CONCOURSE (Bill Smith/Lydia Chin) (16 page)

T
WENTY
-E
IGHT

W
hen the telephone rang the next morning I was at the piano. It was just past seven. In the loading dock across the street, trucks idled, revved, pulled in or out, beginning their day’s business. It was too early for me to begin mine—the questioning, the following, the breaking or bluffing or bullying my way into lives and places where I didn’t belong.

The night before, exhausted, I’d had a drink and a burger at Shorty’s, trudged upstairs and fallen into bed. Toward morning I had a dream. I was fighting my way uphill on a twisting street shaded by huge chestnut trees. I was late, maybe too late; my heart raced but my legs were leaden, my steps agonizingly slow. On either side were grand villas, mansions, their twilight gates locked. I was looking for the white frame house with the black walnut tree in the front yard, but I was lost; I couldn’t find it.

The unease from the dream stayed with me at the piano, got in my way at the beginning, until the focused ray of my concentration burned it off like mist. Total attention on each moment, every touch. No thinking about next, only now: where to pedal, how long to hold a phrase, how to move through it, when to end it. No distractions, no logic, and no words. Just the music.

I worked on the Schubert, on the places that were still rough, trying changes of color, tempo, stress. Mostly I knew what I wanted and was trying to make it happen; in some places, though, I wasn’t yet ready to try for an answer, because I wasn’t sure of the question.
I worked them through, patient, probing, trying to understand.

The ringing phone jarred me, shattered my work. I grabbed for it, more to shut it up than because I wanted to talk to whomever it was.

“Kid? Did I wake you?” Bobby’s voice was strange, unsure.

I wiped my sweaty face. “No, I’m up. Something wrong?”

Bobby hesitated. “I just got a call from Bruno. The cops called him as a courtesy, now he’s in charge over there. They picked up a guy for Howe’s murder. Bruno thinks they’re looking at him for Mike, too.”

“Who?” He didn’t answer. “Come on, Bobby, who?”

“Your friend, kid. Martin Carter.”

The station house was a new brick building with arched windows, a sawtooth overhang to walk under in bad weather, and a plaza planted with callery pears. Callery pears are always first to flower in the spring, last to lose their leaves in fall. They don’t grow too big and they put up with a lot. A good value-for-money tree, a good tree for the city.

Inside, the building still looked new, tile and terrazzo and a high, coffered ceiling; but behind the rail of the raised-platform desk the duty sergeant’s eyes had that old, weary look that even young cops get.

“Help you?” he asked, sizing me up automatically, calculating whether he could take me or if he’d need help, and if so, how much.

“Lieutenant Robinson,” I said. “Or Detective Lindfors.”

“You are?” He spoke from the side of his mouth, as though around a toothpick or a cigarette, though he had neither.

“Bill Smith.”

“Gianetti!” He barely raised his voice, but its tone changed completely. His eyes had never left me; but a patrolman who’d been lounging against a wall out of the sergeant’s sight straightened up and came over.

“Sarge?”

“Go find Robinson. Tell him his guy is here.”

The patrolman headed upstairs, and the desk sergeant went back to his paperwork. He ignored me; but I knew that if I took a step he’d give you the length of my stride and if I reached for a cigarette he could tell you what brand.

For a while I watched cops come and go; then I heard my name, turned, and saw Robinson heading my way. His well-cut gray suit and striped tie said he was a cop to whom appearances mattered, a cop with ambitions; but the dullness in his black skin and the bags under his eyes told me he was also a cop who’d been up most of the night, a cop who did his job.

Robinson took me upstairs to an interrogation room, by a route that didn’t pass the lockup. Every police station has two routes like that: one for the perps, one for the citizens. Usually it’s so the accused doesn’t get a look at the witnesses; this time it seemed clear that they didn’t want Carter to know I was here until some deal was cut.

As Robinson opened the interrogation-room door, motioned me in, I asked, “Why is he still here?”

“You’re lucky he is.” Robinson flipped on the light. “If we’d sent him downtown already you’d’ve missed your chance.” Then he went out, next door, and turned on the light in the viewing room too. When that room was dark and this one was lighted, the window between was one-way glass, and cops stood around in there watching other cops question you in here. With its light on I could see that that room was empty; Robinson and I were alone.

He came back, sat across the table from me, laced his fingers. “What’s your relationship with Martin Carter?”

“I told you on the phone. He’s a friend of mine.”

Bobby had been pretty sure Carter hadn’t made it as far as Central Booking, which meant he was still being held at the precinct where he’d been arrested. I’d called, asked to see him. Surprisingly, Robinson had agreed.

Now he looked at me with guarded disbelief. “I don’t often hear of Cobras having white friends.”

“Maybe he didn’t notice. Besides, he’s not a Cobra anymore.”

“Don’t go naive on me, Smith. You don’t leave a gang like that. First of all, why? Second, you don’t get the chance. Like a family. You don’t like your father, you don’t get to say, ‘You’re not my old man anymore.’ You don’t say it to Snake LeMoyne, either.”

“You can walk out,” I said. “He’s still your father, but you don’t have to stay. Carter’s got a family of his own. Two little kids. He doesn’t hang with the Cobras now.”

“If that’s true it’s because Snake ditched him.”

My mind went back to the chilly playground, leaves scraping
on the asphalt, Carter answering Snake without turning to face him.

“No,” I said. Then, “What’s the difference? Can I see him, or are you just jerking me around?”

Robinson leaned back in his chair, slipped his hands in his pockets. “Why do you want to see him?”

“I want to tell him his kids are okay. I want to see if you guys beat the shit out of him. I want to find out what the hell is going on around here!”

“Nothing’s going on. We arrested a guy on a homicide charge.”

“Nine hours ago, and you haven’t sent him downtown yet.”

“Bus was crowded.”

I didn’t bother with that.

“What is it you want from him, Robinson?”

Robinson’s pale blue eyes met mine. “Snake LeMoyne.”

“Uh-huh.” I took out a cigarette. Robinson didn’t stop me, so I lit it. There was no place for the match. I shook it out, dropped it. From the scorch marks on the vinyl tile, I wasn’t the first.

“And what makes you think,” I said, “that Carter can give him to you?”

“The Rev and Snake used to be real tight. Cold chillin’ home-boys. Watched each other’s backs, laid the same girls.”

“That was before.”

“Before the Rev went upstate. You know what that was for?”

“Manslaughter. That’s all I know.”

“That was a plea bargain. An Arab shopkeeper over there thought he could get away without making his protection payments. He had a gun, see, that made him somebody. So he pulled it on the Cobras when they came to collect. They laughed at him. One of them got the gun. The guy turned and ran. The Cobras were laughing when they shot him in the back.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “That that’s how it went?”

“Oh, he lived two days. Long enough to talk to us and for his family to say good-bye.”

“And he identified Carter as the shooter?”

“No. No, he didn’t do that. He identified the Rev as being there, but he didn’t know who shot him.”

“So why’d Carter get stuck with it?”

“The Rev was there. The Rev was a Cobra. He got elected.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning he did the time, but Snake did the crime.”

I pulled on my cigarette. “Says who?”

“Lindfors.”

“How come he knows?”

Robinson shrugged. “It’s the Cobras. He knows.”

“Okay,” I said. “What if it’s true?”

“Word is Snake did this one too. The Rev might be getting sick of this by now.”

“Did you ask him?”

“He
tol
’ me he don’t
be
’roun’ dere no more.” Robinson’s parodied street talk startled me with its vicious edge. I wondered whether I’d have been surprised to hear it that way from a white cop.

“So you want me to persuade him to roll over?”

“Can you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you try?”

“What’s the offer?”

“We get Snake, we forget about Carter.”

“Carter says Snake says he didn’t do it.”

“I can sweeten the deal.”

“How?”

“Get me Snake for anything. Anything the D.A. can prove. What Carter went up for, Downey, anything. It doesn’t have to be this one. If the grand jury indicts Snake, Carter walks.”

“Christ. I thought Lindfors was the one with the Snake fixation.”

Robinson stood abruptly, paced the room. He spoke from behind me. “Lindfors was a damn fine cop, Smith. He gave the job a hundred and ten percent, but it wasn’t enough. Those bastards burned him out. Now he drinks, now I’ve got to watch him. If I can’t get LeMoyne, I’m going to get each damn Cobra one by one for whatever I can.”

I finished my cigarette, ground it under my heel. “Let me see him.”

They brought Carter to me in the interrogation room. They must not have told him it was me he was going to see; when the door
opened, his eyes widened a little, in surprise. Then a tight, wary suspicion covered his face like a mask.

“Ten minutes,” Robinson said, and left.

We looked at each other for a few moments, across the formica-topped table.

“Man,” Carter said, “what the fuck you doing here?”

“I like it here,” I said. “I come here whenever I can. What happened?”

“What you mean, what happen? Cocksuckers come ’round my house, middle of the night, right with Granny and the kids—shit!” He broke off, shook his head. I could see his rage in the corded tendons of his neck.

I gave him a cigarette, took one for myself. He leaned back against his chair, rubbed his eyes. He gestured with the cigarette at the one-way window, now a mirror showing us only ourselves.

“How many them fuckers in there?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “How many fit?”

He snorted. “Why you here?”

“To help.”

“Help me? Or help them?”

“You.”

“Yeah? What you proposin’ to do?”

“They made you an offer.”

“Fuck the damn offer!” He slammed his fist on the table. The sound boomed against the hard surfaces of the room.

“Relax,” I said. “I broke my hand that way once. Hurt like hell. You have a lawyer?”

Carter glared. “Do I look like a guy got a fucking lawyer?”

“I have a good one. Nathan Cohen. I’ll send him down.”

“Forget it.”

“Carter, let me help.”

“Fuck that shit! You wouldn’t be here, you wasn’t with them.” His eyes sent a wave of hate at the unresponding mirror.

“I called them. I asked to see you.”

“They letting you.”

“They want me to point out that if you don’t take their offer they’ll throw your ass in prison.”

“They done that before.”

“You like it?”

He dragged on his cigarette. “No, I ain’t liked it. It sucks, baby. But I ain’t about to roll on Snake. I ain’t living like that.”

“You did this once, Carter. You sure you want to do it again?”

“Did what?”

“Went up for something Snake did.”

His eyes, fixed on me, were opaque. “That shooting?” He shook his head slowly. “I done that. I shot that A-rab mother.”

“Why?”

He was silent for a long moment. “Wondered that myself, lot of times, watching the rain in the Yard,” he finally said. “Don’t ’spose I’ll ever know.” He smiled faintly. I didn’t know why.

“Okay,” I said. “Maybe that’s true. I don’t think so, but I don’t care. Did you kill Henry Howe?”

He stared at me, then shook his head.

“Did Snake?”

“Snake say no.”

I was silent for a few moments. “Robinson tells me if he can get a grand jury to indict Snake for anything at all, you’ll walk.”

“Fuck him, man!” Carter’s reaction was what I’d expected. “Snake one fucked-up mother, but him and me go back. Cops want Snake, they got to do it themselves.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s try this: how come they picked you up?”

He looked at me blankly. “Get at Snake, man.”

“Yeah. Why you? Cops can’t just grab you because they want to. They need probable cause. They must have something they think a judge will buy.”

He shook his head, a disgusted, hopeless gesture. “They got a witness.”

“A witness?”

“Some lying mother I s’pose to’ve threatened. ‘I do you like I done those other suckers.’ ”

The door opened suddenly, letting in Robinson, jacket off and tie loosened. Must be stuffy in the viewing room, I thought.

“That’s it,” he said. “Interview’s over.”

A uniform came in behind him, gripped Carter’s arm, hauled him from his chair.

I stood, ignored them both. “Who?” I asked Carter.

“That’s it!” Robinson said again.

“I don’t know, man. I ain’t never said no shit like that!”

“All right,” I called past Robinson, who seemed to grow, standing in the doorway, as his anger grew. “Nathan Cohen. Don’t say anything anymore unless he’s standing next to you.”

“Who the fuck gonna pay Nathan fucking Cohen?” Carter yelled back.

I heard the cell door clank shut behind him before I could answer that.

T
WENTY
-N
INE

R
obinson moved into the interrogation room, and then came Lindfors. They left the door open. I sat again. They stood.

Lindfors, looking at me, spoke to Robinson. “Fat lot of good he did us.”

“Might’ve worked.” Robinson’s voice had no tone. “Didn’t hurt.”

“Fuck it didn’t! The Rev’s got a fancy-ass lawyer now. Thanks, Smith.” His rough voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“He didn’t kill Henry Howe,” I said.

“Do I look like I give a shit?” Lindfors asked. He was more presentable than the last time I’d seen him, under the harsh lights by Henry Howe’s body, but his eyes were smudged and his voice hoarse, as though he’d had too much to drink, or too little. “Those Cobra bastards, if they didn’t do what you got them for, they did something worse you don’t even know about. So any reason you can lock them up is a good reason.”

“Carter’s not a Cobra anymore.”

Lindfors and Robinson exchanged looks, Lindfors’s bitter and superior, Robinson’s impatient. Lindfors made a move to speak, but Robinson was faster.

“Smith, you can shove the sanctimonious bullshit, all right? If Carter’s all we can get, you better believe we’ll hold onto him like a
winning Lotto ticket. The only reason I let you in here was I thought you might help us. Now get out.”

The telephone rang. In the squad room beyond the door a black woman in plainclothes was working a typewriter with two fingers. She grabbed the receiver without looking up from her keyboard, wedged it onto her shoulder, spoke and typed. Then she dropped it onto her desk, called, “Robinson! For you, baby.” She never took her eyes from her work.

Robinson, with an impatient sound, strode into the room, picked up the receiver. Then he turned his back, finished the conversation in a lower tone. He hung up with a quick curse, turned, pointed at me. “Stay where you are.”

“You told me to get out.”

“Now I’m telling you not to move.
Comprendo
?”

“Uh-huh. Why?”

He gestured with his head at Lindfors, who closed the door behind him as he left.

“The isolation booth,” I said aloud, alone. “With the Cone of Silence.” No one laughed. It wasn’t funny.

When Robinson and Lindfors came back I was halfway through a cigarette. This time they sat.

Robinson said, “You’re a p.i.”

“You’re kidding.”

“What’s your interest in any of this?”

“Any of what?”

“Oh, Christ, Smith—”

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s instinct.” Lindfors, his jaw set tight, didn’t look at me. “I work for Bobby Moran. I’m an old friend of his. With all due respect, he thought you guys had your heads up your asses about the Mike Downey killing, so he came to me.”

“What do you think?”

“I think so too.”

Lindfors growled. A glance from Robinson stopped whatever was starting.

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t seen a motive. Because there’ve been two killings now, and neither of them has been quite right if you’re looking for the Cobra’s M.O. Have you identified the gun Howe was shot with, by the way? Or Downey?”

“We ask the questions!” Lindfors barked. His hard eyes glittered
and his hand was curled into a professional-looking fist, barely restrained.

“What is this, a Cagney movie?” I looked from one to the other. Neither of them spoke. “The hell with you guys. I have things to do.” I stood, headed for the door.

“Smith,” Robinson said, “sit down.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

“Are we going to converse?” I asked. “Educate each other, mutually assist? Or is Lindfors going to sit here mourning the loss of his rubber hose?”

“Sit down.”

That sounded like the closest thing to a compromise I was going to get. I sat.

“We don’t have the guns,” Robinson said. “We don’t have either gun.” Lindfors looked away, pounded the table with his fist. A lot of that going around today. Robinson went on, “But they weren’t the same.”

There was silence in the room; I didn’t think it was necessarily my job to break it.

Robinson spoke again. “Now,” he said, “I told you those things because you wanted to know. Now you talk to me.”

“You know,” I said, “either you guys have a pretty subtle routine going here, or you’re actually a human being, Robinson.”

“Don’t count on it. I want to know what you’ve been doing for the last few days and what you’ve found.”

“I’ve been going around in circles, and I’m not sure I’ve found anything. Why do you suddenly care?”

“What’s your theory on who killed Howe and Downey?”

“I don’t have one. But I don’t think it was the Cobras.”

“You think it’s connected with the Bronx Home?”

“I think it’s likely.”

“But you have no idea who?”

I shook my head.

“And you have no idea why?”

I kept the headshake going.

“And you have no idea why anyone would want to kill Dr. Milt Reynolds, the guy who ran the place?”

That stopped me. “No,” I said. “No. Why would anyone want to do that?”

“Someone did. Someone blew him away last night in Henry Howe’s apartment, where someone tore the place apart looking for something. It took them all frigging night to figure out they ought to call me, just now. You know anything about that?”

“Jesus.” Trying not to, I saw the staring, expressionless face of Dr. Reynolds, surrounded by white tile and the reek of aftershave.

“You seem to be taking this kind of hard, Smith.” Robinson’s voice made the picture vanish. I almost liked him for that, but there was no warmth in the voice at all. “You a particular friend of Reynolds’s?”

“Looking for what?” I said. “What were they looking for?”

“You have any idea?”

“What was Reynolds doing there? Was he looking for something too?”

“He don’t know shit,” Lindfors growled. “Let’s go, Lou. Forget about him. Let’s go find Snake.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Robinson said. “Smith, let me tell you something. This case is of particular interest at levels where I get nosebleed. We picked up Martin Carter this morning because it was suggested to us. The pols want this over before things get out of hand.”

“It seems to me three murders is already ‘out of hand.’ ”

“No. No, ‘out of hand’ is when the private security forces start carrying guns, and instead of two armies in this war you have dozens: mercenaries, soldiers of fortune only interested in their firepower, everybody wandering the streets blowing each other’s heads off. That’s what the Borough President would consider ‘out of hand.’ ”

“He told you that? The Borough President?”

“Yeah, he called me at home. Somehow, Smith, the message got to my Commissioner, and somehow it managed to reach me.”

“And the message said, ‘Pick up Martin Carter’?”

“Maybe if we can lock someone up for this we can stop what’s going to happen next.”

I thought of Vanessa, swinging her lunchbox, holding onto Carter’s hand. She’d be fifteen, when he got out.

“He didn’t do it.”

“Then bring me the man who did.”

“Fucking Snake,” Lindfors muttered, almost to himself.

“Usually,” I said, “usually the cops tell me to stay the hell out of their business.”

“Play it however you want,” Robinson shrugged. “You know people I don’t know. You can go places I can’t. Maybe there are things in those places I want.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Well,” said Robinson, “I suggest you look.”