by Bob Mayer
“He told you his name?”
“We exchanged a few pleasantries before getting down to business.”
“He bled out from a knife wound,” Yazzie said. “Blade on blade. That means it was a fair fight and he lost. He died with honor.”
“That’s it?” Kane asked.
“The police do not seem concerned given the location of his death and it appears he had just murdered someone. They’re closing the books on it. It seems killings in that part of town don’t rate much interest, plus they seem preoccupied with that Son of Sam fellow. Another reason not to like New York. A certain callousness toward the sanctity of life.”
Kane didn’t point out the obvious disconnect. “You talked to the police?”
“No,” Yazzie said. “One of our associates who is a former U.S. Attorney, and has the proper connections, made some calls. A further reason the incident is closed.”
Kane indicated the pager. “Your father sent Johnson to silence Selkis. Why?”
“You should be content you are still among the living,” Yazzie said.
“What shouldn’t he have told us?” Kane asked.
The look Yazzie gave him indicated what he thought of the question.
“Killing me isn’t going to clean things up,” Kane said.
“I told you,” Yazzie said. “That’s already been taken care of. Regarding today’s incident, at least.”
“That’s it?” Kane said. “One of your men gets killed and you just move on?”
“For now.”
“Your stepfather was laundering money through Selkis.”
“No,” Yazzie said. “He was doing legitimate investments.” He indicated with a nod of his head. “The satchel. Off hand on the table.”
Kane did as ordered. “You know what’s in here?”
Yazzie didn’t respond.
Kane took a chance. “You don’t know what’s in here. Crawford sent Johnson to kill Selkis without informing you.”
Yazzie’s face displayed no emotion. “Marcelle has some deeds that belong to Boss Crawford. We want them back.”
“He was the money behind Damon and Marcelle,” Kane said.
“Legitimate real estate investments. Who else knows about the property?”
“Toni. There was nothing legitimate about Damon and I’m beginning to think the same about Marcelle.”
“Who else knows?”
Kane was on a roll with honesty, at least a degree of honesty. “That’s it right now.”
Yazzie holstered the pistol. “We have the same objective. Find Thomas Marcelle.”
“I’ve got a more immediate problem,” Kane said. “The IRA gunmen Marcelle sent after me.”
“Marcelle also sent them after my father. Our interests coincide since they crossed that line. What do you know of them?”
“One just shot a point of contact I was trying to get information from up in the Bronx. Dried that well up rather effectively. That will keep anyone else from talking.”
“They got away?”
“Shooter from the woods,” Kane said. “He was gone before I could get there.”
“Hmm,” Yazzie said, which irritated Kane as much as the drawn gun had.
“The FBI is interested in discovering what the Irish are up to,” Kane said. “The Feds heard that they’re planning some sort of operation in the city.”
“Beyond trying to kill my father?”
“And me,” Kane reminded him. “Yes.” He told Yazzie what Tucker and Shaw had said. And gave a brief summary of what had just occurred in the Bronx.
“What kind of weapon?” Yazzie asked.
“Suppressed,” Kane said. “I know that sound. The entry wound was clean, but the round didn’t go through. A pistol. Good shot though, at about forty yards and subsonic round and only trying to wound.”
Yazzie leaned back in the seat. “We have to find Marcelle and the deeds.”
“You still haven’t explained Johnson killing Selkis,” Kane pointed out. He indicated the satchel. “Take a look. Selkis was killed for what’s in there.”
Yazzie didn’t reach for the satchel. “Selkis betrayed my father and was a disgusting human being who won’t be missed.”
“Didn’t know the man,” Kane said, “but what little I saw there jives with that assessment. You didn’t talk to him face to face, did you?”
“We spoke on the phone.”
“You couldn’t find him. My guess is that he was feeling the heat. He knew you and your brothers were looking for him. After Toni talked to him and revealed that we knew about the connection with her father, he called Crawford and tried to negotiate. Maybe even threaten him with that.” He pointed at the case on the table. “From what little I know of your step-father, he’s a hard man to negotiate with and dangerous when threatened. He had Johnson trailing Toni. Or you did. That would be the smart move in case she was lying about not knowing where her father was. Johnson paged Crawford when he realized she’d found Selkis. So Crawford paged Johnson back to take out Selkis and recover the films. Wrap up a loose end.”
“You tell a good story.”
“It was a dumb move by Selkis, but he didn’t have many options since Marcelle had disappeared. His time for regrets was brief.” Kane pointed once more at the leather bag. “The snuff films?”
“No clue what you’re talking about.” Yazzie sat up straighter in the chair.
“Right.”
“Do you believe Toni Marcelle when she says she doesn’t know where her father is? And that she hasn’t spoken to him since she left the firm?”
Kane nodded. “Yes.”
“Are you two involved?”
Kane launched himself from the couch so quickly Yazzie didn’t attempt to draw his gun. He put his arms in defense, taking the brunt of Kane’s charge and the two toppled with the chair onto the floor.
Kane jabbed hard at Yazzie’s head, but they were tangled together and the punch was relatively ineffective. Yazzie wrapped his arms around Kane, squeezing tight and trapping Kane’s right arm inside the embrace. Kane hit Yazzie’s right ear with a left-hand open palm strike and rolled away as the blow stunned the Navajo.
Kane drew his gun as he came to his knees. To face Yazzie’s Browning Hi-Power which he’d pulled despite the ear blow.
“Touchy about that?” Yazzie asked. He slid his finger outside of the guard. “Truce?”
Kane stood, aiming at Yazzie, then holstered the forty-five.
Yazzie did the same with his gun, then straightened the chair. He rubbed his ear as he sat down. “I don’t know whether to take that as a yes or no.”
“She’s my best friend’s sister,” Kane said.
“He’s been dead a while,” Yazzie pointed out. “I’m trying to ascertain whether your judgment is clouded by an emotional attachment. It appears it is regardless of the existence of a physical relationship.”
Kane took a step toward Yazzie but he held up his hand. “Hold your horses. I’ve got a right to question this. She worked with her father for many years. To pretend she had no idea what he was up to is naïve.”
“Do you know everything your father is up to?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be certain about that?” Kane challenged.
“That’s personal.”
“Right. Because he’s your foster dad. Some families are different. My dad could have had a heart attack last night and died and I doubt anyone would call me. You didn’t know he ordered Johnson to kill Selkis. So that’s one. Did Crawford finance all of Selkis’s films?”
“No, just the ones he approved.”
“You’re full of shit,” Kane said. “Look inside the bag that Johnson killed Selkis for.”
“I want Marcelle,” Yazzie said. “As do you. Or did something change?”
“What if Marcelle gave you the deeds?” Kane asked. “Would you let him walk?”
“No. He crossed a line. He can’t go back.”
“What line?”
�
��Same one he crossed with you,” Yazzie said.
“But killing one of your people isn’t a line?”
Yazzie didn’t respond.
“You weren’t on the boat that night because you were looking for Marcelle,” Kane said, not a question. “Were your brothers already in town or did they fly in? The Hard Flint Boys? What’s that mean? Johnson said something in Navajo but I won’t disrespect the language by repeating it.”
“Beesh Ashiike,” Yazzie said. “He was a talker. Too much of a talker.”
“He thought I’d be dead.”
Kane was a bit surprised at the change that passed over Yazzie as some of his hardness faded. “The Hard Flint Boys are the seven stars in the Pleiades Constellation. Among my people when they disappear from the sky, it is time to begin planting.”
“What’s the connection to you guys, other than the number?”
Yazzie was back. “It’s what Boss Crawford calls us.”
Kane spread his hands. “Why are you here?”
“Because I didn’t want you to get off track and come after me after today’s regrettable incident. Marcelle is the target. Nothing has changed.”
“Things have changed,” Kane said. “Marcelle isn’t my priority. I think you need to re-evaluate your position.”
Yazzie didn’t say anything.
“What unit were you in?” Kane asked.
“Trying to bond with me?” Yazzie said. “I freelanced.”
“No one freelanced in ‘Nam.”
“When you have certain specialties, you do. I was a code talker.”
“We didn’t use those in Vietnam,” Kane said.
“Don’t tell me I didn’t do what I did,” Yazzie said. “I also spent some time as a tunnel rat.”
“You’re a bit tall for that,” Kane pointed out.
“I bend.”
“Like a snake.” Kane pushed. “You’re a crook working for a crook.”
“I could have killed you when you walked in,” Yazzie said. “Boss Crawford is a legitimate businessman who invested money to purchase properties via a prestigious New York law firm run by a former Federal prosecutor. There is nothing criminal about that.”
“’You just keep thinkin’ that Butch. That’s what you’re good at’.”
Yazzie stood. “Don’t get in my way, Kane. You’ve gotten your only pass.”
“How do I get hold of you?” Kane said. “To avoid a collision in case our paths coincide?”
Yazzie thought for a second, then tossed a card on the table. “Page me.” He looked at the pager and satchel on the table. Picked up the pager.
“Take the films,” Kane said.
Yazzie grabbed the leather bag and slung it, along with his own, over his shoulder. He walked out the front door leaving Kane alone in his small apartment.
11
Thursday,
21 February 1957
BAYCHESTER, BRONX
Thirteen-year-old altar boy William Kane spins the combination to the last number, hears the click, and turns the handle on the vault door. The heavy bolts retract and he swings it open. The interior is lined with shelves full of gold and silver and other precious metals and stones in the form of chalices, crosses, plates; the objects the Catholic Church considers an integral part of their ceremonies.
There are four cases of wine stacked inside. The wine used to be in the closet on the other side of the sacristy, where the altar boys don their cassock and surplice. However, the supply has been dwindling at a much quicker rate than can be accounted for by the sips at mass by the priests. Thus, the move to the vault and the combination is entrusted to a handful. Kane removes an already open bottle from the top box, fills the cruet for the morning service, and returns the bottle.
Before he can shut the heavy door, the priest walks in.
“Good morning,” Father Mukami says in his Kenyan accent. He’s on temporary assignment from Africa to Holy Rosary Church in the Bronx, an anomaly the parishioners have grudgingly accepted only because of the white collar.
“Good morning, Father.”
Father Mukami stares at the contents of the safe. “I find this most curious. Such riches locked in a church.”
“Yes, Father,” Kane says automatically, as taught by the nuns’ rulers.
“Yes to which part?” Father Mukami asks.
Kane is stumped by a question that surpasses a yes. “It is curious, Father?”
Father Mukami smiles. “And why do you find it curious, my son?”
“I don’t think anyone would break into a church, Father.”
“Ah! Of course, someone would if they were desperate enough. I’ve seen people force themselves into a church. But not to steal. For safety. For sanctuary. And then I have seen worse people come into a church for a different reason.”
It’s 5:50 in the morning. A cold and grey February day. Ten minutes until Thursday daily mass. Father Mukami isn’t putting on his vestments. He wears a simple black cassock with the white band in high contrast to the garments and the skin of his throat. He walks away from the vestments Kane has laid out on the wide table on the priest side of the sacristy. To the double doors leading into the church and peers out the window.
“See them?” Father Mukami indicates a cluster of old women, along with a scattering of others among the pews, awaiting their daily deliverance. Kane’s mother is there.
“Yes, Father.”
“Do you think they believe?”
“Yes, Father.”
“I wonder. They make mass a routine, a habit. Every morning.”
Kane shifts his feet nervously. He should put on his altar boy costume but Father Mukami isn’t moving. This is unfamiliar, a break in ritual.
“It was my flock that broke in initially,” Father Mukami says, more to himself. “Seeking refuge. Mostly my flock. Others came with them. It is strange how in times of peril, those who don’t believe suddenly want to believe. I let them all in. That, of course, is the Christian thing. And, naturally, it was a mistake. Because wolves hide among the sheep.”
He falls silent.
Kane glances nervously at the clock. His father, even more than the nuns, has taught him punctuality. Things happen on time and for a reason. It is five minutes to the hour.
Is it a sin to start mass late?
The nuns haven’t covered that one.
Kane thinks George Carlin might have but the thought immediately fills him with shame for having listened to the record.
Is it a sin to start mass late if it’s the priest’s fault? That gave Kane some solace, as the responsibility is not his. The nuns would agree. Naturally, his father wouldn’t.
Father Mukami shivers. “And now I am here for the time being as the flames burn in my homeland. They made me leave when I should have stayed.” He looks down at Kane. “Do not be afraid of me, son. I am not the wolf in this parish. But I fear some of my brethren are.”
Kane stares out at the congregation.
Father Mukami puts his hand lightly on Kane’s shoulder. “There are wolves in many guises in every place, even the most sacred. Often, they are whom we least suspect. I fear for the sheep. I wonder often, who protects the sheep?” He removes his hand. “I will do the mass alone, my son. Go home. Do not come back.”
12
Sunday Morning,
7 August 1977
MEATPACKING DISTRICT, MANHATTAN
“We’ll be closing early today,” Kane informed Thao. “I’ve already informed Lynn and Riley.” He was referring to the waitress who worked Sunday mornings, Morticia’s day off, and his cousin.
Thao had food going on the stove for the light crowd already in the diner. He noted the external frame rucksack on Kane’s shoulder. “How early, Dai Yu?”
“As soon as I get transportation arranged,” Kane said.
“What should I bring?”
Kane smiled. “You didn’t ask where.”
“Where?”
“And I didn’t ask you to go.”
<
br /> “You said we’re closing early,” Thao noted.
“Yeah, that I did. But it might involve contact.”
Thao nodded. “I am honored that this time you are including me. Where?”
“First to West Point to visit Mister Plaikos. Then Fort Devens. After that, I’m not sure. Depends what we learn. Probably Boston, where we might have a conversation that isn’t friendly.”
“Will we visit Bahn?” Thao asked, referring to Merrick’s Montagnard wife, and his sister.
“I called and they’re home.”
“The goal of the trip?”
Kane quickly laid out recent events. “I need to get the pictures of Westway for Trent. Check Damon’s book. His weapons suppliers should be in it, and we see who he has in Boston. If we can find out what these Swords are after in terms of gear, we might get an idea what they’re planning.”
Thao nodded. “I will be ready.” He turned to the stove.
Kane went to his booth, putting the ruck on the other side.
When the Kid came in with the thick Sunday New York Times, he was surprised to see Kane sitting there, since this was normally run in Van Cortlandt Park day for the ex-Green Beret.
“What’s up?” the Kid asked as Kane peeled off ten twenties and gave them to him.
“I need a car,” Kane said.
“Fast?”
“That would be nice,” Kane said.
“Back in fifteen,” the Kid said.
A few minutes after he departed, the pay phone on the wall across from the booth rang. Kane grimaced, waited for Thao to get it. Riley was clearing tables and apparently payphone answering wasn’t in the job description Thao had given him. It kept ringing and Kane reluctantly answered after the seventh disturbance.
“Vic’s Diner.”
“Ah, the prodigal himself,” Kane’s older sister, Maria said. “To what do I owe the honor of you answering? It’s been Thao for the past several months. I’m sure he’s passed on my messages.”
“How’s the weather?” Kane asked.
“Unless I dialed the wrong number, look out the window and you tell me, Willy. Not like the Bronx is that far away. I’m fine, by the way, but your mother wouldn’t mind seeing you. We’re going to the ten o’clock. Holy Rosary. You know where that is, right?”
