Once a Crooked Man (22 page)

Lizzie walked over and gazed at the framed photographs on the wall above the desk. “Good God!” she said. “You know these people?”

“I worked with them. It's not quite the same thing.”

“And isn't that Madonna?”

“Yes,” he replied. “For half a day. Weird movie.”

“Holy shit!” Lizzie said. “I'm really impressed.” She moved to the next picture, showing a group shot of four men. One of them was in uniform. “Is that your father?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“He was a policeman?”

“A cop, yes. He was a cool dude.”

“Sounds great!” she exclaimed, and then asked, “Do you have a landline?”

He pointed to the bedroom. “By the bed.”

Lizzie opened her suitcase, pulled out a folder, a black dress and a pair of low heels and headed into the bedroom. Harry got himself a Stella Artois and sat down on the sofa. Her call was brief and moments later she shouted out to him. “How do I get to West Tenth?”

“The Drug Enforcement Agency office?”

“Yes.”

“Get a cab,” he replied. “Take you about ten minutes.”

Now looking very official, she came back into the room, picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder.

“I have to take care of protocol,” she said. “I won't be long.”

“Oh,” said Harry, a little surprised. “You have to do it alone?”

“Yes. Do you have a spare key?”

“Sure,” he said, and retrieved a ring of keys from a kitchen drawer. Lizzie slipped them into her pocket. “Don't worry Harry; once we've got all this official nonsense out of the way we can enjoy the sinful pleasures of New York.”

The front door slammed and he was alone. The sound of her heels faded as she went down the stairs.

Harry carried the camera cases into the kitchen and stowed them under the table. In the bedroom he unpacked his suitcase and made two piles, one for the wash and another for the cleaners. The mail was collected from the foot of the stairs and sorted on the kitchen table. All of it was junk. When Lizzie came back, he had been to the laundry, dropped off his dry cleaning and from Whole Foods had brought home olives, pâtés, nuts, cheese and crackers. In the icebox were two bottles of Vermentino.

“Sorry. Took longer than I thought. But Marty turned out to be real busy.”

“Marty?”

Lizzie adopted a mock American accent. “‘Special Agent Marty P. MacAvoy.' My contact here. Busted a supply house last night and pulled in half of the Bronx. I had to wait while he filled in the forms. Place was a shambles. They had suspects lined up along the walls in one room and in another they had put those big folding tables. They was all covered with big bags of cocaine. On one side was a huge wooden door with ten locks on it. All smashed in it was.”

“What was that there for?”

“Evidence.”

She squatted down on the floor by her suitcase. “What have you been up to?”

“I got us some food. I thought we'd have a glass of wine with an appetizer or two before starting our tour of the Big Apple.”

“All that will have to wait,” she said abruptly. This time she pulled out a print dress and a pair of sensible walking shoes and went into the bedroom.

Her voice rose as she changed. “Marty said he could spare two agents. They'll be in place at six. That's when you make the call. Then no matter what is said or done you get your arse back here.”

So much for showing Lizzie the sights. “No last meal for the condemned man,” he commented pointedly.

“We can go out and eat first. We got time.” She strode back in and lifted her suitcase up on a side table. “Where shall we go? It's my treat.”

“Coffee shop just around the corner. But you're not paying for your first nosh in New York, I am.”

“Neither of us is paying, Harry. I'm putting it on Expenses. We're noshing courtesy of Her Majesty. But before we go we need to pick out what you're going to be wearing later. You need something that can be identified at a distance. Nothing overt, but it should be specific. Marty's people have to be able to spot you right away so they can follow you.”

This was news to Harry. “Where the hell are they going to follow me?”

“Probably nowhere, but we got to be prepared. We need something simple but distinctive. What have you got in your little cupboard?”

“Bits and pieces. Theater stuff.”

“Let's have a look,” she said, opening the door.

“Some sort of hat?” he suggested facetiously. “What about a Stetson? I got a big white one. After all, I am supposed to be one of the good guys.”

She smiled. “I don't think so.”

“A bowler? Some sort of cap?”

“Show me.”

Harry pulled out a cardboard box and was about to tip the contents onto the floor when Lizzie reached over him to lift out a pair of red suspenders. “What about these?” she asked.

“Fireman's clip-on suspenders. I wore them in a modern dress production of
Major Barbara
,” he replied. “Why not? With the right shirt they would stand out a mile.”

“Put them on,” she ordered.

Lizzie changed in the bathroom as Harry put on a T-shirt, a tattered work shirt, a pair of old blue jeans with the red suspenders and a pair of sneakers. When she emerged she gave him the once-over.

“Perfect,” she said. “Now let's go eat.”

In the coffee shop, Lizzie took the time to read all five pages of the menu.

“What's Marty like?” asked Harry, watching her.

“Tall dark and handsome with a long thin face. Gave me the impression he would prefer we wasn't here.”

Harry suggested she choose the lox with cream cheese and sliced onion on a toasted bagel. It was her own idea to add a chocolate milk shake. Harry settled on a turkey burger, fries and coffee.

“The contact number Villiers gave us,” said Lizzie, “is probably a custom portable device. You dial and punch in the number where you're calling from. When it shows up on their little receiver, someone makes a note of the number, calls someone else, and then that someone else calls you back. There are different combinations for the calls, but basically they're all virtually untraceable. So much so that Marty thinks we're wasting our time.”

“Really?” said Harry hopefully.

“He says today's villains do all they can to keep their identities a secret. He also said that there is no way anyone is going to blow their cover for a measly million and a half.”

Harry's eyebrows rose involuntarily. “Wouldn't they at least be curious?” he asked.

“Not according to Marty. Even if we're on the right track and make a connection, it's more than likely we'll be contacted by someone far from the circle of trusted people.”

“Isn't that just as good? I mean, all you want is to make contact.”

The food arrived and Lizzie looked in amazement at the huge plate. “My God! There's enough here for the Arsenal football team.” Picking up the warm bagel she asked, “Okay, what's the drill?”

“You take the bagel, spread the cream cheese on top, put a piece of onion on top of that, then a slice of the salmon. Then you sprinkle on the capers and add a squeeze of lemon.”

Lizzie followed his instructions and took a big bite. “Mmm,” she said approvingly. “Well worth the effort.”

Harry opened his burger, spread on the mustard, poured on the ketchup and added the pickles.

“You're right about us wanting to make contact,” said Lizzie with her mouth full. “But remember, we need something we can follow up. You got to make them think you're crazy enough to cause trouble. They've got to want to meet you. Talk to you face-to-face.”

“How long do you think all this is going to take?”

“No idea.”

“Shouldn't we put the money back in the suitcase?”

“No. Not yet.” She blew the wrapping off the straw into the air.

“What if they ask me for it?”

“Harry,” she said patiently, “first you have to get them curious. Then you have to convince them you're going to be a nuisance they can't ignore. Then you have to agree to a meeting. That's when I take over. I'll deal with the money.”

Harry put his burger down on the plate. “When we started this charade, I agreed to make one phone call. Now I am being told to make a series of calls in which I have to give an Academy Award performance to convince a bunch of low-level peons that I am a raving lunatic who urgently needs to meet their paranoid boss.”

Her head went from side to side. “At this level of operation they wouldn't expect it any other way, Harry. The receivers will make their own determination and report back. That's the way it's done. You have to go through the layers.”

“Why didn't you tell me all this before?”

“I did, Harry. You wasn't listening. Or I just assumed you knew. Look, if I made a mistake I'm sorry. Just make the calls one by one. Marty will have two agents watching you the whole time. You'll be quite safe.”

“Where will you be?”

“I'll be up in your flat while you make the first call. After that, Marty wants me with him. If anything should happen he doesn't want to be the one making decisions.”

“Sounds a bit of a wuss to me.”

“Let's hope not. For both our sakes.”

In his early career Harry had performed sketches that demanded improvisation. His efforts, although adequate, had given him a healthy respect for the written word.

“What makes you think I'll be able to come up with the right dialogue when I'm dealing with some meathead asking awkward questions?”

“Think about what you know, Harry. Stick to the facts. Tell them about London. About Villiers. About having afternoon tea with the Colonel's wife. About what happened in the Mews. You were there! You know what happened. Not only that, you have names. Mrs. Villiers spoke about an Enzo. The Colonel talked about Max and Rocco. Use that information. You're an actor, Harry, I know you can do it. I just know you can.”

 

37

Harry dropped two quarters into a pay phone on Columbus Circle and dialed the contact number Lizzie had extorted from Colonel Villiers. There was a click and then three sharp beeps. Harry punched in the number in front of him and hung up. The phone rang almost immediately and gave him a start. Picking up the receiver, he listened to resonant silence. Whoever was on the other end was not going to start the conversation. It was clearly up to Harry. As he was totally unprepared, he hung up.

A short rehearsal was needed. He had to establish a character for himself. If he was someone scared and a bit stupid what would he say and how would he say it? Lizzie had just told him to base everything on what he knew. After making a few mental notes he cleared his throat, put two more coins in the slot and dialed. Once again he heard the beeps and tapped in the numbers. Moments later the phone rang. This time he was prepared.

“My name's Murphy … Harry Murphy. I'm back here in New York. I need to talk to Max, or maybe Enzo … about the suitcase … the suitcase with the money.” A touch of hysteria crept into his voice. “Oh God! I hope I'm doing the right thing…”

Harry felt as if the success or failure of the entire production was now on his shoulders. A bad review could close the show. “I don't want it! Do you hear? It's all a goddam mistake!”

“Okay, fella,” said someone with a serious nasal condition and who was clearly unimpressed by Harry's histrionics. “Call back in an hour.”

Harry hung up. The adrenaline overflowed through his system giving him a clear and concise picture of what he was doing. The whole stupid business was insane. “This has to end here and now!” he said forcefully to a passing stranger who proceeded to give him a wide berth.

Back at 56th Street he charged up the stairs and walked decisively through the front door. Lizzie had taken a shower and slipped into something loose and red. She ran over and put her arms around his neck. Without a thought, he put his arms around her waist. She felt warm, soft and silky.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“I spoke to someone who told me to call back in an hour,” he answered.

“Great!” she cried. “You did it!”

“I—”

“One more call, Harry.”

“I—”

“You can't let me down, not now.”

“I was thinking—”

She lowered her voice. “Right, Harry! Just keep thinking about all we can do when this is over.” She kissed him lightly on the tip of his nose. “Okay?”

“Okay,” said Harry, his resolve obliterated.

 

38

The Fiery Red Dragon was not particularly busy when the three Bruschetti brothers came in and slid into the corner booth. Rocco followed them, put the Closed card on the outer door and had the neon sign turned off. He then ordered an assortment of appetizers and drinks for everyone. As they munched away they made small talk. As soon as the last of the patrons left, the waiter and cook were banished to the street and the four men got down to business.

“Tell me, Brother, why the hell don't we just say no?” Sal asked bluntly.

“Not a good idea,” said Enzo. “We don't want to make the South Americans our enemies.”

“What makes you think you can trust them?” asked Max. “Once we set up the organization for them they could get rid of us permanently.”

“That would be very bad for business,” Enzo replied, chewing on a spare rib. “Even the Colombians know you got to trust somebody somewhere.”

Sal took a sip of his Cutty Sark. “What makes you think we can deliver what he wants?”

Enzo leaned back and said forcefully, “Goddam it, Sal! The man is giving us a one-way ticket to retirement. To a little peace and security.”

Max shook his head. “I agree with Sal. It won't be that easy to set up an organization like the one he wants. We have few reliable contacts outside the city. How do you set up a network without manpower?”