Sinner's Ball (17 page)

His grip loosened.

“Just don't,” he said.

It was the same small, frightened voice I remembered hearing when we were kids and he was terrified of the dark. Dominic would kick Dave out when he tried to
crawl between him and Norah. And he wound up spending the night in my bed.

I settled back in my seat.

“What's happening to you, Dave?” I said. “You're turning into something straight out of a Shakespearean tragedy.”

He rubbed his cheek with the stump of his hand.

“Everything's haywire,” he said. “Hard to figure out which end is up anymore.”

I reached for his good hand. “You've got to hold it together, Dave.”

“I don't give a shit anymore.”

“I need you to snap out of this funk you're in.”

“It's the only thing left that gives me pleasure.”

“Remember when we were kids and someone messed with me?”

“A mistake they wouldn't make twice.”

“Looks like I need your help again.”

The transformation was astounding. My brother was reborn. He sat up straighter, and the color was back in his face. It was as if I had dipped him in a baptismal fount and all of his troubles just washed away. Even his voice was stronger.

“Martine?”

“You're still running numbers banks up in Harlem, right?”

“And?”

I told him about Wanda and Martine and Ennis, and the business they were in.

“Pretty slick,” he said. “Every time you think there are no new ideas, one pops up.”

“I'm sure Martine would appreciate your admiration.”

“Should've been working for me. Instead, I got Anthony.”

It was the first time in months I had seen him this animated.

He waved Nick over. “You gotta hear this,” he said.

When Dave had finished extolling Martine's marketing prowess, Nick was unimpressed.

“We don't run hookers,” he said. “Not our business.”

Nick was right. Prostitution wasn't Dave's business. The only time he'd dabbled in the flesh trade, he came up against the Law of Unintended Consequences. And it resulted in the death of a half sister we never knew we had.

“Yeah, but it doesn't make this Martine any less of a genius,” Dave said.

“Whatever,” Nick said, losing enthusiasm for the conversation.

“You never were big on imagination, Nick,” Dave said.

“If I were, I'd be in another line of work.”

“Can't argue with that. Anyway, Jake here needs our help.” He turned to me. “Tell him who you're looking for.”

“Martine Toussaint, and her boyfriend Frank Ennis. Martine has a heavy duty Haitian accent. Wears her hair in dreadlocks. Ennis you know. They live together in a luxury high-rise somewhere in Harlem.”

“That narrows it down,” Nick said.

“Can't have everything. Anyway, could you put the word out to the bankers and their networks that we're looking for them, and willing to pay?”

“How much?”

“I've got a little over a hundred in my bank account,” I said.

“Dollars?”

“Available immediately.”

“Let's see,” Nick said. “Snake-mean black gal. White boyfriend armed to the teeth. And a hundred bucks for the guy who rats 'em out. Who wouldn't jump at that?”

“Make it five large,” Dave said. “The money comes from my pocket. You tell them
I
need it done. And if there's any push back, you let me know.”

Nick nodded.

“All's I need is an address,” I said. “I'll take it from there.”

“Alone?” Dave asked.

“It's what I had in mind.”

“Want some help?”

“From who?”

“Me. And Nick comes along for backup.”

“Could be an adventure,” Nick said. “Haven't had one of those in a while.”

“Then it's settled,” Dave said.

“Why're you doing this?”

He lifted Johnny B and slammed one back straight from the bottle.

“It'll be just like old times,” Dave said. “The Steeg boys together again. And screw 'em all!”

Just like old times
.

As I recalled, that's what got me into this mess in the first place.

“I almost forgot,” Nick said. “DeeDee came by looking for you. She was with her boyfriend. Anyway, between you and me, I didn't like the way they were acting.”

“Define
acting.”

“Y'know, all cuddly, and kissy face. Stuck together like someone poured Krazy Glue on them.”

“Someone new, or Justin, the kid she's been seeing?”

“The old boyfriend,” Nick said. “Have you talked to her about…?”

“About what?”

“You know. Boys. And what assholes they are.”

“Nick has a point,” Dave said. “She's a young girl. You gotta let her know what the deal is.”

It was like living in a lunatic asylum.

To exorcise the demons that persuaded him to turn parenting into cage fighting, Dave wants to paint the town with blood. And Nick, another wonderful role model for his kids, thinks murder would be an adventure. Then, as quick as a wink, the two nominees for Father of the Year weigh in on the responsibilities of parenthood.

“I'll get right on it, Dr. Spock.”

L
eaving Dave and Nick to deal with the hobgoblins partying in their heads, I stopped in at DeeDee's apartment.

DeeDee answered my knock.

She and Justin weren't exactly in a state of deshabille.

But close.

Her blouse was four buttons short of where it should have been. And Justin wasn't in much better shape. He sat on the sofa with his shirttails hanging out, and a troubled look on his face.

“There was a reason buttonholes were invented,” I said.

DeeDee's face turned crimson.

She half-turned, her fingers quickly moving to her blouse. When she faced me again, she looked as prim and collected as a schoolmarm.

And I was the misbehaving child.

“Well,” she said. “It's about time you showed up. I can't spend my time worrying about you, Steeg. It's not fair.”

I shook my head in wonder.

“I'll try to do better in the future,” I said.

Justin, who had yet to move, threw me a limp wave.

“So,” DeeDee said, continuing to pile on, “where have you been?”

“Making the world safe for democracy.”

“So that's how it's going to go.”

“Pretty much.”

“How come you don't let me in, Steeg?”

“Have you and Allie been comparing notes?”

“We care about you.”

“And I care about you, kiddo. But some things are better left unsaid.”

And that's where we left it.

I rubbed my hands together, trying to work some warmth into them.

“I know,” DeeDee said. “The boiler's still on the fritz. My dad gets out in a few days, and he'll take care of it.”

DeeDee's father was the building's super, and indisposed at the moment. A nice way of saying a bar fight had made him a guest of the city.

I settled in next to Justin and patted him on the knee.

“How goes it, kid?” I said.

“Y'know,” he said. “Great. Just great.”

The words were all in the right places, but lacked conviction.

“So, you two are an item again.”

DeeDee came up and wedged herself between us.

“It was a silly argument about silly things,” she said, looking at him adoringly. “But now it's behind us.”

“Glad to hear it. And Justin, how's your dad?”

Something flickered across his face. And just as quickly, it was gone.

“He's, y'know, doing OK,” he said.

“Nice guy. Seems to care about you.”

Justin got up from the sofa.

“He's a loving man,” Justin said. “Look, DeeDee. I've got to study. Got this biochem test tomorrow, and I still haven't figured out stereoisomerism.”

He reached down to shake my hand. His hand was damp.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Steeg,” he said. “Look forward to seeing you soon.”

“You take care of yourself, Justin.”

DeeDee walked him to the door, said her good-byes, then came back and snuggled in next to me.

“Are you happy for me, Steeg?”

“Deliriously so.”

“Do you really mean it?”

I put my arm around her shoulder and hugged her tight.

“Every word of it.”

“You're not just saying that to make me feel good?”

“You know, there are some people who think I didn't raise you right.”

She pulled away.

“Who?”

“Nick, and my brother.”

“Well their opinion has got to be worth absolutely nothing.”

“They think I should have had the dreaded
talk
with you long before now.”

“And what makes you think I need it?”

My eyes strayed to her blouse.

“Four buttons shy of modesty,” I said.

“Nothing happened, Steeg. And even if it did, you can't fault us for being normal. It's all a matter of simple science. Biology and chemistry.”

“With a soupçon of lust thrown in.”

She smiled a wicked smile. “That's what makes it so exciting,” she said.

“I'll make you a deal. I'll forgo the
talk
in exchange for a little honesty. OK?”

“Deal.”

“From where I stood, it didn't look to me that
nothing
happened.”

“Depends on your definition of nothing,” she said.

“Are we having a presidential moment here?”

“Let's put it this way. Justin wanted something to happen. And I wanted something to happen. But he couldn't quite make it happen. From what I hear, it's perfectly normal. And that's as far as I'm going to go, so don't push it. I'm not going to get clinical with you.”

“I mean, sometimes it takes a while to get everything—”

She threw her hands over her face.

“Steeg!”

“I'm just saying.”

“Everything is going to work out just fine. Just say that you're happy for me.”

“I'm happy for you.”

I gave it my best shot, but my heart just wasn't in it.

T
hree days later I was on the Brooklyn Bridge, my favorite go-to spot for really deep reflection.

From the center of the span, 135 feet over the East River, things just seem to take on a different perspective. Even with the traffic flowing by and a whirling offshore wind plucking at the cables, there's an illusion of calm. A sense that all the bullshit of the world is filtered through the singing strings of a giant harp, and anything is possible.

But today the wind was strumming out a dirge.

For some reason I've never quite been able to figure out, there's a snowball effect to bad news. It begins as a couple of flakes of disappointment, and as it tumbles downhill it picks up annoyance, chagrin, distress, and a hunk of downright bewilderment along the way. And pretty soon, you've got a full-fledged avalanche.

With no else waiting in the wings, I had initially made someone like Wanda for the guys in the basement, and someone else for the torch. She fit my profile and hit the trifecta of means, motive, and opportunity. But I had it wrong. Wanda had no motive.

And she said she never made it inside.

Instead she claimed she saw someone—a very scary someone—standing outside watching.

And I believed her.

An arsonist-for-hire who didn't count on anyone being out and about on a snowy Christmas Eve? Nah. Dave didn't need the insurance money. And arsonists scoot long before the police show up.

A pyromaniac attracted to a deserted building and hanging around to enjoy his handiwork? Too far-fetched.

That left one other possibility. The heavyset, twenty-something guy Wanda saw
was
the murderer. And burned up his hidey-hole for reasons I couldn't possibly fathom.

Maybe my gay hustler theory was alive and kicking. He had motive, could've iced the guys in the basement and lit the warehouse up. But if that was what had happened, I was back at square one, with not a single lead.

And just when I thought things couldn't possibly get worse, Luce called. The NYPD forensic techs had found nothing illuminating or incriminating in Walter Cady's computer.

The snowball effect had definitely kicked in.

But maybe it was a good thing.

Dave was off the hook, the NYPD serial killer task
force was on the case, and there was nothing left for me todo.

Allie was back to her normal rhythms. Client budget cutbacks. Wall-to-wall meetings. Late nights. The usual stuff. DeeDee was dancing on clouds. Kenny was still in the hospital, but recovering. And my brother claimed that everything was cool between him and Anthony. At least for now.

And with Dave on the case, Martine would soon be run to ground.

But the best news of all was that DeeDee's father was out of the slam and working on the boiler.

Oh, there was one more thing. No one had tried to kill me in the last few days.

K
enny lay propped up in bed at a sixty-degree angle with his eyes half-closed. A curtain separated him from his roommate. The small television bolted to a high shelf on the far wall was tuned to a cable news channel. The audio was on mute. From where I stood, the news crawl at the bottom of the screen resembled sparrow tracks.

A beeping sound came from the other side of the curtain.

I pulled out the contents of a brown paper bag and laid them on the night table.

“Time for a snack, Kenny,” I said. “Pastrami on rye with just the right amount of fat. Sour pickle. And a Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray to wash it all down. And it's all kosher.”

He barely looked at the food.

“Not hungry,” he said.

“That's a first. What's wrong? Are you in a lot of pain?”