So Long As You Both Shall Live (87th Precinct) (5 page)

She remembered…He had a scalpel in his right hand. She turned when she heard the hotel door clicking open, and saw him striding toward her across the room, the scalpel glittering in the light of the lamp on the dresser. He was wearing a green surgical mask, and his eyes above the mask scanned the room swiftly as he crossed to where she was already moving from the suitcase toward the bathroom door, intercepting her, grabbing her from behind and pulling her in against him. She opened her mouth to scream, but his left arm was tight around her waist now, and suddenly his right hand, the hand holding the scalpel, moved to her throat, circling up from behind. She felt the blade against her flesh and heard him whisper just the single word “Silence,” and the formative scream became only a terrified whimper drowned by the roar of the shower.

He was pulling her backward toward the door, and then suddenly he swung her around and shoved her against the wall, the scalpel coming up against her throat again, his left hand reaching into his coat pocket. She saw the wad of absorbent cotton an instant before he clamped it over her nose and mouth. She had detested the stench of chloroform ever since she was six and had her tonsils removed. She twisted her head to escape the smothering aroma, and then felt the scalpel nudging her flesh, insistently reminding her that it was there and that it could cut. She became fearful that if she lost consciousness, she might fall forward onto the sharp blade, and she tried to keep from becoming dizzy, but the sound of the shower seemed magnified, an ocean surf pounding against some desolate shore, waves crashing and receding in endless repetition, foam bubbles dissolving, and far overhead, so distant it could scarcely be heard, the cry of a gull that might have been only her own strangled scream.

She listened now.

She could hear nothing, she suspected she was alone. But she could not be certain. Behind the blindfold, she began to weep soundlessly.

Nobody in the crime-prevention and law-enforcement game likes to admit that informers are a vital part of the setup. There are reasons for this. To begin with, an informer is paid. He is paid cold hard cash. In cases where he is working for the FBI or the Treasury Department or the postal authorities, he is paid very
large
sums of money indeed, and is often protected from arrest and/or prosecution as well. A good informer is sometimes more valuable than a good cop, and there have been cases where a good cop was sold down the river in order to protect a good informer. The money an informer is paid comes from a slush fund, the original source of which is the taxpayer. Whether it is labeled “Petty Cash” or “Research” or “Shrinkage” or “Mother Leary’s Bloomers Fund,” the money in that kitty sure as hell does not come out of the pockets of hardworking law-enforcement officers. It is the taxpayer who puts up the scratch, and this is one of the reasons cops, agents, inspectors, and what-have-you are reluctant to discuss their dependency on informers. Taxpayers don’t know from informers, you see. Taxpayers only know from rats.

An informer is a rat, and nowhere in the world is a rat appreciated. Taxpayers, therefore, do not feel that rats should be rewarded for their rattiness. Even tiny tots are taught not to respect other tiny tots who are snitches. (It is interesting to note that in the underworld an informer is not known as a “stool pigeon” or a “dirty rat,” James Cagney notwithstanding. He is known simply and childishly as a “snitch.”) There is a very stringent underworld code against snitching, and snitches are very often found dead with symbolic markings—such as slashed double crosses—on their cheeks. Fear of reprisal, of course, is one reason why
honest
citizens will not report a witnessed crime to the police. But another reason is the distaste the average, everyday, straight citizen feels toward anyone who would divulge a secret. The secret may very well be the identity of a murderer. Even so, it’s not nice to tell. Informers have no such scruples. The only thing
they
worry about is whether or not someone will see them in conversation with a police officer. The cops of the 87th knew the snitching game was a dangerous one, and they were therefore willing to meet their informers better than halfway.

At 10:00 that Monday morning, Detective Steve Carella sat on a bench in the middle of Grover Park, waiting for Danny Gimp to show up. It was drizzling. The drizzle was cold and wet. Mist rose poetically from rocks and rills. The trees, their limbs and branches bare, stood in gaunt silhouette like slender graveside mourners, the sky behind them a dismal gray. On the road running through the park, there was the sound of automobile tires hissing on the black asphalt surface. Carella took out his handkerchief, blew his nose, and returned the handkerchief to his coat pocket. His nose was cold. He glanced at his watch. Two minutes had passed since he’d last looked at it. Danny Gimp was usually on time. This morning, though, he had insisted on a fallback. He had told Carella that if he did not meet him at the designated bench by 10:15, he could be found near the statue of General Pershing, on the other side of the park zoo, at precisely 11:00. Carella wondered about this, but Danny would not elucidate on the telephone. It was rare for an informer to insist upon a fallback. The profession had its real risks, true, but it was nonetheless far removed from the more sophisticated world of international espionage.

Danny arrived at fourteen minutes past 10:00, just as Carella was ready to abandon the bench. He was wearing a shabby brown overcoat, brown trousers, brown shoes, and white socks. He was carrying a cane, and he was hatless, and Carella noticed for the first time that his hair was getting rather thin. He came limping up to the bench, the limp somehow more marked than it had been the last time they’d talked. There was no nonsense between the two men: they had known each other for a long time, and they both respected the symbiosis that made their relationship work. They addressed each other on a first-name basis, and they greeted each other like friends who had not seen each other for quite some time. Perhaps they
were
friends. They never much thought about it. In their own minds, they thought of themselves as business associates.

“Some fuckin’ weather, huh?” Danny said.

“Miserable.”

“How you been, Steve?”

“Okay. And you?”

“The leg bothers me, this kind of weather. I was born too soon, Steve. If there’d been the Salk shots when I was a kid, I never would’ve got polio, huh?” He shrugged. “Well, what can you do? I ought to move out to Arizona, someplace like that. This fuckin’ rain, it really gets in my bones. Anyway, listen, who wants to hear about my misery, huh? What’s on your mind, Steve?”

“Why’d you ask for a fallback, Danny?”

“Aw, no reason. I’m just getting cautious in my old age, that’s all.”

“Somebody leaning on you?”

“No, no. Well, look, yeah, I’ll tell you the truth, there’s somebody thinks I did a number on him, and the word is he says he’s gonna break my
other
leg if he catches up with me. He thinks I limp cause I had a broken leg once, he don’t know it’s from polio. The funny thing is I never said a word about this guy to anybody, I swear to God.”

“Who’s the guy?” Carella asked.

“His name is Nick Archese, he’s a fuckin’ two-bit gambler, he thinks he’s a tough guy. I’ll tell you the truth, Steve, you see this cane I’m carrying? You ever see me with a cane before?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Well, this cane is new, there’s a sword inside it. I mean it. You want to see the sword?”

“No,” Carella said.

“Archese comes after me, or even he sends one of his bums after me, there’s gonna be sliced salami on rye, I can tell you. One thing I ain’t gonna do is stand still while some bums jump up and down on my bones.”

“You want me to throw a scare at him?”

“How you gonna do that, Steve? You pick him up and muscle him around, he’s gonna know I work for you guys, am I right? That’ll only make the whole thing worse. Don’t worry about it, I can take care of it myself. Only, if you find somebody with a couple of sword holes in him, don’t come looking for me, okay?” Danny laughed, and then said, “So what is it? What can I do for you?”

“Do you know Bert Kling?” Carella asked. “Have you ever worked with him?”

“Yeah, sure. Tall blond guy?”

“Right. He got married yesterday.”

“Tell him congratulations.”

“Danny, his bride was snatched from their hotel room last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I’m saying.”

“That’s got to be a lunatic,” Danny said. “Snatch a cop’s wife? Got to be out of his mind.”

“Or maybe just angry. We were running through Kling’s arrest record early this morning. He sent up too many to count, Danny, we’d be on this all month if we had to track down all the guys who’ve been paroled and are on the streets again. But two of those guys look like possibilities, and we’re anxious to know what they’ve been up to.”

“What are their names?” Danny asked.

“First one is named Manny Baal. Kling busted him for Robbery Two a long time ago. He drew ten, served the full term, parole constantly denied because he’s such a bad apple. When he got convicted, he swore he’d kill Kling one day. Okay, he finally got out of jail last month, and we don’t know where he is.”

“Manny Baal, huh?”

“That’s his name.”

“How does he spell it?”

“B-a-a-l.”

“What is it—Manuel?”

“No, Manfred.”

“Okay, who’s the other guy?”

“The other guy is named Al Brice. Kling busted him on Christmas Eve almost three years ago. He’s a possibility, too, Danny.”

“How so?”

“Kling killed his brother.”

“Let me have the details, huh?”

“Kling was dating a girl whose boyfriend was doing time at Castleview. The Brice boys were pals of the con, and they promised to look after the girl while he was away. So they ganged Kling one night and beat him up—broke one of his ribs, in fact. He caught up with them on Christmas Eve. They were running a chicken barbecue joint on the South Side. They put up a struggle when he tried to make the collar, and he had to kill one of them. The other one got sent up for Assault Two, a Class D felony. He drew a fixed sentence of two and a half years because Kling was a cop and judges don’t like cops getting their heads beat in. Served his full time, got out this June.”

“And you think he might be gunning for Kling?”

“He’s got good reason.”

“Then why go for Kling’s wife?”

“Who knows? Danny, we’re trying for any kind of lead. So far, we haven’t heard a peep from whoever’s got her.”

“That don’t sound like a kidnapping then, does it?”

“Well…sometimes a ransom demand won’t come for days.”

“Mmm,” Danny said. “How does this guy spell his name?”

“Brice. B-r-i-c-e.”

“Al, you said?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that Alfred or Albert?”

“Albert.”

“Okay, I’ll give a listen. Anything else?”

“We need this fast, Danny. So far, we’re in the dark.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I hear,” Danny said.

“How are you fixed for cash?”

“I could use a double sawbuck, if that ain’t pressing you.”

Carella took out his wallet, and handed two ten-dollar bills to Danny. “About this guy who’s leaning on you…”

“I’ll take care of him, don’t worry,” Danny said. “You sure you don’t want to see my sword?”

The man Hal Willis went to see was a different kind of informer. His name was Fats Donner. He was a good informer and a terrible man. Willis didn’t like him, and neither did any of the other precinct detectives. But he had on occasions too numerous to count provided valuable information, and so he was tolerated. Even his penchant for steam baths was tolerated.

At 12:00 noon that Monday, Willis found Donner in a sauna
cum
massage parlor on Culver and Tenth. He had been trying to locate him since 9:00 that morning, and had gone to most of the legit emporiums before considering those that mixed steam with sex. For some reason, perhaps because Donner seemed so fanatically religious about losing weight, Willis simply assumed he never would contaminate or confuse his purpose. Sex, even in its handiest form, seemed something that Donner would engage in privately and perversely (his tastes running to rather young girls), and not in a public place where he was hoping to take off pounds.

The name of the joint was the Arabian Nights, and Willis was greeted in the lobby by a muscular black man wearing red velvet trousers, a black velvet vest with gold piping around the armholes, a red felt fez with a dangling tassel, one gold earring piercing his right earlobe, and a partridge in a pear tree.

“Welcome to the Arabian Nights,” the man said in a heavy Jamaican accent that immediately destroyed any Middle Eastern illusion. “Would you care to step into the King’s Harem, sir?”

Willis showed the man his shield.

The man said, “This is strictly massage and sauna, nothing else.”

“I’m sure,” Willis said.

“You can spot-check any of the rooms. You find one of our girls engaged in any unprofessional activity—”

“Which profession?” Willis asked.

“I mean it, officer. We are sincerely clean. Massage and sauna, that is it, mon.”

“I said I believe you. I’m looking for Fats Donner, would you know him?”

“Might he be a huge mountain of a mon?”

“He might.”

“You will find him in the sauna at the end of the hall. I suggest you undress and put on a towel, sir. It can get mighty hot inside there.”

“Thank you, I will.”

“If you’ll go through the harem, you’ll find lockers just beyond.”

“Thank you,” Willis said.

The harem was draped with a dozen girls of various ages, sizes, shapes, and colors. Half of them were wearing blond wigs, it being an old wives’ tale that men visiting massage parlors preferred blondes. One or two of the girls were actually pretty. They were all wearing transparent houri pants, gold bracelets on their ankles, and black velvet vests similar to the one the black man outside had on. There was nothing but flesh under the open vests. A disparate array of breasts, running the gamut from the insignificant to the profound, greeted Willis as he entered the room and the girls turned to look at him.

“Just passing through,” he said.

“Big spender,” one of the girls said dryly.

He undressed in a room in which there were a dozen lockers without locks. Taking a towel from a neatly folded stack on a shelf opposite the lockers, he wrapped it securely around his waist, and then headed for the sauna at the end of the hall. In one hand he was carrying his wallet and a small leather case containing his shield and his ID card. In the other hand he was carrying his holstered .38-caliber Detective’s Special. He felt rather like a horse’s ass.

Fats Donner was a great white Buddha of a man sitting in one corner of the wooden sauna, a towel draped loosely over his midsection. His eyes were half closed when Willis came in. He opened his eyes all the way, recognized Willis, and said, “Close the door, man, you’ll let out all the heat.”

Willis closed the door. “I’ve been looking all over the goddamn city for you,” he said.

“So you found me, man,” Donner said.

They began talking about Manfred Baal and Albert Brice then.

The man was a Puerto Rican informer who operated a store that sold medicinal herbs, dream books, religious statues, numbers books, tarot cards, and the like. He also sold a wide variety of so-called marital aids, but he kept these in the back room of the shop and showed them only to special customers. His real name, or at least the name he was known by in the
barrio,
was Francisco Palacios, and this was the name lettered in gold leaf on the plate-glass window of his shop. But he was known as “The Gaucho” or “The Cowboy” to most of the cops with whom he did business. Only one cop called him “The Prick,” and that was Andy Parker, because once, three years before, Palacios had come up with some very choice information that would have cracked a big narcotics case and meant a promotion for Parker. But Palacios had refused to deliver the information to Parker because he didn’t like him, and had instead given the dope to
another
cop on the squad (Delgado, a Puerto Rican like Palacios himself), for which Palacios would always be “The Prick” in Andy Parker’s eyes and in his lexicon.