you one way or the other. Eventually.”
“No. He’s promised to give back the money. Six more months. Then I get the money and I can leave.”
“Why would you believe him?” Kane asked.
“There was a girl in the apartment before me. Tammy. She taught me how to use the camera. Other stuff I needed to know. She said her time was up once I was ready. And she did leave. So I’ll train my replacement and leave. Just six months. I can do six months.”
“Ever hear from Tammy again?” Kane asked.
Farrah closed her eyes and swallowed back a sob. Her hand tightened inside his. “Oh, Will. What am I going to do?”
“How long is the hospital keeping you?”
“They said they’d let me out tomorrow.”
“Where’s home?” Kane asked.
“I can’t go back there,” Farrah said. “I’ll die there. Just differently.”
“Ever been to North Carolina?” Kane asked.
She shook her head. “What’s in North Carolina?”
“I know some people there. Good people. Families. They’ll take you in for a while. Help you get a job. A place to stay. Of your own.”
“I’ve got nothing to—“ Farrah stopped as Kane let go of her and reached into a pocket. He pulled out a thick envelope and held it in front of her.
“Five thousand. I’ll add one thousand, four hundred and thirty-two dollars to it. But we need to leave now.”
Farrah indicated the IV drip. “I’m hooked up. And they said they had to put on different bandages before I can leave. I don’t think I can walk.”
Kane frowned. “All right. It will take me a little time to set this up anyway. I’ll be here tomorrow morning, early, before dawn, and get you checked out. I’ll have the money and a bus ticket to Fayetteville, North Carolina. I’ll take you to the Port Authority even if I have to carry you. Someone will meet you when you get to Fayetteville.” He put the money back in his pocket. “Yes or no?”
Farrah whispered: “Yes.” Her eyelids were drooping.
Kane stood, gently removing his hand from hers. “Good. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise. Get some sleep.” He walked out without looking back.
Took the elevator up two floors. Mrs. Sofia Delgado, the former and once more Sofia Cappucci, mafia debutante, was in a private room. A no-neck very big guy in a tailored black suit was outside the door. He was several degrees up from Delgado’s crew in terms of obstacle and could get in Studio 54 guarding the right person.
As Kane considered ploys for talking his way past, the door opened and Detective Strong exited. He spotted Kane and changed course toward him.
“What are you doing here?” Strong took Kane by the elbow and moved him out of earshot of the muscle.
“I checked on Farrah.”
“The hooker. She didn’t tell me anything more.” Strong reached into a pocket and pulled out the boot knife. “You want this back?”
Kane took it. “The case is closed?”
“It never opened.” Strong nodded toward the bodyguard. “What do you want with Mrs. Delgado?”
“I was going to ask her where I might find her husband,” Kane said.
Strong snorted. “You really are a funny guy, Kane. You’re like a combination of your uncle’s. All the worst parts. Didn’t you get anything from your father’s side of the family?”
“A lot of anger. Toni Marcelle says Mrs. Delgado told her that her husband beat her.”
“I’m sure he did,” Strong said. “But those people don’t talk to my people. They handle their own problems. I’d say the Delgado divorce case is no longer a case.”
“Where’s Delgado?”
“Who knows?” Strong said. “If he’s smart, he’s on a plane out of the country. More likely, though, in the East River. Old Man Cappucci was here earlier. He was in a rage. Made enough commotion the cop assigned to the hospital had to come up. Recognized him. Called it in. I came over, since all of this bullshit seems connected.” He pointed at Kane. “With you in the center.”
“I’m not in the center,” Kane said. “I’m sort of underneath it all and catching the shit that drops.”
Strong smiled. “A more apt description.”
“Mrs. Delgado didn’t tell you anything?”
“Said she tripped and fell down the stairs. That’s it.”
“Not much law going on with any of this,” Kane observed.
Strong stared at him for several seconds. “You got a point, Kane. I told you that the other day. Don’t push it. Eventually the law catches up to everyone.”
“I don’t think so. You’re an idealist, Strong. Which isn’t good for your profession.”
“I’m not an idealist,” Strong disagreed. “I’m a pragmatist. Let me tell you a little something, Kane, so you understand that you and I, while we share some things, we’re not the same. When I got back from ‘Nam in 68, I wore my uniform. I was pretty clueless what was going on here in the States. I was proud of that uniform and being a Marine. Still am.”
Kane nodded. “Gotta admit Marine dress blues are much sharper than Army greens.”
Strong continued. “I flew into LaGuardia. No one spit on me like you hear about. But no one would look at me either. When I went outside to get a cab, none would stop. Not a one. They’d go right by and pick up some white person. The cop on duty, moving the loading and unloading, finally stepped in front of one. Told the driver he had to take me. When I told the driver the address in Harlem, he tried to pull away but the cop stopped him again. Held him until I got in. Here’s the really funny part of the story, Kane. The driver was black.”
“Is that why you
became a cop?” Kane asked.
“Not in the way you think,” Strong said. “The driver’s livelihood was in his medallion. He had a family to take care of. After a few weeks being back in the old neighborhood, I couldn’t blame the guy for not wanting to drop me off there. But the cop getting me that ride? He made a difference. I figured I wanted to make a difference. If I could help just one other person, I figured I could break even in life. More than one, I start paying back what I lost in ‘Nam.”
Kane absorbed that. “You wanted to be a force multiplier.”
“A what?”
“That’s what we were in Special Forces,” Kane explained. “We were twelve guys on a team, but our true job was to teach others, to build a larger force. We could train a battalion of irregulars.”
Strong shrugged. “If you want to use that term, then a force multiplier for good.”
Kane nodded. “Okay. That makes sense. Truth. I did have to ask to find out that the line you say before going to a body was from Langston Hughes. But in elementary school, an English teacher made us memorize some poems. I actually remember part of his. Something about ‘hold fast to dreams’?”
“’For if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly’,” Strong finished.
“Yeah.” Kane pointed at the floor. “There’s a broken-winged bird down there.”
“Lots of them in here,” Strong acknowledged. “I ran the hooker’s prints. Nothing. Never busted for soliciting which is unusual. One of Damon’s people must have gotten her right off the bus or the plane or the train. However she arrived in the city. But she got a ride right away to the wrong place.”
“When she was seventeen.”
“I’ve picked ‘em as young as eleven on the streets,” Strong said. “I’ve seen them in the morgue that young.”
“Close all those cases?”
“Don’t push it.”
“Can you put a guard on her?” Kane asked.
“Who? The hooker?”
“Farrah. Yeah. Until around five tomorrow morning. Then I’ll get her out of town. She can’t leave yet, too medicated.”
“You think someone will come after her?”
“Possible.”
Strong grimaced. “I see the need, but the reality is it would require overtime and we don’t have the authorization for the funds. Son of Sam, your Uncle and his folks, are eating all that.”
Kane pulled out his money clip. “How much would it cost to put a cop, a good cop you trust, on her until tomorrow morning off the clock?”
Strong thought for a moment. “One-fifty.”
Kane peeled off two hundred. “Thanks. Am I still under investigation for Cibosky?”
“Not unless something comes up,” Strong said. “As far as I’m concerned, these pieces of shit can kill each other until there are none left.”
“That would be nice. What about my Jeep?”
“I’ll authorize its release.”
“Thank you.”
Strong pulled out an acetated card. “Your carry license. Since you’re strapped at the moment, you might want to be legal.”
“Thank you again.”
“Get a driver’s license.”
“Right.”
“Be careful,” Strong said.
“Semper Fi,” Kane said.
Strong walked away and got on the elevator.
Kane held the license in his hand as if weighing it, then put it in his money clip. He went to the far side of the nurse’s station and edged into an alcove with some empty seats. He sat down, un-bloused the pants leg and threaded the knife sheath back inside his boot.
The other elevator dinged open. Kane froze, bent over, as Quinn exited and made a beeline for Mrs. Delgado’s room. The bodyguard opened the door for him and followed.
“Curioser and curioser,” Kane muttered. Done with the knife, he walked around the nurse’s station to the door. Peered through the narrow glass.
Quinn leaned over Sofia Delgado, one hand on the side of her head. Quinn kissed her, not in a friendly, concerned, how-ya-doing Mrs. Delgado manner, but a mirror of Toni’s kiss the other night at Studio 54.
The door was shoved open, knocking Kane back and the bodyguard grabbed him by the throat, squeezing, lifting him off his feet. Kane reacted, grabbing the wrist in exactly the right place, exerting pressure, twisting hard. The guard released as pain from pinched nerves jolted him. Kane kept hold of the wrist, pushing the guard into the room, the door swinging shut behind them.
Quinn straightened, observing.
Kane continued to torque the wrist and bring it up, extending the bodyguard’s arm, while staring into Quinn’s eyes. A small bone cracked and the guard cursed, but held his position, officially certifying as a tough guy.
Kane raised an eyebrow at Quinn, who didn’t respond.
“Who the fuck is this?” Sofia Cappucci demanded.
“Kane,” Quinn told her.
Kane struck with his other hand, an upward blow into the bottom of the over-extended elbow. It snapped upward and the bodyguard finally let out a gasp of pain, the equivalent of a normal person’s scream.
“Enough,” Quinn said.
Kane let go. The guard scooted back, functional hand going inside his jacket.
“No,” Quinn ordered.
The guard’s hand froze. He looked at Quinn, waiting.
“You gonna let him do that to Matteo?” Sofia Cappucci demanded.
“It was a fair fight,” Quinn said. He indicated the door. “Get someone to fix that.”
Matteo left, unnaturally canted arm hanging at his side.
Quinn sat in the chair next to Sofia, taking her hand in his. “What can I do for you, Mister Kane?”
Sofia had a black eye, an arm in a cast, but otherwise seemed in decent condition. Her lips certainly weren’t bruised or split from a beating or the passionate kiss.
“Where’s your husband?” Kane asked her.
She met his eyes. Hers were cold anger, unflinching, not quite a mirror of Quinn’s but the two of them were from the same twisted branch of the human race. “Not here.”
“I was going to ask you that,” Quinn said to Kane, “given as you’ve been following him. If you’d been on the job, you could’ve prevented this.”
“You told me to stop.”
“Has anything I’ve said changed your actions?” Quinn asked.
“You have something of mine,” Kane said. “I need it back.”
“Why would I do that?” Quinn asked.
“I’m on a roll getting things back,” Kane said. “Thought I’d keep playing.”
“I told you not to play anymore,” Quinn said.
Kane held his hands up. “I’m good with that, but you’re the one who still has the hook in me. Cut me loose.”
Quinn smiled. “I’ve got everything I want. No need to continue this.” He waved toward the door as dismissively as he had for the guard. “All right, mate. Consider the hook gone.”
Kane walked out.
GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN
A note was taped to Kane’s door: UPSTAIRS.
Toni’s precise handwriting.
Kane went up. Opened the front door. Toni and Pope’s voices echoed in the hallway. Kane took a deep breath and entered the kitchen.
“There you are, lad. A lovely friend of yours is visiting.” Pope smiled, but his eyes were shifting back and forth.
“William,” Toni said, a teacup in front of her.
Pope cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I hate to be an inconsiderate host, but there are some weeds that desperately need pulling out back.”
Toni graced him with a forced smile. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mister Pope.”
“Just Pope.” He exited the back door without his usual name spiel.
Kane reluctantly took the chair facing Toni, uncomfortable with the door behind him.
“You going to say anything?” Toni asked.
“About?”
“Y
ou broke into my files?”
“Why do you think it was me?” Kane asked. “Someone has broken into my apartment twice this past week because of the Delgado case. Maybe that someone broke into the firm?”
“You asked me if I’d been to the office this morning,” Toni said. “It was a weird thing for you to ask.”
“I’m a weird guy.”
“Fuck you, Will.”
“We already discussed that,” Kane said. “We have different versions.”
“What do you want to know?”
“About?”
“You want to play games?” Toni asked.
“You’re the one doing the lawyer thing,” Kane said. “Asking questions. Giving nothing up. Tell me about Taryn. I heard a rumor she filed for divorce before I came back from Vietnam.”
“You left your file on my desk.”
“Technically, my wife’s file.”
“You know how she heard you were up on murder charges in Vietnam?” Toni didn’t wait for an answer. “A reporter called her. Asked what she thought. She was clueless.”
“I was in jail. They didn’t give me a dime for my one call. In fact, I didn’t get any calls. Military justice is like military intelligence. An oxymoron.”
“How much time did you spend thinking about how it affected her? And Joseph?”
“Don’t tell me what I thought,” Kane’s voice went up a notch. “You weren’t there.”
“You weren’t here. I was. With her. When no one else was. Not your family. They never cared for your dark-skinned Persian wife, did they? Or as your Uncle Conner called her on more than one occasion—the sand nigger-- which is kind of pathetic coming from drunken Irish trash. Your father barely acknowledged Joseph as his grandson. I’m sure your mother would have done better if he’d let her although the fact Taryn was Muslim didn’t go over well with her at all. Did you marry Taryn just to piss everyone off?”
Kane’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. “I married her because I loved her.”
“Here’s what should really worry you,” Toni said. “Taryn thought you could have done it. Just the fact she considered it a possibility meant you weren’t the person she loved. Whom she married. You weren’t then and you aren’t now. I don’t know who you are.” Her fingers began their drum roll on the wood table.
“Stop that.”
