Near Enemy (6 page)

And at some point in there, between the car bombs and the budget crisis and getting cursed out daily on the streets for fucking up on the job twice in twenty years, the cash-strapped, overstretched, outnumbered, and underappreciated NYPD officially stopped giving a shit.

Which is why, only three years after all the handshakes and press conferences and sword rattling and presidential promises, the mayor called a smaller press conference. Just a roomful of local reporters. And he announced a different initiative, an innovative public-private partnership, as he called it, that would allow the few large businesses that were still standing strong beside the city to invest directly in New York’s defense, as he said. The Strong City Initiative was what he called it, as he pulled down a velvet cloth to reveal a logo printed on a poster board. Two hands shaking in front of a resurgent skyline. One hand in a cop’s uniform. One in a business suit.

Basically, the mayor put the NYPD up for sale.

Cops still work for the city, officially, but now they’re paid for by private interests.

New York’s Finest. Going cheap.

Don’t get me wrong. There are still a few good cops out there. So I’ve heard.

Look forward to meeting one someday.

In the meantime, whole sections of Brooklyn haven’t seen a cop in two years.

Queens too. The Bronx. Whole chunks of northern Manhattan.

You see a cop car up there, you figure they took a wrong turn and got lost.

Either that, or they’re out on some other sort of errand.

Moonlighting.

It’s okay, though, because, as the second part of the mayor’s Strong City Initiative, he announced he was relaxing the city’s gun laws. Completely.

Let the citizenry take a more DIY approach.

Next day, shotgun sales soared.

Ride’s over.

Cruiser pulls up beside Grand Central Terminal.

Driver gets out and opens the door for me. I take note of his badge: Officer Puchs.

His lady partner, in the sunglasses, circles around the cruiser to flank me. Her badge: Officer Luckner.

I unfold myself from the backseat, only slightly bruised by our journey.

Still no word on why we’re here.

They just escort me inside.

Grand Central.

Last remaining jewel in the city’s tarnished crown.

And I have to admit, it hasn’t lost its allure. Looking out from the balcony over the main concourse can still stop you short.

A majestic landmark.

Even empty.

Correction.

Almost empty.

Single man in a suit waits for me by the big clock in the middle of the concourse floor.

Checks his watch.

Doesn’t trust the big clock, apparently.

Cops march me down the stairs to meet him. Sound of our boots on the marble floor ricochets.

Train-schedule boards all cleared. Ticket booths shuttered.

Which is weird.

Should be a few commuters, at least, even on a Sunday afternoon. After all, Penn Station’s long since been shut down. And there’s just weeds and rubble where Port Authority once stood. So Amtrak, LIRR, Metro-North, all the trains have been rerouted to Grand Central.

City only needs one train station now.

Even if you have to cover your mouth when your train arrives, run through the lobby, and hope for the best.

Man in the suit holds out his hand for a handshake.

Mammoth wristwatch rattles. One of those chain-link kind. Face as big as a compass.

Ostentatious.

Sunday’s word.

Spademan, pleased to meet you. My name is Joseph Boonce.

Pinstriped suit that’s very well tailored. Has to be, since
he’s about a half foot shorter than me, at least. Maybe five-six. Maybe. So either he gets his suits custom-made or he shops at whatever the opposite is of a Big & Tall store. White-blond hair is cut close and conservative. He looks young. Not yet thirty. What’s the word?

Wunderkind.

The kind of guy who’s probably respected or resented by everyone in the office. Or both. Either way, his whole getup’s meant to convey extraordinary competence. Dress for the job you want, etcetera.

Though my guess is he already has the job he wants.

He somehow hoists his wristwatch skyward and points toward the atrium’s famous ceiling, arcing a hundred feet overhead. Storied mural of the Zodiac, played out across a painted green sky.

Starts his speech.

We fought hard to keep this place intact, you know, to preserve it, when the rest of the city was going down the shitter. They had to fight once to protect this place from the wrecking ball, believe it or not, way back in the 1970s. Bureaucrats wanted to level it, build something more modern. But they fought to save this place back then, and we’ve had to fight for it now. Save it from everyone, on both sides of the battlefield. Savages who won’t be happy till this city’s burned to cinders, and bureaucrats who want to tear everything down and start again.

His eyes meet mine.

And yet it’s still standing.

His eyes smile. Face follows.

Pleased to meet you, Spademan. I like to take my meetings here. I have them shut down the lobby for me. I find it makes for a memorable first impression.

Motions to Puchs and Luckner. Tells them they can open up again, let the people through. Puchs gives a sign to someone
unseen. Schedule boards flutter back to life. Footfalls of the occasional commuter echo, people now loosed to hurry through.

Then Boonce waves away Puchs and Luckner, who retreat to stand sentry.

Turns to me.

So, Spademan—you like oysters?

The Oyster Bar in the basement of Grand Central is still open for business. At the lunch counter, a few lonely weekend travelers poke at fifty-dollar bowls of oyster bisque, based on that classic recipe: half an oyster and half a quart of cream.

Boonce and I head back to the backroom, the saloon, which is empty, of course. Ancient maître d’ bows to Boonce then shows us to our table, smack-dab in the center of the room. Only table in the place set up with a white tablecloth.

Saloon is nautical-themed. Model sailing ships tacked up on the dark wooden walls. Angry swordfish glued to plaques, posed to look like they’re still putting up a fight. Fake ship portholes for windows, but they don’t look out onto anything.

Boonce flaps his linen napkin, then smooths it on his lap.

So I assume you know who Robert Bellarmine is.

Sure. I know his name from the Atlantic Avenue sweep.

Boonce smiles.

The sweep. Yes, if that’s what you want to call it. More like a massacre, if you ask me. But it sent a message. Which I guess was the point, right?

Boonce fiddles with his silverware. Rearranges it. Tells me.

Well, I work for Bellarmine.

If you’re a cop, Boonce, why aren’t we having this conversation at a police station?

Boonce adjusts his fork just-so. Looks up at me.

I’m off the books.

Then he pulls out a handheld and lays it on the table, screen-side down.

Spademan, I’m about to show you three photos. I think they’re photos you’re going to want to see.

Okay.

But before I do, I need to know something. I need to know that we can work together.

Okay. Work together on what?

He smiles. Taps a finger on the backside of the handheld.

Let me put it this way. If I show you these photos, and share this information with you, and we don’t work together, that’s going to be a problem.

Okay. Why don’t you start by showing me the photos?

He turns over the handheld. Shows me photo number one. A crisp surveillance photo of Lesser, taken at Stuyvesant Town.

I assume you know who this is. Jonathan Lesser.

Sure. I know him. Bed-hopper. Fond of peeping.

Boonce grins.

Good answer. But he’s not just any hopper, mind you. He’s king of the hoppers, basically.

Boonce swipes his finger to bring up photo number two. This one I don’t recognize. It’s another surveillance photo, taken on the street, of a young man in a tweed suit with round glasses. Looks Middle Eastern. Egyptian, maybe. Frail kid, fragile as a bulrush. Bad burns stretched across one side of his face like a handprint from a lingering slap.

Boonce asks me.

Does this person look familiar to you?

No.

Well, let me introduce you. His name’s Salem Shaban, aka Salem Khat, aka Sam Khat, as his friends like to call him.

Why Khat?

It’s a drug. You chew it. Looks like twigs and leaves.

Sorry, but his name doesn’t ring a bell.

How about the name Hussein el-Shaban?

No.

You sure? It was in all the papers.

I don’t read the papers.

Well, Hussein el-Shaban was a minor terrorist. Right-hand man to a right-hand man. Killed in Egypt a few years back. Drone strike. Wife too. Whole building full of people, actually. But his wife was an American citizen, which got some bleeding hearts ruffled stateside. More important, el-Shaban also had a son.

Let me guess.

Boonce gestures to the photo.

Shaban Junior here survived the drone strike, barely, got pulled out of the rubble, and now he’s living here, in Brooklyn, running a perfume shop on Atlantic Avenue.

I thought no one lives on Atlantic Avenue anymore. Not after the sweep.

Shaban’s trying to change that. Encouraging Muslims to move back to the neighborhood. He’s become something of a celebrity, actually.

How is he even living in the States?

Boonce fidgets with his wristwatch.

Like I said, his mother’s American. Trust me, he’s on every watch list, including mine. But he used to be some sort of computer whiz kid and he got shipped over here on a special visa. There were … back-channel accommodations. The punch line is, he gave up all that tech-whiz stuff when he suddenly found religion. Became a devout Muslim. Then became an activist.

I examine the photo again. Kid looks harmless. Bookish even. Smooth cheeks, save for the burns, which curl across one cheek and wrap around his throat. Tweed suit’s baggy, maybe two sizes too big.

I say to Boonce.

He looks fifteen.

Boonce chuckles.

Don’t let the babyface fool you. His father also had a daughter, but guess what? The daughter’s dead. Rumor is, Salem Shaban murdered her, his own sister, back in Egypt. Honor killing. That’s what they call it. She got gang-raped, so naturally, he killed her. And he didn’t stop there. Found the rapists too. Killed them. Found their wives. Killed them too. And their kids, in a couple of cases. Little kids, I mean. Cut quite a swath.

Okay. So why not just arrest him?

Hey, I’m NYPD, not Interpol. Plus, it’s all rumor. Records from Egypt right now are, shall we say, spotty. You probably saw the reports on TV. Things are a little chaotic over there.

Like I said, I don’t follow the news.

Boonce smirks.

Well, let’s just say I hope you had a chance to visit Egypt back when the pyramids were still intact.

Points to the photo of Shaban again.

This kid’s taken it upon himself to lead a crusade to repopulate Atlantic Avenue. Pretty small-time right now, but it’s growing. Plus—and here’s the kicker—he knows Lesser.

How?

Best buds from the whiz-kid days.

Okay. Now what does any of this have to do with me?

Boonce picks up the handheld. Swipes again. Then says.

Don’t forget. I’ve got one more photo to show you.

Turns the screen back toward me.

I assume you recognize this asshole.

I examine the photo. It’s blurry, but, yes, I know him. Because this one’s me.

It’s a photo shot in the Stuyvesant Town lobby. Security camera, judging from the overhead angle. I’m toting my duffel bag on my way to see Lesser on Saturday night.

Waiter in a white coat arrives with two steaming bowls of bisque that I don’t remember either of us ordering. Boonce thanks the waiter, then gestures toward the curved wooden walls of the saloon, with their useless blind portholes.

You know what I like about this place, Spademan?

What’s that?

No windows. So no one can see in.

Takes his spoon and skims his bisque.

Because that’s my job. That’s what I do. See into every room in the city.

Blows on the spoonful.

And I do see everything.

So are you here to arrest me?

Boonce smiles.

Not arrest you. Recruit you.

Then he takes another sip from his bisque.

Look, Spademan, to tell you the truth, I don’t much care what you do. You find people, I find people. It’s a living.

Swallows the spoonful. Frowns. Puts the spoon down. Pushes his bowl aside, barely touched.

Leans in.

I love this saloon. Last bastion of a whole different city. Only trouble is—

Cups a hand to his mouth. Stage whisper.

—the bisque sucks.

Leans back.

I just need to know what Lesser saw, Spademan. Or what he thought he saw. Because I know he told you. And I figure you’re just about the last one he talked to about it.

So why not just ask him yourself?

Haven’t you heard, Spademan? Lesser’s disappeared. Poof. No trace.