City of Dreams (53 page)

“Delancey’s not our friend,” said Peter.

“Well, he’s friends with a Russian who call himself the Redhead.”

“Oh, great,” said Evangeline. “More redheads.”

“Say what?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Keep talking.”

“The Redhead is a bona fide bad dude. Name of Ivankov. And he runs with a feller called KGB, ’cause he look like Putin.”

“The Harvard Club shooter,” said Evangeline.

“You found all this out in the last hour?” asked Peter.

“Like I say, I know the places to ask the questions.”

“What’s their game?”

“Oldest game in town. Power. They want to knock over your friend in the cellar.”

“Yuri Antonov? The Russian boss?” said Peter.

“Say, boys”—Evangeline glanced at her watch—“shouldn’t we be going?”

Henry raised a finger. “Let’s do our talkin’ indoors. I don’t want us bunched up on the street, even comin’ out of the safe house.” Then he turned back to Peter. “Yuri Antonov is what they call a oligarch. His papa was a boss. The Russians around Brighton Beach, they called him Andrei the Avenger. Come here in the seventies.”

“Back when they started letting in Russian Jews?” said Peter.

“Yeah. And some of the troublemakers is bona fide, circumcised members of the tribe. But a lot of bad actors got in on forged papers, sayin’ they was Jews, just to get their black bread in the gold ol’ American borscht pot.” Henry clicked off the computer. “The Avenger had one badass temper. He’d kill his mama to make a score. Extortion, gamblin’, credit cards, drugs, girls, money.”

“Money?” asked Peter.

“To launder. All these wiseguys—Russkies, dagoes, spics, micks—”

“Mr. Baxter,” said Evangeline. “That’s not very nice talk for a—”

“A man of color?” Henry hooked a finger into his vest and struck a pose. “A man of the world, of whatever color, must also know the argot of the street. Now all these wiseguys—of whatever their ancestral origins—”

“That’s better,” said Evangeline.

“Take their dirty money and put it into somethin’ clean. Pretty soon, they payin’ taxes and Social Security and lookin’ like they all legit. Sometime they have to wait for a son to come along to give them a touch of class—”

“Like Yuri Antonov?”

“When his avengin’ daddy died of cancer about five years ago, the son took over. Likes classical music, claims he went to Harvard, works with a big-time broker.”

“What would happen if that broker lost a lot of Antonov’s money?”

“He be way pissed off at shit like dat.” Henry talked a little street for emphasis.

“I think that Antonov laundered money through a broker who may not be all that he seems,” said Peter. “Now Antonov wants the bonds that the broker hopes will save him. And then there’s Delancey, and—”

“The Redhead,” said Henry. “The thing about these crime organizations, one of the leg breakers is always tryin’ to take over. Happened to the first big Russkie, back in ’85, a guy named Egron. His own boys whacked him . . . or so they say.”

“Antonov’s got a leg-breaker named Vitaly,” said Evangeline.

“I’d say he’s loyal to the Antonovs, not like the Redhead.” Henry opened the door and kept talking as he led them down the narrow stairs. “Most of your Russians who settled in Brooklyn, they’s like the Irish in Hell’s Kitchen a hundred years ago. They come with big dreams and good hearts, ready to do the hard work.

“But there was Irish gangs then, and there’s Russian gangs now. And the smart Russkies do business with the Five Families. Pay the dons their tribute, and the dons side with you when you need sidin’ with. But remember, when it come to bein’ nasty, these Russkies make the dagoes look like the Little Rascals.”

“Do you think Joey Berra is some kind of mafia go-between?” asked Peter.

“Whether he is or not”—they reached the bottom of the stairs, and Henry put up a hand—“we go meet him now like we was in Vietnam. I walk point. I stop, you stop. I drop in a doorway, you drop in doorway. But not together. Miss, you come twenty yards behind me on the other side of the street. And Pete—why you makin’ a face?”

“Don’t call him Pete,” said Evangeline. “He hates to be called Pete.”

“Okay, we call him No-Pete.”

“Anything’s better than Pete,” said Peter.

“It’s No-Pete and”—Henry looked Evangeline up and down—“you need a nickname, too. Your name one big mouthful. But since it start with a E, we call you the E Ticket. ’Cause you a fine-lookin’ woman and the E Ticket the finest ride at Disneyland. E Ticket mean the best.”

Henry pulled open the door, looked up the street and down. “Coast look clear. So, we stay in touch with cell phones—”

“But can’t the Russians track them?” asked Evangeline.

“They’d need more hardware than NASA to do that . . . or permission from
you
. You didn’t give ’em permission, did you?”

Peter shook his head.

“So how did they find us when we left the Oyster Bar?” asked Evangeline.

“Beats the hell out of me,” said Henry. “You go in a big restaurant, they’s usually somebody workin’ a side street. Could’ve been a busboy who does a little drug-dealin’, a waiter sellin’ credit card numbers. Fellers like that, they do anything to stay on the good side of the bad guys. You didn’t do nothin’ to draw attention, did you?”

“Oh, no,” said Evangeline. “He just gave the waiter a speech about Boston oysters.”

“Oysters?” Henry shook his head. “No-Pete, maybe we start callin’ you No-Brains. Word goes out to all Vitaly’s peeps that he’s lookin’ for a guy from Boston, and you start talking about Boston oysters?”

“Duxbury,” said Peter.

“Say what?”

“Duxbury oysters, not Boston.”

“So put on a Red Sox hat. Get the job done faster. Even if your waiter ain’t in with V. and his boys, he goes into the kitchen, starts bitchin’ about some guy from Boston talkin’ about Duxbury motherfuckin’ oysters, and—”

A little Hispanic woman trundled up the walk and up the steps and into the foyer.

Henry put on a big smile and gave her a bow. “Hello, Mrs. Sanchez.”

“Hello, Mr. Baxter. I said a prayer for you at Mass this morning.”

“Thank you, ma’am. All prayers most welcome. Most welcome indeed.” He waited as she let herself into her first-floor apartment, then he opened the front door and told the others, “Watch me now. If I cross before I get to the corner, don’t come out. Otherwise, follow like I told you. No-Pete, you come twenty yards behind the E Ticket.”

After Henry went out, Evangeline said, “No-Pete and the E Ticket—”

“Up to their eyeballs again.”

“I wish I bought you those golf clubs after all.”

Peter kissed her on the forehead. “Go.”

T
EN MINUTES LATER
, they were approaching the bleachers and the TKTS Booth again. The neon and the LEDs flashed and flickered in defiance of the sun.

Henry strode toward the statue of Father Duffy, just as the clocks all passed noon. He positioned himself right by the Celtic cross.

Peter took a seat in the one of the patio chairs on the pedestrian mall that they had made of Broadway, and he pretended to watch the world go by.

Evangeline got into the line that stretched around the corner of the TKTS booth.

And they waited.

Evangeline wished she was as excited as the people around her. Going to a musical. That would be fun.

Peter was watching a giant LCD TV on the side of a building. It was the screen for MarketSpin.com. And there was Kathy Flynn again, doing another report for all of the Times Square passersby to see.

Evangeline saw it, too. She couldn’t tell what the story was about, but there was—good God!—she grabbed her phone and called Peter and told him to look at what Kathy Flynn was showing on the big TV.

“I’m looking,” he said.

“That’s the bag lady from the Bowling Green.” It was a split screen. On one side: a security photo of the bag lady and her scruffy little dog. Beneath it:
ERICA CALLOW
? On the other side: a photo of an attractive woman, blond, forties, smiling with all her teeth, holding a pretty little dog. Beneath it:
ERICA CALLOW
?

Then Peter’s call waiting line beeped.

It was Henry: “I think I just seen your boy, but he took one look at that big screen y’all been watchin’ and he turned right round. Go get the E Ticket, then grab a cab uptown. Meet where we said.”

“Right.”

“Looks like this thing is goin’ viral.”

W
HERE THEY SAID
was the top of the escalator in the Time Warner Center, overlooking Columbus Circle.

“So the Dollar Diva decides to out the bag lady,” said Henry Baxter. “Puttin’ up the picture of a toothless old hag and a scruffy little dog, then a picture of a pretty blond lady with a pretty little dog.”

“But why?” said Evangeline.

“That’s the big question,” said Peter. “And why did Joey Berra disappear again?”

“I was watchin’ that dude. He was comin’. So I was comin’, but when he saw that screen, he hit the hotfoot, like there was somethin’ he had to do.”

“Get to the bag lady, maybe?” said Evangeline.

“I’m going to find out,” said Peter. “Kathy’s right here in the building.”

“Say, that’s convenient,” said Henry.

“Yeah,” said Evangeline, “as convenient as a condom in your wallet.”

“Whoa,” said Henry. “Did I pick the wrong meetin’ place? I figured I’d see anybody followin’ you from the top of this escalator. Up here, you got a view all the way down Fifty-ninth Street. But . . . No-Pete and the Dollar Diva?”

“A long time ago,” said Peter.

“You want us to go with you?” asked Henry. “Protect you from yourself?”

Peter typed a text message. “Kathy: The Bag Lady? WTF? Must talk. Now.” He showed it to Evangeline, “Can I send this?”

She just shrugged.

“Look like somebody pissed,” said Henry. “Y’all ain’t got time for bein’ pissed.”

“Right,” said Peter. “So you two go to the New York Society Library and see what you can find in those Riley notebooks. I’ll see what Kathy has to offer.”

“She has a lot to offer,” said Evangeline. “Just see what she has to
say
.”

Peter’s phone vibrated. It was Kathy: “Come up.”

He showed the message to Evangeline.

Henry Baxter said, “What you think, Miss E Ticket?”

She looked at her watch. “We’ll trust No-Pete.”

“Meet back at my place,” said Henry. “Two hours. And keep your head on a swivel.”

“But keep your eyes to yourself,” said Evangeline.

K
ATHY
F
LYNN WAS
waiting in her office. She told Peter to close the door. She was watching the Dow Jones on her computer.

He looked over her shoulder. “Still falling?”

Her red hair shone. She smelled of soap. Something simple, maybe Ivory, but nice. “Down another two hundred.” She kept her eyes on the ticker. “Is
she
with you?”

Peter said, “She’s following another lead.”

Kathy leaned back and drummed her fingers on her desk. “Are you close?”

“To what?”

“Don’t play games, Peter. Arsenault told me
what
. A whole box of these bonds.”

“When did he tell you that?”

“This morning, off camera. He said he had you chasing it, so the annual meeting of the Paul Revere Foundation tomorrow might be truly spectacular.”

Peter went to the window and looked out at Lincoln Center. “What chance do you think we have of finding a single mahogany box in all of that?”

“You might have more after this.” She tossed him a photograph. It was a little fuzzy, with numbers at the bottom for date and time—a security shot.

“That’s the woman who stole the finial from the New-York Historical Society. It was in a box with all those letters, and—”

“I know the story,” he said. “I was there Tuesday. But no one showed me this.”

“That’s because you didn’t charm the boys in the security booth.” She leaned back and put her feet on her desk.

He looked at her legs. “My charms aren’t of the same . . . caliber . . . as yours.”

That brought a smile. “Last night in the cab, Evangeline said the bag lady had gotten you into this, and that she had seen the accountant on the Bowling Green—”

“The bag lady was bringing Delancey to the Bowling Green. Evangeline just got caught in it.”

“Whatever.” Kathy twirled her hair in her finger. “I got to thinking about the story of the stolen finial from the Bowling Green, and I compared the pictures—”

Peter said, “The bag lady had the finial that night.”

“No shit?” Kathy sat up, swung her legs off the desk. “I was right. I compared the pictures and said, these two look a lot alike. They even remind me of somebody else I used to know, but . . . that was a long time ago.”

“Why did you decide to put her on your Webcast, so that her face was blasted all over Times Square?”

“Sunshine is the best disinfectant. Right?”

“So they say.”

“I’m trying to put a lot together, Peter, in a very short time. Whatever was that bag lady chasing? What brought her to me? What brought her and Evangeline together on the Bowling Green . . . with the accountant? What got the accountant killed, which was supposed to happen in front of me? I think this damn bag lady is engineering the whole show. Did Evangeline see the finial?”

“She has it.”

“She has it? Too much.” Kathy jumped up. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“A restaurant called Eleven Madison Park. Austin Arsenault has lunch there every Thursday with Magee. My spies tell me they’re having Will Wedge today . . . to eat.”

Peter looked at his watch. He was running out of time. The Russians might already have the gas company piping schematic of the streets around Fallon Antiquaria in Boston. He was beginning to worry that they’d light off the store on general principle if they didn’t get what they wanted.

So he should have been trying to digest whatever clues they were finding at the New York Society Library. But he was following Kathy down the hallway. Instead of looking at her ass, he opened his cell phone and texted Evangeline. “Any luck?”

T
HE
N
EW
Y
ORK
Society Library: The mansion on Seventy-ninth Street, a block east of Central Park, had been built by J. P. Morgan’s architects as a private home in 1917.