Last Chance for Glory (27 page)

“Yeah,” Loest replied, “but with me a temper is a curse. I mean I could’a done good wit’ my life. Instead of endin’ up haulin’ bricks like what I’m tryin’ to do. Only there ain’t no fuckin’ work out there, ya know what I’m sayin? So now I’m like doin’ crimes to feed my family. All because I got this temper and I one day clocked this bitch math teacher gimme a hard time about chewin’ some fuckin’ gum. Ya believe that, Bell? In fronna the whole class she hadda make me an example. How could I take that shit, I …”

“Jeez,” Kosinski interrupted. “I don’t see how you could’ve accepted something like that. It must’ve been awful.” He was hoping the sarcasm would slow Tony down. Hoping against hope.

“Awful ain’t the word for it, Bell. Like it was totally fucked up. That’s why I had’a smack her in the face. I mean, I couldn’a held my head up if I didn’t waste her a little bit. It was only human, right?”

“Yeah, wait a second.” Kosinski raised his glass, signaled Ed O’Leary, endured the bartender’s pitiless smirk.

“What’s up, Bell? You maybe need a little more tomato juice in your vodka? Did I mix ya
cocktail
a bit too strong?”

“Fuck you, Ed. I feel like I’m gettin’ it from both ends. And why? Just because I ordered a Bloody Mary? Tell ya the truth, I’m thinkin’ about takin’ my business somewhere else.”

“Business?” O’Leary scowled. “Shit, now that you reformed, you ain’t got no business. Not that I can see.” Despite the bravado, he filled Kosinski’s glass with equal measures of vodka and Mott’s tomato juice.

“What I can’t figure out,” Kosinski said to Tony Loest, “is how a man with the personality of a junkyard dog has any customers at all. Why do we come back?”

“Beats me,” Loest agreed. “Listen, I gotta go to the toilet. It’s like an emergency.”

O’Leary watched Loest retreat, then leaned over the bar. “Whatta ya think, Bell? Think he’s got a nervous bladder?”

“I couldn’t say about his bladder, Ed. But his
nose
looked pretty nervous.”

The bartender laughed, shook his head. “I can remember a time when I would’a took a junkie like him and put my sawed-off in his face. Tell him to get the fuck out and stay out. Now, my weekend customers’ll go somewheres else if they can’t buy cocaine. They
expect
it. Like it’s just part of life.”

“Times change, Ed. I guess ya gotta go with the flow.”

“Maybe that’s why I love drunks so much. Guys like Bell Kosinski
used
to be. They’re committed. They don’t got time for this other bullshit.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Kosinski hoisted his Bloody Mary, saw Marty Blake walk through the door. He drained the glass and hustled over, figuring they better get out of Cryders before Tony Loest came back and started apologizing.

“C’mon, Marty,” he said, taking Blake’s arm, “let’s go for a little walk. It’s stuffy in here.” He waited until the door was safely closed behind them before continuing. “It’s lucky you stopped down,” he said, “because I got somethin’ I wanna tell you. I did a little research, found out who Grogan works for. Thought it might be important.”

Kosinski saw it as a test. He’d gone beyond Blake’s instructions, maybe jeopardized the both of them if he’d spoken to the wrong person. The question was whether Blake trusted his judgment.

“That’s funny, Bell. Because I did the same thing. And what amazes me is how stupid we were not to see it before this.”

“Yeah?” Kosinski felt his cheeks light up, hoped Marty couldn’t see him blushing. “Myself, I blame it on the booze. What’s your excuse?”

Blake managed a grin that died as quickly as it appeared. “Why don’t you tell me what you came up with,” he said.

Kosinski waited until they were inside Blake’s Taurus before detailing his conversation with Sergeant Dunne. When he finished, Blake nodded his agreement.

“A big problem for us,” he said. “A
very
big problem.”

Kosinski, who couldn’t see what difference it made, started to agree, then checked himself. “It doesn’t hurt to know who you’re up against,” he offered.

“Tell you the truth, I wish it was Homicide or Narcotics. Something simple. Intelligence? Lemme ask you a question—when you called this sergeant, did you use your home phone?”

Kosinski felt the blood rush into his face again. This time he was sure Blake would notice. He felt like he was on fire. “Actually, I didn’t. I was on the road when the idea came to me. You figure the phones are tapped, right?”

“From what I understand, surveillance is all the spooks do. We have to assume they’re good at it. The problem is that our strategy depends on keeping our strategy quiet until we’re ready. If Grogan, say, or Brannigan, already warned the judge and the husband, we’re wasting our time. Now, you say you never spoke about it on the phone or in your apartment. Maybe it’s just blind luck, but I didn’t, either. Which makes Steinberg’s office the point of vulnerability.”

Blake drove the rest of the way to Kosinski’s apartment in silence, but instead of pulling into an available parking space directly in front of the laundromat, he slid by without slowing down.

“You see that van there, Bell?” Blake asked. Sure.

“You recognize it?”

“Recognize? Marty, who looks at parked cars?”

“I’m talking about the name on it. Packer Brothers Plumbing. You ever heard of ’em?”

“You telling me you think the van is full of cop spies? I don’t think we’re that important.”

When Blake finally pulled over, they were two blocks away. “Here’s what I want you to do, Bell. I want you to walk back to your apartment and turn on the radio or the television. Make it as loud as you can. When I come by, just run with whatever I say. I’ve got an idea and it’s something I wanted to talk to you about anyway.”

Kosinski managed to get inside his apartment without looking at the van in question. He turned on the radio and raised the volume. One drink later, Blake knocked at his door.

“Hey, Marty, what’s up? I wasn’t expecting to see you again.” He felt like a complete fool, like a character in a very, very bad movie. “How ’bout a mixed drink. I got vodka and ice.”

“You go ahead, Bell. I’m driving tonight. But do me a favor, okay? Would you shut off the TV There’s something I wanna talk to you about.”

Kosinski wasn’t altogether surprised when Blake opened his briefcase and pulled out an instrument that looked like the two-way radio he, Kosinski, had carried while on patrol. Nor was he surprised when Blake flipped it on, extended the antenna, started running it along the wall. But he was completely shocked by the story Blake told as he methodically went about his business. It was a story about his cop father being accused of rape and the part played by a lawyer named Maxwell Steinberg. A story about a good cop’s slow, steady disintegration. Kosinski wasn’t drunk enough to confuse it with his own story, but the downward progression was close enough to keep him riveted.

“And you just now found out about this?” he asked when Blake finally stopped talking.

“Yeah. I caught my mother in a bad mood and she took it out on me. Maybe she thought she was gonna shake me up, but I only wish I’d heard it before. While my father was still alive and I could’ve done something about it.” He paused long enough to motion Kosinski over. “All day I’ve been trying to tell myself that my father wasn’t a rapist, but I can’t make it stick.” He pointed to a small hole in the cracked drywall, mouthed the word “microphone,” then knelt down. “I mean what kid really knows his father? Fathers are either heroes or bums. Or both, like my old man.” He began to pull at the strip of plastic that served as a wallboard. “Anyway, Bell, what I finally decided was I had to know. One way or the other. And what I was hoping was that you’d help me out. You have to have connections in the job, even if you’re retired. Plus, when I put the question to Max Steinberg, I want someone there who can be objective. Someone who can pull me away if I lose my temper.”

When Kosinski saw the transmitter, it was as if he’d been transported back in time. Back to his early days on the job when he could still become angry at the wicked ways of wicked men. He knew exactly what that small black box was, had used one just like it when he’d worked Organized Crime.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” he muttered. “You got a right to know.”

Blake replaced the plastic. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d like to talk about what we’re gonna do and this apartment’s a little depressing. Whatta ya say we go out for a drink?”

Ten minutes later, they were in Blake’s car, driving toward Manhattan. Blake was going on about transmitters and parabolic microphones. As if their previous conversation hadn’t taken place.

“We got a lucky break here, Bell. Steinberg’s office is on the twenty-fifth floor. There’s no way they can use a line-of-sight transmitter like the one in your apartment. Most likely, they’re using a tape recorder, which means if they haven’t retrieved the tape yet, we’ve got a chance. Personally …”

“Wait a second,” Kosinski finally interrupted. “What you said about your father—was it true or were you just making it up? And don’t tell me you were making it up or I’m gonna think I’m dealin’ with an emotionally disturbed person.”

“It’s true, as far as it goes.”

“And you still wanna do something about it? You still wanna know what really happened?”

“Yeah, but not right away. I’m not gonna confront Steinberg until I don’t need him any more. Until I don’t need his money. For now, I’m too pissed off to think about anybody but Samuel Harrah. This guy believes he can’t be taken down, that he’s invincible, but times have changed. In his day, the cops had all the hardware. Now, it’s
my
day.”

I
N SOME WAYS, KOSINSKI
decided, you have to admire Steinberg as much as Marty Blake. For one thing, he’s a lot freer with the booze. Take right now, for instance. Whereas Blake wouldn’t pop for a glass of stale spit, Maxwell Steinberg has a sixty-dollar bottle of Hennessy sitting smack in the middle of his desk. Unrepentant to the point of defiance.

The other thing was that Steinberg kept asking irrelevant questions. Much to Kosinski’s amusement and Blake’s increasing annoyance, Max the Bulldog simply wouldn’t be deflected.

“An RF detector? Is that supposed to mean something? Please, I’m not a technical man. I’m a nineteen fifties, I Like Ike, man-of-letters. Not only can’t I program my VCR, I’m intimidated by the play button. Believe me, I have to consult my analyst before I plug it into the wall. So tell me what you’re doing in words I can understand. If you don’t mind.”

Blake took off his headphones, let them dangle from his fingers. “I’m looking for a transmitter, Max.”

“Then they should call it a transmitter detector. A thing should be called what it is.”

“I’ll buy that.” Blake started to replace the headphones, but he was a little too slow.

“So, please, what does RF stand for?”

“Radio frequency.”

This time Blake got the earphones over his head, forcing Steinberg to tap him on the shoulder.

“Look, Max, I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

For a second, Kosinski was sure that Blake was going to lose control. Maybe invoke his father’s name before sending Max Steinberg into orbit. But, no, Marty Blake, though his lower lip trembled and his eyes narrowed, slowly pulled it together. He even managed a smile.

“For Christ’s sake, Max, your breath is melting the silver in my fillings.”

“That’s because I’m drunk, Marty. Being as I didn’t expect to work tonight, I thought it was an appropriate way to observe Billy Sowell’s death.”

“It
is
appropriate. And I need you to talk. Talking activates the bugs. But it’d be a lot better if you’d talk to my associate, Mr. Kosinski. Go ahead. Ask him about Intelligence and the NYPD. Decide if those two words can appear in the same sentence without creating an oxymoron.”

Steinberg looked hurt. He watched Blake for a moment, then came back to the bottle on his desk. “I guess you’re the only game in town.”

“Looks like it, Max.”

“So what do you know about Intelligence?”

“Well, I’d have to agree with Marty. It doesn’t have a lot to do with cops. Or robbers, for that matter.”

“Please, I’d appreciate if you’d take this seriously.” Kosinski filled his glass, raised it to show his intentions, drank deeply. “In the Thirties, when Intelligence was known as the Red Squad, they tracked commies. In the Forties, they tracked Nazis. In the Fifties and Sixties, they tracked commies again. In the Seventies, they tracked Black militants, Puerto Rican nationalists, and white revolutionaries. In the Eighties … ? Who knows, Max. Things got quiet and I can’t remember anyone in the Detectives ever mentioning Intelligence except in connection with organized crime. Not in more years than I want to count.”

Steinberg nodded. “Well, it might interest you to know that the old Red Squad is still in action. Me, I like to call it the Red Squad because my father, who considered himself a socialist, was investigated by the Red Squad in the Thirties. But that’s another story for another time. Today’s story goes back to 1988 and a client named Boyd Harrison. A real blueblood, this Harrison,
senior
vice president at Smyth, Smyth, and Paulson. You look at him, you see the Rock of Gibraltar. Like in the television ad where it comes sailing over the water.”

“I know the type,” Kosinski said. “I loved puttin’ the cuffs on a guy whose suit was worth more than my car.” He set the glass down, let himself enjoy the memory. “See, when you bust a street mutt he mostly looks resigned. Maybe once in a while pissed off, but
never
surprised. The jerks with the suits nearly go into shock.”

“Shock is a good word for what happened to Boyd Harrison. It turned out he was a degenerate gambler who’d embezzled half a million dollars. Innocence was not in question; they had him cold and my job was to cut the best deal possible. Of course, the first thing I’m looking for is leverage, some way to put the DA in a mood to bargain. Which is not gonna be easy, because the case is like the
real
Rock of Gibraltar. Plus, the jerk made admissions to the suits who arrested him.

“Me, I don’t bullshit the clients. I tell Harrison the facts of life and ask him if there’s anything he could tell me about himself that might be useful. Like, for instance, he volunteers three times a week to clean toilets at a homeless shelter.