She smiled. “Hardly.”
Outside on the porch, Stuart looked at the mezuza fixed to the doorpost, its presence bespeaking a Jewish household, and thought. A made guy from Pigtown living in the Little House on the Prairie with a high-maintenance dame who knows from nothing. I don’t buy it. He touched the mezuza in mute tribute to the scroll housed within its case and hurried down the steps.
Madeline Fine stood at her living room window, looking out from behind parted drapes. When Stuart’s car squealed into a U-turn and drove off, she walked over to her sofa and picked up the portable phone on an Adam side table.
“I just had an interesting visit from a policeman,” she told the man at the other end.
Danny Lupo folded his cellular phone carefully and spun around in his chair, taking in the silver spire of the Chrysler Building. He took off his glasses, began massaging his eyes, and said, “Madeline Fine just had a visit from Stuart at her home.”
Frankie Bones said, “So what? There’s no connection with us. She shouldn’t have gone to the church if she wanted to stay in the fucking closet.”
Danny L spun around to face his old friend. He put his glasses back on and said, “I remember Stuart from years back. He was an honest cop, and there’s nothing that can cause you more trouble than an honest cop with a hard-on for you.”
“Look, Danny, if he gets in our way, we’ll take ’im out.”
Danny L frowned in disapproval at his friend. “We don’t kill honest cops, you know that.” He leaned back, regarding the ceiling. “Does Holiday have a cellular?”
“Like you wanted, everybody’s gone wireless. Danny, I’m not so sure this cellular thing is smart. The cops can still lay a wire on a cellular phone.”
“It ain’t that easy. They gotta be close to do it, and they still need a court order.”
“C’mon, Danny. We both know that they don’t always get court orders. They lay a wire on your phone, get a lot of incriminating shit, and then make up fairy tales about how they got it.”
“Cellular gives us an edge. I want you to phone Holiday now and see if the years have made Stuart reasonable.”
Lupo kept staring up at the ceiling, remembering the ecstatic hours he had spent with Terry; he paid little attention to Frankie’s conversation with Holiday. If he left the office early, he calculated, he could spend a few hours with his girlfriend before he had to go home. His wife had invited her loud-mouth sister and her chintzy husband to dinner. That’s one guy I’d like to have whacked, he thought, watching Frankie Bones fold up his phone. “What did he say?”
“He said Stuart’s still a hard-ass cop.”
“If he’s looking to take us out, we’ll cut his legs out from under him.”
Stuart drove the unmarked car along the long stretch of Flat-bush Avenue that began at Empire Boulevard and ended at Grand Army Plaza, separating Prospect Park from the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.
He had just driven past the zoo’s entrance when the question that had obsessed him for years began gnawing at his guts: Why did Beansy Rutolo step up to the plate to save his dad’s ass? Pinky-rings simply didn’t do that without an ulterior motive. He knew deep down that the question was better left unanswered; but on another level he also knew he had to know the answer.
He wondered if Madeline Fine knew why Beansy had saved his dad. People in love shared their secrets as much as they shared their dreams and their hopes. He didn’t for one second believe that Beansy and his squeeze could be together for “twenty-one years, eight months, and twenty-seven days” without Beansy confiding things to her. He planned to pay Madeline Fine another unannounced visit—soon.
On his left he saw people riding horses along the park’s bridle path. For some reason the sight of the horses made him remember his ex-brother-in-law, Carmine, telling him in Junior’s that Pat had just ended it with a lawyer.
He used to get nuts whenever he thought of his ex in bed with another man, doing the things they used to do together. But now he had trouble even remembering what they used to do. Maybe that was a good sign.
His reverie turned to the Ice Maiden and how, wearing only her black thigh-highs, she would slink up to the side of his bed, stamp one foot up on the mattress, cast her sultry eyes on his, and, using both hands, open and reveal her sex. His ex would never have done things like that. Yet there was a tenderness of lovemaking with Pat, and a warmth of sharing domestic life together, that he had never experienced with another woman—and he doubted that he could ever find that kind of love again.
As he approached Grand Army Plaza, he eased the car out from behind a truck and drove up the curb cut of the winding driveway that emptied into the delivery entrance of the main branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. He rolled the car to a stop in front of the steel gate crowned with razor wire. He hitched over onto his left buttock and fished out his shield case. Holding it open, he pressed the shield and identification card against the windshield so that the guard peering from the other side of the gate could see them. The barrier swung open, and he drove inside.
The library’s spacious first floor was crowded. A group of schoolchildren was being taught how to use the computerized catalog system.
As Stuart crossed the great space, heading for the reference section, he passed by the library’s famous Egyptian collection and paused to examine funeral stelae and parts of ancient temples with friezes lauding great warrior kings in battle. He examined an obelisk covered with hieroglyphs that offered prayers to the gods Serapis and Isis. Finally, after admiring gold statuary of lions and ibexes, he walked over to the reference desk.
The librarian behind the counter had African locks—neat, tightly matted tendrils of hair. A small gold ring pierced her right nostril.
“I love your hair,” he said.
She gave him a broad smile. “Thanks. It cost me a week’s pay.”
“It was worth it.” He leaned his arms on the counter and added, “I’d like to see The Wall Street Journal for August 18, 1993.”
“May I see your library card?”
He pulled out his shield case. When she looked at his lieutenant’s shield, she smiled. “Where do you work, Lou?”
Her use of “Lou” for lieutenant told him that she came from a cop family. “Seven One Squad.”
“My dad is a retired captain, and I have one brother a detective in the Seventh and another a sergeant in the Three Two.”
“What’s your name?”
“Brown.”
“Is your dad Marcus Brown?”
“Yes.”
“A lot of years ago your dad and me worked together in the ol’ First Squad. Next time you speak to him, tell him Matt Stuart sends regards.”
“I will, Lou,” she said, and walked behind a gray partition, disappearing into the microfilm room. When she came back a minute and a half later, she was holding a box of spooled film. The bold-faced label on the box read “Wall Street Journal, July-December 1993.”
She came out from behind the counter and led him to the room on the right that contained the viewing machines. She asked him if he knew how to use them, and when he assured her that he did, she handed him the box.
Five rows of tables filled the cramped room. Each table held six machines, square, boxlike things with grayish white screens. He walked over to the first table near the door and sat in front of the machine at the end.
He shook out two spools from the box, took the one marked “July, August, September,” and slid it onto the spindle on the left side of the machine. After unraveling the film, he slid it under the retractable glass plate on the bottom, taking care that the notches on the film’s edges were properly inserted into the pawls. He slid the unraveled end under the glass and threaded it into the rewind spindle.
He switched on the machine. The screen glowed eggshell white. He began turning the handle on the side of the machine, scrolling the microfilm across the screen. Columns of newsprint sped past the glass as he rushed through the days and weeks of July, slow
ing when he got to August 15. When he reached the eighteenth, he slowly moved the film to page three and began reading the article that had been cut out of Beansy’s newspaper.
The story was written by Dick Goldberg and bore the headline CME APPROVES TRADES OF CHEESE FUTURES. The paper told its readers that the Chicago Mercantile Exchange had given its approval for the sale and trade of cheese futures on the commodities exchange.
The story explained that commodities futures were sophisticated financial instruments used by businessmen as a hedge against unforeseen future price increases or price decreases. Trading in the new futures had not been brisk, leading some commodities traders to speculate that there was no market for them. Stuart couldn’t make any sense of it at all—if Beansy Rutolo wasn’t involved in the actual operation of the family company, why would he care about the subtleties of cheese commodities? Or could this have no connection at all? Another visit to Angela seemed to be in order.
9
Next morning, dressed to kill in a blue blazer and Sea Breeze shirt, lightweight gray slacks, and yellow tie patterned with blue monkeys, Stuart stood at his large living room window, sipping coffee from an oversize mug and watching the sun’s rays dancing across the upper bay. Patches of fog still hovered over the waters.
He savored the strong French roast coffee as he watched an oil tanker lying at anchor. She was apparently carrying a full load, because she rode very low in the water. He turned and glanced into the entrance foyer, to his grandfather’s carved mahogany commode. A maroon accordion folder lay on top; inside were Paddy Holiday’s personnel folder and F File.
The Ice Maiden had delivered them last night. It had been after ten when she’d stepped into the foyer, slid the envelope on top of the commode, and cheerfully announced that she was going to fuck his brains out. He smiled as he thought about the high points of their night together. His left shoulder and inner thighs were black and blue from her rapacious love bites.
He was anxious to get to the office and digest Holiday’s records. Whoever was feeding Holiday information might well have worked with him at one time. Also, Paul Whitehouser, nephew of the chief of detectives, was scheduled to report at nine. He wanted to be there to greet him.
The cuckoo popped out of its nest eight times.
Stuart took a final sip from the mug and walked over to the piano. He picked up David’s picture. His son was astride a brown-and-white Coney Island pony. The roller-coaster ride loomed in the background. David’s tiny feet barely reached the stirrups. The picture opened the dam holding back those memories. They had gone to Nathan’s for franks, fries, and corn on the cob. Pat had worn a yellow sundress and—
He switched off the painful memory. Dr. Lamm had told him not to dwell on the past as he moved forward with his new life. He kissed his son’s picture and returned it to its place on the top of the Steinway.
Some night duty detectives were still at their typewriters when Stuart arrived. He went over to the command log and signed himself present for duty at 0840 hours. He looked into the detention cage; sullen eyes stared back. Stuart went into his office and looked over the sixty sheet.
Hector Colon came in after him, stroking his luxurious, wide mustache and looking exhausted. He filled the whip in on the night’s mayhem and then went back to his typewriter, eager to clean up and be gone.
Stuart untied the accordion folder and took out the personnel record first. It was inside an eleven-by-fourteen folder with Holiday’s name, shield number, and tax registry number inscribed at the top from left to right. He opened it and unbuckled the metal paper fastener on top, then slid clumps of forms off the shiny holding arms. Because department records were filed chronologically, he began to read through the forms from back to front. He wanted to begin at the beginning.
Holiday had no military record. He was appointed patrolman on June 1, 1961. After six months in the Police Academy, he was transferred to the Nineteenth in midtown Manhattan. After his six months’ probation was up, instead of being transferred out of his training command into a permanent command, he remained in the Nineteenth.
For many years it had been policy to transfer rookies into permanent precincts as soon as probation ended. Stuart pulled over the yellow pad and made a note: “Paddy remained in Nineteenth. Why?”
Holiday had received above average semiannual evaluations. He was awarded an excellent police duty for the apprehension of an armed robber. A sudden chilly breeze swirled through the open window and fluttered the papers on his desk. Stuart turned to the next form. A Change of Residence or Social Condition notified the Job that Paddy Holiday had married Maureen Quinn July 4, 1963.
Stuart flipped to a set of “green sheets,” cop argot for departmental charges and specifications. Paddy Holiday and his radio car partner had been charged by IAD with accepting free meals, both on and off duty, at some of the city’s best hotels and restaurants. At the department trial, all the restaurateurs and hotel workers swore that Holiday and his partner had only eaten there off duty and had always paid their bills. The two cops were acquitted.
Stuart leaned back in his chair. Why had IAD bothered to bring charges? They must have interviewed the restaurant and hotel people and gotten enough corroboration to substantiate the allegations, or else they never would have filed green sheets. Paddy got a helluva lot of people to change their testimony, he thought. This guy was a mover and shaker early on and certainly smart enough not to try to suborn witnesses himself. You don’t have to be in the Job long to figure out how easy it is for wiseguys to reach out to people in the hotel and restaurant business. He picked up his pen and jotted on the pad, “Pinky-rings probably had their hooks into Paddy early on. How come nobody picked up on that?”
Holiday was promoted to detective and transferred into the Intelligence Division on July 13, 1964. Stuart flipped to the personnel data card to see if Holiday had any language or electronic specialties that would have qualified a guy with so little time on the Job for such a sensitive assignment. He didn’t find anything to justify this career move. Did the wiseguy have enough weight to plant a mole even inside Intelligence? he wondered.
Holiday continued to receive above average semiannual evaluations while in Intelligence. On December 21, 1968, he was promoted to sergeant and remained in Intelligence. His continued assignment there after his promotion was another divergence from department policy. Stuart made a note of that. As he went through the file, he wrote down the name of any cop or detective associated with Holiday in any significant way.
When he finished going through the folder, he restored the forms to their chronological order and fastened them back in the folder. He picked up the F File, which was made up of single-spaced sentences typed on teleprint paper and fastened together at the top by a shiny bar. The date the unsubstantiated allegations or rumors came to the attention of the department was typed in the left margin.
Holiday’s F File consisted of two sheets of paper. There were several allegations of adulterous relationships with civilians and policewomen. Five anonymous letters alleged Holiday’s secret ownership in Russo’s bar. Six unsigned letters told of Holiday’s lavish lifestyle. But the real payoff was a narcotics detective’s confidential informer who snitched that Holiday was peddling information to the wiseguys.
Stuart could find no record of any department follow-up to any of the allegations. He shook his head, appalled at the Job’s inaction in the face of so many accusations, especially the last.
He unpinned an official communication from the CO Intelligence to the CO IAD that was attached to the last page of the F File. Holiday’s boss at the time reported that six confidential investigations into organized crime’s hold on the construction and carting industries had been blown. After each investigation was exposed, CO Intelligence “walked the cat back” over the cases, trying to determine what had gone wrong. He determined that Holiday was the common denominator in all of the foiled investigations; he had worked each one of them.
After t
he construction and carting fiascoes, CO Intelligence reassigned everyone connected to the cases. Holiday was put in charge of monitoring ethnic radio and television programs. CO Intelligence had requested an immediate IAD investigation.
If the F File contained only rumors and unsubstantiated allegations, how had an official communication gotten into it? Stuart reasoned that the boss of Intelligence must have smelled a rat in the woodwork and wanted to plant a record of his suspicions somewhere in the Job, so he’d sent a copy of his request to the untouchable F File.
Stuart quickly opened the personnel folder again and found that Holiday had filed for service retirement six days after CO Intelligence had forwarded his urgent request for an investigation. Department regulations required a member of the Job to file for retirement thirty days before his retirement. This was done in order to prevent a cop under investigation from escaping with his pension.
All kinds of bells and whistles should have gone off in IAD the moment they were notified of Holiday’s impending retirement. Either someone inside IAD had stonewalled the investigation of Holiday until the thirty-day clock ran out or they had taken a look at Holiday’s work in Intelligence and been unable to come up with anything solid to substantiate the suspicions of CO Intelligence.
Stuart began rubbing the sides of his nose. Ain’t nobody in the Job who lives that much of a charmed life, he thought. Somebody shit-canned that case long enough for Paddy to escape. I need a wire into IAD. He heard a rustle and looked up to see Kahn coming through the doorway.
“Morning, Lou,” she said, walking around the side of his desk. Luminous pearl earrings complemented the large pearl buttons on her black-and-white wool suit. She sat down and crossed her legs. From a large department multiuse envelope, she took out a handful of reports and photographs, saying, “Here are copies of the surveillance reports that were cross-referenced to Russo and Terrella.”
He took them. Each report contained an abstract of a surveillance on other subjects that somehow related to Russo or Terrella. One was a synopsis of a phone tap on Terrella’s home number that yielded up a conversation between Frankie Bones Marino and a Lucchese soldier named Tommy Esposito. The Lucchese crime figure wanted Marino to find out if the NYPD was conducting an undercover investigation into carting in the High Bridge area of the Bronx.
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