The Hour of the Cat (31 page)

“It was a cinch, really. I knew you'd never suspect a woman of following you. The moment I saw the name Fintan Dunne on the building directory, it fell in place. That cop from Lenny Moss's trial. That well-built Irish cop with the wavy black hair and sky-blue eyes. The one who told the truth. Not easy to forget a mick like that.”

“Why didn't you tell Babcock he was being tailed?”

“I planned to. That's the day he didn't show.”

“And the day you sent Elba to see me.”

“As soon as his secretary called with the news about Clem, I sent Elba to see you. I thought you'd be looking for new clients. I wanted her to get there before anyone else.”

The Ernie Carero Orchestra was in place on the grandstand, a dozen Latin men, brown and good-looking, in white dinner jackets with red carnations in their lapels. Carero, the band-leader, came to the microphone. “This first song,” he said, “is for everyone who's ever been in love, or is in love now, or wants to be.” He turned to the band, tapped his baton rhythmically on the music stand and the orchestra began to play. A crooner with slicked-back hair and a pencil mustache replaced him at the microphone.

He sang in a soft, understated voice, carefully articulating each word. An invitation to embrace
until the tune ends
, to waltz in
the wonder of why we're here
, to dance in the dark because time is the enemy of love and
it soon ends
, erasing everyone,
we're here and we're gone.

Only one couple was on the dance floor. Carero returned to the microphone. “Come on, folks, where are all the lovers? Don't tell me they're all upstairs gambling!”

“Let's dance,” Roberta said.

“Not exactly the dancing type,” Dunne said.

“Tonight you are.” She led him onto the floor, put an arm around his shoulder, and slipped her other hand into his. “Relax,” she said. “That's the only secret there is to dancing. Listen to the music and follow me.” He looked down at her feet.

“Forget your feet. Look at me.”

He followed her graceful direction, the sure push of her body against his. The dance floor filled up. “There,” Carero said after the next chorus. “I knew we had an audience full of lovers.”

The singer held the microphone in a close embrace, one hand on the stand, the other on the head, a dreamy gaze in his eyes, as if he'd found
the light of a new love to brighten up the night
, a mate with whom to
face the music together
, a lover for this night and all the nights to come,
dancing in the dark, dancing in the dark, dancing in the dark.

From the second floor of the Riviera, where the gamblers were busier than ever at the gaming tables, came a cheer and a burst of applause. “Sounds like somebody hit the jackpot,” Roberta said. “It must be his lucky night.”

“Must be.”

They danced until their dessert was served. Roberta asked him about his life. “As soon as I get around to writing my autobiography, I'll see you get a copy,” he said.

She smiled. “Or maybe I'll just wait until they make it into a movie.”

He changed the subject, talking instead about meeting Wilfredo and his visit to Miss Lynch's apartment. He took the key he'd found beneath the highboy from his pocket and placed it on the table. “I think this is why Miss Lynch was killed,” he said. “The murderer strangled her to death as he tried to force out of her where it was. Raped and stabbed her to make it look like a crime of passion. Probably cut her open to see if she might have swallowed it.”

Roberta moved her chair back, putting an extra bit of space between herself and the key. “Any idea what it might unlock?”

“Maybe the motive for murder. I won't know until I find it.”

 

 

A valet brought the car around to the front of Ben Marden's. Roberta seemed sleepy and asked Dunne to drive. As he got in the driver's seat, he noticed the gas gauge was almost on empty. He stopped at a station in Fort Lee. Roberta's eyes were closed. He rolled up his window and went to the men's room. Above the cracked and reeking urinal was a padlocked dispensing machine. THE YOUNG RUBBER CORPORATION OF CLEVELAND, OHIO. SOLD FOR THE PREVENTION OF DISEASE ONLY
.
He shook free the last few drops and buttoned his fly. The first time he used a condom was in France. The mademoiselle had to show him how to put it on. She laughed and said something in French about Americans that he guessed wasn't intended as praise.

Back in the car, the fragrance of Roberta's perfume was overwhelming, a scent different from Lily's, less sweet but no less alluring. He put his window down and started the engine. On the other side of the George Washington Bridge, he exited onto the Henry Hudson Parkway and drove north. Roberta stayed asleep and didn't notice that they were traveling away from Brooklyn. He turned off the Parkway, followed a winding road through Fort Tryon Park to the Cloisters, and steered into the parking lot on the west side of the building. The sole empty space was next to a large white sign with black lettering:

He tapped her gently. She woke and looked around. “Where are we?”

“Fort Tryon Park, the Cloisters. Come on, let's get some fresh air.”

He got out and opened the door for her. They sat on the low stone wall that faced the river. A few other couples sat on the wall, enjoying the light breeze. Radios played softly in several of the cars. In the rear of the lot, close to the looming tower of the Cloisters, a row of cars was tucked deep into the shadows. Satisfied with what they had, cool night air, stars, river, the moonlight on it, bodies at rest content to stay at rest, none of the river gazers bothered to peer or intrude.

He lit a cigarette and offered her one. She held hers to his, sucking on it until the tip flared red. She took his hand, and they sat watching the Hudson River in silence.

To the left, the bridge spanned the moon-streaked river, a looming latticework of steel and cable that was at once massive and graceful. South of the bridge was Palisades Amusement Park. Its searchlights played across the night sky as though it were the roof of a vast tent. From below came the steady
thrum
of tires on asphalt that could be mistaken for the faint echo of Palisades Park, a drone of laughter and screams, the monotone exhilaration of crowds sharing the same fright or thrill.

By the time they got back in the car, the lights across the river had been turned off and the park seemed to have magically disappeared. “You can drive to your place,” Roberta said. “I'll take it from there.”

He drove down Broadway. She was asleep again in a few minutes. He decided to let her sleep, drive her home to Brooklyn, and take a cab back.

As they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, the horizon shaded toward blue. It was the moment Dunne enjoyed most when he'd worked the nightshift on homicide, the city momentarily balanced between night and day. Partygoers, bakers, printers, cops, office cleaners, insomniacs out of necessity or choice were getting into bed as the city's sleepers started to put aside the covers, stretching, scratching, trying either to remember or forget their dreams: a pause in the day's routine, when even the crime rate fell.

Dunne looked in the rearview mirror. A black sedan was some distance behind, two men in the front seat. He switched on the radio. A cheery voice hawked Ivory Soap, as a xylophone mimicked the happy ascent of soap bubbles. He slowed down. The sedan slowed too. He made a sharp left onto Atlantic Avenue, running a red light, and pulled over on Flatbush Avenue in front of Bickford's Cafeteria, which was brightly lit and filled with early-morning customers.

Roberta woke with a confused look on her face. “What's going on?”

The sedan pulled up behind them. Both men got out. They flanked the car. The one on Dunne's side produced a badge and said, “I'm Agent Lundgren of the FBI.”

“Didn't know the FBI was in charge of red lights,” Dunne said.

Another sedan pulled up behind the first. Two more FBI-types got out. One of them reached in, unlocked Dunne's door, and swung it open. “Please step out slowly.” He cuffed Dunne's hands behind his back. Another agent did the same to Roberta. The agents hustled them into the backseat of the second car. Dunne leaned forward. The handcuffs were tight and uncomfortable. Agent Lundgren got in the passenger seat. When Dunne complained about the cuffs, Lundgren stepped outside. Dunne whispered to Roberta the address of Cassidy's Bar. “Call me there,” he said. “No place else.”

Camera around his neck, Sniffles Ott stood a few feet away as Lundgren adjusted Dunne's cuffs. “Made my night, Fin. Here's me sippin' a cup of coffee, thinkin' I wasted a whole shift without takin' a single worthwhile snap, and who rolls up to get himself arrested but you'se!” He readied his camera to take a picture.

Lundgren put his hand in front of the lens. “I'd ask that you stop, or I'll be required to detain you for interfering with an arrest by the FBI.”

“G-men? What'd you do this time, Fin, rob a bank?”

“Worse, I ran a red light.”

“That's a federal offense?”

Dunne inclined his head toward Lundgren. “Ask him.”

Sniffles had his camera in position again. Lundgren put Dunne back in the car and aimed a finger at Sniffles. “I tell you to desist, I mean desist. Try again, I'll confiscate the camera.”

Once Lundgren was in the passenger seat, the agent who took the wheel made a U-turn and headed down Flatbush, toward Manhattan. Lundgren used the hand receiver on the two-way radio to report that “the suspects had been successfully apprehended” and that they should be “returned shortly.” As they merged into the traffic headed for the Brooklyn Bridge, he swiveled around and rested his left arm on the back of the front seat.

“You're under arrest, Mr. Dunne, for transporting a woman across state lines for immoral purposes.”

Roberta seemed unsure whether she was truly awake or mired in an unpleasantly realistic dream. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“It's no joke, ma'am. There are any number of female inmates in the Federal Industrial Institution, in Alderson, West Virginia, who can testify to the seriousness with which the Bureau regards the Mann Act. Some of them have been put there by the Director himself, who's personally involved himself in apprehending violators.”

“Since when is it a crime to take a car ride to New Jersey?”

“Miss Dee, let's not kid each other. I'm aware of who you are. You know what the Mann Act is and, no offense, what's meant by ‘immoral purposes.'”

“The only immorality was the price of the steak at Ben Marden's.”

“The Mann Act doesn't require an ‘overt act.' The crime was complete the moment you and your companion crossed the state line with immoral purpose. I'm afraid it won't take much to convince a jury what the two of you were up to.”

The Manhattan-bound traffic was heavier than when they'd crossed the bridge earlier. An accident had slowed traffic to a crawl. In the distance, a small fleet of yachts, sails taut with wind, moved past Governors Island. Farther out an ocean liner proceeded with majestic certainty toward the Narrows and the open sea. The car inched forward. The ocean liner grew smaller.

Roberta looked away from the window directly at Lundgren. “This is ridiculous,” she snapped. “For a car ride and dinner, you send people to the federal stir in Asshole, West Virginia? Law or not, it's goddamn ridiculous.”

“If I was a lady, I certainly wouldn't talk that way.”

“I was a G-man, I'd chase real criminals not act like a glorified truant officer.”

“Save your breath,” Dunne said. “He's only doing his job.”

They rode in silence until they pulled up behind the Federal Courthouse on Foley Square. At the elevator bank, the other agent shepherded Roberta toward an adjoining corridor.

“I thought we were being booked together,” she said.

“First, a female attendant will do a search and see to any personal needs,” Lundgren said.

The elevator arrived. “Wasn't such a lucky night after all,” Fin said. “Sorry.”

Lundgren barked out a floor number to the operator and ensconced himself in the back. Poised and self-assured, without a trace of intimidation, Roberta paused to blow an imaginary kiss in their direction.

In a small room on the fifteenth floor, Lundgren removed the cuffs and left him alone. Except for a table, chairs, and a ceiling fixture that was both a light and a fan, the room was bare. The single window was covered with wire mesh. Below, the East River was busy with barges and ships. Midstream, a tug, struggling against a swift outgoing tide, appeared to be standing still as it inched upriver. Leaning close to the mesh, Dunne tried to look northwards, toward Drydock Street, the old neighborhood. His father turned that same corner every night. Sometimes Big Mike was singing loudly, not drunk, but lubricated enough to sing in a loud, pleasing way. A happy moment when he was like that.

He heard the door open and close behind him. “I wouldn't waste my time looking for a way out, Mr. Dunne. There is none.”

He kept his face angled to the mesh. “Quite a view. You should sell tickets.”

The fat slap of a folder sounded on the tabletop. “Enjoy it. Where you're going the views will be decidedly less expansive.”

Dunne pulled a chair away from the table and sat. The man across from him jotted notes in the folder. “I'm Michael McCarthy, assistant U.S. Attorney.” He didn't look up. “You're in serious trouble, Mr. Dunne. I suppose you realize that.”