Known to Evil (11 page)

"I didn't know about what was in the trunk."

"Somebody does," I said. "And the feds will want to get hold of that information. They're gonna lean on you . . . heavily."

Ron had a boy's face. It had aged many years past what it should have been but he still had that innocent, adolescent look.

"Look, man," he said, "somebody in my position can't worry about what might happen. I mean, look at me. Somethin's bound to get to me sooner or later anyway. I mean, I don't even know how I ended up like this. I was supposed to be an entrepreneur selling computer components and spending my summers in Bermuda or Bimini. Now I'm rolling my own cigarettes and lookin' up to Wilma because at least she can put the rent together almost every month."

I wanted to say something but had no words.

"You could do me a favor, though," Ron said.

"What's that?"

"My wife. My ex-wife. Irma."

"What about her?"

"I asked Breland to find her for me but he said he couldn't do it. You know, I'd really like to find her . . . to tell her how sorry I am for destroying her life. She has my son. I'd like to see Steven before I die."

How would it help, I wondered, to tell him that his loving Irma had betrayed him and put the drugs into his shoe?

"Her last name is Carson now," Ron was saying. "Her maiden name was Connors, then Sharkey, Beam, and finally Carson. I guess that's why it's so hard to find her."

"I can look into it, I guess." What else could I say?

"Hey, man," Ron said with deep feeling. "That would be great."

20

I
left Wilma's apartment in a foul mood. The young lovers were still on the fourth-floor landing. They were huddled in each other's arms, pressed into a corner. His eyes were closed as she watched me walk by. Looking into her distant eyes, I tasted blood.

I'd been biting my lower lip that hard.

ON THE STREET I looked at my watch. The blue iridescent hands told me that it was 7:07. I figured I was on a roll and so trundled over to a liquor store I knew on Bowery and picked up a pint of cheap scotch. When buying scotch I always looked for the lowest price. Why spend good money when you hate the taste? For me, bourbon was king, while scotch was a mere pretender to the throne.

I CAME TO A building a little farther down on C that was dark even for the buildings in that neighborhood. There was a buzzer, though.

"Yes?" a mature woman said through the speaker.

"Mrs. Lear?"

"Yes?"

"My name is Tooms. I'm looking for your daughter."

"What do you want with her?"

"A man named Spender asked me to find her," I said, using a name from Rinaldo's files. "She hasn't been to work in a few days and he's worried."

"Did you call her?"

I rattled off her home number. I had, of course called it; no answer, no answering machine.

"I also went by her place on Twelfth," I added. "So I'm here to ask you."

For a while silence ruled our conversation. In the heartland of our nation, I've been told, people are happy to meet you and sit and talk. But in New York, a stranger's voice is, at the very least, a potential threat--definitely possible.

"Why are you looking for her?" Mrs. Lear asked at last.

"May I come up, ma'am?"

"I don't know who you are."

"Tooms, ma'am. I'm working for Larry Spender . . . Angelique's boss."

"Yes," she said, "Spender." Her "S" got stuck for a second more than she intended.

A buzzer sounded and I pushed the door open.

It was a much tidier building than the one Ron Sharkey inhabited. The halls smelled of mold, but I found no people shooting up in the stairwells. On the fourth floor there were small welcome mats in front of each apartment door. When I got to 4C, a willowy woman in her middle forties was standing there, peering out, ready to slam the door at a moment's notice.

She was wearing an off-white dress that fit her slender form from habit--not intention. Her face had aged past the forty-six years that Rinaldo's records said she was, but you could see hints of the beauty that once was there.

"That's a nice gold suit you have," she said as I came to a stop.

"Thanks. My wife made me buy it." I glanced down at the sleeves to see if any of Shad Tandy's blood was there--none that I could see.

"She has good taste."

"In everything but men."

"Come on in," she said, charmed by a joke.

The living room was small and well lived in. The furniture had been new when the deliverymen hefted it up the three flights, but it would be called secondhand now. There were small moth holes in the curtains, a lot of them, and three dead plants in as many pots.

The floor was swept and the walls had no dents, scars, or other markings. The once white paint had faded and darkened, but uniformly so.

There was no sofa or couch, just three stuffed chairs that faced each other across a small glass-topped table.

"Have a seat, Mr. . . . ?"

"Tooms."

"I wish I could offer you something to drink, Mr. T-Tooms. But my bar is empty."

Before sitting I pulled the pint bottle out of my pocket and set it on the glass table. This brought a light into the senior Lear's murky brown eyes.

"Oh," she said, straightening her shoulders. "I'll go get us a bucket of ice and some crystal."

She left the room, and I silently thanked Christian Latour for his diligence in collecting information on the people Rinaldo had him look into. It was the fruit of his research, I was sure, that had said Mrs. Lear was a
heavy drinker who preferred scotch
.

The lady's living room was filled with warm, dark color. It was like another time; not the past necessarily, but a period that only certain people inhabited--not my kind. My world smelled of sweat and smog, while Lizette Lear's was a world of potpourri, peach pie, and mothballs.

"Here you go," she said, bringing in two squat glasses and a white plastic bucket on a silver-plated tray.

She seemed to have some trouble with her left hip so I helped her set the platter down on the table.

"Ice, Mr. Tooms?" There was color in her cheek and the beauty that had shriveled over the years now seemed to be blossoming once more.

"A lot of it," I said. "Please."

The ice clinked and Lizette's smile threatened to become a laugh. She cracked the seal, poured my drink and hers. She drained her glass, sighed, and poured another.

Along with the relief flowed beauty. I had never seen anything like it. Lizette curled back in the chair and her body seemed to become young again, supple, even enticing. She looked into my eyes and for a moment I forgot why I was there.

"Angelique," I said, as much to remind myself as to pull away from Lizette's instantaneous charms.

Mrs. Lear smiled, downed the second glass, and tossed her mouse-brown hair.

"She's an amazing human being," she said. "Pretty, smart, certain about what she wants. And she always gets it."

Lizette poured a third drink.

"Do you know where she is?" I asked.

"No. No, I don't. But you can be sure that wherever she is she's another step closer to something else she wants."

You couldn't help but note the jealousy in her words.

"You aren't worried that she's missing?"

"Not at all." She finished the third shot and poured another.

"Angie makes silk from straw, sows' ears, and bad boyfriends. . . . If I wasn't a good Christian I'd say she was a witch. She doesn't approve of me. Doesn't like my drinking. Blames me for her father leaving."

"Where is her father?" There was no mention of him in Rinaldo's files.

"I don't know," Lizette said, gazing up at the ceiling. She was rounding pretty and making a run for beautiful. "He rolled into my life, made me jump for joy, and then was gone before I hit the ground. Angelique doesn't have an ounce of him, and less than a pound of me, in her makeup. She has an old soul, that one."

"Do you know her boyfriend?"

"Johnny," Lizette said with a smile. The mention of this new name brought her into full blossom.

"I thought his name was Shad. Shad Tandy."

"Shad Tandy?" It was as if I'd shoved a sour lemon against her teeth. "He's just a momentary mistake for my girl. Her true love is a young man named John Prince. He's an architect. Probably walks on water, too. He and Angie break up now and again, but they always get back together."

"Do you have a number for him?" I asked.

"Sure." She finished her fourth shot, stood up, none too steady, and lumbered toward a door.

While she was gone I allowed myself a smile. There was no John Prince mentioned in Rinaldo's files. I liked that. It let me feel that I had a leg up on the Big Man.

When she returned, Mrs. Lear had forsaken the off-white dress for a flimsy robe. She was only in her forties, after all. She liked drinks, and men; I represented both.

"I can't seem to find it. Must have thrown it out in one of my cleaning binges. But you can probably look it up."

"Do you know where he works?" I asked as she slumped back into her chair.

"For an architectural firm. I'm sorry . . . I don't know which one."

"That's okay."

"You haven't touched your drink," Lizette chided.

"On the job," I said. "What do you do for a living, ma'am?"

"Lizette."

"What do you do for a living, Lizette?"

"I haven't had a job for a while, Mr. Tooms. What's your first name?"

"John."

"I haven't had a job in a while, John. My nerves, you know. Angie helps me out with the rent, and she has groceries delivered every Monday and Thursday. She doesn't give me any cash, though. If I want a cigarette I have to bum one on the street."

"She must do very well at her job."

"She told me that someone gave her a grant or something, and she's using part of that to help me. You'd think she could give me a few bucks, though. A bottle of wine now and then isn't such a sin. . . .

"Maybe you and me could go out for a little swizzle."

"Maybe some other time," I said, rising to my feet.

"Do you have to go already?"

"I need to find your daughter."

"Angie's fine. She's like a cat."

Lizette wanted to stand up but her body wasn't accommodating the desire.

"Will you come back again?"

"When I find Angie I'll come back and tell you."

"Angie," Lizette said with a sneer.

As I went out the door I heard her mutter, "Bitch."

21

I
t wasn't much after eight when I left Lizette's hungry cave. From there my feet took me down the street to the Naked Ear.

The Ear was busier that evening. Large groups of young and not so young people hovered around the bar, drinking and talking, laughing and trying to get the bartender's attention.

I wedged my solid bulk between two women in identical blue dresses, said
Excuse me
to a man who was laughing so hard that he couldn't take a sip from his glass.

Finally I sidled up to the bar next to a middle-aged man who was reading
The New York Times.

"Anything happening?" I asked.

"Not yet," he said, refusing to look at me. "Everybody's waiting for January twentieth like early Christians waiting for the end of time."

There are very few rules I adhere to. In my line of work you can't let something from yesterday keep you from right now. But one thing I never do is talk politics with strangers in bars.

"You're McGill, right?" a woman said.

The bartender that night had black hair and shocking cobalt eyes. She'd been the runner-up to beauty her entire life, but the judges always left the party with her.

"Cynthia," I said, reaching back into my memory.

"Cylla," she said. "You were close."

"Not bartender close."

"Lucy said to tell you that she had to take off tonight but she'd be back on duty tomorrow."

I felt the twinge of unrequited infatuation where instinct told me my heart was.

"Three cognacs, right?" Cylla said.

"Yeah."

"Find a seat and I'll bring them to you."

THE OUTER CIRCLE OF the bar was never heavily inhabited, even on the busiest nights. When the Ear got going, ninety percent of the clientele thronged around the bar like youngsters in a mosh pit.

I found a small round table near a couple of young smoochers. Their love transported them. The beers were glasses of red wine and the table was outside on the Champs-Elysees
en ete.

Ignoring the lovers, I tried to understand the life of Angelique Tara Lear. Her boyfriend had betrayed her. Her mother, whom she supported, called her a bitch. Her friend had been murdered, maybe in her stead, and the most powerful man in New York seemed to be obsessed with her every move and acquaintance. Few people did that much living in an entire decade.

My phone made the sound of Chinese wind chimes.

"Hey, Zephrya. Guess where I am."

"Looks like the Naked Ear."

" 'Looks like'?"

"You got the GPS turned on on your phone again," she said. "I could tell you exactly where you were in Beijing or Timbuktu."

Zephyra Ximenez was my lifeline in the electronic dimensions. I rarely saw her. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of her work was on the phone or online. She had a Dominican mother and Moroccan father--lineages, when combined, that gave her dark red-black skin and the kind of look that defines rather than trails after beauty. I had met her at the Ear and tried to pick her up, but she didn't have a father complex. When I told her about my work she offered me her professional services.

In the long run that was a much better deal for both of us.

"The police are after you, Mr. McGill," she said.

"Say what?"

"Lieutenant Bonilla--the last time I talked to her she was a sergeant--and Detective Kitteridge have both called and demanded your presence."

"What did you tell them?"

"That I would pass the information on as soon as possible."

"I hired a receptionist," I said. "A young woman named Mardi Bitterman."