Mean Streak (9 page)

“What I need to know is, where can I find TJ? Nobody's seen him lately. Is there anyplace he hangs out, anybody in the 'hood who might know how to get a message to him?” It was more than a little ironic to be asking a guy who'd been in an upstate prison for a year how to find a guy roaming the streets of the borough I lived in, but such were the ways of street life. A guy like Shavon, connected by a network of homeboys, could locate TJ from prison more easily than I could from white Brooklyn.

He gave the matter some thought. “Used to be a dude caught messages and shit,” he said at last. “Don't recall his name, but he work in a place called the Ace a Spades, on Nostrand Avenue.”

“Nostrand near Fulton? Near the subway?”

The look he shot back was full of the same contempt he'd showed at the outset of the meeting. “What's the matter, bitch, you afraid to wander too deep into the 'hood? You wanna know you can ride back to white-bread land on the subway?”

I had told him no bullshit, and I meant no bullshit. I looked him straight in the eye and said, “Damned right.”

The shadow of a smile crossed the thick lips. “Say hey to the brother for me when you find him,” Shavon said.

“Will do,” I replied.

Matt was elated when I told him the results of my meeting with Shavon. He grabbed his suit jacket, without waiting for me, and headed for the door. I understood his haste—we were due back in court the next day, and this was the closest we'd come to a smoking gun. I followed, unable to picture Riordan's silver Jag parked at the corner of Fulton and Nostrand, in the heart of one of Brooklyn's most dangerous neighborhoods.

I was right about that; we raced for the nearest subway. It was too noisy for conversation; we both stared ahead of us in the see-no-evil fashion of New Yorkers in crowded public spaces until the A train pulled in at Nostrand Avenue. We emerged from an air-conditioned car onto a grimy, dimly lit platform with graffiti on every surface. We hiked the steps to the sidewalk and stepped into a steambath. The humidity had to be one hundred percent; my blouse stuck to my skin and we'd only been out of the air conditioning for three minutes.

The street was lined with little mom-and-pop stores: A record shop blared rap music; a clothing store had African fabric shirts on a rack outside; and there were four liquor stores on every block. A check-cashing place and the Ace of Spades flanked the corners.

Riordan made for the bar with a purposefulness that had me following blindly, like a little kid being dragged on a shopping expedition. I would have liked to pull his sleeve and ask a few questions, but he was moving too fast. If I wanted to know what his plan was, the best thing I could do was keep up with his long-legged stride.

We were two well-dressed white people about to enter a black bar in a black neighborhood and ask questions about a local drug dealer.

I did not feel optimistic. I did not feel safe.

Ordinarily when I came to ghetto neighborhoods to investigate cases, I brought someone with me. Preferably someone armed.

Was Riordan carrying?

If he was, he had one hell of a tailor.

He opened the door to the bar and strode in. I followed, the dimness making purple spots in front of my eyes after the bright sunshine outside. There were two guys at the bar, sitting apart; a big ex-boxer type sat behind the bar, hunched over a King Tut Dream Book.

“Got a good number today?” Riordan asked, nodding in the direction of the book.

The bartender gave a nod. “My woman dreamed about water last night,” he explained. “She grew up down South and in her dream there was a great big river. It says here a river means you should play the number nine, but nine always been a curse on me, so I don't know what to do.”

“It was your wife's dream,” Riordan pointed out. “Maybe the number nine's lucky for her but not for you.”

“Could be, could be,” he said. “Still, when a dream comes by, you gotta take it. You gotta ride the sucker. So I guess I'll be playin' nine instead of my usual today.”

“Smells great in here,” Riordan said.

He was right; I hadn't noticed because I'd been tense about walking into someone else's territory, but the aroma of rich soul food permeated the little place.

“Fredda Mae's got smothered pork chops today,” the bartender said. The hint of pride in his tone told me Fredda Mae was the woman who'd grown up down South, the woman who was going to win on number nine, if dreams were to be believed. “Pork chops and rice with red beans and a nice mess of greens. Y'all be wantin' some, I suppose.”

It was ninety in the shade; this bar had no air conditioning. The thought of eating heavy, greasy food was nauseating, and yet the aroma was delicious.

“Absolutely,” Riordan said with enthusiasm. I nodded agreement. The bartender made places for us at the end of the bar; it would be rude, I realized, to sit at a table here, apart from the other patrons.

I didn't see a kitchen. I whispered as much to Riordan, and the bartender overheard. “Oh, we ain't got no kitchen, not really. Fredda Mae cook on hotplates, in a little room used to be a coat closet. She cook pork chops on Mondays, chicken on Tuesdays, short ribs on Wednesdays, pigs feet on Thursdays, and fish fry on Fridays.”

I said a silent prayer of thanks that today wasn't Thursday. My Midwestern upbringing hadn't prepared me for eating pigs feet, even in the interests of investigation.

Riordan ordered a whiskey and tossed it back in one gulp. I didn't think they'd have Perrier, so I had a glass of Mission cola over ice.

The food was fabulous. Fredda Mae, who was so skinny she couldn't possibly have eaten her own food, wore a kente cloth turban on her head and Birkenstock sandals on her feet. She brought steaming plates first to the two other men at the bar and then to us, setting them down with a clunk and then disappearing back into her closet without a word. I had the distinct feeling she disapproved of white folks she suspected of slumming.

The pork chops were smothered in cooked onions and gravy; the red beans and rice were spicy and rich, and the cabbage and greens were pungent. It was food to satisfy even the Wasp soul.

But it wasn't getting us information about TJ.

Riordan led up to it slowly. I listened with interest as by degrees he steered the conversation toward the existence of someone who might answer to the name of TJ. But every time he seemed on the verge of asking a direct question, he'd back off and raise another, more neutral topic. Then the talk would edge toward TJ again, but before the bartender could decide things were getting too close for comfort, Riordan would veer away.

It was a thing of beauty, but it was frustrating as hell to listen to.

“It's the cop I'm really interested in,” Riordan said at last. “Anybody who might be talking to this TJ could tell him that for me. I just want to talk to him about the cop. Fast Eddie—the one they call Eddie Nino over in the Spanish neighborhood.”

“Eddie Bigmouth, they call him over here,” the bartender said with a tiny smile. I schooled my face not to smile back; this was pay dirt at last. If the bartender admitted knowing this much, it was only a matter of time before he admitted knowing TJ.

I wanted to talk, but Riordan gave me a hand signal that said he'd turn me into a smothered pork chop if I opened my mouth, so I sat and waited.

“You that lawyer,” the bartender said in a conversational tone. It wasn't a challenge, but it was a demand that Riordan state his business honestly and openly.

“Yes,” he replied. “And a cop named Eddie's trying to jam me up. I'm trying to figure out if this could be the same Eddie who works with TJ.”

“Only one cop named Eddie I knows about,” the bartender replied.

That was good enough for Riordan; he gave a crisp nod and plowed ahead. “Any chance of getting word to TJ that I'd like to talk to him?”

The bartender reached for a rag and wiped the bar. He slid our empty plates to the end and polished the wood where they'd sat in front of us. He made a gesture toward our drinks; we agreed to a second round.

Then he said, “I might could get a message to TJ. I ain't seen him in a while, though. Seems to me it's been near a month since he come in here last, and he was powerful fond of Fredda Mae's short ribs. Said they reminded him of his grandmother's cooking. Fredda Mae's food reminds a lot of people of their grandmothers, seems like.”

Oddly enough, although neither of my grandmothers would have known a collard green from arugula, Fredda Mae's food had taken me back to Sunday dinners after church, to big meals cooked with love and eaten with gusto before the word cholesterol crept into our vocabularies.

“You think TJ would talk to me?” Riordan inquired. “You think maybe he'd tell a jury what he knows about Eddie Fitz?”

“TJ wasn't any too pleased when that little white boy started cuttin' hisself in on TJ's business,” the bartender replied. I nodded; this squared with what Shavon had told me. “Leastwise, that's what I done heard. I can't be speakin' for TJ, mind, but I don't think he was any too happy 'bout that boy.”

“It's one thing to be unhappy,” Riordan pressed. “It's another to stand up in court and talk about another guy.”

“Way I heard it,” the bartender said, “TJ done already talked. TJ took a little trip to federal court a month or so ago, ready to tell them what he knew about Eddie Big-mouth, but they didn't want to hear no evil 'bout their golden boy. Sent him away with a flea in his ear, told him not to tell nobody what he knew.”

“Any idea who he talked to over there?” Riordan asked with a casualness that belied the weightiness of this information. Was this guy really saying that TJ had blown the whistle on Eddie Fitz, that the prosecution knew its Hero Cop was a part-time drug dealer?

“Guy with a name sound like the Bible is all I remember,” the bartender answered.

A name from the Bible. A name like Lazarus.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Armed with a subpoena for “any and all records naming or pertaining to or containing any reference to an individual designated as John Doe ‘TJ,'” I made my way to the federal courthouse. There was a fine mist falling; the tops of the World Trade Center towers were shrouded in fog. You could open your mouth and drink the air. My new designer clothes clung damply to my skin and I feared for my expensive pumps.

I was as wired as if I'd drunk five cups of coffee, as buzzed as if I were running on speed. Today was D-Day, the day I'd stand up in court and begin the most publicized trial of my career. The day I'd come home to the six-o'clock news and see my face, rendered by an artist's pen, on the TV screen. The day I'd begin taking the test that would determine, once and for all, whether I could handle the big ones. Whether I could ride the Mean Streak without losing my lunch.

I had to eat. I'd downed my coffee while struggling with the curling iron, trying to get my hair to behave. I'd wasted my time; I could feel it frizzing with every step I took in the humidity. I turned onto Broadway from Chambers Street and opened the door to Ellen's. I stood in line behind a couple of suits and gazed at the autographed pictures on the wall.

The coffee shop was directly across the street from City Hall, so the photos were of political rather than entertainment celebs: Ex-Mayors Dinkins and Lindsay and Manhattan Borough President Ruth Messenger stood next to a smiling Ellen. She had been a Miss Subways; black-and-white posters of the various women who had held that title graced the walls. I smiled and relaxed a little as I looked at the pictures of the ordinary working girls from Queens or Brooklyn or the Bronx who had been honored with placards in the subways. They spoke of an earlier New York, a city of young women who wore white gloves when they “went to business.”

I grabbed a seat at the counter and ordered coffee and a cheese danish. My hand shook as I reached for the steaming mug. Just what I needed, I thought as I took the first scalding sip, more caffeine.

I would never have admitted it to Dorinda, but my trial persona was built around the fact that I was born under the sign of Sagittarius. Honesty, that was my trump card. I admitted weaknesses in my case up front; I showed the jurors from the beginning that I was to be trusted, that I spoke truth. Then I slipped in bits and pieces of my own defense-oriented version of said truth, and hoped they bought it along with the rest. I used blunt, simple language. I spoke conversationally whenever possible, saving the arcane legal language for arguments outside the jury's hearing. I looked jurors in the eye, picking out the ones I thought were exceptionally sympathetic and roping them in as confederates, priming them to carry my arguments into the jury room.

As I bit into the creamy danish, I reviewed my theory of defense. Somehow I would have to demonstrate to the jurors the strength of Nick Lazarus' obsession with bringing down Riordan. And I would have to do it without Lazarus ever taking the stand. I would have to extract admissions from the people who worked for him, from the FBI agents who'd wired Eddie Fitz for sound, that Lazarus would stop at nothing to nail a lawyer he thought was subverting the justice system.

And then would come Eddie. By the time the prosecution's star witness took the stand, I decided, I'd be in possession of the fruits of today's subpoena. I'd be able to rattle his cage with mention of TJ, with hints that TJ had told everything he knew to Nick Lazarus. And then I'd call TJ as a witness and watch Lazarus' face collapse as he realized it was all over, that we had solid proof that not only was Eddie Fitz a crooked cop, but that he, Lazarus, had known that fact and buried it in order to get Riordan. Matt would be acquitted, Eddie would be charged with perjury, and Lazarus would be fighting for his professional life.

Lazarus
delenda est
, Matt had said. And once we had TJ, we'd be well on our way to destroying Lazarus. The thought was as sweet as the danish.