Last Chance for Glory (34 page)

Blake glanced out the window. The rear doors of the van were open and the cop with the crew cut was talking to someone inside.

Too casual, Blake thought. They’re out there to harass me, to remind me. And to watch. Maybe they found the hardware in Tillson’s basement, or the transmitters in McGuire’s house. It doesn’t really matter, because it doesn’t change anything. Time is working against them.

He went into the living room, dug out John Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things,” popped it into his CD player, and set the volume high enough to cover the sound of his own movements. Then he quickly gathered the still-uncopied tape of McGuire’s confession, Gurp Patel’s written report, and an RF detector, stuffing everything into a briefcase before quietly opening the door and slipping into the hallway.

“You look like you’re running away from home.”

Blake’s head jerked down between his shoulder blades; he felt the muscles in his back tighten, announcing that they, at least, hadn’t discarded the possibility of a bullet.

“Christ, Mom, you scared the hell out of me.”

“Is it that bad?” For the first time, Dora Blake’s face showed evidence of concern.

“That depends on whether you ask my cerebral cortex or my hypothalamus. They seem to have conflicting opinions on the subject.” He ran through the details as he led his mother back up the stairs to her apartment. Inside, he swept all five rooms, looking for bugs, finding nothing. Even so, he flipped on the TV and turned the sound up high enough to drown casual conversation before handing the briefcase over to his mother.

“I want you to take this material over to Sarah Tannebaum’s apartment, see if she’ll hold it for a couple of days. I haven’t made a copy of the tape yet, so be careful with it.” Blake paused, remembering Bell Kosinski’s ugly tale. Last night (when he
should
have been attending to business) he’d run through the story again and again, vacillating between condemnation of what he understood as weakness and a growing conviction that once Kosinski had made that first, basic decision—to stick by his wife and his child—he was doomed. Bell Kosinski could not be blamed for having been struck by lightning, not even by an arch-moralist like Marty Blake. Sometimes there were no bad guys.

Dora Blake took the briefcase from her son and set it on the floor. “Should I get in touch with Patrick?” she asked. “If he knew what was going on, he’d have to do something.”

“Like what?”

“Spare me the sarcasm, Marty. I’m not blind. I saw the way you jumped when I spoke to you in the hallway.”

“For once, I’m not being sarcastic. I don’t see what Uncle Pat can do, assuming he wants to do anything, which I doubt. But if you wanna call him, it’s all right with me. Tell him everything I’ve told you; tell him I can prove it. But don’t let him get his hands on that tape. No matter what. Don’t even let him know that it exists. Assume that your phone is tapped and watch what you say. I don’t want you to become a target. If you sound like a scared mother trying to help her son, that’s fine. But if Harrah thinks you’re in possession of evidence that could incriminate him, he’ll have to come after you. He won’t have any choice.”

“Didn’t you just check the apartment?”

“Yeah, and there are no transmitters or tape recorders
inside.
But that doesn’t mean that Harrah’s people haven’t tapped into the phone line somewhere between here and the Woodhaven Boulevard switching station. Hell, they could be in an apartment across the street with a parabolic mic and a long-distance video camera. Better warn your lovers.” Blake glanced at his watch. “Look, I have to get moving. I’ve got an appointment with Joanna Bardo in an hour and I’m gonna be late. Remember, Uncle Pat’s been an ass kisser all his life. That’s how he got his desk job in Personnel. Don’t expect much and you won’t be disappointed.”

Twenty minutes later, when Marty Blake stepped out of his air-conditioned apartment building, the sun slammed into his body as if it had been waiting for his appearance, as if it recognized him. He looked up into a sky drained of color, a sky that seemed nothing more than an extension of the blazing white sun.

A line from one of the Rolling Stones’ first songs popped into his mind. “And the time is right for fighting in the street, boys.” All over the city, tenement dwellers, desperate for relief, were deserting their apartments. The radios would boom, the beer and wine would flow, the reefer, the dope, the crack and, before very long, the blood.

“You, Blake, get over here.”

Blake glanced at the crew-cut figure across the street. Grogan was standing in shadow, yet beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Pardon me?” Blake whispered a quick prayer to the spirit of Robert DeNiro, then slipped into his sunglasses, put one hand on his chest, and cocked his head. “You talkin’ to me?”

Instead of answering, Grogan crossed the street. As he did, a tall cop with a mop of bushy hair, Tommy Brannigan, undoubtedly, scrambled out of the front sedan and hurried to follow.

“What’s your game, huh? What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Blake stared at the twisted features of Aloysius Grogan. Thinking he’d been right in expecting an irrational response, but he’d picked the wrong psychopath. He cautioned himself to be careful, to play the cowed noncombatant. To not, under any circumstances, lose his temper.

“You wouldn’t consider telling me who you are and what you want?”

Blake saw the punch coming. Saw Grogan curl his right hand into a fist, slowly raise it to the level of his shoulder, throw it ponderously forward. It was the blow of a fat, middle-aged man, yet it seemed almost petulant to Marty Blake, the act of a frustrated child, a brat. Nevertheless, it hit his left cheekbone with enough force to knock him backward into the side of the building.

“If I had my way, I’d take you down to headquarters and break you.” Grogan’s spat the words between clenched teeth. “Do you understand? I’d break you like any other common criminal.”

The message delivered, he spun on his heel and led his two much more formidable companions back to their respective vehicles. A minute later, both sedans pulled away from the curb and headed off down the street.

Blake picked himself up, checked his linen jacket for tears and smudges, refused to touch the swelling on his left cheek. His schedule called for him to visit Manhattan Executive, to plead poverty, to beg Joanna Bardo to throw him a little work. The charade seemed more important than ever. Steinberg was doing the real work, searching out a reporter willing to write up the story. He hoped to interest a
Newsday
columnist named Jack Patchen who had a reputation as a cop basher, but there were other possibilities. Certainly, the tale of blackmail and murder that led from Sondra Tillson’s corpse to the Borough President of Manhattan to the head of NYPD Intelligence to an Appellate Court judge to a dead, homeless patsy had to qualify as the story of the decade, if not the century. Somebody would pick it up, somebody would run with it. It was just a matter of time.

Half an hour later, Blake was driving west on the Long Island Expressway, poking along in the right lane while he considered just what it would feel like to be taken downtown and broken. Grogan was a cop from the old school. He’d probably use a rubber hose instead of a stun gun. That way it would take longer.

Virtually everybody was passing the Taurus, most after a few choice words and an angry gesture. That was the only reason he noticed the maroon Buick trailing some fifty yards behind. His first reaction was annoyance; he should have spotted the tail long before he did. He left the LIE at Greenpoint Avenue, made a left, and drove until he found a small deli. Joining a line of double-parked cars, he slipped inside, bought a container of coffee, then resumed his journey. He was in the exact-change lane at the entrance to the Midtown Tunnel, ready to toss his token into the hopper, when he again saw the Buick.

In a way, Blake thought, it’s too good to be true. After all, there’s not much point in putting on an act if you haven’t got an audience. I’ll have to shake him before I meet Steinberg at Emilio’s, but that shouldn’t be a problem either. Not in Manhattan. No, the trick is to lose him without arousing suspicion. To lose him, then let him find me again when I’m finished with the lawyer.

Blake took the simplest route to Joanna’s office, working his way down Park Avenue to Broadway, then down Broadway into Soho. He drove as if he hadn’t a care in the world, waddling along while cabs and small trucks darted around him like a swarm of ants around a puddle of oil.

The Buick paced him, a half-block behind. At one point, when a red light brought them bumper to bumper, Blake glanced in the mirror, saw a young man with shoulder-length hair and a hoop earring in his left ear; he memorized the face as a matter of reflex.

As he pulled away from the light, Blake began to calculate the moves he’d have to make if Steinberg was being shadowed. Their business supposedly completed, there was no legitimate reason for them to meet. Somehow, Blake would have to find a way to observe the lawyer as he arrived for their rendezvous.

From Steinberg, his thoughts drifted to Bell Kosinski stashed away
(hopefully
stashed away) in a Bayside motel. Kosinski wouldn’t stay put for more than a couple of days. The ex-cop (in Blake’s mind, at least) was the ultimate tough guy; there was no way he could play the frightened rabbit for any length of time. If Blake couldn’t bring Harrah and his co-conspirators down in a New York hurry, Kosinski was going to do a little hunting of his own.

“S
TUNNING, CYNTHIA, ABSOLUTELY STUNNING.”
Blake had never been above a little false flattery—paying the right compliment to the right client’s wife or girlfriend at the odd cocktail party came with the territory—but this time he was being sincere. Cynthia Barret wore a tan, silk, scoop-neck blouse surmounted by a finely spun gold necklace and matching earrings. A tribal scarf draped her right shoulder, falling in gentle folds across her chest. Its rich oranges, browns and yellows complemented her cinnamon skin tones, added depth to her yellow-brown eyes, accented the thrust of her breasts.

“Thank you, Marty.” Cynthia Barret offered both hands to Blake. “Joanna decided to give out midyear bonuses. Business has gotten a lot better.”

“And you spent your bonus on clothing and jewelry, correct?”

“Actually, I used it to pay off my MasterCard so I’d have room to charge the clothes and jewelry. Citibank likes it better that way. They offered to increase my credit limit.”

“Somebody oughta warn ’em. Before the regulators catch on.”

Cynthia’s laughter was rich and warm, as always. “Joanna’s expecting you.”

“I hope she’s in a good mood, because I want her to throw me a little work.”

“Oh, she is, Marty. Joanna just bought … she just
acquired
a new piece. You might want to throw her a compliment or two.”

Blake stuck his hands in his pockets. “Out with it, Cynthia. Let’s hear the pedigree.”

“Well, my dear.” Cynthia lifted her nose in the air, looked down its length at Marty Blake. “My sainted employer has purchased a Chippendale figured maple linen press, circa 1780. It features an elaborately molded cornice over two arched paneled cupboard doors, and three shelves flanked by fluted pilasters.” She paused, dropped her chin. “I swear, Marty, it’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Is it too ugly to be a fake?”

That got a another laugh. “I don’t know, Marty. Why don’t you ask Joanna?”

“Because I don’t have the
cojones?”
Blake admitted. “I never did.”

Blake didn’t have to worry about identifying the antique in question, because Joanna Bardo was posed in front of it when he entered her office. Her gold dress with its lace-trimmed collar was clearly designed to complement the yellow tones of the blocky maple chest. As he entered the room, she gently closed the cupboard doors.

“Damn, Joanna.” Blake paused in the doorway. “I don’t know which piece I like best, the chest or the woman who’s standing in front of it.”

“We’ve got a problem, Marty. Why don’t you sit down.”

Blake, momentarily silenced by the unexpected turn of events, complied. He had no choice at that point, but he did wonder why she’d bothered to pose if she had bad news for him. The answer became obvious when she continued to posture in front of her latest triumph.

“Last night,” she began, her back half-turned, one hand raised as if to caress the piece, “I received a phone call from a new client, a client I’ve been after for the better part of a year.”

“And the phone call was about me.”

“That’s right, Marty.”

“Who was it from?”

“It was from an aide to Borough President Edward Green.”

Blake slumped in the chair, reminded himself to watch his temper. “What’d this aide want?”

“He claimed that you’ve been prying into Green’s affairs, that you’ve been conducting an illegal surveillance. Your license, apparently, is about to be pulled. The question, of course, was whether or not you still work for Manhattan Executive.” She paused, then turned to face him. “The question was whether or not
I
sent you.”

“And did you?”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s not meant to be.” Blake crossed his legs, let his hand drop to his knee. “Think about it, Joanna. You
did
send me to Max Steinberg. I’m not going to apologize for doing my job. In fact, to tell you the truth, I’m proud of what I accomplished. I produced absolute proof of Billy Sowell’s innocence and that’s all I did. I haven’t seen Max Steinberg since our meeting just after the kid’s murder. We were both drunk, if I remember right.”

Joanna Bardo finally deserted her new toy. She walked over to her desk and sat down. “Marty Blake, you’re full of shit.”

“That bad, is it?” Despite the bravado, Blake was disheartened by the out-of-character profanity.

“This morning, shortly before you arrived, I was visited by a detective named Brannigan. He was carrying a box filled with hardware—bugs, taps, transmitters, and recorders. Brannigan claimed the hardware had been used to conduct an illegal surveillance and he wanted to know if Manhattan Executive had supplied it. Had supplied it to
you.”