Father's Day (22 page)

“I wanted you all here with me today as I officially announce my candidacy for mayor of this great city of Philadelphia. It is only through the support of each and every one of you that I was able to launch my campaign. Philadelphia needs a new start. As many of you know, I believe in the traditional values that this city was originally built upon. It’s going to be the old ideals, the old ways, the tried and true that return Philadelphia to the glory it once knew. With the support of community leaders and labor unions, I’ll bring back business, industry, and jobs that have long since left. With the support of the police, I’ll bring back law and
order to our streets. Your efforts on my behalf represent a vote of confidence for the city we all know and love, the city we call home. Philadelphia.”

Vince had raised his glass for the last sentence. Everyone in the room raised their glasses in unison and toasted their candidate for mayor. The room erupted into applause and Vince immediately began shaking hands, first with Warren Armstrong and then Ray Boland. He bent to kiss Sarah on the cheek. She looked as if she’d turned to stone.

The piano player brought out a few of his pals, a jazz band with a drummer, a bass player, a guy on guitar, and a couple of black girls doing backup. There was a sax and a trumpet and soon the dance floor was full. Lou took another sip and saw the bartender look past him with something like a warning in his eyes. He turned around and Jennifer Finnelli was so close he could feel her breath on his face.

“Can you meet me later?”

“For what?”

“Can you meet me or not?”

“Where?”

“You know a place called the Copper Penny, down on Sixty-sixth?”

“Off Lansdowne Avenue. I know it. Pretty rough territory.”

“Meet me there tonight, at midnight.”

Lou jiggled the remaining ice cubes in his glass and watched Jennifer walk away. From the back, she was just another cocktail waitress with the line in her stockings running straight down the back of her legs like a zipper. From the front, she was a very scared young lady.

Lou slid an ice cube into his mouth, sucked on it with a loud smack, and then began to chew it. It was cold and sharp. He unfolded a napkin and wiped water from his chin. He noticed Ray Boland at the end of the bar, grinning in his direction.
Boland was dressed in a tan double-breasted suit, the color of the Arizona desert, a light green shirt with ivory buttons, and a turquoise tie. He wore alligator-skin boots, with a pointed toe and a wooden heel. His face was red, round, and fleshy. His head was completely bald. He approached with an outstretched hand.

“Mr. Klein, it has been a long time.”

“Inspector Boland. It is Inspector. Isn’t it? You’re the second of Philly’s finest I’ve run into tonight.”

“Well, someone’s got to keep the peace.”

“Then you’re here on official business.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly put it that way. Actually, I am on an errand. Warren Armstrong wants a word with you. We can use Vince’s office. Follow me.”

“An offer I can’t refuse? Since when does a mob mouthpiece use a cop as a gopher?”

“Since washed-up Philly cops forget their manners, need to be reminded where they are, who they’re talking to.”

“I’m starting to get the picture.”

“You remember Armstrong, from your days with the department?”

“Sure I do.”

“Well, he hasn’t changed. So watch your step.”

“He and I sparred in every courtroom in the county. He kept me on the stand for three days on that Lester Johnson murder trial, kept a killer off death row. He made that madman look like an altar boy. A few bad breaks, he said, a rough childhood. He portrayed me as a dirty cop and a racist. He’d tell a jury anything if it got his client off. I’ve seen little old ladies in the jury box, in tears over some guy who’d kill his mother for a hundred bucks’ worth of dope.”

“I never liked him much myself, but he’s a good man to know.”

“I busted his lip in the men’s room at the Nineteenth Precinct.
He’s not the first defense attorney I wanted to punch. He’s just the only one I ever did. It bought me ten days and a thousand dollars in medical bills for six stitches and an ice pack.”

“You could do a lot worse, Lou. Don’t be stupid. Vince is going to be the next mayor of Philadelphia. He’s got the support of the police, Lou. The cops love him. He’ll take this town back from the blacks and every law abiding citizen in every crime-ridden neighborhood will love him for it. And Armstrong will be his chief of staff. Whatever history you have with him, forget it. If they decide to bring you on board, it’ll be the chance of a lifetime.”

“Armstrong and I go back a lot of years. There’s a lot to forget.”

“Try.”

“And where do you fit in?”

“Anywhere I want.”

Armstrong sat behind an ornate wooden desk in Vince’s office. Jennifer served drinks all around and got out of there as fast as she’d come in. Tommy Ahearn walked her to the door, his hand resting lightly on her shoulders. It must have felt like a thousand pounds. Boland lifted a big boot up on a chair and put a cigarette between his lips. He leaned forward with his weight on one knee and ran his hand over the top of his bald scalp. Vince was fixing himself a drink at the sidebar. Sarah sat alone on the couch, her legs crossed, her hands in her lap. Even through the fresh makeup, her face was a sickly white.

Lou took a long look at Ahearn, his fighter’s face, the crooked nose, and the layers of scar tissue under both eyes. His forehead was broad, one large piece of bone. His heavy hands, had looked frightening so close to Jennifer’s neck.

Lou remembered him now, remembered seeing him fight in Atlantic City, a southpaw with a conventional stance. He had a killer left jab and no right hand. He had to step forward with
his right foot to generate the power in his left and that left him open for a second.

Lou had seen him fight Jimmy “Big Wheel” Williams, a tough old veteran from Camden. Williams took punishment from Ahearn for nine rounds without a backward step. When Ahearn switched his stance to finish him off, Williams struck with a right cross and a left hook. Ahearn went out of the ring on a stretcher.

Lou had done some boxing himself, mostly in the Marine Corps. He knew how his mind had played tricks on him when he was backed into a corner under a barrage of punches. He’d torn his Achilles tendon during a sparring session and that ended his fight career. He still felt it on cold, damp mornings, getting out of bed, feeling like someone stuck a knife into his heel.

“Mr. Klein, still snooping around in the middle of the night, I see.”

“It is a little late in the day for office hours.”

Armstrong let out a loud, bellowing laugh and slapped the desk three times with his fist like a judge banging a gavel. His sarcasm, however, was the least offensive of his weapons. He was a master at double-talk, Lou remembered, streetwise and book-smart in one fancy package. Armstrong had perfected two modes of speech, sympathetic when addressing a jury and cutting when cross-examining a witness. He was the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing. Vince handed Lou a glass of champagne in a tall thin glass, with a thin, fragile stem. Lou took it. He felt the cold glass as he cupped it lightly between his fingers.

“We were about to have a toast, to Vince’s success. We are glad you could join us.”

“I’ll bet.”

Armstrong’s oratories possessed the flavored guile of a tenured Alabama senator. He’d attended one of those southern
law schools, where a big bell hung in a steeple, ringing morning, noon, and night, reminding every student there who actually presided in the courtroom. He’d been ordained a minister through some dubious association with an obscure ecumenical church. He still insisted upon the official title of Reverend when he appeared in certain venues. He could sound good without really saying anything and he’d corrupted a system designed to serve people, in order to serve himself. Listening to Warren Armstrong, it wasn’t hard to believe there were still places where someone can stand on a pulpit, invoke the name of God, and every word they uttered became gospel. Armstrong made a career of picking jurors who were susceptible to his charms and he’d always given them their money’s worth.

“Why don’t we all take a deep breath and have a nice little chat. I do believe we have mutual interests to discuss and I know that Mrs. Trafficante has some business to conclude with you as well. I think after all the cards are on the table, you’ll be surprised at how much we all have in common.”

“I doubt that but I’m willing to listen.”

“Good. That will be a welcome change of pace. First of all, you’re officially off the case. I wanted to assure you that Sarah greatly appreciates your efforts in this matter and I am prepared to compensate you fully for services rendered, as well as any expenses you might have incurred during your investigation.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“You do work for a fee. Do you not?”

“Not necessarily”

“In that case, I have a proposition for you. I often have the need for the services of a private investigator. I usually go through a professional agency but I do employ a few independent contractors for more discreet operations. We’ve known each other a long time. I know you’re reliable. You have a good,
honest reputation. Why not come to work for me. I wouldn’t be making this offer without Mr. Trafficante’s tacit approval.”

“What makes you think I’d want to work for you?”

“It would be a good career move, Lou, in more ways than one.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not think it over before you answer. This isn’t a decision to be made in haste.”

“I’m sure.”

“You can’t say I didn’t give you an opportunity. It’s more than I might have done for someone else in your position.”

“I’m not here to apply for a job, Armstrong. Sarah Blackwell hired me to find her daughter. Since then, I’ve learned some things, not just about the daughter, but about the father as well.”

“If you’re talking about Sam Blackwell, and I assume you are, what could you hope to gain by dredging up a most distasteful chapter in the life of this family?”

“Sam Blackwell was my friend. I’d like to know what happened to him.”

“That case was put to rest a long time ago. All you’ll succeed in doing for your friend is damage his reputation, bring disgrace to his family, and possibly to the Philadelphia Police Department. Is that what you want?”

“Does Carol Ann Blackwell’s disappearance have something to do with the death of her father?”

“You don’t give up, do you? If you must know, Carol Ann Blackwell has been found. She’s had a very rough time of it. Suffice it to say, she’s had her share of problems with addiction. I don’t think I need to say more and frankly, Mr. Klein, it’s none of your business any longer. I dare say, under the circumstances, you can hardly depend on my continued cordiality.”

“Where is she?”

“Miss Blackwell is resting comfortably at a nearby hospital. She is under a doctor’s supervision.”

“Who’s her doctor?”

“A very competent physician with whom I have conferred numerous times in the past.”

“I bet. Surely, you have no objection to me having a few words with her.”

“Carol Ann is a very sick girl.”

“Carol Ann Blackwell is over eighteen and technically an adult. Does she have any say in the matter?”

“Your righ teous indignation is completely unwarranted, Mr. Klein, and I think this case and this girl deserve more respect than your sarcastic one-liners. Sleep is the best thing for her right now and she won’t be well enough to receive visitors for quite some time. Your part in this is done. Any further interference will be construed as harassment.”

“So, Carol Ann Blackwell and the city of Philadelphia are both in the same good hands?”

“Don’t be so cynical, Mr. Klein. Just because something is good for us doesn’t mean it’s bad for everyone else. You have a price like everybody else.”

“I know where to draw the line. I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. I don’t claim to represent the public and then use my influence to rip them off.”

“We get their children jobs. We get them loans at the bank. Their businesses flourish. So show me who loses.”

“There are only a select few who win. The ones that you choose.”

“Can I help it if some people can’t figure out how the game is played? Were you one of those kids, Mr. Klein? Never got picked, always on the sidelines. Now, you want to take your ball
and go home. And we’re supposed to feel sorry for you, see the error of our ways through your shining example?”

“You already know what you’re going to do. You enjoy watching people squirm. I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

“And for you it’s about martyrdom, is that it? A cause worth fighting for. Your kind is ancient history, Klein, and you know it.”

It was getting close
to midnight and the Copper Penny looked closed from the outside. The Copper Penny always looked closed. The cars parked in the lot could have just as easily belonged to the service station next door or the used-car lot across the street. The sign over the entrance was a heavy, hand-carved, painted piece of oak, hanging from a steel rod and two short lengths of chain. If the thing ever fell on one of the patrons walking through the front door at three in the morning, he’d need a good lawyer to wake him up. The Copper Penny was still one of those after-hours joints where you knocked at the front and entered in the back.

It was trying real hard to be a sports bar, with black-and-white pictures on the wall, baseball players from the Phillies’ glory days and a few Flyers posters from when the Stanley Cup was more than just a cold wet dream. Jennifer was at the bar when he walked in, desperately fending off the working stiffs lined up on both sides of her. It looked like they were waiting for her to autograph their baseballs. Lou took a seat in a dark booth
and watched her getting pawed by an overweight boilermaker, who seemed to have her pinned in the chair with his protruding belly. The place was a rat hole and the noise was deafening. Some yelled over it and some whispered under it. The crowd was hardcore drunk. If they made it to the Copper Penny and still had a drink in their hand, they weren’t amateurs.