Old Flame (15 page)

CHAPTER

37

T
he next morning my chest felt like a nagging toothache. I called the doc and described the symptoms. He was surprised. Said I had been healing nicely. Asked if I had been under any stress lately. Some, I admitted. He asked a few more questions, probing a little deeper, then pronounced me an asshole, and refused to see me. Said he would rather spend time with more intelligent patients. Hard to argue with. I dragged myself out of bed and went to Feeney’s for breakfast.

Nick looked worse than I felt. “I’ve got a problem,” he said.

“I’m fresh out of solutions. Have your guys come up with Lisa Hernandez’s new address yet?”

“They’re working on it. Don’t worry. Can we get back to my problem now?”

“Make it easy, please.”

“Noreen is leaving me. Five years of marriage down the tubes. Can you believe it?”

“I’m surprised she married you in the first place. She’s number two, right?”

“Number three, and thanks for being sympathetic.”

“You’re right, I apologize. I know you were deeply in love and it must hurt, but broken hearts mend, and you’ll come out of this a stronger man. How’s that?”

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”

I guess that made it unanimous.

“Nick, you know I love you like a brother, but your kids have had three different moms in their lives, and you’ve been cheating on Noreen since the day you married her.”

“Actually, before I married her.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Now Marie, my girlfriend, wants to get married, and I don’t think I can handle it.”

“Then tell her no.”

“Marie knows where the money is.”

“How did that happen?”

“She’s my accountant. Helped me hide it from Noreen.”

“Are you and Marie planning a big wedding?”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m screwed, ain’t I?” he said.

“Royally.”

He got up from the table and pushed the chair in. “I got to figure this thing out,” he said.

Just then Pete Toal walked in. The day was heading into the dumper.

“Mind if I sit?” he said.

“Would it matter?”

“You do make it tough, don’t you?”

“What’s on your mind, Pete?”

“I’m here to square things, make things right between us. I was out of line, and if I were in your shoes, I would’ve done the same thing.”

Contrition fit Toal like a bad suit. I had a sneaking suspicion the fine hand of Terry Sloan was at work here.

“This wasn’t your idea, was it?” I said.

“What are you driving at?”

“How’s Terry doing? Healing nicely, I trust.”

Toal’s fingers beat a tattoo on the tabletop. “What do you want, Steeg.”

“Some answers.”

“Depends on the question,” he said.

“Fair enough. What’s Terry’s interest in you?”

“We go back a long way. Y’know, friends.”

“Are you on his pad?”

“Everyone’s on some kind of a pad.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You call it a pad, I call it friends doing favors for friends. In a manner of speaking, you’re on a pad too.”

“Whose is that?”

“Dave’s. He does what he does, and you look the other way. Even when you wore the badge. In return, he looks out for you. Tell me I’m wrong.”

I couldn’t. It was another in a long list of moral dilemmas I was trying to work out.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” I said.

“Always is.”

“The difference is, I never ask for his help.”

“May be. But you still live in his halo. He’s there whether you want him or not.”

“Why weren’t you straight with me about the Ferris investigation?”

“I thought I was.”

“You left some things out. Why?”

“I gave you what you asked for,” he said.

“Not all of it.”

He shrugged.

“How does Terry profit from his relationship with you?” I asked.

He shook his head and threw me a pitying look. “You never stop pushing, do you, Steeg?”

“It’s what keeps my juices flowing.”

“Remember Icarus? Dumb fuck didn’t listen, and look what happened. Crashed and burned when he flew too close to the sun.”

Toal got to his feet and patted me on the shoulder. “See you around, Steeg,” he said.

CHAPTER

38

T
he fence mending with Allie was starting to pick up steam. We had dinner that evening and wound up at her apartment.

“I think I’m going to renew my membership at the gym,” Allie said, emerging from the shower completely wrapped in an oversize green bath towel. A smaller yellow towel was wrapped turbanlike around her head. She looked like a tall daffodil.

“Why is that?” I said.

“Sex is over for us.”

This wasn’t the postcoital remark I was longing to hear.

Something more in the way of “Gee, you were great,” or “Where have you been all my life, sailor?” would have been far more esteem enhancing. I sat up in her bed and adjusted some puffy pillows behind my head. I loved those puffy pillows.

“I thought it was wondrous, and from those barely restrained shrieking sounds you made, I sensed that you felt that way too.”

She slid into bed and nestled her body against mine. She smelled of lilacs and candy apples. “I did,” she said. “And therein lies the problem.”

This was bewildering. “What problem?”

“It was so good that I worry about consistency,” she said.

“Consistency?”

She moved her damp terry-cloth-covered body closer and stroked my toes with hers. “What if there’s a drop-off?”

“A drop-off?” I was reduced to repeating everything she said as a question.

“Look, we’ve set ourselves up for disappointment,” she said.

I restrained myself from repeating the word
disappointment
as a question.

She continued. “We’ve set the bar too high. Sex can’t always be this good. It’s not
normal
! Ergo, it’s inevitable that there’s going to be a drop-off. Then you’ll blame me, and I’ll blame you, then we’ll blame ourselves, and wind up hating each other.”

“That’s a lot of blame to go around,” I said.

“And that’s not all.”

“There’s more?”

“Sure. We’re going to turn into those people you see in Hopper paintings.”

“We will?”

“Exactly. Two people occupying the same space but never connecting, and doomed to spend the rest of their lives in sterile emptiness.”

“And you think about this.”

“Every waking moment.”

“Which brings us to . . .”

She completed my sentence: “Consistency.”

“Emerson said a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

“But he doesn’t share my bed,” she said.

“There isn’t room. Don’t you think you should trade up to at least a queen?”

She wriggled a leg out from under her terry cocoon and slung it over mine and flashed me a devilish grin.

“I could, but it wouldn’t be as much fun,” she said.

“How’s life in the ad game?”

“If it weren’t for the people, it would be great.”

“I can see how that would be a problem,” I said.

“You don’t know the half of it. It’s a vast conspiracy of idiots. How’s your sleuthing going?”

“Shifting into high gear. I now know who didn’t murder Ginny’s husband.”

She looked puzzled. “And that’s a good thing?”

“A very good thing.”

“Because it narrows down your list of suspects?”

“It would, if I had suspects. Right now all I have are suspicions.”

“And that makes you happy.”

“Positively joyous.”

With a move that was startlingly swift, she wound up on top of me. The upper half of her body was propped up on her arms, enveloping us both in damp green terry cloth. Her body moved against mine.

“How much longer are we going to talk?” she said.

“Apparently not much. What did you have in mind?”

“Testing the consistency theory.”

“Could you do that astonishing thing you did before?”

“If you play your cards right.”

And she did.

It was consistent.

Now all I had to do was keep it that way.

CHAPTER

39

T
he next morning I was in Dave’s car on our way to meet with Barak. Sitting in the backseat, between two of Dave’s men, was Barak’s son, Ari.

“Why am I here, Dave?”

“Barak requested your presence. Apparently he trusts you.”

“Where are you doing the handoff?”

“Sheepshead Bay. Out in the open. Where the fishing boats dock.”

“Wise choice.”

We drove along the Belt Parkway, passing under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge— New York’s version of the St. Louis Gateway Arch— and followed the coastline.

“You sure do get mixed up with crazies, Jake, my boy. First Reno, then Liam and his skinhead buddies. Now, that’s a parlay. What is it with you?”

“Maybe they see a kindred spirit,” I said.

We passed Coney Island. The reddish-orange Parachute Jump jutted into the sky like a postmodern art installation.

“And then there’s Ollie, the Nazi with an AARP card in his wallet.”

“You can’t make it up,” I said.

“That whole fucking family is off the rails. Where does Ginny fit in all this?”

“Now, that’s a really good question.”

“You think she married Ferris to get back at Ollie?”

“Could be. She probably married me to get back at Jeanmarie.”

“And people think the Steegs are screwed up,” he said.

“We’re not?”

We took the Knapp Street exit, took a right, and then another right at Emmons Avenue. The piers were up ahead. And so was Barak. Alone.

We pulled into a parking spot. One of Dave’s men got out of the car, motioning for Ari to follow. I expected him to run to his father. Instead, with quiet dignity, he slowly walked toward him. Talk about the apple not falling far from the tree! Barak kissed the top of his head and draped his arm on Ari’s shoulder.

Dave and I got out of the car. He walked up to Barak.

“So, we’re done here, right?” Dave said. “I kept my word.”

He ignored Dave. Instead, he said to me, “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Steeg.”

I nodded.

“Your friend Reno. Is he well?”

“He is.”

“And he understands the terms of our agreement?”

“He does.”

“And you? Are you well, Mr. Steeg?”

“I am.”

“Do you remember what I promised you the last time we met?”

For every tear my son has shed, there will be a reckoning.
It was something I would never forget.

“I do. But as you can see, he’s fine.”

“I will be the judge of that,” he said.

It was Dave’s party, and he didn’t appreciate being left out. “It’s over, then,” he said.

Barak’s face was stone. He took his son’s hand and said, “Thank you for returning my boy.”

And then he and his son walked off.

“That’s one cold son of a bitch,” Dave said. “But at least that’s one less thing to worry about.”

I wondered when the other shoe would drop.

When we got back to Feeney’s, Dave was in an expansive mood. Clapping people on the back. Buying drinks for the rummies. Having a high old time.

“So, Jakey,” he said, putting me in a headlock, “your brother pulled it off. Stared down the Golem and made him blink first. You’re off the hook, and you can tell Reno that he gets to live a little longer.”

“Looks that way.”

“Hey, Nick, look at this mope. Come on, Jake. Lighten up. This is a good thing.”

I pasted on a smile. “You’re right, it’s a good thing.”

“OK,” Dave said. “Everything is back to normal.”

I wasn’t too sure of that.

“You and Barak seemed kind of cozy back there.”

“Like you said, he trusts me.”

“He said something to you. What was he talking about?”

“Nothing.”

The door opened, and one of Barak’s men strolled in. I remembered him from my meeting with Barak outside of Lisa Hernandez’s building.

He scanned the room until his eyes fell on me. He wasn’t smiling.

“Mr. Steeg, I have something for you.”

He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. My name was printed on it. Then he left.

I opened it and found a tissue inside. It was damp.

“What is this, some kind of joke?” Dave said. “Who is this guy?”

“One of Barak’s gun dogs.”

“What did he want?”

I told him.

CHAPTER

40

D
ave appeared to take Barak’s threat in stride, but I knew better. Behind the lopsided grin and the comments about how much fun this would be, there was real concern. For me, the forced bonhomie wore thin. To quote one of Luce’s favorite expressions, I felt like a possum had just trotted over my grave. I had no idea what it meant, but it certainly wasn’t anything good.

Thinking of Luce reminded me that I still hadn’t heard from Banas. It didn’t make sense. He was a waiter who needed a job. He should’ve jumped at my letter. I started to worry that the same person who had done Noonan had cleaned up the rest of the loose ends, including Banas. I hopped a train to the Bronx.

This time his roommate answered the door, and I learned what had befallen the estimable Roberto Banas. I called Luce and asked her to meet me at the Q101R bus stop in Queensboro Plaza.

Housing about fifteen thousand inmates in ten jails, Rikers Island is New York City’s largest prison. A 415-acre City of Jails. The only way in is a bus ride from Queens over the Francis Buono Bridge.

“I can’t believe Banas is in the system,” Luce said. “What in hell did he do?”

“According to his roommate, when he got canned, he started drinking, and he got picked up on a drunk and disorderly. The guy has family in Mexico who he’s supporting, and all of a sudden the money dries up, so he went on a bender.”

“Why didn’t he get another job?”

“He’s illegal, and that’s in the news right now. Prospective employers are jittery. But Banas had another problem. The deceased Mr. Noonan wouldn’t give him a reference.”

“What a sweetie,” Luce said. “No wonder Noonan is no longer with us. Are they looking at Banas for Noonan’s murder?”

“He was in Rikers at the time. I’m surprised the feds haven’t snatched him and sent him back to Mexico.”

“They have other things on their mind right now,” Luce said.

“That they do.”

The bus came to a stop at the George Motchan Detention Center, and we got off.

“It’s time to work your magic with your little gold badge,” I said.

“So that’s why you called. And here I was thinking you loved me for who I am.”

“It’s a little bit of both.”

Luce’s badge worked like a charm. She told the corrections officer at the reception desk that we wanted to see Roberto Banas, and from there it was open sesame. We went through security and were passed on to another guard, who led us to an interview room.

There’s nothing to compare with the experience of being in a jail, the pervasive sullenness that exists on both sides of the bars. Combine that with the incessant battering of noise, and the sour odor of unwashed bodies, and you have a pretty good approximation of hell.

After a few minutes, Banas was ushered in. Luce told the CO we wanted to speak to Banas alone. No problem, he said, and left.

Banas was slight and dark-skinned, and wearing the clothes he had been arrested in. His eyes had the weary look of resignation.

“Mr. Banas, my name is Steeg, and this is my partner, Luce Guidry. Please take a seat.”

A table separated us. Banas pulled up a chair and leaned back.

“You Immigration?” he said. “I wondered when you’d finally show up.”

Luce showed him her badge.

“NYPD. We’re not interested in your legal status, Mr. Banas,” she said. “We’re investigating a murder.”

Now there was panic in his eyes.

“
Madre de Dios!
I was in a bar, and some guy took a swing at me. The next thing I know, I’m being booked. I never had trouble with the police before. You can check it out. Now you’re talking murder?”

“Relax, Mr. Banas, we’re not accusing you of killing anyone.”

“Then what is it?”

“How long did you work at Été?” I said.

“Since it opened. About six months. And then the bastard Noonan fired me.”

“Noonan is dead.”

“So that’s what this is about?”

“No. I want you to think back to about a month or so ago. A body was found in the restaurant alley.”

“I remember. Everybody was talking about it.”

I slid Ferris’s picture across the table.

“Do you recognize him?”

He studied the picture. “Is that the guy who was killed?”

“It is.”

“You think I waited on him?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking.”

“I don’t know. Could be. But . . .”

He put the picture down. This was going nowhere.

“He may have paid with cash,” I said.

Banas picked the picture up again and grew excited. “Wait a minute!” he said. “Yeah, that’s the guy. Paid with three one-hundred- dollar bills. Crisp. Just laid them on the table. When I picked them up, he was gone. Just left the money on the table. Didn’t even give him a bill. Yeah, I remember him.”

“Was he with anybody?”

“It’s been a while, but I think so. A woman, maybe.”

“Do you remember what she looked like? Try really hard.”

Banas stared at the picture, and then at the ceiling.

“It was busy that night. I remember there was a birthday party at the next table. It was crazy. They were drinking, and singing at the top of their lungs. Then one of the women jumps up, and she wants me to take pictures, then she rubs herself all over me. Her I remember. Blonde. Real tall. Hot. You know.”

“I’m happy for you, but how about the other woman?”

“I know she was there, but . . . Tell me what you want me to say and I’ll say it.”

“That’s OK, Mr. Banas,” Luce said. “You’ve been a great help.”

“Look, I’m serious. I gotta get out of here. You don’t know what it’s like. These guys are fucking crazy.”

“Do you have a lawyer?” I asked.

His face screwed up in distate. “Sure,” he said. “Legal Aid. I speak better English than he does.”

“Have you been arraigned yet?”

“Yeah, but I can’t make the bond. And I got Immigration to worry about. I’m screwed.”

I threw Luce a “We’ve got to help this guy” look. She picked up on the cue.

“What’s your lawyer’s name, Mr. Banas?”

“Somoza. Richard Somoza.”

“And the DA?”

“I don’t know. Some woman. Somoza should have it.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I appreciate it. Just don’t let them send me back.”

“When you get out, your old job should be waiting for you.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’ll speak to Stuart,” I said. “I think I can persuade him.”

Banas looked like he was about to cry. “You do that, and I swear to God I’ll never take a drink again.”

That used to be my line.