Hot-Wired in Brooklyn Read online

  “Huh?”

  “Why aren’t you at work? You on a different shift now?”

  Tony looked like he didn’t know, so Angelo chimed in, “We’re gonna watch ’em skate up at Rockefeller Plaza. You like hockey, Eddie?”

  “Sure, but what’s that got to do with Rockefeller Plaza?”

  “That’s where they play hockey.”

  “No. That’s where they skate,” Tony insisted.

  “It’s the same thing,” Angelo protested.

  “Ain’t,” said Tony in a small huff.

  “Is so. It’s the same thing, right, Eddie?”

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “See?” said Tony. I felt one of their debates coming on, and I wanted no part of it. They can argue for a day and a half about why snow is white.

  “So who’s right?” Tony asked.

  “You both are,” I lied. “People go ice-skating at Rockefeller Plaza, and hockey players wear ice skates.” That seemed to do it. Before they could find something else worthy of disagreement, I poured some coffee.

  “I’m takin’ today off from work, Eddie,” Tony volunteered after a sip.

  “That’s great, Tony. You and Ang have a good time.”

  “You on a new case, Eddie?” asked Angelo.

  “Can we help?” echoed Tony.

  “Not this time.”

  They invited me to Rockefeller Plaza, but I reminded them that it was Saturday. I spent every Saturday afternoon with my three kid sisters, Maggie, Letty, and Fran, and their three idiot husbands. Penance for being a habitual reprobate, black wolf and wiseass.

  “I’ll see you here tomorrow,” I promised. “For lasagna.” Then I let them out. I finished my coffee, paced the room a while, then stared silently out the window. I was searching for an answer to my questions about Arnold, hoping to snatch it right out of the gray winter sky. When none came, I drove to Prospect Park, walked out by Swan Lake, and sat on a bench. Prospect Park is a beautiful place in the winter, especially in the morning before the fog lifts. It’s a place to think, to sort things out, and my Arnold problem needed a lot of sorting.

  “The kid’s not that stupid,” I heard myself say out loud. I was watching a cop on horseback on the far side of the lake. He sat tall and erect in the saddle. The horse, a huge black stallion, was high-stepping.

  My eyes drifted to the lake itself. A blanket of fog hugged its far bank, obscuring the boathouse and a small stand of bare trees beyond. An entire landscape in shades of gray. A sheen of ice lay over the water. No telling how thick, but probably unsafe for skating or ice fishing.

  Thin ice, Eddie. Danger. Stay where you are. The kid’s trouble. Let them have him. Let him go straight to Hell…

  But what if he hadn’t done it?

  The cop on horseback watched me as he rode along the lake path, sizing me up as a possible vagrant or escaped lunatic. The horse watched me, too, as alert and skeptical as its rider. Its head reared as it snorted, warm breath pouring from its deep, black nostrils like plumes of factory smoke. As much machine as beast, just like the rest of us, gadgets and gizmos operating on autopilot, working from memory instead of thinking. Did the thinking part ever overcome the part that was machine? Did memory ever lose out to thought? Hard questions, but I was trying to answer them on that park bench, trying to reason past my history with Arnold Pulaski and overcome memory with a little common sense.

  It wasn’t easy.

  Memory doesn’t like to be overruled, so it didn’t like the decision that common sense told me to make. Finally, I just shouted “Damn it!” across the lake, fully expecting the mounted cop to circle back and put me in cuffs. Memory works the same way for cops, but he hadn’t heard me. I shouted it again, a few decibels higher, for Gino and his endless do-gooder meddling. But this wasn’t Gino’s doing anymore.

  Whatever happened now, whoever got hurt, it would be my own damn fault.

  CHAPTER

  9

  The Raymond Street Jail was actually on Ashland Place, along the western edge of Fort Greene Park. It was known officially as Brooklyn City Prison, but nobody in Brooklyn called it that. It was just Raymond Street. Like its better-known Manhattan counterpart, the Tombs, it was what a prison should be: dark and soulless; the home of dreams gone wrong, of errant roads taken.

  Nick DeMassio had pulled a few strings to get me in that morning. I was in no mood to wait for regular visiting hours. I was in no mood for Arnold at all. As soon as I was certain he’d really killed Joe Shork, I’d happily leave the little bastard to his well-deserved fate.

  I waited in the visiting room while one of the guards went to fetch him. I’d asked the desk sergeant not to give my name. “Just tell him he’s got a visitor.” In the interim, I did a slow look-see around the room. It wasn’t much: four long tables with glass dividers down the middle, a line of plain wooden chairs on both sides. The walls were institutional lime-green, the floors well-worn linoleum over well-worn wood. It was quiet enough now, but when the visitors and prisoners spilled in that afternoon, it would take on its usual ambiance, a combination of short-term optimism and longer-term despair. Smiles and tears, hope and hopelessness for an hour. Then the room would empty at the officers’ command, and it would be quiet again.

  Arnold saw me as the guard ushered him in, did a quick about-face and tried to bull his way back to the door. Having none of that, the guard took him by the collar, dragged him across to the visitors’ table, pushed him hard into the chair, and stood behind him.

  “You want me to keep him here?” the guard asked. “I’d enjoy that.” I smiled as if to say I’d enjoy it, too, but then I just shook my head. The guard gave Arnold a parting scowl, turned to me and said, “I’ll be right by the door if he gives you trouble.”

  Arnold offered a blank stare and silence, so I just started talking. “Nice to see you’ve already made friends here in the Big House,” I said, smiling over the glass panel that separated us. “You’ll like Sing Sing even better. I hear they’ve done a swell job redecorating Death Row. New electric chair, upholstered leather seat and everything. Just for you.”

  Arnold switched to one of his hard looks, but I didn’t return it because I was studying him. He’d put on weight and muscle in the right places since I’d last seen him. His pimply complexion had cleared up, his hair was shorter, the duck’s-ass was gone, and his face was clean-shaven, like mine. He was almost handsome, except for that hard look. It told me he was still carrying a small forest on his shoulders, and that meant trouble all around.

  “So,” I prompted. “Are we going to sit and glare at each other, or do you want to know why I’m here?”

  “Your one-eyed lawyer pal’s an asshole,” said Arnold, as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “I’ll tell him that the next time you’re bailable, if there is a next time.”

  He laughed as if there’d be next times to spare.

  “Okay,” I said, “if you’re not going to talk, I guess I will. I figure you stole the D.A.’s car, all right, but for your own reasons. Anybody who works for Dom Scarpetti has to steal his fair share, but it’s all strictly low-profile. Stealing the D.A.’s car wasn’t low-profile, Arnold. Shork wouldn’t have told you to steal it unless he was setting you up for something. But that isn’t likely, either. He was smart enough to know he’d catch hell from Big Dom if the operation called that kind of attention to itself. And as for that bullshit about Shork sending you to Manhattan, that was strictly for your father’s benefit. He’s an okay guy, but you’re his soft spot. Nobody else, especially not the D.A., will believe it. Now, I don’t figure you killed Shork, for reasons I won’t waste time explaining; but there’s already plenty that says you did. More than enough for a jury, anyway. Give me a reason to believe anything you tell me, and I might decide to help you.”

  He laughed. The joke was somehow getting funnier, and it was on me.

  “You got a cig?” he asked, the way you’d address a stooge. “Pleeease,” he added, grinning, his tone thi
ck with sarcasm.

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Regular fuckin’ Boy Scout, aren’t you?”

  “And still waiting for a reason to be sitting here.”

  “So, wait.”

  I stood up. His grin widened. “Relax, Lombardi. My pa sent you, huh?”

  I sat down. “Sort of.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “He asked me to find out why Shork lied, that’s all.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. Somebody murdered the poor son of a bitch with a ball peen hammer before I could. Or haven’t you heard?”

  Arnold’s grin held firm. “He was a bigger asshole than your lawyer.”

  “And he got murdered before I found out.”

  “If you had found out, and you knew it wasn’t me, would I still be here?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is that why you said ‘sort of?’”

  “Sort of.”

  “You’re a pretty smart guy, Lombardi, for a fuckin’ dago.”

  “Sorry I can’t return the compliment.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Murder is stupid, Shork’s murder was really stupid, and you haven’t given me a reason to doubt it was you.”

  He leaned forward. “You think that D.A.’s got me, don’t you?”

  “Looks that way. Unless you prove him wrong. To me.”

  “I could tell you who’s got who, but it’d go right over your flat dago head. I’ll give you some advice, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t hold your bad breath waitin’ for the news.” He leaned back casually, like a movie star at the end of an interview. I wanted to wipe the smugness off his face, to let memory take over again, but I let the feeling go.

  “That’s it?” I asked. “That’s what you want me to tell your father?”

  The mention of Pa created a small breach in Arnold’s defenses. His eyes veered away, lids half closing. “Tell him I’m okay,” he said, almost contritely. Then, as if to cover the revealed weakness, he sneered. “You really oughta give up detective work, Lombardi. You’re too good as a stooge messenger boy.”

  I offered the same look. “See you at Sing Sing, kid,” I said. I stood up, motioned to the guard, and headed for the door.

  Arnold’s eyes followed me. “Hey, wait a minute. I almost forgot. You could do me a favor.”

  I stopped and turned around. “Sure, kid. I’ll be happy to throw the switch when it’s time to give you the juice.” The guard at the door heard it and laughed out loud.

  Arnold didn’t react. “Hey, Lombardi?”

  “What?”

  “My girl. Charlotte.” I almost didn’t recognize it as his voice. It was a tone he’d never used with me before. Sincere, urgent, apprehensive. “Charlotte was supposed to visit me yesterday, but she didn’t come. Tell her to come see me, okay?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I’m asking you.”

  I motioned the guard away and sat back down. “Did Shork tell you to take the car to Manhattan? I’m asking you.”

  “No.”

  “Have you stolen cars on his orders?”

  “Sure.”

  “How many?”

  “Ten, twelve, maybe.”

  “Did you steal the D.A.’s car, Arnold?”

  No answer.

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hot-wired?”

  “Didn’t have to. The keys were inside, on the seat.”

  “Where’d you pick it up?”

  “Right off the street.”

  “What street?”

  “Pierrepont. In front of a restaurant.”

  “Which one?”

  “Fulton Joe’s.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Walking. Free country, isn’t it?”

  “If you didn’t steal it for Shork, then why?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Lombardi.”

  I let those words hang in the air. Can’t, he’d said. Not won’t. That had a different ring, like the way he’d talked about his girl. I studied his eyes, trying to overcome memory again, trying to see inside to the truth. They weren’t cold, animal eyes like the ones in my dream. I didn’t want to think so, anyway. The cold eyes, the sneering lips, maybe they were only surface details, subterfuge. Then again, maybe Arnold’s unexpected show of sincerity was just a part of that subterfuge, the trick that would hold me at bay long enough for him to slip out of the trap he figured I was setting for him. I wasn’t sure, and I wanted to be.

  As if to fuel my skepticism, Arnold returned to his old style. “Well, what about it, dago? You going or not?”

  I tried to read him again, but his defenses were back up. He grinned at the thought of his private joke.

  “Arnold, did you kill Joe Shork?”

  “After I see Charlotte, you’ll find out. Just go see her. Is it a deal?”

  “How does the D.A. figure in this?”

  He grinned wider. “Like I said, we’ll see who’s got who. First, you go see my girl. Okay?”

  I didn’t say yes. I just signaled the guard that I was done, got up and left. Arnold shouted his girlfriend’s address at me, but I pretended not to hear. It was good strategy, and great pleasure, to let him stew a while, if only for memory’s sake.

  I thought about Arnold’s girl, Charlotte, as I drove away from Raymond Street, wondering what kind of hold she had on him. I wasn’t thinking about ill winds or bad luck, but I should’ve guessed that Charlotte, ill winds, and bad luck would come from the same dark place.

  CHAPTER

  10

  I had one stop to make before the ritual Saturday afternoon agony with the in-laws. If Arnold Pulaski really did have something on the D.A., the time to find out was now.

  The D.A.’s office was on the fourth floor of the Municipal Building behind Borough Hall. I called from a pay phone and his diligent secretary answered. Yes, she said, he’d be in, but he was extremely busy.

  The phone call was only a courtesy; I knew he’d be there. John G. Carlson was one of those ever-aspiring, twelve-hours-a-day, six-days-a-week prosecutors. He had some grand ideas, it was said, and an even grander ego. Grand plans, too, above and beyond the prosecutor’s office. The joke was that he’d been planning his gubernatorial campaign from the age of five. The Brooklyn Eagle, which hadn’t supported him for D.A., had even run an editorial cartoon to that effect. Like so many Mayflower blue bloods, he somehow combined undisguised patrician arrogance with a man-of-the-people charm. I hated stiffs like him on sight.

  Carlson’s secretary was on the phone again when I walked in. She smiled as if she almost meant it; but she was just another machine, programmed to look pretty, take messages, make appointments, and discreetly guard the gate. Programmed also for a little office sex when the D.A. could fit it into his busy schedule. She was blond, mid-twenties, slim, only slightly busty, with perfect ivory teeth and a complexion like silk. Stylish tweed outfit, styled hair, faultless manners. Never once stepped outside herself, on or off the job.

  She kept up the smile as I introduced myself, then pushed an intercom button and told the D.A. that a Mr. Lombardi was waiting.

  I sat for the next hour in the reception area just beyond her desk, reading Life and watching her type. When I’d had more than enough of that, I traded final smiles with her, strode across the plush carpet to Carlson’s door and pushed it open.

  “Wait! You can’t go in there!” she shrieked, stumbling after me in high heels; but the District Attorney for Kings County and I were already face-to-face.

  “It’s all right, Phyllis,” he said. “I’ll handle this.” His voice projected a surface calm that didn’t match the apprehension in his eyes. He escorted her to the door, closed it quietly, and stared at me like a rabbit at a fox. “Who are you?” he asked.

  I glanced at the putter in his hand and scowled.

  “I’m the golf doctor,” I said. “But your game looks li
ke it’s past help.” The ball he’d tried to roll into a tumbler from ten feet away was two feet wide of the mark.

  “This is a private office,” he blustered. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Sure, I know, Carlson. You’re the public prosecutor. That makes this a public office. And I’m your public.”

  I studied him. He reminded me of a lieutenant I broke in during the war. Same squared shoulders, well-trimmed blond good looks, china-blue eyes, peach fuzz. At least that blue blood had learned how to bark orders by the time he tripped and fell pretty-face-first onto a land mine in northern France. I doubted if this guy Carlson had even earned a bloody nose on a grammar school playground. Maybe he was a regular dynamo in court, but right now he looked like a worried little boy in a Brooks Brothers suit.

  He turned, leaned his putter against a mahogany desk as big as a boxcar, and sat down in the swivel chair behind it. It seemed to give him courage, like a deep foxhole.

  “You had no right to barge in here,” he said with a little more moxie. “I can have you thrown out.” He glanced at the intercom, finger at the ready.

  “You can sure try.”

  His finger wavered.

  “You can call your blue goons if you want,” I said, taking the burr out of my voice. “But I phoned for an appointment, and I’ve been waiting an hour. I’ve got a reason to be here.”

  “I assume this is important.”

  “More than your golf game.”

  He glanced, expressionless, at the putter, then turned back to me. “I have a few important cases pending. The putting helps me think.”

  “It wasn’t helping me wait.”

  “Very well. My apologies.”

  I sat down without being asked. An uncomfortable, straight-backed chair, the kind they have in those little, windowless rooms at the precinct houses where big-fisted cops bully confessions out of small, frightened men. But I was doing the interrogating here.

  “Pulaski, the kid who stole your car…”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s got something on you. What is it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What’s he got? What does he know?”