Hard Candy (3 page)

10

B
Y THE TIME summer left the city, I thought the heat would leave me alone. But even months later, there was no place to go.

I was in a bar off Times Square. Sitting with the Prof, waiting for Michelle. I got up to get the Prof a brew. The place was packed, music screaming so loud the heavy metal clanged. The whole joint was about as much fun as chemotherapy. I bumped into a stud hustler on my way back to the table. He muttered something. I kept moving.

Michelle slipped her way through the crowd. Wearing a white beret, deep purple silk blouse, white pencil skirt, spike heels to match the blouse. An orchid in a sewer. She kissed me on the cheek, her big dark eyes wary.

"How you doing, honey?"

"The same."

The stud hustler I had bumped came over to our table, thumbs hooked in a bicycle chain he used for a belt. Pretty boy. Short spiky haircut. He leaned forward, eyes on me. His buddies behind him a few feet.

"You made me spill my beer."

His voice sounded tough. The way a worn–out car with a bad muffler sounds fast.

I threw a five–dollar bill on the table. "Buy another."

"How about an apology?"

I felt a tiny pulse in my temple. I crumpled the bill in my fist, tossed it onto the dirty floor.

Muscles flexed along the surface of his bare arms. "Get up!"

Michelle lit one of her long black cigarettes. Blew smoke at the ceiling. "Sweetie, go back to whatever you were doing, okay?"

He turned on her. "I don't need no fucking he–she telling me what to do."

Two dots of color on Michelle's cheeks.

The Prof turned his air conditioner on the heat. "There's no beef, Chief. Take the five and slide."

"You got nice friends," the hustler said. "A cross–dresser and a midget nigger."

The Prof smiled. "I'm a thief, boy. I may pull a little vic, but I don't suck dick."

The hustler's face went orange in the nightclub lights. "Let's go outside," he suggested to me, pounding a fist into an open palm.

"He don't have the time, sonny," the Prof answered for me.

"It won't take long."

One of his friends laughed.

The Prof wouldn't let it go. "Yeah it would. About ten to twenty years, punk. Even if they let it slide with manslaughter."

I pushed back my chair.

"Burke!" Michelle snapped.

The place went quiet.

"That's you?" the hustler asked. His voice was a strangulated hernia.

"You know the name, you know the game," the Prof answered for me.

"Hey, man… it was a joke. Okay?"

I sat there, waiting. He backed away. He didn't bump into his friends—they were gone.

It wasn't just the cops who knew I had a body. And whose body I had.

11

O
N THE STREET outside the bar, Michelle grabbed my arm. "What the fuck is
wrong
with you?" She wheeled on the Prof. "And what about you? You turning back the clock twenty years? This idiot's back to being a gunfighter and you're his manager, right?"

"My man's in pain, lady. Give us some play, back away."

Michelle's eyes glittered, hands on hips. I put my hand on her arm—she shrugged it off.

"This isn't
like
you, baby. You're making me nervous."

"It's okay," I said.

"It's
not
okay. You want to go back to prison? Over some stupid argument in a bar?"

"I'm not going back to prison. Just take it easy. We'll drive you home."

She turned and walked away, heels clicking hard on the concrete, not looking back.

12

T
HREE MORE dead days later, they took me down. Right off the street. The Prof spotted them first.

"Rollers on the right," the little man said under his breath.

"Probably behind us too. Call Davidson," I said. I tossed my cigarette into the gutter, slipped my right hand into my coat pocket to make them think I might not go along nicely, and slid away to draw them from the Prof. I quick–stepped it along Forty–fifth Street, heading west toward the river. Feeling the heat. Unmarked cop car running parallel to me in the street. Spotted a gay–porn movie house. Heard car doors slam as I slid my money through the slot for a ticket. They wouldn't want to follow me inside. Two slabs of beef shouldered in on each side, pinning my arms, pulling my hands behind me. Cuffs snapped home. They spun me around. A cop I hadn't seen before sang their song.

"You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in…"

They patted me down before they shoved me into the blue–and–white that pulled to the curb.

Nobody said a word on the ride downtown.

They left me alone in a holding cell for an hour or so. I didn't ask to make a phone call. I did that once, when I was a kid. Just to be doing it—I had nobody to call. Now I knew better. On both counts.

They brought me into the interrogation room. Two detectives I never saw before shouldered in behind me. Street cops. Wash–and–wear suits, bad haircuts, sidewalk shoes. They looked alike. Same size, same weight. Same eyes.

"You want a smoke?" the first one asked.

"How much are they?"

The second one grunted. "On the house," the first guy said.

I nodded. He tossed a pack on the table, pushed a dull metal Zippo across to me. I rolled my thumb carefully across the surface of the lighter, held it up to the light, slid it back to him. The second guy laughed. Threw a book of paper matches at me. I lit a cigarette.

"You want to make a statement?"

"About what?"

"You're busted. Homicide."

I blew smoke at the ceiling.

A knock at the door. The second guy opened it. The new guy was flashier. Younger. Nice suit, silk tie, dimple under the knot. Spent money on his haircut. Mirror shine on his black loafers. Even had tassels on them. The B Team. He took the seat across from me. The street–sweepers stood in the background.

"I'm Detective Lieutenant Swanson. And you're…"

"Under arrest."

One of the street cops snorted. The lieutenant gave me a hard look. "I thought you had more sense than that. What's it gonna get you, pal? You know the score. You don't give up your prints, we can hold you forever. You stand for the prints, your rap sheet falls on you and the judge is gonna remand your ass. You're looking at a few months on Rikers Island even if you beat this."

"I already gave you my prints."

One of the rollers laughed. The lieutenant looked unhappy. "Don't play games, okay? You know how it works. We got some homicides, we got a building blown all to hell in Times Square. We got feds taking fucking bows with their big score. We want ours, okay?"

"What's yours?"

"You tell me, pal. It
could
be you. It don't have to be. Understand? You got something to trade?"

I ground out my cigarette.

The lieutenant looked at his watch. Two gold bracelets on his wrist. "Last chance," he said.

I lit another smoke.

"Don't you even want to know who you killed?"

I blew smoke in his face.

He pushed his chair back. "Book him," he snapped to the two street cops, walking out the door.

This time all three of us laughed.

13

I
T WAS ONE in the morning before they brought me downtown for arraignment. The Lobster Shift: they run arraignments twenty–four hours a day in Manhattan. Seven days a week. I spotted Davidson in the front row, dressed like he was going to face a jury, wide–awake. I waited for my name to be called.

Wolfe was arguing with the judge. If she was standing up at a night arraignment, the defendant must be some major degenerate. She was standing by herself at the counsel table, ten pounds of paper spread out in front of her, a guy who looked like a bouncer in a waterfront bar just behind her. Her voice was soft, but it carried.

"Twenty–nine counts, Your Honor. Twenty–nine
separate
counts. Seven complaining witnesses. That's seven
children
. The People respectfully request that the defendant be remanded until trial."

The defendant was sitting straight up, facing the judge. Well–dressed, dignified. Looked outraged to be in such a place. His lawyer was an older man, beautiful shock of white hair falling almost to his shoulders, church deacon's voice.

"Your Honor, if I may be heard.
Doctor
West is a prominent member of the community. A man without a
scintilla
of a criminal record. A family man, whose wife and children are shocked by these obviously false allegations. The People's request for a remand is simply outrageous. I assure you we intend to fight these scandalous charges on the
merits
, and we are contemplating the appropriate civil remedies against the parents of these obviously misguided children. I'm sure this young lady means well…"

"Don't patronize me, you pompous clown!" Wolfe's voice lashed out.

"That will be enough," the judge said, looking at Wolfe.

"From who?" she snapped back.

"From
both
of you. The Court has heard enough. Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars."

The white–haired lawyer smiled.

"Application to surrender his passport, Your Honor"—from Wolfe.

"Your Honor, I really don't think…"

"Granted," said the judge.

One of the fancy lawyer's assistants walked over to the clerk to make the bail arrangements as they brought me forward for my turn. The white–haired lawyer walked up to Wolfe. "My client…"

"Tell him to go play with his nitrous oxide," Wolfe snarled at him. She looked up as Davidson stepped in next to me. A lovely woman, tall and shapely, her dark hair drawn back from her face, streaks of white like wings sweeping through it. Our eyes met. She said something out of the side of her mouth to the heavyweight who was with her. Swept her papers into a big briefcase and walked away. We all watched her leave, spike heels clicking on the old marble floor.

The heavyweight stepped in next to me, barrel chest against my shoulder. "You got money on the books?" You go down broke, you stay broke. Wolfe knew what you have to do to get cigarette money inside jail. And she didn't want me doing it. The kind of law enforcement they never taught her in the DA's Office.

I nodded. He left to follow Wolfe, covering her back like he always does.

I shook hands with Davidson. "You didn't make a statement," he said, making one of his own.

The ADA who took Wolfe's place was a young guy. Tired–looking. Mustache too big for his face. The B Team detective was standing next to him, looking more like a lawyer than anyone else there.

The judge stared down from the bench. I stared back—I'd seen him before. One of those "why not the best?" political appointees who climbed the ladder using Preparation H for lip gloss. "Gentlemen…any point in discussing this?" He wasn't talking to me.

The ADA started to approach the bench.

Davidson stayed where he was. "No" is all he said.

The ADA went back to his stand. "Judge, the charge is Murder Two. The defendant has an extensive criminal history, including the use of firearms to commit violence. He has no roots in the community, and there is a significant possibility he will flee before trial."

Davidson's face was already red. "What trial? There isn't going to
be
a trial, Judge. This was a pretextual arrest, and the People know it. Or they
should
know it. This case won't survive the Grand Jury. I examined these so–called papers I was handed an hour ago," he barked, waving the yellow–backed sheaf that signaled Felony. "My client is alleged to have killed one Robert Morgan, whoever
that
is, several
months
ago. Period. I don't see a
hint
of what this arrest was based on: no statements, no evidence…we aren't even told how this person allegedly died…was he shot, stabbed, stomped, poisoned…what? My client was arrested on the street. If he was going to flee, he's had enough time to circle the globe, much less leave New York. Where's the connection between this Robert Morgan and my client? Where's the motive? Hell, where's the
body
?" he sneered, looking directly at the detective. Telling him he knew.

The judge was unmoved—he only jumped for state senators on up. "Mr. Gonzales?" he asked the ADA.

"Your Honor, Mr. Davidson knows he can file discovery motions and learn the substance of the People's case. This is an arraignment, not a trial."

"Probable cause!" shouted Davidson.

"We don't need probable cause for an arraignment!"

"You need it for a damn
arrest
!"

"Gentlemen! Approach the bench, please."

I couldn't hear what they were saying. Davidson kept shoving his husky body at the ADA, his face turning as dark as his beard. The ADA kept shrugging his shoulders, tilting his head toward the detective. The judge called the detective up front. Listened, a flat, skeptical look on his face.

Davidson came back to the counsel table. Whispered "Three days" under his breath.

The judge swept the tables with his eyes. "The defendant is remanded for three days. Three days, Mr. Assistant District Attorney. During which time there will
either
be a felony hearing
or
this matter will be presented to the Grand Jury. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"And if it is not, the defendant is to be released on his own recognizance, by agreement of the People. Yes, Mr. Gonzales?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Next case."

I shook hands with Davidson again. They took me away.

14

W
HEN THEY CAME to my cell the next day and told me I had a visit from my lawyer I knew it wasn't Davidson. That wasn't the way he worked.

They brought me into a private room. Toby Ringer stepped in. Toby's a Bureau Chief in the Manhattan DA's Office. A stand–up guy, killer trial lawyer, homicide specialist. He plays the game square. I don't know how he's kept his job this long, but he'll never be a judge. Neither will Wolfe.

He offered his hand. I took it. And the three packs of cigarettes he pulled out of his briefcase.

"You know why I'm here?"

"No."

"The arrest won t stand up. We all know that, okay? Nobody thinks you smoked this Robert Morgan. Somebody dropped a dime, but the word is that he won't testify no matter what. But we do know Morgan was tied in with the Ghost Van, and we know the Ghost Van's gone. Couple of more guys gone along with it. You know the story."

"So?"

"That was your work, Burke. It's all over the street. Wall–to–wall. The word is you're a gun for hire now. Contract hitter."

I dragged on my smoke.

"I don't think that's true either, okay? But whoever blew up Sally Lou's operation, he left a big fat hole. And the wiseguys are stacking up to fill it. It was his time, anyway."

I looked a question at him.

"Yeah, there was a contract out on him. Four big guys have been hit in the past few months. And the Italians are getting real nervous. They can't figure out who's moving on who."

I shrugged.

"Yeah, right. Why should you care? Here's why
we
care. They're scared, Burke. So they went to the well. Dead bodies. And more coming. Wesley's back to work."

The little room went dark in the corners.

"That's who we want, Burke. Wesley. That's why I came out here. To give you the message."

"You bring any cheese with you in that briefcase?"

He took a breath. Snorted it out. "Save the speeches, hard guy. We all know you're not a rat. I'm telling you this for your own good."

"Sure."

He leaned across the desk, his voice a clean, sharp whisper. "Sally Lou, he was just a pain in the ass. The wiseguys—they could've just warned him away. But he got himself some muscle. Guy named Mortay. A very, very bad guy, I'm told. So bad he wanted a match with Max the Silent."

Nothing moved in my face. Toby didn't waste his time watching. "This Mortay, he went to see one of the big guys. In the middle of the night. Right past the guards, past the dogs, past the alarms. Woke him up in bed. Broke his forearm with one finger. Told him to stop playing with Sally Lou. They went to Wesley."

I watched Toby, waiting.

"Mortay was on Wesley's list, Burke. And Mortay's not around. Way I hear it, you're Wesley's competition now."

I went back to my cell.

Rikers Island. Even when summer's over, just as hot as Hell is supposed to be. I said Wesley's name in my mind and turned my cell into a refrigerator.