Hot-Wired in Brooklyn (11 page)

“Brothers? Sisters?”

“Only one brother, killed in the war. Secret mission. His plane blew up with him in it. Carlson himself made captain, but
he was strictly a paper pusher stateside.”

“Girlfriends?”

“Well, he likes to be seen with the ladies, anyway. Me, I think it’s all political. The guy’s too much in love with himself.
Gets a boner every time he sees his picture in the paper. Probably doesn’t need broads except for show.”

“Boyfriends?”

“Now there’s a headline beggin’ for a story. You know somethin’ I don’t?”

“Just asking.”

“If he has, he’s real discreet. That affliction’s a career killer.”

“How about a guy named Jorgenson? Tall, splotchy skin, unkempt red hair?”

“Naah. Who’s he?”

“I don’t know yet.” I stood up. He tossed the folder casually on his desk and gave me a reporter’s look.

“What’s your angle on this?” he asked.

“I don’t know if I have one.”

“And if one develops?”

I smiled. “I’ll come and see you, Scoop.”

F
ulton Joe’s was hyperactive at noon. There wasn’t an empty table in the place, and the waiters were sweating like it was the
middle of July. Busy was the way I wanted it. Safety in a crowd, for Carlson as much as for me. I wanted to rile him, but
not to spook him, and the distinction is very fine.

I had a table away from the window, but with a clear view of Fulton Street. Even if he used the Pierrepont Street entrance,
I’d still see him before he could see me. Not that an escape route was all that important. If I had this figured right, he’d
be coming without the boys in blue, without anybody. His briefcase was on the floor next to me, my winter coat draped over
it.

I ordered the hamburger roast with mushroom sauce, string beans, mashed potatoes, a slice of blueberry pie, and a cup of black
coffee. I waited. He surprised me by not arriving promptly at twelve, but when he did arrive, he was in a worried
rush. As soon as he saw me, he scowled and slowed his pace. I pretended to play with my mashed potatoes as he loomed over
me.

“I should have guessed it would be someone like you.”

I looked up, grinning. “Someone exactly like me. Me, myself, actually. Have a seat.”

The waiter was there almost immediately, but Carlson waved him off.

“Not hungry?” I asked. “I thought you ate here regularly.”

“I’ve already eaten.”

“Humble pie, right?”

“What exactly is this about, Mr….”

I pasted on a pretend frown. “How quickly you forgot! Lombardi. L-O-M-B-A-R-D-I.”

He stiffened. “What is this
about?”

“I bet you could tell
me.
You could use big words, like the ones they taught you at Harvard. I like big words myself, but they take so long to say.”

“I’m interrupting a busy schedule to come here, Mr. Lombardi, and even you must be able to see that I don’t welcome your humor
or your company. So get on with it, whatever it is.”

“How about a game?” I said, still playing with the mashed potatoes. “It’s called ‘Ten Guesses.’ It’s like ‘Twenty Questions,’
but shorter.”

Carlson didn’t answer, so I started playing “volcano” with my mound of mashed, scooping out the inside, filling it up with
mushroom sauce, breaching the sides with my spoon and watching mushroom lava ooze down into the plate.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Lombardi…” He was going
bright scarlet in the face now. I liked that.

“Okay, we’ll play another game. It’s called ‘What if,’ as in, ‘What if your car wasn’t stolen from Flatbush like you said
it was?’”

His expression changed. A cross between fear and anger, and tipping toward fear.

“What if you lost it outside a place called Victory Wrecking, down on Stillwell?”

“All right,” he said. “Continue.”

“I knew you’d want to. This is a fun game, isn’t it? Okay, and what if you left your expensive leather briefcase, the one
with your initials in gold, on the seat? Was that real 24-karat gold? Nice buffed leather, too. Musta cost you.”

“Get to the point.”

“Sure. Let’s say
that’s
where your car got ‘jacked, by three teenagers—Pulaski and associates. They had a little problem, though. They had to toss
out the guy who was behind the wheel while you were inside the yard foreman’s shack paying for some pretty pictures.”

“You’re exceeding my worst expectations of you, Mr. Lombardi. You’re even more loathsome a creature than I imagined.”

“Every day in every way I’m getting better and better.”

“So what is it that you want?”

“Well, for openers, I want to know about the driver. I know his name’s Jorgenson, but what’s he to you?”

“Just a friend.”

“Close friend?”

“A friend.”

“How close? Kissing close?”

“Your mind is in the sewer, Mr. Lombardi. An appropriate place for it.”

“Okay, we’ll move on.”

“You said you had something I’d lost. A briefcase. Shall we get to that?”

“Sure, let’s.” I reached under the table, moved my coat onto the empty chair next to me and hefted the briefcase onto the
table. The sight of it unhinged him, but he recovered well.

“You’re willing to return it, then?”

“Sure. I’ve already got a briefcase. And these initials are all wrong.”

“So, how much do you want?”

“In money?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it
is
a real nice one, and those 24-karat gold initials, they gotta be worth
somethin’.
A small finder’s fee, maybe.”

“Five thousand,” he offered without so much as a blink. I’m the one who started blinking. I let out a whistle, too. Somehow,
he took the reaction to mean no. “All right,” he continued in a sanctimonious banker’s voice. “Ten.”

As soon as he made that jump, I knew there was something more to this than dirty pictures. In that same moment, the game stopped
being funny. Reading the alarm that flashed like nervous neon in my eyes, he knew it, too.

“So, you don’t really know what is…
was
… inside, do you, Mr. Lombardi?”

“No. I found it empty. What was in there besides pictures?”

“I don’t think you want to know. Not unless you’re prepared to lose your life for the knowledge.” His tone was more edgy than
threatening. At least, I figured the threat wasn’t his.

“What’s this about, Carlson?”

He almost smiled. “It is about… a critical lapse in judgment, leading to a series of bad decisions, crowned by an act of sheer
recklessness.”

“I’m not following you.”

“You’re not meant to.” He appeared to slump in his chair. A passing waiter approached as if to assist him, but Carlson waved
him away.

“You all right?”

That brought a strange, self-indulgent laugh. “Everything is relative, isn’t it, Mr. Lombardi?”

“If you’re in a jam, maybe I can help you, if it’ll also help Arnold.”

“Arnold?”

“The kid who stole your car, remember?”

“And if it won’t help… Arnold?”

“Then I’m afraid you’re on your own. No offense, but I don’t like you all that much, and I’m not prepared to die just to get
in a little deeper with you.”

“A wise decision.” His manner changed subtly, reflective rather than self-pitying. “This teenager, Arnold. Is he a relation?”

“No.”

“A friend?”

“I hate his guts. I’m doing this for his family.”

“You haven’t actually seen the photographs, have you?”

“No. Arnold told me about them.”

“Then he’s seen them?”

“No. He’s like me. He doesn’t know what was in the briefcase.”

A look of relief passed quickly over his face.

“And the other two boys?”

“At least one of them saw, probably both.”

The look faded.

“Blackmail’s a filthy business,” I said. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll burn those pictures if I find ’em.”

“They’re not pictures of me, but of someone I care about very much.”

“I’ll still burn ’em.”

He relaxed, as if he’d temporarily lifted a great burden he knew would return soon enough. “You puzzle me, Mr. Lombardi,”
he said with a hint of admiration. “Weren’t you just about to extort money from me because of the briefcase?”

“It was just bait to get you here, to get you to tell me things I needed to know. To help Arnold.”

“I’m genuinely sorry, then, that I can’t help you.”

“You could maybe do me, and the kid, a favor.”

“In what way?”

“Well, if there’s as much danger here as you let on, you wouldn’t want Arnold to die in Raymond Street for something he
doesn’t
know, would you?”

“No.”

“So, can you help him?”

“I can have him isolated from the other prisoners, if you like.”

“You know he only stole your car because he had to, because he was scared. You know he didn’t kill Shork, either.”

“If you give me good cause to dismiss the charges, I will. But I can’t promise anything.”

“Neither can I,” I said. I slid the briefcase across the table. He sighed, looked at it mournfully for a moment, then took
it by the grip, stood up, and walked out of Fulton Joe’s without another word.

T
he phone was ringing when I got home. It was Gino. “Go see Father Giacomo,” he said, and hung up. He hadn’t said, “Now,” but
with Gino that’s always understood. The day had turned colder, and I had my collar up for most of the six-block walk. A harsh
wind whipped at my face. Gray, snow-bearing clouds rolled in, driven by an ill wind.

Father Giacomo wasn’t in the rectory office when a Franciscan in a starched black habit greeted me. I sat in a chair by his
picture window, watching two other nuns take a chilly afternoon stroll in the rectory garden. The Franciscans ran St. Margaret’s,
and they ran it efficiently. The garden looked welcoming and well-tended, even in winter. I turned my attention indoors. Pictures
of graduating classes, going back to 1922, covered the walls of Father Giacomo’s office, my class of ’37 included. Row after
row of alert, well-scrubbed teenagers wearing proudly the green and brown uniforms of
the school with the same name. Future housewives, cab drivers, greengrocers, custodians, even a shamus, smiled down from the
walls.

“E-ddie. It’s-a so nice to see you!” Father Giacomo greeted me with a gentle bear hug. He was a robust, ever-smiling man,
supremely secure in his faith, gentle, wise, as compassionate as Jesus. A millionaire in his heart, and a shoo-in for Heaven.
He pointed to a pair of armchairs with a small table between them, and we made small talk until the sister returned.

“You like-a little glass-a wine, Eddie?” he asked, nodding yes for me to the sister, who left promptly to fill the order.
Father Giacomo grew his own grapes in a small arbor behind the church and made his own wine. You went to visit him, you drank
it.

“What’s the trouble, Father?” I asked.

“It’s-a-sad-a world, when-a people got-a no homes, Eddie.” His eyes were suddenly awash with sympathy. “Our Lord a-Jesus,
poor as-a he was, even a-he had a home.”

“I don’t understand, Father.”

“Somebody, he break into church last-a couple nights. I figure he gotta no home. Also, Mrs. Bellini, she sees-a, how you say,
aggirava
…”

“Prowler?”

”
Si
. Prowler. In-a her backyard, two nights ago.”

The sister returned with two ceramic demitasse cups, placed them on the table between us, smiled and left. The liquid inside
them was dark red, with a smell like sweet burnt wood.

“Has this man threatened anyone, stolen anything?”

“No. He all-a-ways run away. Mrs. Panetta, she see him, too, goin-a through her trash. He just-a run.”

“Maybe it’s that hobo again, the one you helped last winter.”

“No. He settle down. Gotta job in-a some place called-a Pee-o-ria. Send-a me a post card just-a last week.”

“Good for him.”

“Got a wife-a, too, he says.” Father Giacomo’s eyes twinkled. “You getta married, start a family, too, Eddie. Like-a Gino.”

“I’ll think about it, Father.”

“Knights of-a Columbus, they gotta dance on Friday.”

“Thanks, Father. I’ll try to make it.” I took a slow sip of the wine.

“Tonight’s second-a night of the novena,” Father Giacomo continued. “Some-a the ladies, they say they don’t-a wanna come with
a this-a prowler around.”

He stood up. I stood up with him. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

“You a-find him, don’t-a hurt him.”

“Not unless he tries to hurt me, Father.”

I ran into Angelo by the side of the church. He was pulling shards of glass from one of the small windows in the side door.

“Hi, Ang,” I said. “How’s it goin’?”

“Hey, Eddie! Whatcha doin’ over here?”

“There’s a prowler around. Father Giacomo wants me to look into it.”

“He busted this here window twice. I put new glass in yesterday, an’ he busted it again.”

“Sorry to hear that, Ang. Maybe I’ll catch him tonight.”

“You gonna put out some traps?”

“He’s not a mouse, Ang.”

He considered the idea and then laughed. “Hey, Eddie?”

“What?”

A little-boy grin spread across his face. “Tony says you got a
girl
friend.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You really got one? Who is she, Eddie?”

“Didn’t Tony tell you?”

“Uh uh, but Tony, he met her. She went for a ride in his cab, and she told him everything.”

“Everything?”

“Told him about you and her. Tony thinks maybe you’re goin’ steady with her. They drove all over town. Tony said she wanted
to know all about ya, ‘cuz you and her wuz gettin’ married. When ya gettin’ married, Eddie? Soon? Can me and Tony come to
the weddin’? I wanna be best man. Anyway, I asked first.”

“Whoa, slow down,” I cautioned. “Did you
see
this future Mrs. Eddie?”

“Uh uh, but she’s real pretty, Tony says.”

“What’s she supposed to look like?”