by Bob Mayer
She slid out of the booth. Took a step toward him and leaned over, her mouth close to his ear. “We’ll be seeing each other, Kane, with a K.” She presented a light kiss on the scar on his temple. “I am sorry I lied to you.” She walked out.
Morticia promptly appeared. “A new friend? Thao didn’t send peppers and you didn’t draw your gun. Those are very positive signs for you. We should drop balloons and throw confetti.”
“I don’t know who she is,” Kane said. “I’ve got too many personas in my life. Hey, do you know a poem about a tiger burning bright? William Blake? A nun made us memorize it in school but it’s faded in my memory.”
“Titled The Tyger,” Morticia promptly answered. “It’s spelled weird. T-Y-G-E-R instead of the normal way. And he stretched the rhyme at times. ‘Tyger Tyger, burning bright. In the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye. Could frame thy fearful symmetry’?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Kane said.
“It’s got a companion poem,” Morticia said. “The Lamb. It’s about the contrary nature of things. The difference between innocence and experience. Interesting a nun would want you to know that because it asks the fundamental question of how could an all-loving God make a fearsome animal like a tiger? In a later stanza Blake ponders how could the God that made the lamb, make the tiger?”
“And the answer?”
“It’s rhetorical,” Morticia said. “You know what that means, right?”
“Funny woman.”
Morticia leaned against the edge of the booth. “I’d say your nun, on a deeper level, was hoping one of you Catholic knuckleheads would understand the contrary nature of things implicit in the poem. Catholicism believes in the war between heaven and hell, good and evil. Blake was trying to say that we’ve got to figure out our own experiences first. Become aware.”
“Right.” Kane was regretting asking the question. “Sister Mary Ellen was better known for using the ruler than philosophizing. She used to tell us if we didn’t use our brains more they’d turn to cinderblock like the walls of the classroom.”
Morticia wasn’t so easily stopped now that Kane had gotten her started on literature. “Take it out of the realm of Catholicism and it could be touching on ancient Greek mythology when it mentions grasping fire in a later stanza. Mankind setting himself free once he does so.” She stood straight and shrugged. “But, ultimately, it’s an enigma.”
“Yeah, like a puzzle wrapped in an enigma stuffed inside a sewage tank,” Kane said.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
WESTCHESTER COUNTY,
NEW YORK
Yazzie was naked. As was Bluehorse, who was assisting him. Their skin was smeared with ash from the fire pit, a defense against evil spirits. In the trees on the other side of the small clearing, one of the other Flint Boys was digging the grave. Crawford was waiting nearby in his limo at this remote, wooded spot in a sprawling estate in Westchester County, north of New York City. It was owned by someone Crawford had ties to who had asked no questions and desired no answers as to why the oil magnate and his Navajo ‘children’ needed some isolated and hidden spot for a ‘ceremony’.
Yazzie and Bluehorse finished cleansing Johnson’s body. They wrapped a tarp tight around the corpse. Together they carried Johnson to the grave, the digger turning his back to avoid looking and thus being visited by the spirit if it returned. The body was lowered. Yazzie grabbed the shovel, but Bluehorse held up a hand.
“Please, wait, brother.” Bluehorse asked. “His possessions must be with him.” He picked up a small bundle and placed it in the grave, on Johnson’s chest. Closed his eyes, lips moving in prayer.
Yazzie tossed a shovel-full of dirt onto the bundle and Johnson. “He doesn’t need prayers now,” he said.
“We all need prayers,” Bluehorse said, reluctantly picking up a second shovel and joining in the work. Once the dirt was level, they restored the forest floor above the grave, covering it with leaves and brush, just as it had been when they arrived.
As they retraced their steps to the cars, Bluehorse wiped their footprints away, not just to prevent anyone from finding the grave, but to keep the spirit of the dead man from following.
Boss Crawford got out of the limo and shook each brother’s hand as they came up to him. Yazzie and Bluehorse wiped the ash off with towels, then pulled on their clothes. As they were doing this, another car pulled up.
Yazzie stiffened when he saw there was only the driver inside, given two brothers had gone to the city.
Begay got out and went to Crawford, his head hung. “Dale did not come back, Boss. Kane came out to the street with a gun ten minutes after Dale went in. I could have killed Kane but your orders were that only Dale take action.”
“Was there gunfire?” Crawford asked, his voice a western drawl.
“I didn’t hear any shots,” Begay admitted.
Yazzie spoke up. “Kane doesn’t have the same code we have, but he has something that he abides by. He fought Johnson blade on blade. If there were no shots, then he did the same with Dale.”
Crawford looked at him. “I only briefly met the man. I’ll take your word for it.” He wore tailored jeans, a starched white shirt under an expensive sport coat, and alligator hide boots. He held his black Stetson in his hand because of the bandage wrapped over his silver hair and around his head. He nodded at Begay. “You did right to leave. Dale was very good with a knife. Better than you. Definitely better than Johnson”
A muscle in Begay’s jaw rippled, but he didn’t say anything. He was short, built like a fireplug and the youngest of the Hard Flint Boys. Unlike the others, whose fathers had all been Code Talkers in World War II, Begay’s mother had worked in Crawford’s parent’s home as a maid. His father was unknown. When his mother died, Crawford had brought Begay into the fold.
“Let me take him, Boss,” Tsosie said. He was second oldest to Yazzie and the largest of them, standing six and a half feet tall and broadly built.
“He is just one man,” Begay protested. “I could have gone in with Dale. Kane doesn’t have our code of honor. Why do we adhere to it with him?”
“Because it is our tradition and our honor,” Crawford said. “Without those, what are we, my sons?”
“Boss?” Tsosie pressed. His face was marred by ripples of scar tissue on the left side, the result of an explosion while working on a rig years ago.
Crawford turned to Yazzie, the eldest. “Your thoughts?”
Yazzie shook his head. “This is his land. He knows it far better than us. It was a mistake to attack him at his home.”
There was a mumble from a few of the others at the implicit criticism of their adoptive father.
“And?” Crawford pressed.
“Why wasn’t I informed about Johnson tracking Toni Marcelle, Boss?” Yazzie asked. “And the order to kill Selkis?”
Bluehorse was startled. “Johnson killed Selkis?”
“You had enough on your plate,” Crawford said, ignoring Bluehorse. “And there was no time once Selkis called and threatened me. I had to make the decision immediately and give Johnson the order.”
Bluehorse wasn’t so easily ignored. “Is that why Johnson fought Kane?”
Crawford held up a hand, palm toward Bluehorse, silencing him.
Yazzie kept his focus on his adoptive father. “Kane and Toni Marcelle already knew about the connection between you and her father.”
“He threatened me,” Crawford said, an edge in his voice that indicated this thread of conversation was snipped. “I asked your thoughts on what we should do now. Not about the past that can’t be undone.”
“We’ve accomplished what we needed to,” Yazzie said. “You have the deeds and Thomas Marcelle has paid for his attempt to kill you, Boss. I suggest we go home.”
Tsosie pushed forward. “Leave Johnson and Dale unavenged?”
“Both died in fair fights,” Bluehorse argued. “Kane and Johnson fought because they collided in the cours
e of what both were seeking. Dale went after Kane. We paid blood for blood. Just not in the way—”
Tsosie stepped into Yazzie’s personal space. “Are you afraid of him?”
“What of Dale’s body?” Bluehorse asked, trying to defuse the situation. He was a slender, quiet man, of medium height and build, who rarely spoke. “His spirit will wander. He will come to us and haunt us. It makes no sense to spill more blood. Our honor is intact. Dale tried and—”
“Enough.” Crawford folded his arms. “Bluehorse silence. Tsosie, back up.”
Tsosie reluctantly stepped away from Bluehorse.
“You are correct,” Crawford said to Yazzie. “New York City is Kane’s hunting ground. We are out of our element here. Enough blood has been spilled. We’re going back home, boys. Not to Texas, but our real home.” He put a hand on Yazzie’s shoulder and led him a short distance from his brothers. “Take care of your brother Dale’s body.” Crawford took his hand off Yazzie’s shoulder. “You know what has to be done?”
Yazzie nodded. “Yes, Boss.”
Crawford lowered his voice so only Yazzie could hear. “Do not ever question me like that in front of your brothers, do you understand?”
“Yes, Boss.”
“There are still loose ends. Marcelle had more than just the deeds. He was a devious man. I have no doubt he kept documents to protect himself.”
“He said as much when questioned,” Yazzie admitted.
“I need those documents.”
“The ledger?” Yazzie asked.
Crawford nodded. “Yes. It’s what Marcelle and Damon kept as insurance to protect themselves. I had hoped Marcelle had it, but now we know it was in Damon’s keeping.”
“What’s in it?” Yazzie asked.
“I’ve never seen it,” Crawford admitted. “Marcelle threatened me with it once. Years ago. It contains all the two of them knew about the deals they were involved in. It isn’t just me. There are many powerful men who will be hurt if it becomes public.”
“That’s what Marcelle said when I questioned him. But if Kane’s had this since he killed Damon, he hasn’t gone public. He didn’t threaten Marcelle with it. I had the impression Marcelle wasn’t certain if Kane had it.”
“Kane says the two million burned up,” Crawford said. “Do you believe that? Do you believe anyone lets two million in cash burn?”
Yazzie didn’t answer.
“This is why we’re going to Utah. Our ground. We need to bring Kane to us. And we need leverage on him to get the leverage. Can you get that?”
“Yes, Boss.” Yazzie went to one of the cars, started it up, and drove off.
Once he was out of sight, Crawford turned to Begay. “There is another loose end that needs to be closed. That will be your job.”
4
Wednesday Afternoon,
10 August 1977
MEATPACKING DISTRICT,
MANHATTAN
Kane sat in a folding chair next to Thao on the roof of the diner. The heat wasn’t unbearable and they were shaded underneath netting Thao had rigged over and in front of the ‘shack’ he’d built. Shack didn’t do the place justice. Using a mixture of plywood, bamboo and lumber, it was cozy with a cot and an old black and white TV situated on a piece of furniture Thao had scavenged. An extension cord provided power for the TV and lights. Bathroom and kitchen were, of course, below in the diner. He had rugs mixed and matched for flooring. Several bookcases were against the plywood, full of medical texts and other reading material. Other than having thicker walls, Kane’s apartment didn’t provide much more and was minus the TV. Plus, Kane tended to get visitors intent on his demise and he’d slept on dirt, briefly, the previous night.
“Wile-E has asked about building his own place up here,” Thao said as he pulled a chilled bottle of coke out of a cooler between the chairs. He passed it to Kane and got one for himself. He was referring to the veteran Kane had befriended and given a job in the diner.
“Are you okay with that?” Thao and Kane had closed the diner, after sending Morticia, Wile-E and Riley on their way.
“As long as he works in the diner and remains free of the heroin,” Thao said. “It would be nice to have Lucky around.” Lucky was the former military working dog Kane had gotten for Wile-E, who’d been a dog handler in the First Cav Division in Vietnam.
“I should probably join you,” Kane said. He’d filled Thao in on the attack by Dale after they locked the diner and the two of them cleaned the kitchen, both keeping an eye out for any invading Navajo. He’d also told him what he knew about Caitlyn, which wasn’t much.
“There is plenty of room,” Thao said, indicating the flat expanse of the roof of the one-story brick structure. There was a three-foot-high wall on the north and west sides where the marquee for the diner rose. To the east was a brick wall of a two-story apartment building; the south, a three-story building. No windows overlooked the space from the adjacent buildings, although there were plenty of higher buildings in the neighborhood with a view. “You said that these Brothers will only come after you with a knife?”
“So far,” Kane said. “But with two down, they might change their rules.” He looked about at the surrounding apartment building and warehouses. The High Line was at eye level on the far corner. Several freight cars were parked on one track, awaiting an engine to take them back north. “A sniper could make short work of us.”
“A sniper could make short work of anyone in the city almost any time,” Thao observed. “But they have indicated they will not use firearms. The fact he woke you indicates a strict code.”
“A dumb one,” Kane said. “It cost him his life.”
“But he did not lose his honor.”
“What good does his honor do him now?” Kane took a swig of coke. “Ted and I used to argue about honor all the time. The Academy had a code that I didn’t agree with. These Navajo got something different but it seems to be as dumb.”
“You do not believe in honor?” Thao asked.
“They made us memorize something as plebes at West Point that bothered the heck out of me,” Kane said. “In fifty-five of the sixty major battles of the Civil War, West Pointers commanded both sides. So much for the honor code for all those went to fight for the South. Who was honorable there? I saw grads in Vietnam do things—” he shook his head.
“But you are an honorable man,” Thao said.
“What?” Kane was startled. “What do you mean?”
“I have known you since 1967 when we met at Dak To,” Thao said, as if they’d been introduced at a party, not under intense enemy fire and Kane bleeding from a round off the side of his skull. “You have always been honorable.”
“We’re talking about an external code,” Kane said. “Something different.” He got back into the present problem. “I don’t think Yazzie knew Johnson killed Selkis over the films. I got a feeling that order came direct from Crawford to cover his ass on the stuff Yazzie doesn’t believe his father did.”
“But you gave him the films,” Thao pointed out.
“He’d have to watch them to know. Even then, there’s no solid connection that Crawford was behind them, unless Toni has something in her father’s stash.”
“What is the plan?” Thao asked, checking his watch.
“You have somewhere you need to be?” Kane asked.
“No, Dai Yu. You are supposed to call Sofia Cappucci at fourteen hundred. That’s in five minutes. You are normally punctual.”
“Fuck,” Kane muttered. “More complications. She’s going to want me to do something.”
“Perhaps she can help you with the Crawford problem?”
Kane shrugged. “I don’t think so. At least she’s keeping the Boston Irish off my ass.”
“That is good,” Thao said, seizing on any positive news.
“I don’t like being hunted,” Kane said. “Even with their code, one of the Flint Boys could turn up any time, any place. And who is to say one of them won’t bend the rules a lit
tle?”
“Which brings us back to needing a plan. And please, no movie references.”
“Guns of Navarone was a book before it was a movie.” Kane tried. “But given it’s Indians, I was considering various John Wayne epics.”
Thao held up his watch.
Kane climbed down into the diner. He pulled Sofia Cappucci’s black card with gold lettering out of his moleskin notebook and dialed. It was answered on the third ring.
“Are you ready to go to work?” Sofia demanded, heavy on the Brooklyn mode.
“Some people are trying to kill me,” Kane said.
“You don’t know the half of it. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes. The diner.”
“Yes, but—” the phone was dead.
Kane returned to the roof.
“Look at the positive aspect,” Thao said, after Kane told him the brief conversation. “You will be safe in her company.”
“Unless she has Matteo kill me.”
TOWER NUMBER ONE,
WORLD TRADE CENTER,
MANHATTAN
Antonia Marcelle stared blankly over Manhattan stretching to the distance, the view muting into the haze of the Bronx and beyond. She had a glass in hand, a line of white powder on her desk. Her eyes were rimmed with red, a combination of lack of sleep and a twisted form of grief.
Her law offices were high in the southern tower of the Twins, facing north. She’d split from her father’s firm the previous month to open her entertainment law firm. She never went by her first name, but was known to everyone as Toni. She was a woman who drew attention when she entered a room. She sported thick black hair that cascaded to her shoulders in a seemingly random, but enticing pattern. Her face was angular, with a nose sculpted by a surgeon’s scalpel after being broken by one of Sean Damon’s thugs years ago, a prelude to a gang rape she’d kept secret from all and had only recently been uncovered by Kane. Four inches under six feet, her legs were disproportionally longer than her torso.
Several manila envelopes, recovered from the concealed compartment in Ted’s footlocker as soon as she’d realized the location of her father’s emergency stash, were next to the cocaine. They contained sheets of microfiche and original documents of importance. There were also photos, stills from Damon’s films, of various people in compromising situations. She figured Damon had shared them with her father for leverage in various situations in the past. This was her father’s unintended legacy to her. She didn’t have the energy to go through it, to find out what dirt and on whom, her father had accumulated over the years. She’d sent Mrs. Ruiz, her secretary, home with the admonition that the firm would be shuttered for several days at least.
