Madman's Thirst

MADMAN’S THIRST

A Novel By

Lawrence De Maria

Madman’s
Thirst, a novel by Lawrence De Maria

Copyright
© Lawrence De Maria 2012

All
rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this

 book
or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

 For
information, email
[email protected]
.

This
book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

 Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

 events
or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published
by St. Austin’s Press

(305-409-0900)

To
Patti
,
without whose love, support and faith this book

 – and others –

 would not have been
possible

“If
him whom God destroys He maddens first,

Then
thy destruction slake thy madman’s thirst.”

                                
-- George Herbert Clarke

PROLOGUE

The Hechler-Koch roared in the
confined space of the shooting booth and its spent 9MM shell casings bounced
and pinged on the concrete floor. The 20 total shots had taken less than 30
seconds. Scarne ejected the empty magazine and rammed another one home. He worked
the slide and resumed firing. When he finally put the automatic down, the smell
of cordite was heavy in the air.

 Scarne took off his ear
protection and pushed the button that would bring the man-silhouette back to
him from its position 50 feet down range. As the target whirred closer, even at
a distance he could see that there was little left of the face and the area
where the heart would be.

“That’s some shooting, Jake.”

Scarne took the shredded target
from its holder and turned around. He hadn’t seen the other man enter the range.
Fred somebody, F.B.I., from the Anti-Terrorism Task Force. A few Bureau agents
on Police Commissioner Richard Condon’s “not assholes” list got to use the secret
N.Y.P.D. range in the basement of an old Borders bookstore on 21
^st
Street and Sixth Avenue in the Flatiron District of Manhattan, rather than trek
out to the 54-acre Police Training Facility at Rodman’s Neck in the Bronx.

“I was trying to shoot him in the
leg,” Scarne deadpanned.

The Fed smiled and said, “How
about a little shoot-off? Twenty bucks?”

“Twenty? You Feds are so cheap,
you must be on the take. But sure. How many shots?”

“My Glock holds 15.”

If you need 15, Scarne thought,
you will probably also need a coroner.

“My Heckler holds 10. Let’s shoot
five and five, head and heart. We’ll only count what’s in the rings. Winning
total takes all. And let’s do 75 feet, just to make it interesting.”

“You’re on, pal,” the other man
said, and moved into the adjacent booth.

It was early in the morning. They
were the only ones at the range. Scarne could hear the man loading his
magazine. The two new targets sped out and stopped. It took a second for them
to stop fluttering. Scarne put on his ear protection. He knew the other man
would, too.

“Can I keep my eyes open when I
shoot,” Scarne said loudly.

Fred somebody laughed and said,
“I’m ready. How about we go when we slam the magazines in?”

“Ready.”

“Set.”

They both said “go”
simultaneously. Slides ratcheted and both automatics fired. It was over in
seconds. The targets headed back. They pulled them from their respective clips
and compared them on the walkway behind the booths.

Four of the Federal officer’s shots
were in the head ring, as were four of his heart bullets. The two misses were
just millimeters outside their respective rings. At 75 feet it was incredible
shooting.  He smiled until he looked over at Scarne’s sheet. 

“Shit,” he said. Scarne’s groupings
were tighter, and all 10 were inside the rings. The five in the heart were
almost dead center. “Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that? The
goddamn Olympics?’

Scarne had been a crack shot since
growing up in Wyoming hunting jackrabbits. Later, in the Marines, he was
occasionally picked to fill in on a few inter-service competitive teams. He
smiled grimly. Only an expert could put a single bullet through the heart of
someone on the pitching deck of a small boat. Easier than a jackrabbit. Only
had one bullet, too. Pity it went through the heart of a woman I loved. For a
second Alana Loeb’s beautiful face swam out of Scarne’s memory. He quickly
pushed it back into its vault.

“Come on,” he said, pocketing the
$20, “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

After their meal, during which he
promised Fred (whose name he still didn’t get) a rematch, Scarne walked the
half mile from the range to his apartment overlooking Washington Square Park.
He would have to remember to thank Condon again for use of the range. As far as
he knew, he was the only private investigator in the city with the privilege.
His relationship with the Police Commissioner had its up and downs – years
earlier Condon fired him for holding a City Councilman off a balcony by his
ankle – but the man came through when the Ballantrae affair blew up in Scarne’s
face and various state and Federal prosecutors started baying. Not only had he
kept Scarne out of jail but he’d also thrown some work and favors his way, the
shooting range being one of them.

After he showered and dressed, Scarne
called his office and told his secretary, Evelyn Warr, he’d again spend the day
staking out the Brooklyn Heights brownstone where one of his clients was sure
her husband kept a love nest with his “spic whore” girlfriend. Actually, Scarne
knew, the girlfriend was Venezuelan and was a pretty nice lady. He could tell
from Evelyn’s voice that she disapproved of this kind of work. Too bad. A job
was a job. And a nice sordid marital squabble was just what he needed right
now. He could do without the kind of cases, like Ballantrae, that almost cost
him his life and his sanity. It would take wild horses to drag him into
something like that again.    

CHAPTER 1 – THE CABLE MEN

The two men in the idling Inter-Boro
Cable Company van weren’t cable technicians. That wasn’t surprising; Inter-Boro
Cable didn’t exist, at least in any of the five boroughs of New York City. What
was surprising was the whiff of conscience cutting through the van’s embedded
odors of tobacco, Big Macs and sweat.

“What do you mean?” Lucas Gallo said
as he angrily folded up his portable chess set. Banaszak had been acting funny
lately. Today the dumb Polack had lost in four moves, suckered by a “Fools
Checkmate,” the first thing you learned how to avoid. Gallo was trying to teach
him the game and wanted more of a challenge from his partner. He glanced at the
school entrance. “It’s a job, like any other.”

Whitey Banaszak started to stub
out his cigarette in the console ashtray before noticing that it was
overflowing. He rolled down the driver’s side window and looked both ways down
the street. They were a few blocks from a precinct house and being cited for
littering at this stage would have been ridiculous. He field stripped the butt,
closed the window and dropped the filter into the breast pocket of his work
shirt. He immediately lit another.

“I don’t like it.”

“Jesus,” Gallo said, coughing. A
nonsmoker, he rolled down his own window and waved his arm as the fumes drifted
his way. He was rewarded by a refreshing breeze tinged with the smell of salt
water and diesel fuel. “We’re not paid to like it. We’re paid to do it. A shit
pot. So don’t get mushy. It’s a little late for that, you honkie douchbag.”

He laughed. They busted each
other’s racial balls constantly. It was a bonus that the guy’s nickname was
Whitey. Banaszak gave as good as he got. (“Gallo? Funny name for a spade. They
think you’d pass as a guinea because your name ends in a vowel?”)

“But her old man’s the problem,” Banaszak
persisted.

“Can’t touch the guy. Worse than
hitting a cop. They said this will do the trick.”

“I wonder why Lacuna isn’t using
his own crew.”

“Probably doesn’t trust them to
keep their mouths shut.”

“Maybe he couldn’t get anyone to
do it. Sick fucker.”

Gallo, tiring of the conversation,
changed the subject.

“Speaking of sick, you ain’t
looking too perky, my man. I didn’t think you could get any whiter, but you
are. Still got that pain?”

And the chills, Gallo reflected,
which was why the guy wanted the windows up and the heater on, despite the
warmth of the late September sun. But, screw him, I’m keeping my window down,
so I don’t get asphyxiated.

 “Yeah,” Banaszak said, twisting
his torso back and forth, trying to find a position that lessened the ache
under his left shoulder blade. “I wonder what it could be.”

 “Maybe gall bladder. Usually
presents itself on the right side, but it could radiate.”

“Presents itself? Radiate? Who are
you, Dr. Kildare?”

 “I used to date an E.M.T.,” Gallo
said, wondering who the hell Dr. Kildare was. “You know, a first responder.” He
thought a moment, and grinned. “She didn’t know she was balling a kind of last
responder.”

He liked that. So did Banaszak,
who laughed, grimacing with the effort.

“Soon as we’re done, I’m gonna see
somebody. This sucks big time.”

“Maybe you should give up the cigs,
Whitey. Next time I’m gonna ask for a bonus to work with a smoker. Just my luck
I’ll get second-hand cancer from those coffin nails. Don’t you listen to the
news?”

“Blow me,” Banaszak said equably.

Despite his two-pack-a-day habit,
he prided himself on his physical shape. He’d worked the docks, and Army Ranger
training had toughened him even more. Still trim and muscular, he delighted in
beating his taller and beefier partner in arm wrestling. Made up for the goddamn
chess drubbings. But a recent 10-pound weight loss accentuated the already
prominent cheekbones in his face. That and his thinning white-blond hair and
large forehead made him look all of his 63 years. 

“Come to Memphis,” Gallo said,
“I’ll get you a number. Got some first-rate clinics there. But don’t get your
dick in a twirl. Probably something simple. You been into any Caribbean snatch?
Caught some weird bug from a little momma down in the Dominican a while back.
Served me right. She was awful nice, though. Could suck a Hyundai up an
elevator shaft. But I about wore out a bottle of Cipro when I got home.”

A sharp blast from a tugboat
shepherding a containership just offshore startled both men. They smiled at
each other’s edginess. 

“That’s a huge mother,” Gallo
said. “Look how high those containers are stacked. Wouldn’t want to be on it
during a hurricane. She’d roll over faster than my sister. Read somewhere the
Japs and Chinks have some can’t fit under the Verrazano. Carry like 14,000
containers.”

“The slopes will run the world
soon,” Banaszak said.

“Maybe they should. All we build
in this country is sports stadiums. Bread and circuses, my man.”

Banaszak stared at the massive
ship.

“Only a matter of time before somebody
slips a nuke through in one of those containers.”

“Fuckin’ towel heads,” Gallo
murmured.

Traffic was building on both sides
of the street as cars began to pull up in front of St. Peter’s High School for
Girls, which sat on a hill overlooking the harbor on Staten Island’s north
shore a few blocks from the St. George Ferry Terminal. Horns honked to catch
the attention of girls more intent on chatting than noticing their parents. It
was the beginning of a new school year. The girls had a lot of post-Labor Day
catching up to do.

“My folks never picked me up from
school,” Banaszak said.

“If you looked anything like you
do now, can’t say I blame them. Who’d want to own up to you?”

“The diocese is closing the
school, after a hundred years,” Banaszak said. Too few students. Gonna sell the
property.”

“Yeah, I saw that.”

When they’d started their job,
Banaszak had insisted they buy the local newspaper every day. When Gallo first
saw the masthead of the
Richmond Register
, he’d asked why they needed a
Virginia newspaper. Banaszak explained that the borough of Staten Island was
formally known as Richmond County. The
Register
was a paper he delivered
in his neighborhood as a kid and it still conveniently ran a weekly roundup
devoted to burglaries. It never hurt to know what the cops were up to, and
where. There had been a recent spate of home invasions on Todt and Emerson
Hills, two of the borough’s priciest neighborhoods. That’s where the police
would be more observant. Randall Manor, the community that interested Gallo and
Banaszak, hadn’t been mentioned. Both men thought it ironic the
Register
was proving so useful.

“Closing the school has nothing to
do with the students,” Gallo said. He considered himself an expert on real
estate and was investing in depressed condos in Memphis, regaling, and boring,
Banaszak with his recent coups. “That land has to be worth a fortune with this
view.”

“Tough on the kids,” Banaszak said,
hoping to forestall another conversation about bankruptcies and short sales.
“The church is farming them out to other schools in the borough. Most won’t
graduate with their friends.”

“That stinks,” Gallo agreed,
recalling his own high school days. “But look on the bright side. She won’t
have that problem.”

Banaszak looked at his partner.

“You’re fucked up,” he said.

 Gallo laughed and started to say
something, then suddenly leaned forward.

 “There she is. Let’s make sure
she catches the bus.”

The girl walked to the bus stop
across from the school and started talking to some other students.

“Some fine looking quiff, my man,”
Gallo said. “Couple of chubsters to be sure, but nothin’ I’d send back. Look at
the bee bites on that one on the end.”

“Give it a rest, will ya, Lucas.
They’re kids for crissakes.”

“Listen to Dr. Phil. Wanna bet
some of them nice Catholic girls have condoms in their schoolbags?”

“Please, I’m begging you, just
shut up.”

Gallo’s shoulders rocked as he
laughed silently. He loved getting the old guy’s goat.

A city bus pulled up and the girls
got on. Banaszak put the van in gear and followed it, passing small clusters of
students walking home along the shore. A car drove past and honked. The kids
waved enthusiastically at classmates they had left moments before. The sight of
pretty Catholic girls, books clasped to chests, sashaying in pleated uniform
skirts, brought back pleasant memories of his high school years on Staten
Island.

Banaszak had attended McKee
Technical in St. George, his heart set on the fire department. Civil service.
Out in 20 on three-quarters. Drinking with buddies in local taverns. He’d even
gotten engaged. Karen Kelly, from Moore Catholic. Pretty little thing. Was sure
he loved her, although looking back now he realized her refusal to put out for
him probably had something to do with that. Her father was a fire lieutenant
with good connections. Said he’d make sure Banaszak would move up in the
department, Polack or no, if he could pass the demanding physical test and get
through the academy. As if that would have been a problem after heaving
100-pound sacks on the docks.

Then he was drafted into the Army.
Karen said she’d wait. Her initial letters were terrific. Gentle, moving,
hinting of suppressed passion and delights to come. Then the tone changed. She
began to sprinkle in anti-war bullshit. It got more and more strident. By the
time Sergeant Banaszak (Silver Star, two Purple Hearts) returned home, she was
marching outside the Pentagon, hair down to her ass, and blowing anybody with a
beard. He asked for his ring back. She told him she sold it “for the cause.”
Cause she needed more grass, he figured. She eventually straightened out, but
by then Banaszak had left Staten Island and was using his military skills
elsewhere. Last he heard, Karen was married to a principal of a high school in
Westfield, N.J., and had three kids.

“Fucking war.”

“Now, what?” Gallo said,
exasperated.

“Nothing.”