Lawyers, Guns and Money

by Bob Mayer

  “Going to the FBI and—”

  “Wrong.”

  Kane gave it a few moments. “There is—”

  “Wrong. You do not go to the fucking FBI, Kane. They come to you if you want to talk to them. Never go to their turf unless you have no other choice. That’s a rule of negotiating. Jesus, I’m beginning to wonder if I made the right decision about you.”

  “I agree,” Kane managed to get out. “I don’t think you did. There is—”

  “Shut up. You still live in that dump on Jane Street?”

  “Yes.” He tensed as Truvey entered the Washington Street door. Danger of a different sort.

  “Be waiting out front of it at—” the phone was muffled and Sofia spoke to someone in the background—“eleven. Don’t make me send Matteo in to get you. I know he’d love to, but you wouldn’t love him to. Capisce?”

  “Right.”

  The phone clicked off.

  Truvey and Morticia were having a discussion, the possibilities of which immediately gave Kane a headache. Morticia led the aspiring actress to Kane’s booth as he hung up. Truvey was wearing white bell bottoms, a red, white and blue blouse tied just underneath her breasts, which left her midriff bare. She was the focus of the meat truck drivers at the counter and Wile-E almost tripped carrying some dishes to the kitchen. She was holding a large brown purse made of leather with strands hanging from it. Kane thought it looked like it had been made at the Wild West arcade in the old Freedomland amusement park in the Bronx.

  “Look who’s here to see you,” Morticia said, overly brightly. “She says her name is Truvey. Isn’t that neat?”

  “Yeah,” Kane said, “I know.”

  “I’ll be right back with your coffee, honey.” Morticia flashed a smile at Truvey and glided away.

  Kane sat down, exhausted from the long night, Trent and Sofia Cappucci.

  “I was worried about you,” Truvey said as soon as he settled in. “I mean, you aint like any guy I’ve ever met.”

  Morticia slid up, cup and pot in hand as Truvey continued. “And when I left your place Saturday morning, we didn’t get much of a chance to talk.”

  Morticia gave Kane the eye, which one he wasn’t sure of translation, and moved off. Not very far.

  “Right,” Kane said, unable to devote many brain cells to this conversation and hoping that would suffice.

  Truvey reached across the table to take Kane’s hand but his instinct was to jerk it back, given he wasn’t focused.

  “Whoa!” Truvey said.

  “Sorry,” Kane said. “Bad morning.”

  Truvey smiled. “It’s okay. You weren’t much into getting touched the other night, either. So. You doing okay?”

  Kane thought the bad morning comment had covered that, but apparently not. “I’ve got a couple of meetings I’ve got to get to this morning.”

  “Oh.” Truvey was chewing on her bottom lip.

  “Something wrong?”

  Tears actually appeared at the edges of Truvey’s eyes. “Selkie is dead!”

  “No!” Kane tried to put some oomph in his reaction, but he fell far short, not that Truvey noticed. Belatedly, he grabbed a paper napkin out of the dispenser and held it out for her.

  She took it and dabbed her eyes. “I went by his office yesterday and they had that yellow tape all around, just like in the cop shows. His door was locked, but someone from the theater told me he’d been murdered! And that another guy had been killed inside the theater; they think it was the guy who murdered Selkie. It’s just terrible.”

  “It is,” Kane agreed.

  “I mean we all know the city is tough,” Truvey said. “But getting killed? That’s too much, isn’t it?”

  Kane was uncertain whether that was an actual question, because the answer seemed obvious. “It is.”

  “I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” Truvey said.

  “Do you need money?” Kane regretted as soon as he asked.

  “I got the money from the other night,” Truvey said, not offended, but the comment captured Morticia’s attention. “Selkie was also my agent. Sort of. I mean he put in a good word and I got some off-Broadway gigs. Small parts, but it was work. I got to work if I want to make it.”

  “True.” Kane was tempted to check his watch but forced himself not to.

  She blinked the last of the sort-of tears out of her eyes. “I can sense things about people. You seem like a good guy. Odd, but good.”

  “Right,” Kane said.

  “Crawford said you work for an entertainment lawyer,” Truvey said. “Does she like, get gigs for people or what?”

  “I don’t actually work for her.”

  “Weren’t you working for her that night on the boat?”

  “Yeah,” Kane said, “but it was more a favor.”

  “But she has connections, right?”

  “I guess,” Kane said. He mustered some energy. “I’m sure she does. You want I should talk to her?” He frowned as he uttered the last sentence, realizing he was channeling Sofia Cappucci’s Brooklyn.

  Truvey shifted from sad to glad in a New York second. “Would you? I’d be forever grateful.”

  “Do you have a card or something?” Kane asked.

  Truvey reached into her bag, rummaging through, dumping a couple of combs, lipstick cases, other stuff Kane had no clue as to their purpose, and produced a couple of wrinkled pink cards with her nom-de-plume on it and a 212 number. “It’s a service, but they get me messages.”

  “Right.” Kane retrieved his notebook and put Truvey’s pink cards in there, next to Sofia Cappucci’s black one, which pretty much summed up his relationship with the female persuasion, with Morticia hovering in the background. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “You said Selkis gave you the cocaine and that Crawford didn’t use any?”

  Truvey pulled back slightly. “Uh, yeah.”

  “Was Crawford upset when you took it out and showed it to him?”

  Truvey sighed. “I guess since Selkie’s dead, it doesn’t matter. Crawford told me to tell anyone who asked that he had nothing to do with the cocaine. But Selkie told me that Crawford had asked for it. I wouldn’t just put coke on the night table in front of some stranger. I mean. That would be stupid, right?” She raised her hand, sharp fingernails pointing skyward. “But I didn’t use any. I swear. Scout’s honor. Crawford asked me for it, like he was expecting me to have it, when we went below and he took a bump before, well, you know.”

  “Thanks,” Kane said. “Why were we looking at the Statue of Liberty anyway? I know you didn’t have the storyboards, but was there really a movie?”

  The cocaine and dead Selkie were forgotten. “Oh yeah!” She frowned. “Well. I guess there was. Selkie said it was sort of a Godfather rip-off. Or he might have said it might be like the second movie, but that’s still a Godfather movie, right? But you know, I looked and the book don’t start that way, you know. Like the movie. Or the second one. Mobster comes to America from Italy as a child years ago. He did say the opening shot is the lead as a kid looking at the Statue of Liberty as he sails into the harbor from wherever those people came from. You remember that shot from the Godfather, right? Selkie wanted me to get Crawford inspired by that. The American dream and all that. Except the weather was so crappy. And Crawford wasn’t enthused about the movie.” She pouted. “All he wanted was the coke and, well, you know.”

  “Right.” Kane wondered if she remembered already telling him most of this. “Was he expecting to meet someone, other than you I mean?”

  Truvey frowned. “Yeah. It was like he didn’t expect Selkie. But someone else. But who would he be meeting?”

  Kane stood. “I’m sorry, really, I’ve got to get going.”

  Truvey bounced up and gave him a big hug, the envy of every male in the place with a pulse. “Thank you so much!”

  “You’re welcome,” Kane said.

  He was surprised when Truvey sat back down. “What’s good
here?”

  “Uh. Everything,” Kane said. “I know the cook,” he added.

  “Great,” Truvey said. “I’m starving. Since I’ve got nothing lined up, I can eat. Today at least.”

  “Enjoy,” Kane said. He headed for the kitchen door and Morticia did a flyby on her way to take the order.

  She whispered. “Rhymes with groovy? Really?”

  “It’s a persona,” Kane said. “Be kind.” He pushed open the door, grateful when it whooshed shut behind him. Thao was at his post, manning the grill.

  “Morning, Dai Yu.”

  “Morning, Thao.” Lucky was lying in the corner, out of the way, in a bed consisting of a pile of old tablecloths, looking content. “Morning, Lucky.”

  The dog watched him, withholding judgment.

  “Where’s Riley?” Kane asked.

  “Day off,” Thao replied.

  Wile-E came bustling in with a load of dirty dishes and glasses. “Hey, cap’n. Who’s the lady?”

  “A friend,” Kane said.

  “Nice,” Wile-E said with a grin. “The guy earlier looked like trouble,” he added as he unloaded into the deep sink.

  “CIA,” Kane said, but he was staring at Lucky. “You said she’s a tracking dog?”

  Wile-E paused in his work. “Yeah.”

  “How old of a scent can she pick up?” Kane asked.

  “Depends,” Wile-E said. “Weather conditions and—”

  “Two days ago, in the Bronx,” Kane said.

  “No problem,” Wile-E assured.

  “Wait here after the diner closes,” Kane said. “We’ve got a job to do with Lucky.”

  “Sure thing, cap’n.”

  Kane pushed open the door to the diner to grab his map case which he’d forgotten in the fluster of Truvey’s presence. Just in time to see Morticia putting a cup of coffee in front of Truvey. He paused in the doorway.

  “Here you go, sweetie,” Morticia said.

  “Thanks,” Truvey replied. “Hey, I saw you talking to Kane and the way you were close to him. Is he your guy? Because, you know nothing happened the other night. I mean, I slept there, but he stayed outside the door. It’s weird, because it’s the best night of sleep I’ve gotten in the city since I got here. He’s like a big old watchdog.”

  “’Old watchdog’?” Morticia repeated, but she couldn’t help smile. “I like that.”

  “But he did seem kinda of upset ‘cause he said I broke his sheets, and I don’t get that, because all I did was sleep.”

  Kane retreated through the kitchen and asked Thao to grab the map case later.

  GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN

  Kane was grateful that Pope was set up, ready to roll in his upstairs bedroom. The blinds were closed, the projector was pointed at a sheet hung on one wall, and the film was loaded.

  “You look like shit,” Pope greeted him, as Kane took one of the two chairs facing the sheet. The card table with the typewriter was pushed over to a corner of the room. Kane noted a sheet of paper was in it, the page blank.

  “I feel like it,” Kane said. “It’s been a bad twenty-four hours and doesn’t look to get better any time soon.” He peeled back the Velcro and checked the time. “Sofia Cappucci is going to be outside for a date at eleven. She said she doesn’t want to come up the stairs.”

  Pope stared at Kane for several seconds, trying to ascertain whether he was serious. “All right then. Let’s get on with it.” He turned the lights off and started the projector.

  The image was grainy, black and white. The first thing Kane noted was that it was not filmed in the apartment at 7 Gramercy Park, where Damon had kept his hookers over the years to entrap people.

  “Where is this?” Kane asked. It was a bedroom with a large, ornate four poster bed. The lighting was dim, the curtains drawn. Bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound titles lined the room. The camera was set somewhere high in the room.

  “No idea,” Pope said. “Upscale. A lot of money in the furniture.”

  Two men entered the room, one of them Thomas Marcelle from eleven years ago. The other was older than Marcelle, silver-haired with a broad white mustache. They wore suits which they quickly dispensed with.

  “I imagine this would have hurt Marcelle if it got out,” Kane said.

  “It’s not just Marcelle,” Pope noted. “Do you recognize the other gentleman?”

  “Nope.”

  “He’s a judge. Second Circuit.”

  “A prosecutor and a Federal judge,” Kane said. “Damon scored big time. Wait a second. You said ‘is’ a judge? He’s still on the bench?”

  Pope nodded. “Not just on the bench. He’s Chief Judge now. Second Federal Circuit. The Honorable Charles Edward Clark.”

  “Can you go faster?” Kane asked. “We don’t need the gritty details. See if there’s anything else on the reel.”

  “The details are important,” Pope said. He pointed. “That’s not sex.”

  “Looks like sex to me,” Kane said.

  “No,” Pope insisted. “Look. They’re making love.”

  “Whatever you want to call it,” Kane said. “I got nothing against two guys or two women or whatever. But—”

  “You’re not following me,” Pope said. “They’re making love.”

  Kane tried to clue in. “It’s not a set up with a prostitute.”

  “We know that by who they are.” Pope sounded disappointed that Kane wasn’t following. “This isn’t two guys hooking up at the piers.”

  Kane remembered Quinn and his whip and Alfonso Delgado in the corner in the Christopher Street Pier, which had started him down the path that led to him sitting here watching this. “What are you talking about?”

  “These are two guys who know each other,” Pope said. “The way they’re treating each other indicates it’s not a one-time thing. I’d say this is a private residence, not a place of Damon’s. Someone had to break in, set the camera up. Then go back and retrieve it.”

  “Unless one of them filmed it to blackmail the other,” Kane said.

  “You found it in Damon’s stash,” Pope said. “Damon had this done.”

  The last clues clicked. “They were in a relationship. Marcelle and Clark. They could still be in one.”

  “I’ll make an investigative reporter out of you yet,” Pope said. He hit the forward, spinning the reel for several seconds then played it. More of the same. He did this several times, then stopped. “This isn’t the same encounter. Look at the top of the curtains. This is night time.” The reel came to the end. Pope was already putting together his article on what they’d witnessed and the ramifications. “I think Marcelle made the deal with Damon as much to cover for Clark as himself. His career as a prosecutor was over. But Clark continued on.”

  “Damon would have wanted Clark to stay on the bench,” Kane said.

  “Exactly.”

  “And Marcelle certainly had a soft landing,” Kane pointed out. “His firm hit the ground running.”

  “This explains a lot,” Pope said. “A lot,” he murmured, more to himself than Kane.

  Kane checked the time. “What are you talking about?”

  “Marcelle’s law firm was a set up from the start.”

  Kane was behind again. “By Damon?”

  “No. The firm was financed by Clark and others like him. They also steered clients his way.”

  “I’m not tracking,” Kane said. “Clark can’t have been happy about the film.”

  “It’s not about the film,” Pope said. “This is bigger than Damon.”

  Kane held up his arm and indicated the green watch band.

  “I’ve heard rumors,” Pope said. With a shaking hand he poured more ‘tea’. “There was talk, whispers really, that there was a club. Of the elite of the city. The untouchables. Who shared a certain predilection that is not socially acceptable and would destroy them if it became public. Judges, clergy, politicians, media. Top law enforcement people.”

  “Homosexuals,” Kane said.
r />   Pope nodded. “But so far in the closet they were in a tornado shelter.” He waved that bad analogy away. “More like a steel penthouse overlooking the city. They protected each other.”

  “This judge is still around,” Kane said. “I wonder if he’s where Marcelle went to ground?”

  “Either the judge or this group . . .” Pope paused in thought. “There was a name for it. I can’t quite recall. Anyway, I’m sure this group has a way to hide someone if they want to. They’ve hidden a part of their lives while they’re in plain sight every day. On the front pages of the paper and the evening news.” Pope held up a finger. “Ah, yes. The Gentleman Bankers. That’s it.”

  “Does it have a headquarters or something?” Kane asked.

  Pope looked at him as if he were nuts. “It’s supposed to be secret, William.”

  “You’ve heard of it,” Kane pointed out.

  “I’ve covered the city for decades and all I’ve heard is rumors,” Pope said. “Nothing concrete. They’d crush any attempt at investigating, never mind publishing a story.”

  “As you noted,” Kane said, “I’m not the best at being an investigative reporter, but I’ve got other skills.” He stood up. “But first, I have to chat with my new best friend. I appreciate your help.”

  “Stay safe,” Pope advised.

  Kane paused. “By the way, the telephone people will be here sometime today to install a line for me downstairs. Will you be around to let them in?”

  Pope looked at him and nodded.

  “Thanks.”

  WEST SIDE, MANHATTAN

  “Are we going any place in particular?” Kane asked. He was crunched between Matteo and some other no-neck big guy in a dark suit. It was freezing in the car and Sofia Cappucci’s perfume was so thick and cloying, Kane had concerns he’d ever be able to free himself of it.

  “I didn’t meet,” Sofia said, “for you to ask me questions. I met for you to tell me yes, you will do as I say, and then I will say what you will do.” She was in Brooklyn, not Princeton, mode.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do I look like I run a whorehouse?” Sofia asked. “Don’t call me ma’am.” Then she laughed. “But, actually, some people I know do run whorehouses. So, one for you. But don’t call me ma’am.”