Lush Life: An Artie Deemer Mystery (18 page)

The shit-brown van got us to the Harlem River. I paid the toll with the exact change, and we crossed the bridge into the Bronx, looking for the murderous spook. Calabash had tactically removed himself to the backseat.

Norman Armbrister stood beside the road just beyond the bridge abutment. He wore his original getup—baggy shorts and the enormous beard that obliterated his features. He also wore an unseasonably heavy—in every sense—jacket. I pulled over and pushed open the passenger door for him. Norm clanked as he got in and buckled his seat belt. I heard an ominous metallic click from the backseat. A tight-knit commando unit on the move. I felt like opening my door and throwing up the lemon yogurt I’d forced down for breakfast.

“Seat belt,” Norm said to me. “It’s a law in this state. Always want to observe civil law when you’re operational. Posh Pools, huh? Great. I like it. We used to do Con Ed. We’d disappear down that manhole, leaving nothing but a puff of steam.”

Belted, I drove on north toward the Cross County Parkway, which would take us to the Merritt Parkway.

Norm was hanging on to the window post in the turns. “I hope we don’t get killed on the way. How would it look with all these arms? Calabash, I presume you’re armed.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, so I hear…Hell, what can one expect in the way of vehicles? It’s not like the old days, once you’re dead.” There was a lilt in his voice. This guy was having a ball. His eyes beamed. “In the old days, there was no end to the matériel. I just loved the
Russians. They loved us, too. If it weren’t for us, they wouldn’t have gotten all their good shit. And vice versa. You needed a deuce and a half for your gear, an APC for your guys, you wanted some air support, Cobra gunships, you wanted some arty, just call it in. Never mind the expense to the taxpayers. The taxpayers loved it, too. We got to have all this gear or the Evil Empire will poison your daughters and fuck your bird dogs. But those times are gone forever, at least in this lifetime. Want an apple juice? I brought apple juice. Yes, times change after you die. That’s one of life’s inevitables. Juice?”

Calabash, I could see in the mirror, was looking at the back of Norm’s head as if it belonged to a spook from another planet.

“So what’s the plan?” Norm wanted to know, all grins.

I told him.

“Well, simple is good.”

Was there an edge of sarcasm in that? This psycho probably hated my plan. My plan probably failed to consider things every freshman spook knew by heart. My plan was probably suicidal. Anxiety scraped my nerves raw. I felt like I was bleeding internally. I began to obsess on Jellyroll. I had made no arrangements for him. What if I got…killed? What would happen to him, waiting endlessly for my return?…Would it be better for my associates’ morale for me to vomit all over my Posh Pools coveralls or to fall down sobbing like a colicky infant?

“We’ll be there in what, twenty minutes,” he said, “barring the freaky-fluky?”

“Yeah, barring that.”

“Okay. We have a chance to talk turkey. You’re probably still asking yourself, ‘Why’s this fellow Norm want to help us free Crystal, anyhow? What’s in it for Norm?’ Am I right?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Norm, we don’t really give a shit as long as you don’t betray us. We just want Crystal back. If we can get her out and if they’ll leave us alone after we get
her, then you and the rest of them can do whatever you want to each other.”

“I hear you. Apathy. Apathy is not an unreasonable response to the events of the late twentieth century. But as for your first if, we can get Crystal out. If he’s got her at his place, we’ll break her out. If he’s got her somewhere else, we’ll take Tiny and make a trade, even steven. Frankly, I don’t think he’s harmed her. Murder is not Tiny’s métier, but then you never know. The second if, however, is a bit more dicey. Tiny’s not going to be happy if we snatch Crystal back. He’s going to feel stupid. How do we keep him off your ass? That’s where Norm Armbrister comes in. I can help you there. Tiny likes to live. He loves the seven deadliest, particularly gluttony and avarice. It’ll frighten Tiny to learn I’m alive and angry with him. But that leads back to the original question—namely, why does Norm Armbrister want to help? The answer is twofold. One: Trammell Weems. Two: the tape.”

As he said “the tape,” he looked at me for a reaction. I watched the road without any. “What tape?”

“A videotape. One or another of these treacherous banking bastards made a tape of a meeting held at Tiny Archibald’s place in late July 1990. In the wrong hands, that tape would be embarrassing at best, incriminating at worst. That tape is the reason I died. As it says in my obit, I had a proud career. I don’t want it sullied.”

“Do you think Trammell made the tape?”

“Maybe. Maybe Tiny. Maybe Trammell. You see, I suspect that Trammell didn’t drown. I suspect that it was a put-up death.”

“Sort of like yours?”

“Right. Does Calabash know about my death?”

“Yes, I told him.”

Norm Armbrister pulled his obituary from his shirt pocket and handed it to Calabash, who was watching Norm with one
eyebrow arched. Calabash read while Norm went on: “Here we have Crystal, who used to be married to Trammell; we have Crystal’s uncle’s boat; and we have you, his old friend. You seem to be in a position to answer the question, ‘Is Trammell dead or is Trammell alive?’ That’s why I’m helping you—to get that question answered.”

“Trammell’s alive.”

Norm nodded. “What makes you think so? Have you seen him?”

“No.”

“Bruce Munger?”

“Yes.”

“So Trammell paid this Bruce Munger person to witness his drowning?”

“Apparently.”

“Tell me this,” Norm said with a note of skepticism. “How did Munger think he’d get away with it?”

“You’d have to know Bruce.”

“An asshole?”

“Yes.”

“Well, asshole-ishness explains a lot of things these days.”

I told him about Bruce’s whipping and about the wad of bills taped in his mouth. “I had assumed that was Tiny’s work.”

“But you don’t now?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you had Barry spying for you. If Tiny did it, wouldn’t Barry know about it and tell you?”

Calabash passed Norm’s obituary back to him. “You was in de navy?”

“No, that’s bullshit. Barry was setting up your kidnapping. Your sticking him with the pick rendered him useless to me. So Tiny could have gotten to Munger without me knowing about it.”

“Who else might have done it?” I risked losing control of the vehicle by taking my eyes off the road to look into Norm’s eyes. “Concom?”

He snapped his head around to look into mine. “What do you know about Concom?”

“Nothing, except that Tiny Archibald and the phony detective both gave me phone numbers belonging to Concom.”

“I was hoping we could keep it out of Concom’s hands. I’m sure that’s what Tiny was hoping, too.”

“Why?”

“Trust me when I say it would be best for you and Crystal and Calabash to pretend Concom doesn’t exist.”

“Gladly.” I swerved off the highway at the New Canaan exit. Everybody held on.

“Artie, one last item. Do you know where Trammell is?”

“No.”

“Does Crystal?”

“No.”

“Okay, I believe you. But let’s say we’re successful here. Let’s say we get Crystal out safe and sound. Will you tell me if you find out?”

“I won’t be looking, Norm.”

“I hear you, but suppose it just comes to pass that you learn his whereabouts. Will you tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, Norm—?” said Calabash.

Norm pivoted, looked over the headrest.

“I gonna be watchin’ you close.”

“I hear you, big guy.” Norm was actually grinning.

I had recently read a book about Horatio Nelson, who, during a short peace in those wars with France, watched the Danish fleet assemble in Copenhagen Harbor and assumed that when the peace inevitably failed, the Danish navy would
go in on the French side. So Nelson attacked—and destroyed the Danish fleet at its moorings. For a time in the early nineteenth century, “Copenhagen” became a verb in the English language. It meant to strike first, to destroy your potential enemy before he has a chance to become your actual enemy. That’s what I should do to this crazy spook—Copenhagen his ass after he helped us rescue Crystal. Could I do that? Copenhagen him in cold blood?

SIXTEEN

T
HE FRUGAL YANKEE inn was one of those darkly oaken restaurants decorated with Colonial furnishings, agrarian gewgaws, creaky floors, and help who say, “Hello, my name is Darrell, and I’ll be your waiter today.” I had picked the Frugal Yankee because it was located on a corner lot at the intersection of Cherry Grove Lane and Sylvan Brook Road, within sight of Tiny Archibald’s driveway.

Thumper’s uniforms must have been tailored for wear in the pituitary-case ward. Calabash’s fit him fine. I could have gotten a couple of close friends in there with me and still had room to squat. Norman had nearly disappeared in his. “Hell, this isn’t a disguise,” he said, “this is a hideout.”

Since our hosts at Tiny’s place had seen me before, my disguise was a tad more elaborate than I would have liked. I wore silver-mirrored sunglasses and a hot-pink baseball cap backwards, with a phony blond ponytail stapled under the brim. My disguise was modeled on the Long Island Sound—surfer motif. I felt more ridiculous than anonymous stumbling over my uniform cuff s into the lobby of the Frugal Yankee.

I felt somewhat less ridiculous when I saw how the poor sod inside was got up—Puritan suit: flat-brimmed hat with buckle, big brass buttons, wooden clogs, knee britches, and starched bib. “Posh Pools?” he said. “Great. Where you been? I been calling you all morning.” He had a surly Long Island accent.

“Do you have a pay phone?”

“We got frogs again. You know,
dead
frogs. Totally grossed out the guests.”

“I just need to make a call first.”

He pointed to an anachronistic phone on the wall near the hayrick—

Henry answered.

“Artie Deemer. Let me speak to Tiny.”

“ ’Bout what?”

“ ’Bout how you’re still sniffing girls’ bicycle seats up at the middle school.” Maybe I
could
Copenhagen that bastard Henry.

Tiny came on the line after a short wait.

“I’m looking at him right now,” I said.

“Trammell?”

“Isn’t that who you wanted me to find?”

“And where might you be?”

“Kennedy. He just checked about ten pieces luggage aboard a Varig Airlines flight to Sao Paulo. It doesn’t look like he’s going for the weekend. There, I’ve done my part, now let Crystal go.”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence. All I have right now is you on the telephone. When I have Trammell, then you get Crystal. I’ll be disappointed if I don’t see you at the airport, too.”

“Look, I’m just trying to do what you said. All I want is Crystal.” I thought I should protest a little to make it look good.

“And you’ll get her. If you play square with me, I’ll reciprocate in kind. You can trust me on that.”

“I’ll be here, right beside the duty-free shop. But you better hurry or he’ll be gone.”

The Puritan blocked my exit. “Pool’s out back,” he said.

“I got to make a quick stop before I get to you.”

“What, is the surf up?”

“No, this is an emergency. You think frogs are bad. These people have
piranha
. Stripped the flesh off this guy’s wife and kids in about thirty seconds.”

When I climbed back into the Posh Pools van, Norm was watching Tiny’s driveway with a miniature pair of rubberized black spook binoculars and Calabash was sorting through his gym bag. A panicky grackle flapped its wings in my stomach. “Do you think they hurt Crystal?” I asked Norm.

“I don’t know,” he said without taking down the binoculars. “Depends on the disposition of the tape. Trouble with telling Tiny Trammell’s at the airport is that Trammell could be sitting on the couch right across from him. It’s that kind of conspiracy.”

I hadn’t thought of that. The bird flapped hysterically. “Why the fuck didn’t you say so!”

“Get a hold of yourself,” he snapped.

I turned to Calabash. “Do you want to forget the whole thing?”

“Looks like Calabash can take care of himself,” grinned Norm.

“I didn’t ask you!”

“You’re panicking. No room for panic when you’re operational.”

“We do it,” said Calabash evenly. “But I want dis CIA spy fellow to know one t’ing clear. If it go wrong, den de first t’ing I do is shoot big smoky holes in his hideout.”

“Oh, sure, Calabash, I never doubted that for a minute. And if you ever want a job—here they come.”

We didn’t need binoculars to see the black Buick pause at the bottom of Tiny’s driveway, then roar up Sylvan Brook Road toward the Frugal Yankee Inn.

“They’re going fast. That’s a good sign. That means they bought it.”

The car passed us, accelerating.

“Tiny’s not in the car,” said Norm.

Rufus was driving, a white guy was riding shotgun.

“So who’s that leave?” asked Norm.

“Henry,” I said.

“Henry’s twisted. Henry’s not sane.”

I pulled the Posh Pools van into gear and drove slowly toward the driveway.

“I know it’s a little late to tell you guys, now we’re operational, but I’m gonna sneak off at some point and bug Tiny’s house. He won’t be able to spray one without I hear the tinkle.”

“I don’t care what you do. I just want Crystal safe.”

“I hear you.”

We fell silent and watchful as we ascended the driveway, winding our way up through an oak forest with great lichened boulders left over from the last glacier. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t part my lips. The trees suddenly gave way to a sunlit clearing, an impeccably groomed lawn, a gentle hill. The house stood at the top.

I had seen ads for such places in the back of the
New York Times Magazine
. Twenty rooms, plus guest cottage, gardener’s quarters, stables, six acres of land, $4,000,000. Even the hotshots in the animal-movie business didn’t live in places like this. Georgian-style with Corinthian columns. Tiny’s house was too elaborate to understand from only the front view. Two-story wings flapped off in all directions. This was the aristocracy of the American criminal class. We couldn’t see the pool from the driveway, but we could see the white picket fence. I remembered the white picket fence.