Rough Justice

by Andrew Klavan

  “In River City. Yeah, sure. I’ve heard of it. So what?”

  “So you covered it.”

  “Cooper House?”

  There was a loose sheet clipped into her notebook. She pulled it out, handed it to me. I unfolded it, looked it over. It was a printout of a piece under my byline: BD OF EST GIVES SHELTER OKAY. A few column inches that had run in the metro section. I handed it back to her.

  “That was five years ago, Lancer.”

  She stood over me, glaring down. “I tried to get a private interview with Celia Cooper. To ask her if there was anything about Reich that would help us. Know what she said? ‘If John Wells wants to dish up dirt on that fine young man to save his hide, let him do it himself.’”

  “But this board thing wasn’t even my story. I picked it up for Stertz, I think, ’cause his wife was sick.”

  “If Watts sends you to prison for life,” Lansing said, “I marry for money.”

  I laughed. The pain of it echoed up and down me. I ran my hand up through my hair.

  “All right,” I said. “All right. I’ll check it out.”

  10

  The rich of River City always look to the west. The collection of elegant brick towers on Manhattan’s East Side hangs over one of the best river views in town. But in the twenties, when the complex was built, the East River was not as pleasant to look at as it is today. Where the United Nations Building now stands—its gleaming tower, its fluttering circle of flags, its shady park—there were only slaughterhouses, maybe a few breweries. Chester Daniels, the millionaire developer who erected the complex, built its apartments to face away from the water. The eyes of the wealthy would not see, their noses would not smell, the dirty business going on behind their backs.

  Daniels arranged for the comforts of his tenants in other ways too. After clearing out the crumbling tenements that used to occupy the spot, he hoisted his little world on abutments over First Avenue. There, he laid out grassy parks, a playground, a golf course, a swimming pool, even a hotel for the River City folk to enjoy at leisure. Strolling on the bridge that crosses the broad, uncertain vista of Forty-second Street, you feel you’re in another town. A higher town than the people down below.

  Still, the River Cityans have suffered indignities like the rest of us. About twenty years ago, the area was bought out by Wilhelm Sturgeon, the hotel magnate, the one who looks like a toad. He wanted more rent, and that meant more towers. So the swimming pool and the golf course are gone. The playground and the parks were almost lost, too, but the residents fought back. As of this minute, they seem to have Sturgeon at bay.

  But then there’s the little matter of Cooper House. It’s a wide old limestone structure, seven stories high, with plenty of ornate designs and dragons and pilasters carved into the front. It fits in well with the general ambience of the little city. But it sits on the corner of Forty-first Street and Second Avenue. On the border of River City, that is. It’s not part of River City itself.

  Cooper House has always belonged to the Cooper family, the once-mighty clan of nearby Murray Hill. Specifically, now, it is the sole inheritance of the black sheep of this family: Celia.

  Black-sheep-wise, Celia hasn’t exactly been a standout. She had her part in the student riots at the University of California at Berkeley in the sixties. She joined the Peace Corps and taught English to Ethiopians. And when she came back to New York, she got a degree in social work and was employed first by the Department of Human Services and then by a private clinic. Nothing too offensive. It just didn’t put her sixteen million dollars in assets to very good use.

  About seven years ago, not long after she inherited the property on the border of River City, she announced that she would seek a zoning variance in order to turn the place into a shelter for the homeless. This didn’t exactly please the River City people, on the one hand. On the other, being privileged, decent, and largely charitable citizens, they recognized the growing need. After a few public hearings, where they voiced their concerns, most of them decided to let Celia go about her business.

  Not so Wilhelm Sturgeon. Privileged enough, he’s never been caught out being decent or charitable. He was once heard to remark that, if he were mayor, the police would be ordered to lock arms in Battery Park and march north to the Harlem River, driving the homeless before them as they went.

  Sturgeon did not attend the public hearings. He didn’t have to. He knows how the city operates and, from all accounts, he operates pretty much the same way. He retains a law firm connected to the City Council president and a PR firm connected to the mayor. He distributes many thousands of dollars in campaign contributions to the borough presidents of Manhattan, Brooklyn, the Bronx, Staten Island, and Queens. So when it’s time for a vote, he just sits back and awaits the final word from the Board of Estimate, which happens to be composed of the mayor, the City Council president, the city comptroller, and the five borough presidents.

  All this is more or less legal, and also more or less certain to work. So it was a reasonably interesting story when the board turned around and approved the Cooper House plan. That gave Cooper the go-ahead to start providing services to the homeless on the very border of Sturgeon’s land.

  The few reporters covering the story did not have far to look for a reason. The comptroller, Howard Baumgarten, had lobbied hard in favor of the Cooper proposal. This was kind of odd because Baumgarten is a notorious party hack who’s about as hard to buy as a pack of gum. But then, there did happen to be a federal investigation under way into an alleged kick-back scheme he was running. And this community-minded action gave him the chance to appear before a stunned and bewildered media and utter the words:

  “I guess this proves we aren’t all slaves to the dollar bill.”

  Yeah, we knew that—went the general reaction—but who the hell told him?

  Anyway, Baumgarten won the day. Celia Cooper got her variance. The U.S. Attorney’s office was all over the comptroller, looking for evidence of a money-for-jobs operation. But no indictment ever did come down.

  Most of this story did not even make the papers. It was unprovable, for one thing. For another, it was too complicated. And for another, no one would have read it anyway. And for another, Stertz’s wife was sick and I had a cold.

  So I had to think long and hard to remember it all as I rode the subway downtown. I sat in a soggy, unsteady car, alone except for a black bum asleep in a corner under his slouch hat. I worked it all over, tried to get it straight in my head. It kept my thoughts off the jostling of the car, the noise of the wheels, the sloshing in my belly, the screaking pain in my head.

  I got out at Grand Central and hit the air on Forty-second Street. A thin mist of rain was still falling. The spring hung heavy and damp all around.

  I walked over to Second Avenue. The brick apartments of River City rose before me, floated above me, as I came. The skin on my face was chilly and my overcoat was dark with rain by the time I turned on Second and walked over to Forty-first. There, at the foot of the hill leading up to the River City complex, was Cooper House. Chiseled dragons and wisps on its limestone face. A castellated peak fading gray into the gray sky.

  The front doors were dark brown wood laced with iron. They arched up to a peak like a castle’s doors. They were closed, but unlocked, and I pushed in through them. Came into a spacious hall. Walls lined with bulletin boards and notices, children’s drawings and public-service ads. The only traces of the foyer’s former elegance were the immense chandelier hanging from its high ceiling and the tiled floor that reflected its light.

  “The drop-in center’s through the doors to your right.”

  I turned toward the voice. A woman leaned out of a doorway to my left. An attractive young black woman with a nice smile.

  “There’re no meals until six and we don’t register for rooms until five.”

  “I’m looking for Celia Cooper,” I told her.

  “And your name is?”

  “John …” I paused, then sai
d it: “Wells.”

  Her smile vanished. Her large brown eyes seemed to go dark. Leaning in toward me, with her hands braced on the doorjamb like a visiting neighbor, she looked me up and down one long time. Not with anger or disgust. With sadness, it seemed like. I almost felt myself stoop under the weight of that glance.

  Then the woman said quietly: “Just a moment. I’ll see if she’s in.” And she turned and disappeared from the door.

  I stood alone in the hall, under the chandelier. I lit a cigarette. I tapped my foot against the tiles. I wondered who dusted all those crystal prisms. I cleared my throat loudly against the silence. After a while I craned my neck, peeked in through the door that still remained open. I saw part of a front office with a desk just inside. Yellow walls. Another bulletin board. I could not see the woman. I studied my feet. I smoked.

  “So what was it?”

  I pivoted. Turned full around to face a man standing in the doorway behind me. He was a small guy. White, thin, maybe twenty, maybe less. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, his sinewy arms bare. He had a sharp, heroic chin and a high brow. Blond hair that fell in a shock on his forehead. Thick, sensual lips curled in a sneer. Blue eyes narrowed in disgust.

  My nerves were shot. The second I saw him—the second I heard his voice—I felt sweat start under my hairline. I cursed it, tried to keep my voice steady.

  “You talking to me, kid?”

  He snorted, nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m talking to you. Old man.” He came forward a step, then another. There was an arrogant bounce in his walk. Chin leading, chest out. “I want to know what it was.”

  I took another drag of my cigarette, watching him come on through the wisp of smoke. He started to circle me. I turned slowly on my heel to follow him.

  “Was it money?” he said. The bounce of his walk became more exaggerated. He got nearer as he circled. “Can’t have been money. Thad never had much money on him.” He grinned maliciously, almost dancing as he walked. “Was it sex? That it? He wouldn’t give you what you wanted? Or maybe it was just fun. You like watching people die, maybe. What was it, man? Why’d you kill him? Huh?”

  My heel squeaked as I turned and turned on it. He continued his circle, inching closer. Smiling that twisted smile.

  And then he screamed: “What was it?”

  The smile gone, the eyes flaring like torches, he darted at me. Pulled up only a foot away. He stuck his chin out at me, bared his teeth. His arms were out from his side, bent, ready. My throat tightened with rage as I felt his hot breath wash over me.

  “Talk, you asshole. What did you do it for?”

  “Back off me, kid. I’ve had a rough couple of days.”

  “Oh yeah? Oh yeah?” He smiled again. “You gonna get mad? You gonna murder me too? I’d like to see that. I’d like to see you try.”

  I hissed through my teeth, kept silent, feeling the heat of his breath, the heat of his eyes.

  Now he grinned. “You ain’t doing nothing. You ain’t doing nothing to me. You shit-faced coward. You kill a man like Thad. He’s no fighter. When I did the streets, I had johns could’ve thrown you through a window one hand, they didn’t fuck with me. You wanna fuck with me, killer?”

  My hand flashed out before I could stop it. I grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

  He stuck a stiletto under my upper lip. He grinned into my face.

  “Oh, officer,” he whispered. “He attacked me. It was self-defense.”

  I felt the cold metal against my gum. I felt the point pressing against the soft flesh. Felt the rage coming off me like waves. Heard my pulsebeat everywhere, the whole room throbbing with it.

  Then a voice from behind me. A woman’s voice. A weary voice:

  “Knock it off, Mark. Jesus. Aren’t things bad enough?”

  11

  The kid yanked the switchblade out of my mouth. A warm trickle of blood followed it. I spat it at him, our eyes locking.

  Celia Cooper walked to us. Her flats whapped the tiled floor. She had her hand out.

  “Give it here,” she said.

  He didn’t even hesitate. He didn’t even look from me to her. He just handed her the stiletto. Gingerly, she pressed the blade back into the case.

  “Weapons are out,” said Celia Cooper. “One more weapon and you’re out.”

  He sneered at me. “Meet the man who killed Thad.”

  She didn’t turn. “I’ll deal with him,” she told the kid. “What are you supposed to be doing right now?”

  He bared his teeth. His arms tensed again, as if to strike. I braced for it. But he only answered: “I’m about to clean the windows in drop-in.”

  “All right. Go on, then.”

  He nodded—not at her, he was still glaring at me. But he turned without a protest. He walked across the hall with that bouncing swagger, and disappeared through the door.

  Celia Cooper watched him go. Her chin was high, her gaze even. Only when the door closed behind him did she turn to me.

  “We’re all a little upset,” she said coldly. “I’m sure you understand.”

  I stuck my tongue under my lip, tasted the fresh blood there. I dropped my cigarette on her floor and crushed it under my heel. “Yeah, sure,” I said. “I understand.”

  For a moment, Celia Cooper stood silently, watching me. She studied me openly, gazing as if in a trance. Still angry, I gave the look back to her. She didn’t turn away.

  She was an impressive woman. Only medium height, and thin. In her baggy slacks and a sleeveless T-shirt, she even looked gangly, almost fragile. She was in her forties, and her short, curling black hair was turning gray, her round face was puffy and lined, the olive skin sagging. But all this—it only added to her aspect of command. Gave her a look of weary wisdom and durability. The firm, fixed gaze of her eyes and the upward tilt of her chin showed it too. She was a woman made to be in charge.

  “You know,” she said now—and she was still looking me over—“I’m trying very hard to forgive you, Mr. Wells. And I’m not doing a very good job of it.”

  I pointed at the stiletto she held in one hand. “You’re doing a better job than Mark.”

  She glanced down at it, made a face. Slipped it into her pants pocket. “Mark’s relationship with Thad was special …” And here she looked me in the eye. “Although we all loved him.” She gestured toward the door through which Mark had gone. “Why don’t you come look?”

  I followed her across the hall, through the door. We came into a large, open room with two windows on the street and the dull gray day. There were more bulletin boards on the walls here, more notices. More pictures by children, and a few framed posters of impressionistic fields and flowers. There were also two big hand-printed signs on either side of me which both read: “No Drugs or Alcohol. No Fighting. No Sleeping. No Hitting Children.” And all around, there were people.

  About twenty of them, I’d say. Men and women, boys and girls. They were settled on the tattered chairs and sofas that had been arranged around the room. Some of the kids were playing with trucks and blocks on the frayed rugs strewn about the floor. There was a woman changing a baby’s diaper, and another holding a sleeping baby on her lap. There were a few women talking softly together while their kids played nearby. A lot just sitting, staring. There were two or three men, all of them sitting alone, one of them, in an old armchair, catching a few winks by hiding his face beneath a battered hat. Most of them were black. Most of them had that look I’ve seen on the faces of fire and flood victims: that deep, dazed peace you get from a moment’s warmth, a moment’s shelter.

  On the far side of the room was the kid, Mark. He was standing at the last window, pushing a squeegee up and down over the glass. His arm moved mechanically. He watched the sponge, deep in thought. Celia Cooper came to a stop and looked at him. I stood beside her.

  “Mark Herd, his name is,” she said. She had a thin voice with a hard edge to it. There was nothing soft in the sound at all. “Six months ago, he was on the street, selling his body.
To buy food and a roof—and drugs, too. I don’t suppose you and I can imagine how degrading that feels, how inhuman. To be reduced to that.”

  He ought to try newspaper work, I started to say. But, seeing her, I swallowed the words—and a drop of blood with them.

  “He was raped twice,” Celia Cooper went on quietly. “Stabbed once. He’s tested positive for the virus that causes AIDS.” She turned, lifted her eyes to me. “He’s seventeen years old. You’ll probably outlive him.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  She frowned at me, but her voice stayed level. “Last January, Thad Reich saw him on the street and offered to buy him a sandwich and a cup of coffee. It was Mark’s job to go with men, so he did. They sat in a diner together at a table. They ate. They talked. Thad didn’t preach. Thad never preached. He just talked about himself, about his life. He had come to New York to work on Wall Street, did you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “He talked about that to Mark. How it had hurt him, led him to drugs.” She smiled fondly with one corner of her mouth. Shook her head. “He talked about the pressures of Wall Street to a common hustler. He felt there was a connection.” She shrugged. “Apparently there was. Mark came to stay with us and he’s been here ever since.” We both turned to look at the kid moving the squeegee dreamily over the pane. “I suppose,” said Celia Cooper, “Mark was in love with Thad. But, like I say, we all were, in one way or another. And what I’m having a very hard time dealing with right now is the fact …” She choked on it a little. When she faced me, I saw her eyes had gone damp. They were no less firm and direct, for all that. Just damp. “I’m having a hard time with the fact that you’re here to find an excuse for killing him.”

  Across the room a baby let out a cry. I turned to see him lift up his arms to his mother, wriggling on her lap. Behind me, Celia Cooper said: