New York Minute

by Bob Mayer

  That was several blocks north of Vic’s. A sprawling factory complex that had been the birthplace of the world’s most famous cookie, the Oreo. It covered a couple of city blocks. Skyways over streets connected the parts of the complex. The High Line ran through one of the buildings.

  “It’s abandoned,” Kane said. “Hookers and dealers own that area.” He thought about it. “Trinity. That’s what his three enforcers are nicknamed. Is that the only property he has under Trinity?”

  “I haven’t completely cross-referenced all the properties and holding companies,” Pope said as he scanned the pages he’d accumulated. “But I don’t recall seeing it elsewhere.” He looked up. “That area has a bad reputation. I don’t understand why Damon would have bought in there.”

  “1960? It’s not connected to the Westway project,” Kane mused. “He bought it for another reason.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If it was his second buy and he still has it, it must be important. Did you find out where Damon lives?”

  “He bought a penthouse suite on Fifth Avenue after getting out of the pen. Built in 1968.”

  “He wouldn’t shit in his own yard,” Kane said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Damon stores those films somewhere. He wouldn’t keep them in his home.” Kane looked north, as if he could see through the buildings in between. “The Nabisco Factory is his ERP.”

  “His what?”

  “Emergency Rally Point. It’s a military term. More accurately, I think it’s where he keeps his secrets.” He returned his attention to Pope. “What about Thomas Marcelle?”

  Pope extended a sheet of paper. “There are his properties. Mostly abandoned warehouses and pier property on the west side.”

  “Toni Marcelle?”

  Pope shook his head. “Nothing in her name.”

  “What about under her ex, Robert Jenkins?”

  “Nothing. Just property for shells owned by Damon and Thomas Marcelle. Even though a number of them are abandoned or in bad shape, there’s a lot of money invested.”

  “How much?”

  “Conservative estimate? Fifteen to twenty million. I doubt either have that amount lying around. They’ve got a backer.”

  “Who?”

  “No clue,” Pope said. He thought for a second. “But someone putting that amount of money into this, there would be a back door.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “A way of getting control if either Damon or Marcelle renege or try to cut whoever backed them out of the deal. There is no honor or trust involved in such deals. I’ll check into it.”

  “I appreciate all this,” Damon said.

  “Ah, you should really thank Maggie. A most pleasant woman in city records. She is a font of information.”

  Kane reached for his clip, but Pope stayed him. “Maggie would never accept money. She has ethics, although she does associate with me. She loves the theater though. Tickets to a show or two on Broadway would make her quite happy.”

  “I wouldn’t know what shows to—“

  “I’ll take care of it,” Pope said. “I’ll let you know the tab once I procure tickets.”

  Kane stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Pope.”

  “You’re welcome, my young friend.”

  PIER 52, LOWER WEST SIDE MANHATTAN

  The late afternoon city was somnambulant, oppressed by the surging heat and the specter of Son of Sam. The sun was sliding toward the Hudson, above murky, smog-smeared clouds. Air conditioners and fans were working overtime, taxing the power grid. On streets in the outer boroughs, fire hydrants were open and children were running through the spouting water, desperate to cool off and lowering the water pressure in the system. In the Bronx abandoned buildings burned as owners grasped for insurance money and the fire department stood by, not risking life and limb. The New York Yankees were in Milwaukee defeating the Brewers as they continued to chase the Red Sox for the pennant. The Mets were the Mets.

  The Jeep was parked on Pier 52. Vic’s was a couple of blocks due east on Gansevoort, on the other side of the broken West Side Highway. Farther out on the pier were two tall smokestacks and an abandoned warehouse with a faded Baltimore and Ohio painted on the side. Five large pieces of the metal side of the warehouse had been cut out, including a half-moon facing the river, the result of an unsponsored work of ‘art’ by a local sculptor in 1975. Few people appreciated it, because not many wandered here. Kane didn’t quite grasp how putting holes in an abandoned building was art: with some C-4 he could do the same although the lines wouldn’t be as neat and it would be called destruction.

  To the north, several blocks away, was the Nabisco Factory. The building closest to the highway and the water was eleven stories high with faded large white letters on top lamenting NATIONAL BISCUIT COMPANY. A lower, but larger building across from it on the other side of Tenth, with the High Line running through its second floor, remembered RITZ CRACKERS. From the pier, most of the windows in the buildings appeared boarded or broken. Similar to trying to get through the jungle in the Central Highlands, Kane couldn’t see much, but he knew there was danger inside those brick fortresses. Like the waterfront, the meatpacking district and the West Side Highway, it was another indicator of a decaying city shuddering forward to an uncertain but obviously bleak future.

  Kane stood among the weeds, scrub brush and dirt on top of the pitted concrete as the large car approached. The black Lincoln Continental Town Car was a boat compared to the Jeep. The windows were tinted and the engine rumbled with power. It stopped thirty feet away and the front passenger door opened. A man exited, overdressed for the day in a long tan raincoat that partially hid the Uzi on a sling on his right side from the casual observer. He moved several feet to his right, getting the angle on Kane and out of the direct line of the muted glare of the drooping sun.

  The engine continued throbbing as the rear left door swung wide. Trent exited accompanied by a cloud of smoke. He wore his usual rumpled suit, the tie partly undone. The inevitable cigarette was in his left hand. His shades were darker than the previous ones.

  “Captain Kane,” Trent said, halting eight feet away.

  Kane indicated the security. “Do I make you nervous?”

  “Your propensity for violence has reared its ugly head once more,” Trent said. He indicated the car. “Like it?”

  “No.”

  Trent laughed. “V-8, 460 cubic inch engine with four-barrel carb. It’s very comfortable on the inside. Nice and roomy.”

  “I know someone who would understand what those numbers mean. Perhaps even be impressed by them. But that someone isn’t me.”

  “What does impress you, Kane?”

  “Did you pull the surveillance?”

  “Sure. Given that you asked so nicely.”

  “Why did you have it in the first place?” Kane asked. “I’ve got no secrets.”

  “Oh, I disagree on that,” Trent said. He squinted at the sun over Kane’s shoulder. Trent took a few steps to his left to get out of the direct light and maintain the open field of fire for his security. “You know what’s strange? Never picked up a word in your apartment except for the other night when you had some visitors. You don’t even talk to yourself. I thought I detected some sobbing the other night, though, before those guys showed up. Crying yourself to sleep?”

  “I’m never going to work for you,” Kane said.

  “Never is a long time in the big sense, but relative when it comes to individuals. Never ends when you die.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I know you don’t threaten well,” Trent said. “You proved that in LBJ. I misjudged you initially. Thought you’d be easy to break.”

  “You’re still misjudging me.”

  “I learn from my mistakes. You should too.” Trent chained another cigarette. When the new one was fired up, he held up the pack in offer.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Kane saw the security man reach inside the coat, hand
on the pistol grip of the Uzi. “Is he twitchy?”

  “He’s got a job to do. He’s heard you’re dangerous with your hands.” Trent lowered the pack.

  Several seconds ticked by. There was no timer on this chess game for the next move.

  Trent finally broke the silence. “I’d love to stand here and sweat, but you did call me. What’s on your mind, Kane?”

  “You brought me here,” Kane said. “By putting surveillance on my place. You knew I’d spot it.”

  “I hoped you would,” Trent said.

  “It was a test?”

  “It was surveillance. Took you several days. That was disappointing.”

  “You lie so easily,” Kane said. “It would be impressive if it was an admirable trait.”

  Trent looked around. “Where are your people? Do you even have people?”

  “Thao is in the warehouse with his crossbow.”

  “And?”

  “That’s enough for you and your man.”

  Trent smiled, exposing his yellow teeth to the slanted rays of the sun. “The Yards and their crossbows.” He made a show of looking at the dark windows and doors, then at his security. “Forty yards from there to my man. Does that archaic weapon have the range?”

  “It has better accuracy at the distance than that Uzi. It’s basically an over-hyped bad pistol.”

  “I’ll take your word on it. And you and I? What? Doing the Wyatt Earp thing?” Trent flapped his jacket. “See? I’m not armed. Now the driver, that’s a different story. And who knows how many other people are in the car?”

  “Money.”

  “Is that an interrogative or a statement?” Trent asked.

  “Both. You said money is the key to everything. You came to me because of money.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Westway.”

  “Took you long enough.”

  “I’ve had other things going on.”

  Trent fired up another cigarette even though the current one wasn’t yet a nub. He flicked the still burning one away. “By the way, don’t overly flatter yourself about the gun man. This city is a fucking cesspool. I don’t go anywhere without security. Hell, cops don’t even answer emergency calls unless its officer down.”

  “The Robert Redford line was a nice touch,” Kane said. “Had me going there.”

  “Oh, we have people doing that. Once you get on our radar, as you did in Vietnam, you only get off it by dying. Which we actually thought might have happened when you departed the reservation in late ’69, early ‘70. You didn’t come back for five years. There’s a significant gap in your history. Where did you go?”

  “Wherever I went, there I was.”

  “Cute. Regardless, your name came up on the FBI database check by the NYPD. Carpe the opportunity, I always say.”

  “How do I fit in?” Kane asked.

  “We want to know where the Westway money is going,” Trent said. “One point five billion, you don’t think that gets some attention? Plus, by the time all the graft kicks in, the strikes, slowdowns and other union bullshit, it’ll easily top two billion. Has the government ever done anything that came in under budget?”

  “Why do you think I know anything about it?”

  “We’ve been having an adult conversation so far,” Trent said. “Let’s not derail.”

  “Thomas Marcelle and Sean Damon are slicing it up,” Kane said.

  “We know that. That’s why we’re talking. We want the details.”

  “What do I get?”

  “Now you’re acting as mature as the conversation,” Trent said. He lit another cigarette, tossing the old aside. It landed in a dry bush. A small flame flickered. Both men ignored it.

  Trent continued. “The murder charge disappears.”

  “I already took care of that.”

  “Bully for you. That’s one of the reasons I want you to work for me. You get things done, Kane. It’s a rare trait in this modern world riddled with incompetence. How about honorable discharge?”

  The bush flared, then the flame quickly died.

  “Too hot for fire,” Trent observed.

  “What else?”

  “Greedy, eh? Let’s see what you get us first. We’ll start with the discharge.”

  “All right.”

  Trent laughed. “You should learn to negotiate.”

  “Someone else told me that, but you were only going to give me the discharge and you already knew the murder charge was dead. You don’t negotiate with people you want working for you, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. Sets a bad precedent.” Trent turned and headed back toward the Town Car. “Talk to you soon,” he said over his shoulder. He got in, slamming the door. The security entered and the car backed up, turned and drove away.

  Kane waited until the car was out of sight, then headed for the Jeep. He started it and put it in gear. Before he let up the clutch he glanced at the empty warehouse, then drove away.

  Tuesday Night, 12 July 1977

  MEATPACKING DISTRICT, MANHATTAN

  Muggy, smog-laced air cloyed around buildings and people. The glow from the few working streetlights was dissipated, murky, not penetrating into the darkness as far as it should. Kane’s hand brushed over the butt of the .45 as he stared at the dark bulk of the Nabisco Complex. He had his external frame army rucksack on his back, bulging with an array of contingencies for a multitude of possibilities. He could have worn a clown suit and no one in the city, particularly this section, would have given him a second glance.

  The steel centipede of the High Line stalked across 15th, adjacent to Tenth Avenue and passed into the western edge of the Nabisco complex which encompassed the entire block bordered by 15th and 16th, and east-west between Ninth and Tenth. Pope’s friend, Maggie, had pinpointed where Damon had bought into: the top two floors of the separate building at 85 Tenth Avenue, across the street and facing the waterfront. It had been the headquarters of Nabisco and also a state-of-the-art cookie factory in its prime. An abandoned skybridge crossed over Tenth between the building and the complex to the east.

  “Hey, sweetie, wanna go camping with me?” A hooker teetering on six-inch platform shoes looped around Kane, lacing the air with perfume during her pass. Given she was six feet tall, the shoes gave her a significant height advantage. She wore stockings held up by garters that covered muscular thighs below satin short shorts. Well above average breasts pushed against a thin, midriff cut t-shirt.

  “No, thanks,” Kane said.

  “I can give a you good time like you’ve never had.” The hooker pulled aside the bottom of her shorts and exposed a penis that was equivalent to the breasts in size if not congruent in sex.

  “Sorry,” Kane said, “I’ve already got a date.”

  “Oh, you’re missing out,” she lamented as she prowled in search of fresh meat.

  A station wagon with Jersey plates crawled by on Tenth, headed north. A group of teenagers from across the river passed quart beers and ogled the prostitutes. They’d be lucky to get back over the GW Bridge with the wheels and their wallets.

  Kane did a walk around of 85 Tenth. The eleven-story building was dark. There were several entrances for trucks to deliver and pick up goods, but they were sealed with long-locked rusting gates. One was open, on 16th, a black hole descending into the brick. Kane edged in, out of sight of anyone on the sidewalk, then put on the night vision goggles. He walked into a dark loading bay, forty-five at the ready. There was one vehicle: a panel truck. Trinity Meats was stenciled on the side.

  A cargo elevator was to one side abutting a loading platform. Kane pressed the button. Rusting machinery creaked and rattled. Kane had the .45 in hand as the elevator arrived with a solid thud. He pulled on the strap, opening the horizontal doors. He took off the goggles as a light bulb flared them out. The interior was empty. The elevator was old, but the steel panel wasn’t. There was a keyhole next to the top two floors. Kane tried both buttons and the machine didn’t respond.

  Ka
ne exited the elevator and searched for fire stairs. They were in a dark, smelly corner. The door was unlocked. Based on the smell of urine and vomit, the stairs were used as a public toilet. He took the steps two at a time.

  The fire doors to the top two floors were locked, which was against code, as if anything in this building was up to it. Drew the .45 and pushed open the door to the roof. He reconned it. There were several spots with deposits of needles and/or used condoms, but nobody recreating at the moment.

  He paused, looking past the rooftop. The Twin Towers glittered to the south. Beyond and to the right, the Statue of Liberty appeared forlorn and lost in the dark, the torch barely visible. To the north lights on top of the two suspension towers of the George Washington Bridge were barely visible. The Hudson flowed dark and murky directly to the west around Pier 57, just past the empty West Side Highway. The pier had a few lights on but was unmanned this time of the night, as it was a depot for New York Transit buses.

  Kane went to the north side where a number of exhaust pipes came through the roof. He looked over the edge. It was ten feet to the window on the floor below, which was covered with quarter-inch diameter iron bars eight inches apart bolted into the brick. Kane walked the entire perimeter. Every window on the top two floors was secured the same way, a good news-bad news scenario. The bad was getting through it. The good was that if Damon felt the need to fortify the floors there was something inside he didn’t want intruded upon, which Kane viewed as an invitation.

  Back at the north side, Kane leaned over the railing and studied the bars. Sat down and opened the backpack. He geared up. Put his LBE on over his shoulders, hooking the web belt. Slid the .45 in the supple leather holster on the left side. The shoulder straps were already set and tight, loose ends secured with black electrical tape. The ammo pouches held spare magazines for the Swedish K. He looped two fragmentation grenades on the right shoulder strap, below the first aid pouch on bands he’d had sewn on in Vietnam. The pins were secured with paper tape, a blood lesson learned in the jungle, where a branch could poke through and pull out a loose pin, guaranteed to ruin the wearer’s day. He placed smoke grenades in the empty canteen pouches. He pulled the Swedish K out and unfolded the wire stock, securing it in place. Locked the bolt to the rear and inserted a magazine, making sure it was seated properly. The bullets were Merrick’s 9mm specials.