Lawyers, Guns and Money

by Bob Mayer

  “How are you gonna dig into that mess?” Conner asked.

  “That’s what I was going to ask you. Supposing Damon is out of the picture, where would they go in the city if they wanted to talk to somebody from NORAID?”

  “Why are we supposing Damon is out of the picture?”

  “Keep your eye on the ball, Uncle Conner. NORAID?”

  “Not to the offices,” Conner said. “It would have to be unofficial.”

  Kane waited.

  “Kelly’s Bar,” Conner finally said. “As close as we got to an IRA headquarters in the city, but they aren’t doing anything illegal. They take collections, have singers from the old country come in, that sort of stuff. You go in there asking the wrong questions, it’s gonna piss some people off.”

  “Are there right questions?”

  Conner laughed. “You always were a smart-ass.”

  “How about you go with me? After you get off?”

  “That might piss someone in there off even more,” Conner said.

  “How so?”

  Conner was staring intently at the church, as if there were answers in the stone and brick. “I owe a guy some money.”

  “How much?” Kane asked.

  “Six large.”

  “All right,” Kane said. “What time you get off?”

  Conner told him. He ended by shifting the discussion back to family. “I heard Liam’s kid is working for you down in the Village.”

  “He’s at the diner,” Kane said. “I’m not his boss or anything. I just got him a job until he goes to Basic.”

  Conner nodded. “That’s good. Maybe you should stop by and say hi to your mom? Since you’re only a few blocks away?”

  “Yeah, all right.”

  “Don’t sound too fucking enthused,” Conner said. “And like I said before. Go to the fucking cemetery like a normal person.”

  Conner went to the unmarked and pulled out into traffic to look for bad guys.

  Kane started the Jeep and drove onto Gun Hill Road, then left onto Arnow. He paused at the Post Office and dropped off the same envelope with a check and one with cash he did every week. He’d changed the return address on the check from Marcelle, Van Dyck, Feinstein & Marcelle to Toni’s new firm, which meant he’d been aware the Towers had their own zip code. Since he’d come back to the States this last time in ’75 he’d sent the agreed upon check to his ex, Taryn, via her family’s lawyer. None had been returned and none had been cashed. The lawyer’s office refused to take his calls or allow him in.

  The cash didn’t have a return address and he knew it was used by the widow of the machinegunner who’d held the line on Hill 875. His family had been given the Medal of Honor from a grateful nation but Kane knew medals didn’t pay the rent.

  Kane drove along Arnow Avenue, down the hill he’d trudged up to school for twelve years, eight in Holy Rosary Elementary, then four more years to go to Mount St. Michael’s High School. However, he didn’t turn right onto Bruner Avenue where his parents and elder sister still lived. Pulled a U-Turn in the garbage strewn dead end on Arnow and found his way to I-95 and Manhattan.

  8

  Saturday Afternoon,

  6 August 1977

  GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN

  Kane knocked on the door to the main floor of the brownstone, tested to see if it was unlocked, then opened.

  “In the kitchen,” Pope called out.

  Kane followed the aroma of pipe smoke down the hall to the rearmost room, overlooking the small garden the owner tended with a varying degree of diligence, lately more lack. The recently laid-off reporter for the NY Post was ensconced in his usual spot, seated in a comfortable armchair pulled up to a round, wood table. A scattering of newspapers and books covered the surface. A teacup that might, or more likely not, hold tea was in front of him.

  “William. I missed you this morning.”

  Kane had noted Pope getting up later and later, lost without the call of the story. “I was out early.”

  Pope wore his usual: khaki shorts and loud Hawaiian shirt. His straw hat with black band was on a hook next to the back door. A pair of reading glasses rested on the tip of his red nose.

  “I apologize if I misinterpreted by letting the young woman into your apartment last night,” Pope said. “She said you’d been together the previous evening and, to be honest, I was at a bit of a loss to deny her request. I’ve always had a problem saying no to a pretty woman. In retrospect it was a betrayal of—”

  Kane waved a hand. “She said we’d been together? As in the biblical sense?”

  Pope frowned. “Now that I think of it, no. I might have made an error of assumption.”

  “I was driving a boat she was on while she was pitching a movie to a producer. That was the together part.”

  “Apologies,” Pope said. “In my defense, I had seen Ms. Truvey before last night so it wasn’t like I was letting a complete stranger in. She is not easy to forget.”

  “Seen her where?”

  “An off-Broadway production.” Pope frowned. “Unfortunately, I can’t quite recall what the name of the play was.”

  “Was she any good?”

  “To be frank, I only remember her because of her, shall we say, charms? Please tell me if I misjudged by allowing her in?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Kane said. “I needed to talk to her. The name I gave you, Crawford. He was on the boat. And she was trying to use her charms on him to get funds for a movie.”

  “The pernicious life of the ingenue,” Pope said. He picked up a thin stack of Xeroxed pages. “This was messengered over from my friend at the Post. Anything particular you’re interested in?”

  “Who would want to kill him?”

  Pope raised an almost hairless eyebrow. “Was your boating expedition challenging?”

  “Someone planted a bomb on the boat.”

  “A bomb? Who?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Kane said. “Give me the quick version.” Kane sat down in the chair, half facing the back door and half the hallway.

  Pope looked at his notepad. “Born in Escalante, Utah in 1922 to a poor family. Father was a minister on an Indian reservation. Mother died when he was four. A tough depression era childhood as many endured in the thirties. Joined the Marines at nineteen the day after Pearl Harbor.” Pope pulled a sheet out. “This is interesting. He was—”

  “A Marine Raider,” Kane said.

  Pope frowned. “He took part in the Makin Island Raid but it doesn’t say he was a Raider, although that would seem likely. The information I’ve gathered on that event is sketchy and contradictory. Regardless, he was wounded and eventually evacuated to Hawaii. Honorably discharged from the Marines.” Pope flipped to the next page. “There’s nothing on him until 1947. I imagine he was recovering from his wounds.”

  Kane knew what that could be like.

  “He was involved in starting a program that’s very much a controversy but was popular for decades; LDS—Mormon-- families adopting Indian children.”

  “How many did he grab?” Kane asked.

  “Seven.”

  “What about family outside of the Indian orphans? Wife? Kids of his own?”

  Pope checked the sheet. “His wife passed ten years ago. Breast cancer.” Pope raised an eyebrow. “No children of their own. Then he went to Texas and started working in the oilfields. Bought his way into a fledgling company, eventually taking it over. His worth is estimated to be over fifty million.”

  “Enemies who might want to kill him?”

  “Nothing specific. But to rise from nobody to those heights meant stepping on some toes. It’s said that behind great fortunes are great crimes although that is ascribed to Honore Balzac and what he originally wrote was—” Pope halted his digression, sensing Kane’s mood.

  “Why does he mess with financing movies and plays?” Kane asked.

  “I imagine taxes,” Pope said. “Using them as write-offs since most lose money. I don�
��t know how it works as I’ve never been flush enough to avail myself of that part of the tax code. That’s what lawyers are for.”

  “Who is his lawyer?”

  “A firm in Amarillo.” Pope began to dig through the Xeroxed pages, but Kane stopped him.

  “Don’t worry about that. Any connections between Crawford and the IRA?”

  “The Provos?” Pope shook his head. “Not that I read.”

  “Ever hear of Provos called the Swords of Saint Patrick?”

  “They all consider themselves some sort of holy warriors,” Pope said. “Fighting for freedom and to expel the heathen Brits. Do you mean formally?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not off the top of my head, but I’ll check. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you think the IRA would conduct an attack on U.S. soil?” Kane asked. “Perhaps a bombing?”

  Pope frowned. “It would seem to their disadvantage as they generally have a misguided groundswell of support in the States that is quite lucrative.” Pope’s alcohol-fogged brain finally made the connection. “You think the Provos planted the bomb on the boat?”

  “Appears likely,” Kane said. “I think I was the target, not Crawford. I was kind of hoping it might be him.”

  “You were targeted because of Damon?” Pope asked.

  “Yeah. But more so, because of Marcelle.”

  “You never filled me in on what happened to Damon,” Pope said, almost a question.

  “Let’s just say I interrupted an arms shipment to the IRA.”

  Pope made a tsk-tsk sound as if scolding Kane. “They are relentless in the pursuit of revenge.”

  “Trying to cheer me up?”

  “Just the sad reality,” Pope said. “They put more effort into tracking down those who’ve betrayed them than anything else.”

  “You’re making me feel so much better,” Kane leaned back in the chair, thinking. “Ever hear of Kelly’s Tavern?”

  “In the Bronx?” Pope said. “NORAID central.”

  “That seems to be the consensus.”

  Pope dug in his papers. “My friend, Maggie, was intrigued by the properties Damon and Marcelle were purchasing. She checked the tax records, deeds, and other paperwork. Someone went through a lot of trouble shielding ownership in shell corporations that are headquartered overseas.”

  “Owned by Marcelle and Damon, right?” Speaking of Maggie, Kane noticed two theater tickets stuck to the door of the fridge with a magnet: the tickets he’d paid Pope for to take her out with to thank her for the information on the Marcelle/Damon properties. They were among a number of other papers magneted to the door, but if Kane remembered rightly, the date for the play was past.

  Pope shook his head. “Hard to tell who truly owns them beneath all the paperwork. The bottom line is who holds the deeds and she wasn’t able to dig that deep. Between fifteen and twenty million is invested in this. I doubt they had that much money between them.”

  “Does Marcelle get Damon’s portion now that he’s gone?”

  “Financial law isn’t Maggie’s expertise. But it would seem logical.”

  “And Marcelle is in hiding,” Kane said.

  “The—” Pope paused as his phone rang. He picked it up. “Pope.” He listened for a second, then held it out. “You should consider getting your own line downstairs with an answering machine, not that I’m complaining, but I’m sure it would be easier for you.”

  “Then it would make this like a permanent move,” Kane said as he took the receiver. “Yes?”

  Toni’s voice echoed through the line. “Will, I’ve tried talking to Selkis. He’s blowing me off. Whatever Yazzie said to him weighs on him more heavily than anything I say.”

  “You want me to put some weight on him?”

  “I want to get to the bottom of this. I did some checking. My father still hasn’t surfaced. He was gone from the firm beginning at noon on Thursday. No one has heard from him since.”

  “Are you with Selkis now?”

  “I’m outside his office.”

  “Where?”

  Toni gave him the address. “Not exactly the nicest part of town,” she added.

  “Where is the nice part?” Kane asked.

  “Don’t be a smart ass. Get over here. And hurry please. He was acting squirrelly.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. If he leaves, try to follow.”

  “That’s your expertise.”

  “I’m not there.”

  “No shit. See you in fifteen.”

  Kane handed the receiver back to Pope. “Duty calls.”

  “We’re missing something in all of this,” Pope said, papers spread out on his table.

  “As Toni just told me, ‘no shit’.”

  TIMES SQUARE, MANHATTAN

  Kane took the Kawasaki dirt bike, which was parked with his jeep in an old garage on West 4th, off Seventh Avenue. He wove through traffic, avoiding bike messengers and pedestrians. He made it in twelve minutes, including the time to run to the garage, open it, and unlock the chain from the bike.

  Kane jumped the curb and stopped in front of Toni. Even though she was a native New Yorker, Toni was out of place standing in the doorway to a small tourist shop selling New York themed trinkets. It was next to the Big Apple Movie Theater whose marquee was promoting four hits in continuous showing: ORAL ANNIE, SEX SCHOOL, INSIDE JOY and WET RGY.

  “What’s a wet rgy?” Kane asked.

  “Not funny,” Toni said. “Some guy offered my twenty dollars to—” she waved it off. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Where’s his office?”

  Toni indicated the adult theater. “In the back of that place. Door’s in the alley.”

  “What kind of producer is this guy? And how did he become your client?”

  “I don’t need any shit right now,” Toni said. “He has a legit office over on 52nd. That’s the one in the phone book. But he wasn’t there. I know about this place from his files.”

  “What does he use this one for?” Kane asked. “His not legit stuff?”

  “I don’t know,” Toni said. “It never came up.”

  “He’s hiding from Yazzie.” Kane released the clutch and rolled the dirt bike into the alley, off the sidewalk. He killed the engine and put the kickstand down. “Let’s go.”

  They moved along the alley, stepping carefully. A body lay to the right, a homeless person, curled up and hopefully alive, but neither stopped to check. Toni indicated a metal door. Kane pulled it open on hinges that needed some WD-40. A dimly lit hallway threatened.

  “Left at the end of the corridor,” Toni said, “then first door on the right.”

  Kane led the way, Toni following close behind. He paused before the end of the hall. Took a step back. “Something’s off. He alone in there?”

  “He was,” Toni said. “I didn’t see anyone go in the alley but it opens on the next street.”

  “Is there a back way out of his office?”

  “There was a door.”

  Kane edged around the corner, muzzle of the gun leading on an angle where he could see the shot. It was dark in the next hall. “Were the lights off or on in the hallway?”

  “On.”

  Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.

  Kane moved into the hall; his eyes having adjusted. There were several wooden doors, all closed. With his right hand he reached up to the bulb. Still warm. He twisted it, illumination, and as quickly he untwisted. “Someone was here after you.”

  Kane stopped at the first door on the right. Checked the door jam. Wood and needing a coat of paint. It hadn’t been kicked in. There was no sign to indicate whose office it was.

  “Get out of here,” he whispered to Toni. “Do not come in.”

  Kane tried the handle. It turned easily and he pushed. The only light in the dingy, windowless office was a feeble desk lamp.

  Selkis was seated behind a grey metal desk. His head was lolled back. The walls were covered with posters, surprisingly not skin f
licks, but nothing Kane had ever heard of, which actually didn’t mean that much as the only movie he’d seen since coming back to the States was Star Wars with Toni and the Kid and Thao a few weeks ago. There was the desk and a filing cabinet and an empty chair in front of the desk.

  Kane noted that the door to the right rear of the desk was cracked open and he went to that, gently opening with his right hand, gun ready in the left. He spotted a figure silhouetted against a single bulb forty feet down a corridor walking away, not running but moving with purpose.

  Kane spun around as Toni came in.

  “What’s—” she began, but Kane put his finger to his lips and cut her off.

  “Take a cab back to your office,” he hissed. “Now!”

  “What’s going on?”

  Blood was still dripping from Selkis’ slit throat. Kane gave her a shove out the door. “Go!” He shut the door and went to the back one. He ran into the corridor, focused on where the man had exited. Stopped at it, took a deep breath, shoved it open, crouching low, gun at the ready.

  A dimly lit area. A maze of booths, each door just a few feet apart. No windows. Low ceiling.

  Kane entered and it took him a few moments to get oriented: an adult bookstore and these were peepshow booths. Dirty, sticky floor. It was difficult to locate the entrance in the dark maze. He turned a corner and an old man stared at him and the gun without much concern. Kane pushed past. He reached an intersection and saw a flicker of movement to his right that was gone as quickly as he’d spotted it. He went that way. Reached the corner, came around gun at the ready.

  A man wearing jeans, work boots, and a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt was trapped in a dead end. He had a leather satchel similar to Yazzie’s over one shoulder. He about-faced. His skin was toned bronze like Yazzie’s. His hair was cut short on top, white walls on the side, screaming ex-Marine.

  “Disgusting place,” the guy said. “This city is a sewer.”

  “There are plenty of folks who would agree with you,” Kane said.