by Bob Mayer
“May the Force be with you,” he said to Kane as he tossed the New York Times on the table and pocketed the five-dollar bill. He was eighteenish, wore jeans, construction boots, and a checked lumberjack shirt with no sleeves and open most of the front, exposing a skinny, hairless chest.
“Morning,” Kane said. “Going to drizzle all day?”
“It’s already clearing out,” the Kid said. “The sun will come out eventually.”
“No doubt. Seen Wile-E?”
“Nope.” The Kid sought to explain. “Junkies ain’t normal. You gotta understand they go down a hole and don’t appear for a while.”
“I do understand,” Kane said.
The Kid frowned at that but didn’t pursue.
“Certain you don’t want the job?” Kane asked for the sixth time in the three and a half weeks since the initial offer. “Wile-E’s been AWOL for a week. I think Thao was getting used to the help.”
The Kid avoided Kane’s eyes. “I’m still thinking on it.”
“All right,” Kane said. “It’s yours whenever thinking comes to a conclusion.”
“Yeah,” the Kid said. “Hey, you got someone else doing it anyway.”
“He’s temporary,” Kane said. “He’s going into the Army in a bit. We could use more help.”
“Okay,” the Kid said, uncommitted. He beat a hasty retreat out the door he’d come in.
“Stop hassling him,” Morticia said, seemingly always within hearing distance.
“It’s not hassling someone to offer help,” Kane protested. “And you were worried Wile-E and the Kid would cut into your tips. We don’t have either.”
“But we got your cousin, Riley. He’s a good worker.”
“Right,” Kane said.
“This glamorous life isn’t for everyone,” Morticia said. Then she turned serious. “I am worried about Wile-E. I’ve asked around on the street. Nobody’s seen him.”
“I checked his old haunt on the West Side Highway last week,” Kane said. “No sign.” He was referring to the abandoned section of the West Side Highway just a block to the west, past the High Line. The main car artery on this side of Manhattan had been closed from the 23rd Street exit south after a truck fell through the northbound lanes in 1973. The proposed replacement for the highway, Westway, had partially been the cause of Kane’s confrontation with Sean Damon, an Irish gangster/political fixer who had expected to control the contracts to the proposed one-point-five-billion-dollar project. Damon was no longer among the living after the events at the old Nabisco Factory, next to the High Line.
“Check up there again,” Morticia said.
Kane raised an eyebrow. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Please,” she added.
“Right.” Kane nodded good morning at Dave Riley, his younger cousin, as he hustled by with a plastic tub, and began clearing off a table.
“What did you mean when you told the Kid you understood about Wile-E?” Morticia asked.
“That’s none of your business.”
“You’re awfully snippy this morning,” Morticia pointed out.
“I had a tough evening last night,” Kane understated.
“Partied too hard?”
Kane stared at her.
Morticia pivoted. “Since you didn’t like my previous name suggestions how about the Chat-n-Chew?”
“It’s the morning,” Kane said. “You see many people chatting in here?”
“Some of ‘em. Thao talks to the customers when he does the counter. I converse with you when I have to.”
“You don’t have to right now. Besides you’re either chatting or chewing, not ‘and’. It’s impolite. Then it would be chat or chew and we want ‘em chewing.”
“Ha!” Morticia snorted and glided away. She angled to the Gansevoort door as a tall and wide black man in a tailored suit entered.
“Morning, Omar!” she called out, loud enough for Kane to hear. She gave Omar Strong a peck on the cheek as she went to the counter to get a cup and the pot and he headed directly for Kane.
Strong was a homicide detective formerly with Manhattan South but currently reassigned to the Omega Task Force pulled together to capture Son of Sam. A former Marine, he was broad and solidly built. As he slid into the booth across from Kane, he took up most of the space.
“Still master of all you survey?” Strong asked.
“Doubtful,” Kane said. “There’s dissension in the ranks.”
Strong laughed. “She just wants to make the place classier.”
“Like the neighborhood?” Kane leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What’s her real name? You gotta know by now.”
Strong batted the question back over the table. “What happened to you during the Blackout? The hands? Neck?”
Kane sighed.
Morticia slid up, putting a cup in front of the detective and pouring. “Can I get you breakfast, sweetie?” she asked him. “The usual?”
Strong shook his head. “Got to get out to the Island and work. My day to bring the donuts, so the car is loaded with them.”
“You’re joking, right?” Kane asked.
The look Strong gave him indicated he was not.
Morticia pouted for a moment, then returned to work as several customers entered.
“Anything on Wile-E?” Kane asked.
“I’ve got important things to deal with,” Strong said. “Searching for a junkie isn’t high on the priority list.”
“He’s a veteran. First Cav.”
“You told me. There’s lots of veterans out there on the street, in case you haven’t noticed. But yeah, I put the word out at the precincts in lower Manhattan. Anyone sees him, they’ll call me.”
“Thanks.”
Strong got to the real reason for his visit. “There was a fire on the top floor of a building in the old Nabisco Complex during the Blackout. The one closest to the waterfront. On Tenth Avenue.”
“Nice segue,” Kane said. “Lots of fires all over the city that night. Lucky anything’s left standing.”
“True,” Strong acknowledged, “but FDNY finally got around to digging through. The fire had burned out on its own during the Blackout so it wasn’t a priority. They discovered there were incendiary devices used as initiators. They also found teeth and bone fragments.”
“Could be homeless,” Kane said. “My uncle is on the job at the house on 138th in the South Bronx and says that happens all the time. Owners torch their place for the insurance. Don’t know or don’t care if someone’s squatting.”
“Except,” Strong said, “no one’s filed for insurance and the Fire Department hasn’t figured out who the owner is beyond a holding company named Trinity Holdings. But I made a few calls and checked the plates on a fancy car parked in the loading bay of the building. Registered to Sean Damon. Who has, coincidentally, been missing since the Blackout. Along with his Unholy Trinity. What amazing coincidences, don’t you think?”
“They’re missing but has anyone been missing them?” Kane asked.
“This isn’t the wild west, Kane. Vigilantism doesn’t cut it.”
“Are you accusing me of something?” Kane asked.
“What did they do to you?” Strong asked. “The hands. The wrists. The neck. The burn on your leg? All occurring on the night of the Blackout?”
“Morticia tell you that?”
“She told me the little she knows. That Thao and Wile-E and that Kid brought you back from outside the Nabisco Factory in bad shape. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to connect the dots.”
“Why are you here?” Kane asked. “You just said you were busy with Son of Sam. He killed another woman Sunday. Wounded the guy pretty bad. Lost an eye, didn’t he?” He tapped the NY Times. “I did read that in the paper. Plus, you got donuts to deliver.”
“I know what Son of Sam did,” Strong said. “This time we have some real witnesses.”
“Good. But he’s still out there.”
“We’re going to get him,” Strong sai
d. “There’s some details we’re untangling. Something will pop out of them.” He glanced to make sure Morticia wasn’t listening in and lowered his voice. “There was something else found in the wreckage. Something that elevates this to another level and that’s why I’m here. To give you a heads up. There were weapons. M-16s. Over two hundred. For your information, and warning, the FBI has taken over, shutting the NYPD out.”
“I assume the weapons are no longer functional since they were in the fire,” Kane said. “You know the M-16. Made by the lowest bidder with plastic pieces and parts. In ’67 we had the early version. Weren’t they fun? I preferred the M-14. Better range, bigger round. You hit something with that it stayed down. And it worked when you needed it to.”
Strong stared at him, waiting.
Kane leaned forward and spoke in a harsh whisper. “We’ve agreed on truth, not the law, and I’ll go as far as I can with the truth on this. You can close the book on Damon and the Trinity. As a bonus, you can also close the book on the killings where the women’s heads were burned and decapitated. You’ve seen those pictures on the board in the 109 Precinct, right? The multiple murders no one is investigating? I know they were just hookers, but they were people too. The man who did that won’t ever be doing it again. Oh, yeah, you can also close out the Cibosky case. The guy who killed him is dead, too. That make you feel better?”
Strong leaned back in the booth. “Damn, Kane.”
“Yeah.”
Strong frowned. “I don’t have Damon or his guys pegged as doing that to hookers.”
“Wasn’t them,” Kane said. “Damon and his guys did other stuff. Worse.”
“Then who was it?”
“Nobody who matters any more. And the M-16s were heading to Ireland. A lot of bad shit was terminated that night.”
Strong began shaking his head.
“Do you feel any better?” Kane asked.
“No. It causes me great unease and puts me in a very awkward position.”
“Nicely phrased,” Kane said. “’Awkward’? You wanted truth. You got it, but not enough that you need to do anything. As I was recently told, let it go. And you wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t come in here this morning asking questions you shouldn’t have wanted answers to. Why’d you ask?”
“I was hoping—” Strong began, but stopped.
“Hoping for what? That God sent an avenging angel down and smote Damon and his murderers?” Kane continued. “You think you understand but you have no clue how bad Damon and his guys were, Strong. Worse than your nightmares. They were pure evil. They killed a lot of people in terrible ways in that building.”
Strong put his large, scarred knuckle hands flat on the tabletop. Remained still for several moments. “Told you when we first met that you were a shit storm, Kane. You’re doubling down on that.”
“I did that a long time ago,” Kane said “We need a storm every once in a while, to clean things out. It’s natural law.” He stared into the detective’s eyes. “You going to let the Nabisco fire go?”
“I wasn’t in it to start with,” Strong said. “Given the weapons, it’s the FBI’s province. But they don’t have much to work with other than the serial numbers. Just thought I’d give you a friendly heads up. You’re welcome.”
“I appreciate it. I didn’t torch the place. Damon didn’t want to leave much behind if the place got compromised. He had thermals set around the outer wall.”
“That what you call it? ‘Compromised’?”
“He was doing very, very bad things in that place. And he had it rigged to burn so his cremation was self-inflicted.”
“Was his death?”
“In a manner of speaking. And, truth, Omar, I swear I did not kill him.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“You wanted truth. That’s truth.”
“And if Damon and his Trinity weren’t doing those multiple hooker killings?” Strong asked. “Who was that? Who killed Damon? Who killed Cibosky?”
“No one of consequence. Someone whose own mother wouldn’t miss him.”
“How’s your conscience?” Strong asked.
“My conscience has been crowded with worthwhile people for years,” Kane said. “People who should be remembered. It’s got no room for those worthless assholes.”
Strong slid out of booth. Towered over Kane. “I have to catch a killer. The legal way. But let me tell you something, Kane. This won’t turn out well if you continue down this path.”
“Every path I see ahead of me goes the same way,” Kane said.
“Where’s that?”
“You know. Murphy’s Law. What can go to shit, will.”
“You need help, Kane.” Strong pointed at his head. “Real help.” He nodded at Morticia on the way out.
She made a beeline to Kane. “What did you say to him to piss him off?”
“I actually gave him good news,” Kane said. “He’ll understand that soon.”
“You’re a piece of work, Kane.”
“Yeah, I know. And you don’t mean it in a good way.”
“Depends on the day of the week. Today. Nope.”
WEST SIDE HIGHWAY, MANHATTAN
Upon leaving the diner, Kane delayed the workout and took a detour over to the West Side Highway, next to the closed northbound ramp on 19th. He walked around the barriers. The ramp merged with the road in the center, rather than on the side, a strange quirk that contributed to the highway’s negative reputation. When he reached the elevated roadway, he turned south. He pulled the moleskin notebook out of the breast pocket and did a quick check for particulars.
Nature had taken root on the stretch of abandoned roadway with grass and bushes struggling to survive in the gutters on either side. A derelict wall of plywood bisected the abandoned roadway. Kane slid through. A section of the northbound side was gone.
Beyond was a makeshift camp for the homeless. Tarps, tents, even cardboard boxes to provide shade were scattered about.
“Hey, Mac.” Kane greeted the same old man he’d met on his first trip here a month ago, when he’d initially tracked Wile-E down after the junkie had held up a pizza place on the West Side while Kane was waiting on a slice.
Kane had no idea if ‘Mac’ was a real name, but he’d heard someone else call him that and written it down in his notebook full of ‘particulars’; this one on the page titled WILE-E. There wasn’t much more on the page other than 1st Cav. The grizzled veteran sat in a rusting and tattered folding chair staring at a smoldering fire and a #10 can hanging over it from a tripod. He sported a dirty white beard and long hair and wore stained, rummaged clothing. He glanced up at Kane. “Hey, young fella.” His voice was rough, gravelly. He held out his hand, palm up.
Kane gave him a fiver.
“Aint seen ‘im since last time you checked,” Mac said as he stuffed the bill into his pocket.
“I know a guy at the Soldiers and Sailors Home,” Kane said. “I can get you a bed for a couple of nights. On the arm.”
“I’d need cab fare,” Mac said.
Kane peeled twenty from his money clip. “Tell the guy at the desk Will Kane sent you.”
“Roger that.” Mac didn’t seem enthused.
“You going there?” Kane asked, scanning the area, just in case Mac was wrong, but that was doubtful since he seemed the linchpin to this community.
“Nope. Just wanted the extra money.”
“Why not?”
“And leave all this?” Mac was incredulous.
“Hot shower. You can do laundry.”
“I’d just get dirty again.” He looked up from the can. “Why do you care about Wile-E? What’s he to you? Were you in the same unit?”
“Same war,” Kane said.
The old man harrumphed and spit, indicating what he, a World War II veteran, thought of Vietnam. “Lots of guys in the same war. Bunch of vets end up here. My war, Korea, Vietnam. We had a guy from the Great War, but he died a few months ago. Whatever the next one will
be, they’ll end up here. You gonna save them all?”
“Nope.”
“Damn right.”
“But I did just offer you some help,” Kane pointed out.
“Yeah,” Mac grudgingly admitted. “You know what happened to Wile-E?”
“What do you mean?”
“In the war? What happened to him?”
“No.”
Mac spit again, this time close to Kane’s boots. “But you’re trying to help him?”
“Why do I have to know what happened to someone to give them a hand?” Kane asked. “He wants me to know, he’ll tell me.”
Mac looked up at him and his eyes were bright blue above the gray beard. “Were you actually in the shit?”
“Yeah.”
“You tell people, civilians, what you saw?” Mac asked.
“They wouldn’t understand.”
Mac nodded. “But soldiers. Those of us who were in the fight. We do.”
“What happened to him?” Kane asked.
Mac leaned forward and peered into the can. “Know why he’s called Wile-E?”
“Second-hand,” Kane said, having just read that info on the page in his notebook. “I was told it was because he chases the heroin.”
“Ha! See? Think you’re so smart. You don’t know shit. Got nothing to do with that. That was what he was called in his unit.”
Kane grabbed a milk crate and sat next to Mac, ignoring the odor. “Educate me, sir.”
Mac shot him a piercing look, trying to ascertain if Kane was serious. “He had a partner. Coyote. They were close.”
“What happened to this guy, Coyote?”
Mac looked at him as if he were an idiot. “You think they called some soldier, Coyote? You got shit for brains?”
“Okay, who or what was Coyote?”
“A dog. They were a team. Wile-E was Coyote’s handler. Tracking dog. Part of some special unit. Went way out there in the boonies looking for the bad guys.”
“Tough job,” Kane said. “Dog teams like that were usually on point. Most dangerous place to be.”
