Forced Entry (39 page)

“Louis go to the hospital?” he finally asked.

“Louis is dead, Moodrow. I buried him on Sunday.”

“I didn’t know.” It was all he could think to say.

“Nobody knew,” Sheehan responded. “Nobody wanted to know. Even in the hospital. I took him there myself, because 911 couldn’t tell me when the ambulance would get here. No big deal, really. Louis was having trouble breathing. It happened every time his fever went up. I took him over to Elmhurst General.”

“And they didn’t wanna take him?” Moodrow felt a familiar tug. By playing the sympathetic acquaintance, he could maneuver Sheehan into talking about Maurice Babbit. That was why he’d come. At the same time, Sheehan, slumped in a worn easy chair, was so deep in his grief, a nonprofessional would have backed away immediately. Moodrow, on the other hand, was a thorough professional; he’d interviewed the families of victims on dozens of occasions. Instinctively, and without any lessening of sympathy, he kept Pat Sheehan talking.

“You go in the city hospitals and the first thing you see ain’t a nurse,” Sheehan said. “Forget the nurse. First you gotta get past the security. By the time the taxi dropped us off, Louis was very weak. I carried him into the hospital and it was like nothin’. It was like carryin’ a pile of sticks. Only the sticks were hot. They were burnin’ up.”

“What’d the security say? He try to stop you?”

“No. He took one look at Louis and he went back to find the nurse. See, I found out later from the same guard that you’re better off comin’ in by an EMS ambulance, because then it’s registered and if they let you lay around without treatment, you could come back at them. If you just walk in, it’s your word against theirs as to when you arrived. The nurse came in about five minutes later—the guard was practically dragging her—but I could see she wasn’t too interested in Louis. ‘AIDS,’ she said. Real short, as if he got sick on purpose. The only thing I could say good for the bitch is that she didn’t make us wait in the waiting room. There musta been twenty people in that room with AIDS. You could see ’em tryin’ ta sit up in them plastic chairs. Most of ’em were alone and they didn’t look as bad as Louis. At least they could walk in by themselves.”

Moodrow settled down on the couch. Patience and a willingness to listen are the most important ingredients of nonviolent police interviews. “The city hospitals have been disaster areas for about five years.”

“Yeah,” Sheehan agreed. He looked up at Moodrow through swollen eyes. “That was the one thing I couldn’t afford for Louis. I couldn’t afford private hospitals. I woulda got insurance if I could, but I didn’t think of it until after he got sick and by then it was too late. Nobody wants to sell insurance to someone with AIDS. They’d have to be crazy.”

“So you got stuck with Medicaid.”

“Yeah, that’s the story. Not that it woulda made no difference. The nurse put Louis on a bed in the corridor because the rooms were full. Shit, even the corridor was full. People were everywhere: cryin’, moanin’, pukin’. One drunk was bleedin’ so bad the sheet on the bed was soaked. His head was cut open and he was holdin’ his bandage in his hands from where he pulled it. Pulled the stitches open, too, but nobody was doin’ shit about it. The nurse listened to Louis’ heart for about five seconds, then told me to wait for the doctor. I told her that Louis needed to see someone right away, but she said if I made any trouble, the security guard would put me out of the building. She said she only had seven nurses and six doctors instead of twelve nurses and eight doctors and it was Friday night and they already had five gunshot wounds. So we should just wait.”

Sheehan paused for breath, watching Moodrow closely. Like all mourners, he needed to talk, but his relationship with Louis Persio had isolated him from his old prison buddies, as well as the straight world. “What could I do? I didn’t think he was that bad. Plus I expected the doctor would come any minute. Louis was still talking to me. He was talking about how I came back to him after I got outta the joint and he never expected it. He told me—I already knew this part—how his parents dumped him after the first time he got busted and when they found out he was gay, they made it permanent. Even sent him a letter sayin’ please don’t come home for the holidays. Louis said I should mail the letter back to them on the day of his funeral. His voice was very soft and I was havin’ a hard time hearin’ it, because of how crazy it was in there. One man started screamin’ in Spanish. He was already handcuffed to the bed, but the security came anyway. They held him down while a nurse gave him a shot. I don’t know what was in it, but about twenty seconds later, he lights up with a big toothless grin and starts goin’, ‘
Gracias
,
gracias
,
gracias
.’ Me and Louis both laughed and you can’t blame me if I thought he was gettin’ better. Then he just stopped breathin’ and I screamed so loud the doctor musta figured Louis got murdered. He was a Chinese guy and he checked Louis out for a few seconds and shook his head. ‘No, no. So sorry.’ ”

“You got anything to drink?” Moodrow asked after a moment’s silence.

“I don’t want nothin’.”

“Well, I do,” Moodrow said firmly. “Do me a favor, if you got it, tell me where.”

“Look in the freezer. There’s a bottle of vodka in the freezer.”

Moodrow retrieved the bottle and two glasses, then returned to the living room. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. A grieving ex-convict, a middle-aged ex-cop—not the most likely combination. Moodrow was faced with an ancient cop dilemma: how to intrude on grief and suffering without being crushed by it.

“I said I didn’t want none.” Sheehan pointed to the second glass.

“Just in case,” Moodrow said. “So I won’t have to make two trips.” He poured three inches of vodka into his glass, then sipped speculatively. “This shit doesn’t have any taste to it. I like bourbon. Then I know I’m drinking something. It’s awful, but it’s there.”

“Why’d you come, Moodrow?”

“Look, I didn’t mean to bother you.” Now that the moment was at hand, Moodrow found himself reluctant to get started. Better, he decided, to let Sheehan push a little. “If I woulda known about Louis, I wouldn’t have come. At least not this soon.”

Sheehan sighed without looking up. “I owe you, Moodrow. No question about it. I owe you for makin’ ‘Louis feel a little bit easier. Most of the people in the world took one look at Louis and ran for the holy water. You treated him like any other human being. He laughed about it. No shit. Who could of believed that the last person, besides me and the nurse, who could stand being next to Louis would turn out to be a cop? That meant more than the favors.”

“It wasn’t any big deal,” Moodrow said. He was actually blushing. “Don’t make a big fucking thing out of it.”

“Tell me what you want, Moodrow.”

“I’m still trying to locate the people behind what happened here. I was wondering if you spoke to any of the dealers. You know…What we talked about last time I was in the apartment.”

“I talked to a few people, but I don’t have no answers for you. My sense is that most of ’em came from Hell’s Kitchen, but I couldn’t find out
why
they came. I didn’t get close enough to ask that kinda question. Maybe if I had more time…But they’re runnin’ for cover, now. Word’s out that the cops are gonna close the place down.”

“That’s definite,” Moodrow said. “The dealers are gonna get busted for criminal trespass and the buildings gonna be patrolled by street cops for the next couple of months.”

“I guess that’s it for me, too,” Sheehan said. “My name ain’t on the lease.”

“Don’t give up too soon.” Moodrow refilled his glass, then filled Sheehan’s. When he offered the drink, the younger man accepted it without comment. “Talk to the paralegal. What’s his name, again?”

“Kavecchi.” Sheehan twisted his face into a grimace. “That guy makes me crazy. He complains about everything.”

“Well, he also knows everything about housing. Between him and the fact that the landlord’s scared shitless, you might find a way to keep your apartment.” Moodrow hesitated momentarily, looking down at his hands. “There was one other thing I wanted to ask you about. We got the name of the scumbag who set the fire. The arsonist. We got it through a print he left behind, but we can’t find him. When I pulled his package, I noticed that he was up in Clinton the same time you were.”

“Yeah?” Sheehan, interested, sat up straight. “A white guy?”

“Right. Name of Maurice Babbit.”

“Babbit? No shit.”

“You knew him?” Moodrow couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice.

“ ‘Knew him’ is a little too strong for it. Babbit was a crazy and I kept as far away from the nuts as possible. You gotta remember there ain’t that many white people in the joint, so when you get one who’s crazy enough to set people on fire in their cells, you learn who he is before he torches
your
cell. Babbit got out two years before me.”

“That’s right. He’s off parole and we can’t find him.”

“You think I know where Babbit lives?”

“Actually, I don’t. I thought you might know people who were close to him. Maybe one of his buddies is on parole. It’d give me a way to go.”

Sheehan, sitting back in the chair, took his time considering the request. “I don’t think I could give you no names,” he finally said. “It’s too late in life to start rattin’ people out. If I knew where Babbit was, I’d tell ya, but if I give ya the names of guys who used ta be friends of mine and you go leanin’ on ’em…People been leanin’ on me and Louis for too long. Neighbors, parole officers, Medicaid doctors, emergency room nurses, landlords. I don’t want it on my conscience that I put you on someone who used to be my friend.”

“I’m not gonna lean on anyone.”

“Bullshit.”

Moodrow giggled, putting his hand to his mouth. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It’s bullshit. If I had to press someone to get to Babbit, I would. Still, if you’re sayin’ you know people who were close to Babbit, there’s gotta be a way we could do this.”

“There’s a way. There’s always a way. That’s why you came here.” Sheehan raised his head. “I’m not goin’ back to work for a week, because I ain’t got the heart for the packages and the traffic. Which means I got enough time to check it out. Ya know, Sylvia Kaufman’s face was the only face I could count on for a smile in this building. That would be reason enough to finger a crazy motherfucker like Maurice Babbit, even if I didn’t owe you, which I admit I do. Plus I gotta be doin’ somethin’ and right now it can’t be work.”

M
AREK NAJOWSKI DECIDED NOT
to use his competition rifle, a heavily customized Anschutz Super Match, because, despite its accuracy (“accuracy” wasn’t really strong enough for the half inch groupings he customarily shot), Marek couldn’t be certain the Anschutz’s .22 caliber ammo would kill Marty Blanks. Not from a hundred and twenty yards out; not when the target was moving. Better to use ammo guaranteed to cause massive damage. Even if you were off by an inch or two, the shock alone was enough to kill. There wasn’t
that
great a loss of accuracy, anyway. In fact, Marek had long felt that the Weatherby Mark V, fitted with a 2x-7x scope and a 26” barrel, should have its own competition. Even geared up to handle .458 Win. Mag. ammunition (enough to put down a charging elephant, though there wasn’t much of
that
anymore, either), the rifle, at two hundred yards, would shoot true in a hurricane. Of course, the competition would have to be very exclusive. How many people could afford a rifle of that quality? The Weatherby had cost him $4000. The inlay on the stock alone, parallel ivory triangles set deep in the French walnut, went for more than a thousand dollars.

Naturally, some people, especially assholes like Marty Blanks, would sneer at the bolt action Weatherby (“One shot at a time? You gotta be kiddin’ me”). But the sort of people who favored drive-by shootings with semiautomatic (or, God forbid,
fully
automatic) weapons had never interested Marek Najowski. Marek was too concerned with style; he was convinced that, without style, life would be completely unbearable. He’d seen a lot of pain in his time; he still touched it whenever he visited his mother. (He’d never get used to that,
never
.) The best response, as far as
he
was concerned, was an equal measure of stiff upper lip and all-out revenge.

Besides, drive-by shootings, perfect vehicles for the deliverance of terror, were part and parcel of Marty Blanks’ experience and, thus, protecting against a massive attack would form the base of Blanks’ security. A true assassination, on the other hand, was beyond Blanks’ imagination (and, thus, beyond the scope of his defenses), but perfectly compatible with the goals and methods of Marek Najowski.

Even as Marek Najowski made himself comfortable amid the dirt and rubble of an abandoned tenement, Marty Blanks seated himself in the kitchen of his 49th Street condominium, along with Muhammad Latif and Muhammad’s sister, Lily Brown. Blanks was discussing Stanley Moodrow and his inexplicable escape. Without any knowledge of Katerina Nikolis and the undulating waterbed, the ex-cop’s survival seemed, to Blanks, like one of those miracles the nuns used to talk about. Curiously, Blanks’ obsession with Stanley Moodrow and the danger Moodrow presented, didn’t surprise Latif at all. Latif had grown up in the 7th Precinct on the Lower East Side and knew all about the giant detective with the tombstone face. The last thing Latif felt he needed was Stanley Moodrow sniffing around his door. Even
if
Moodrow was after Blanks for a crime that didn’t really involve Latif.

“I been gettin’ stories back,” Lily Brown said. One of her functions, as a trusted lieutenant in the Latif-Blanks organization, was to service many of the dealers at the Jackson Arms. “From some of the Queens crew. Them white boys you picked out, Marty? They fucked it up bad.” She sniffed loudly, her contempt for whites (with the sole exception of Marty Blanks, who’d backed her brother when they jailed together) more than obvious.

“How?” Blanks was still amazed. “The assholes had Uzis and the cop was twenty feet away. How the fuck could they miss? I mean it.
How the fuck could they miss?
”