Gold Coast Blues (17 page)

I thought I heard an acknowledging grunt, but couldn’t be sure.

Chapter 26

With two peanut-butter sandwiches and a bottle of water, I parked on a corner intersecting Clinton Avenue, a couple of blocks from the mini-precinct. Despite the cars lining the street in front of the building, nobody entered or exited. I guessed the meeting Cooper had mentioned was in progress. An hour later, both sandwiches were gone. The sun beat down on the car. Weights hung from my eyelids. I opened the windows but the air was still. The drowsy spell would have its way, there was no going back.

Men laughed, car doors slammed, alarms chirped. Emerging from a hazy slumber, I started my car just as Cooper’s crony Sergeant Blake joined another man in a large Buick. Their car pulled a tight U-turn and flew past me. I let them get half a block ahead then sped after them. Instead of staying on Clinton, they turned down a side street and meandered their way into an industrial park. The Buick stopped in front of a long structure in the shape of a top hat. In the middle of the building the warehouse towered high, with three enormous bay doors flanked on both sides by standard one-story flat-roofed offices. I parked on the far side of an adjacent warehouse then walked toward the back of the top-hat building. As I got closer, I realized the lower level was twice as wide as the warehouse. The building now resembled a modernist-style chair. I opened an unlocked wooden door on which the word “Office” had been sloppily painted.

The room was large, extending back to carpeted partitions lined up in front of a glass wall separating the office from the warehouse, and had a strange, overripe kind of smell, not unpleasant but not exactly desirable. I moved one of the partitions away from the glass and saw an elaborate network of steel tanks, hoses, valves, pumps, meters, and other obscure-looking mechanical devices. Two men in lab coats attended the machinery. One walked slowly around the equipment, stopping to check gauges and adjust dials, while the other added packets of powder or small quantities of liquids to one of the tanks. In the corner, a man sat next to a pile of wooden crates. Smoke drifted from a device he pressed against the wood.

“Miss your flight, Detective?”

Two men stood in front of the door. The guy holding a gun was Guido Tuxedo from Back End Up. Sergeant Blake stood beside him, arms folded.

“Weird. All the flights were full. Nobody gave up a seat.”

I had failed to notice the glass door to a dimly lit hallway linking the office to the warehouse. A hulking figure approached.

“You got a gun under that jacket, Detective?” Guido Tuxedo said.

“I didn’t yesterday. Right, Sergeant Blake?”

Sergeant Blake had no comment. His face looked as pleasant and unconcerned as when I first walked into the mini-precinct. The figure from the hallway pushed through the door. Middle-Eastern looking, he stood about six foot with gorilla shoulders and a chest like the front end of a Peterbilt truck. His smile disturbed me.

Guido Tuxedo said, “In such a small space, I’d feel better if I knew you were unarmed. I hope you don’t mind if Ahmet pats you down.”

“Guys, New Jersey doesn’t have a concealed-carry reciprocity agreement—”

The smell of oregano arrived first, a moment before Ahmet stood behind me and executed a choke hold with his left arm while patting me down with his right hand. Despite finding me unarmed, Ahmet placed his right forearm against the back of my neck and applied pressure. My comical attempt to get a grip on his massive forearms was my last memory before I found myself sitting on the floor, leaning backward against someone’s hulking stomach, but having no idea where I was. The oregano smell restarted my brain as the gorilla hands lifted me up by the armpits.

“Feeling better?” Guido Tuxedo said. He stood about a foot in front of me. Sergeant Blake remained at the door. “Now that we know you’re unarmed, I feel better. Look, I’ll put my gun away. Why don’t we chat a bit?”

“Yeah. Let’s be friends.”

Guido Tuxedo frowned. “Playing the tough detective? You think you’re in a fucking movie?”

I truly couldn’t help myself. “I have to act tough or be a smart ass. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Guido Tuxedo looked confused. “Can’t we just talk like men?”

“Okay. What’s your name?”

“Mike.”

Guido Tuxedo was now Mike. “Mike, your breath stinks.”

A sudden ringing filled the room then everything spun in a mist of sparkling lights before the pain spiraled out of my ear and covered the top of my head. My knees buckled but I somehow remained standing.

“Turks are known to be hospitable,” Mike said, “but not Ahmet. He just gave you a mild concussion without even trying. A concussion is a brain injury. Your brain should heal before you get another smack like that. Otherwise, you may never recover.”

“Why don’t you just put a slug in my head instead of scrambling my brains?”

“Well, we’d like to know who you’re working for, then maybe we can discuss how you’d like to die.”

“I told your boss Cooper everything.”

“Everything? Why don’t we believe you?” Mike held up my wallet then fished out a business card. “Jules Landau, private investigator. Landau. That’s a kike name, isn’t it?” They giggled. Even Sergeant Blake smiled a bit. Then Mike said, “Lucky for you it’s not a Greek name,” which brought down the house.

Ahmet’s hands slid away from my armpits, allowing me to balance by myself. With the training wheels off, I clenched my right hand into a fist then swung wildly with everything I had. The sensation of Mike’s lip splitting and smearing my knuckles with blood and saliva conjured an image of the collision like a still from a newsreel. I envisioned myself smiling with a kind of schoolyard bully satisfaction. For a long moment, I was a kid again, back on the playground, on top of the world. Then everything went black, although I felt hands gripping my shoulders, holding me upright, and then a dull throbbing on the right side of my head. A finger lifted an eyelid. My head erupted. I swallowed something then fell backward into a dark canyon.

—

A fixture of beveled glass crystals hung from the ceiling. The room tilted as I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the cot. I surveyed the room. Shelves of darkly tinted bottles. Toilet and sink in the corner. Metal folding chairs against the wall. I walked carefully to the door as the room toggled back and forth. Locked. I stumbled back to the cot.

Besides a slight headache, I had no qualms about lying on a cot in a strange room. In fact, I felt oddly content—a bit euphoric even—in a drowsy kind of way. Memories of the previous hours seeped in. They called me “detective,” even though I’m an investigator. Lots of people called me “detective.” They didn’t know the difference but so what? Let them think what they wanted. I was in deep shit. What would happen next? I felt really cool, like in a movie.

When I opened my eyes, Sergeant Blake, Mike, and Ahmet stared down at me. A scab peeked out from the Band-Aid on Mike’s upper lip.

“Ahmet gave you a chop to the temple,” Mike said. “That’s twice you’ve been clobbered in a short time. Your brain doesn’t appreciate this. He hits you too hard, you’re dead. Sometimes you think you’re okay and then later your brain bleeds out.”

“Thanks,” I said calmly, my slight lisp becoming suddenly pronounced. “Thanks for not hitting so hard. I think you drugged me.”

“You old enough to remember goofballs? We gave you something like that, just to calm you down—to help us talk.”

Sergeant Blake grabbed the three folding chairs and the men sat in a row along the edge of the cot. I looked again at Mike’s lip. Intense guilt ensued. “Dude, I’m really sorry for hitting you. God, I hate being like that. I’m not a bad guy, I swear. I don’t go around hitting people.”

“You want to make up with me, Landau? Tell me why you’re here and we’ll be pals.”

A strong desire to appease took over. “Ask Sergeant Blake! I wasn’t an asshole at your precinct, right? You and I got along. I did what you told me and I got to talk to Detective Cooper. We had a good conversation.”

“Yes, you’re a good man, Mr. Landau,” Sergeant Blake said. “Detective Cooper liked you too. Now just answer Mike’s questions and we’ll all be friends.”

“I reminded Detective Cooper I’m an
investigator,
not a detective—”

“Why did you come to Irvington?” Mike interrupted.

I started giggling. Unable to resist I said, “My health. I came to Irvington for the waters.”

Mike tried to suppress his smile but failed. “See, it’s just fun and games playing detective, right? You know fantasy worlds are a lot safer than the real world—right?”

“Jesus, relax,” I said. “I’m just trying to help Eddie Byrne find his girlfriend—hey, Ahmet! Are we good? I deserved that whack on the head, dude.” I offered my hand for a conciliatory shake. Ahmet didn’t bite.

“What are you doing here, Landau?” Mike said.

Suddenly the question sparked a strange empathy—as if I
owed
them an explanation. I described Eddie’s reluctance to talk—emphasized that he had every right in a free country not to talk—but framed my presence as a kind of peripheral approach to investigating, to see if some small detail would surface and inspire an insight. Mike whispered to Sergeant Blake. They stood then walked away to confer. I drifted into semi-consciousness, aware I was the subject of discussion, but still feeling really cool.

“What about the FBI?”

I opened my eyes to the men seated as before. I said, “I don’t know any FBI.”

“We know the Feds are watching Eddie,” Mike said.

“Oh, no. He’s not dealing drugs! Eddie’s better than that.”

“He’s not dealing drugs,” Sergeant Blake and Mike said at the same time.

“Then tell the Feds they’re wasting their time.”

“We need to know what you know, Landau,” Mike said. “Like, why you came to this building.”

“Guys, I’m here to find out about Tanya, Eddie’s girlfriend. Nothing else. Christ, I’m tired.”

“You see anything in this building that’s gonna help you find her?”

I was just too damn tired to talk. That oversized chemistry set in the warehouse had no relevance to Tanya. But Mike kept asking, kept insisting I knew what Eddie was up to. Maybe it was my fault, maybe I got a little nasty because I thought I heard someone throw a chair across the room. I kept saying I only wanted to sleep but then the hands returned to my armpits and I stood again, dangling like a marionette. “Hold him still,” Mike said and Ahmet wrapped an arm around my chest then grabbed a handful of hair from the back of my head just before the first blow hit my mouth. The second followed closely and then another before I returned to the darkness.

Chapter 27

My face throbbed. Mike and Sergeant Blake spoke casually. So many things I could’ve done with my life. History professor, antiques dealer, lawyer, gemologist, park ranger, historic preservationist, geologist, linguist, bookseller, reporter, social worker, shop owner, real estate investor, arborist, or any other goddamn thing a white, upper-middle-class American male wanted to do. I chose private investigator, a path to lying on a cot and fearing that opening my eyes might provoke more violence. But to what end? Unless they were sadists, getting me to talk made more sense. If they had already used me up, I would’ve been re-homed somewhere in the Passaic River by now.

“I don’t know….What do you think the boss wants to do?”

“Depends on his mood…” Loud laughter. “And he knows that cop…could be tricky…attention he don’t want…”

I sat up. Darts of pain pulsated around my face. The guys continued chatting, apparently unconcerned with my resurrection. “…Yeah, but things are better than they used to be….I remember…”

My feet found the floor, provoking a glance. Games get boring when played too often.

I said, “You think I could get something to eat?”

Sergeant Blake took the cellphone off his belt, dialed a number. “Yep.”

Moments later, Cooper walked through the door. “He’s hungry,” Mike said.

“Get him something. How about toast? You like toast, Mr. Landau?”

“Love it,” I deadpanned.

“Good. Sergeant Blake, would you mind?”

Sergeant Blake walked out. Cooper sat in his chair. “How are you feeling, Mr. Landau?”

I walked to the mirror above the sink. Deep purple bruises blemished my mouth, cheekbone, and eye socket. “I feel just how I look.”

Cooper grimaced. “I’m sorry about that. But this was your choice. Violence is always a choice.”

“Whose choice was it to ambush me?”

“You chose to come to Irvington, right?”

“It’s a free country, right? I’m being paid to find a missing woman, right? I’m doing my job, right?”

“A free country?” Cooper thought about it. “Well, Irvington’s reality may not fit into your idea of freedom.”

We sat in silence. Sergeant Blake returned with a plate of toast and several small packets of jelly. The three men watched me eat as if something of monumental importance hinged on the outcome.

“Anything else?” Cooper said.

“I want my wallet back.”

Sergeant Blake left the room, returned with my wallet, then stood by the door.

Cooper said, “You’ll find your wallet with everything intact.”

I stood. “Before you leave,” Cooper said, “tell me your impression—from what you’ve seen so far, I mean.”

I gave my best
Are you kidding me?
look. “You really think I give a damn about some bum-booze distillery? A ghetto full of poor people happy as hell to buy your cheap hooch with no labels? That’s what I call a captive audience.
I get it
.” I moved toward the door.

“Not just yet.” Sergeant Blake stepped in front of the door. “I can’t help but wonder if, maybe, later on, you might change your tune. I mean, little things might fall into place and then you might get a different idea.”

It had seemed too easy—that a guy with Cooper’s reputation would just let me walk. I knew damn well private investigating could be dangerous, especially if organized crime was involved. But to disappear over bootleg booze?

“Why would I give a shit? I’m just trying to find Tanya—”