The Letter Writer (13 page)

CAIN WALKED INTO THE STATION HOUSE
to see a crowd forming by the notice board, where Desk Sergeant Romo had just put up a memo from the commissioner. Simmons, a colleague from the detectives' squad room, complained loudly.

“Fifty-five cents? And we gotta pay it ourselves? That's eleven months of house coffee!”

“But you get your very own halo, Simmons,” Romo said. “Pretty cheap for getting to look like an angel.”

The uniformed patrolmen who were reading the notice didn't seem at all upset, and Cain realized why when he saw that it was headlined “To All Detectives.”

“You seen this?” Simmons asked. “Downtown says we gotta buy some blue cap with a ring around it that glows in the dark, to wear during blackouts.”

“It's so we can spot you in the dark,” a patrolman said. “So we'll know you're not up to no good.”

Cain read the fine print. The caps would be available next Monday at the equipment room down at headquarters. Every detective had to buy one by the end of the week. Yet another waste of his time, yet another irritating expense.

“Hey, Sergeant Romo,” a patrolman said, “speaking of equipment, I need the key for the stationery closet. My memo book's full.”

“What, you think I'm turning you loose with the keys to every room in the house? Not on your life. Give me a minute and I'll walk you down there.”

Romo reached beneath his high desk, emerged with a large jangling key ring, and stepped down from his perch. It gave Cain an idea. He'd checked the 95 Room several times the day before. On two occasions, Steele and another officer were on duty, so he kept going. The third time, the door was shut and locked up tight. Presumably, Romo had one of the keys.

Cain looked up to see the desk sergeant eyeing him closely. Expecting a rebuke, he turned quickly toward the stairs, but Romo called out before he could duck out of sight.

“Citizen Cain, just the man I wanted to see. Your crazy old coot is back!”

“Who?” Cain turned around.

“The weird old guy in the big coat. The one who smells like soup.” Danziger, he meant. Had to be. “Showed up at seven again, badgering the overnight squad. Told him you wouldn't be in till nine and he just about blew a gasket. Then he left, said he'd wait for you at the Royal.”

Romo twirled a forefinger by his head.
Crazy.

“Thanks, Sarge. I'll keep him out of your hair.”

The Royal was a greasy spoon just up the street, wedged between a shoe repair and Schonfeld's Men's Shop. Big signs on the front window touted triple-decker sandwiches for a dime, a nice deal as long as you could put up with the rude counter man, Freddie.

Cain walked in to see Freddie in a white smock, snapping a small towel like a bullwhip at a lumbering horsefly. The place was empty except for a table in the back, where Danziger was hiding behind a
Daily News.
Cain slapped a quarter on the chrome countertop.

“That's for a cup of coffee, and so you'll leave us alone. I'm doing business here.”

“Yes, your honor.” Freddie bowed theatrically, but didn't argue the point.

Cain took the steaming cup to the table, where Danziger sat before his own half-empty cup. His eyes were bloodshot, his face haggard.

“Thought we were meeting at your place,” Cain said. “Ten o'clock, wasn't it?”

Danziger leaned forward and whispered urgently. “This couldn't wait. This entire matter has become more complicated than we thought.”

“Complicated comes with the job.”

“All right, then, if a euphemism will not suffice.
Bigger
than we thought. More
dangerous.
There are people involved who are…” He searched for the words. “…beyond our capabilities.”

“Whoa now. Let me be the judge of that.” Cain glanced around to make sure Freddie wasn't listening. He was at the griddle now, scraping it down with a metal spatula. “You look terrible, by the way.”

“I have been working nonstop throughout the weekend, calling upon contacts I have not utilized in years. I have scarcely slept, not since what I witnessed Saturday morning, during my breakfast at Longchamps.”

“Longchamps?” Cain raised an eyebrow. “That's a few cuts above the Royal. You'd have to write a lot of letters to swing that.”

“Breakfast is their least expensive meal. It is a monthly ritual.” He sounded defensive, like he'd just admitted to visiting a prostitute. And, frankly, he was a wreck, looking like he hadn't slept for days, although for a change his hair was neatly trimmed, and it looked like he'd even shaved.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to make a big deal of it. So you were at Longchamps. Tell me what you saw that's got you so keyed up.”

“Three men came in. Men whose names you read in the papers. They took a table near my own, close enough for me to listen. It was a business meeting, and one of their topics for discussion was the whereabouts of Lutz Lorenz.”

“Okay. I guess that's pretty unusual, depending on who we're talking about here. But all it really tells us is that word must be getting around about his disappearance. You said yourself he was well connected. So who were these guys?”

“No. You don't understand. They
knew
his whereabouts. One of them assured the others that Lorenz was ‘in safekeeping.' Although, regrettably, he did not otherwise share details of the location.”

“Whoa now. Back up. I need names. You said you knew them from the papers?”

“Murray Gurfein. He was the first one.”

“From the DA's office?”

“Yes.”

“He's the head of their rackets bureau.”

“And on Saturday morning he was breaking bread with a hoodlum, and a hoodlum's lawyer.”

“A rackets investigator can't very well do his job without rubbing elbows with a lot of dirty customers.”

“This is what I told myself as well. But you will see. The second man was the hoodlum's lawyer. I believe the proper slang is ‘a mouthpiece.' Moses Polakoff.”

“Never heard of him. And the other guy was his client?”

“No. Mr. Polakoff's client currently resides in upstate New York.”

“Albany? Buffalo?”

“Clinton State Prison, in Dannemora. He is an inmate, Charles Luciano, the man the papers refer to as ‘Lucky.' ”

“
He's
tied in to Lorenz?”

“Along with the third man at breakfast, Meyer Lansky.”

“That sounds vaguely familiar.”

“Vaguely is how he prefers it. He is very successful at avoiding publicity. He lives well, steers clear of the police, and tells everyone who will listen that his business interests are legitimate, that he is a gambling concessionaire and nothing more.”

“Sounds like you know all about him.”

“I told you, I have been working.”

“If he keeps his face out of the papers, how'd you recognize him?”

“Do you wish to interrogate me, or shall I tell you what transpired?”

“Go ahead.”

“I could not hear everything, but from the snatches of conversation that I
was
able to understand it became clear that the affairs of Mr. Luciano and of Lutz Lorenz have somehow become intertwined, and as a result the whereabouts for both of them are currently subject to change.”

“Luciano's getting out?”

“No, but they discussed moving him. The Dannemora prison apparently has a nickname. It is known as ‘Siberia' because it is far from everything. There is snow still on the ground. And apparently all parties to this meeting wished for him to be closer, so they agreed that efforts will be made to move him to another venue. Sing Sing, perhaps.”

“Why closer?”

“For the greater convenience of regular visits.”

“By who?”

“By all of them.”

“For what purpose? Because of
Lorenz
?”

“I do not know, but they mentioned Lorenz's name directly afterward. It was the next item they discussed, so I could only presume the subjects were related. Mr. Lansky was the first to mention Lorenz by name. He inquired after his well-being of Mr. Gurfein, and Mr. Gurfein is the one who said, ‘It has been taken care of. He is in safekeeping.' ”

“Gurfein? An assistant district attorney said that?”

“His exact words. At this point, perhaps it would help if I described to you what Mr. Gurfein looks like. Stocky, to use your own word from the other night. Stocky, with hooded eyes and a pencil-thin mustache. Familiar?”

“The guy who led the raid. Has to be.”

“Precisely.”

“Then maybe Lorenz is some kind of witness in a big case we don't even know about. You said yourself he has shady contacts, a lot of varied interests. This might have nothing at all to do with Hansch and Schaller.”

“Then please explain the timing. Hansch dies and is fished from the Hudson. Four nights later, Schaller is killed. Not long after that Lorenz is rounded up by the DA's rackets investigator, who happens to be in league with two of the city's biggest mobsters, one of whom is incarcerated.”

“Well, when you put it like that…But who says Gurfein's ‘in league' with these creeps, just because they had breakfast? He might be cutting a plea deal. A better prison for Luciano and some dropped charges for Lansky, maybe, in exchange for their help in putting away Lorenz.”

“A deal with two kings to bring down a pawn?” Danziger shook his head. “Where is the utility of that? And on what charges?”

“It could be for anything, up to and possibly including the deaths of Hansch and Schaller.”

“Gurfein and his boss, Frank Hogan—would they make such an arrangement without telling the police? In your experience as a policeman, is that the way business is done?”

“Well, no. Not in most places. But I don't know how things work up here, especially in the DA's office. Did any of them mention Hansch or Schaller by name? Or any of those Bundist groups like the Silver Shirts?”

Danziger shook his head.

“Lorenz was the only name I heard besides Luciano's. Soon afterward they paid their bill and adjourned to a more private location, presumably to resume their discussions in greater detail.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I followed them.”

“Are you crazy? You don't exactly blend in with the crowd.”

“I was dressed very differently on Saturday. I do not believe that they noticed me. Besides, there are ways of doing these things to prevent your intentions from becoming readily apparent.”

It was a loaded answer, and Cain already had so many questions about Danziger that he couldn't help but smile. He was excited and curious, but still a bit wary. He well knew the way a few snatches of overheard conversation could seem to add up to something far more nefarious, although he was deeply intrigued by the possible involvement of such a strange collection of well-known characters. He was also more than a little interested in this side of Danziger that the old man was finally revealing.

“So tell me what you saw, then.”

“They went out onto the street. I watched through the window while I paid my bill. I expected them to go their separate ways, but when a taxi pulled up all three of them climbed in. So I hailed a taxi as well. Traffic was heavy and it was easy to keep pace. I saw them turn onto Sixth Avenue. Then they traveled downtown, sixteen blocks, and got out near Times Square, at the Hotel Astor, where they went inside.”

“All three of them?”

“All three. So I stepped into the lobby, trying to act like I belonged in such a swank place as the Astor. I spotted them by the elevators, on the other side of the lobby. Fortunately it was a busy lobby. Bellhops, people of leisure. They boarded an elevator. I waited for the doors to close, and then I walked over and pushed the button for the same elevator. I looked above the doors to watch the progress of the arrow, which stopped right away on M, for mezzanine. The elevator then returned and the doors opened. Empty, thank God, except for the operator, who asked me what floor I wanted. I acted as if I had forgotten something and begged his pardon.

“An hour later I returned, and even then I was at first too nervous to venture to the mezzanine. I took a walk around the lobby, waited another twenty minutes, and finally went upstairs. There were no guest rooms on that level. I checked every doorway. There was an empty meeting room. There was a banquet room, lushly appointed, where a bride-to-be and her bridesmaids were preparing for a luncheon. There was a hotel catering office. There was a meeting in progress of rather sleepy-looking old bankers from the Midwest. And there were two more offices, unmarked, with locked doors. And finally, in the middle of the corridor, there was a suite of three offices, rooms number one ninety-six, one ninety-eight, and two hundred, with a nameplate for the suite on the doorway of two hundred, stating that these were the premises for the Executives Association of Greater New York. It was the only office other than the hotel caterer's that was open for business.”

“The only one?”

“Yes.”

“But this was more than an hour later. Maybe they used one of the other offices and locked up before you came back.”

“I thought of that as well. Still, this association is a possibility. And the name does make it sound like the sort of organization that might, well…”

“Be a front?”

“Yes.”

“Certainly worth checking.”

“Or…”

“Or?”

“It could be legitimate,” Danziger said, “representing the very heart of wealthy, establishment New York. Which, in its own way, would be equally disturbing.”

Cain let that sink in. He eyed Danziger carefully. “You seem to know a lot about mobsters and mouthpieces, about front groups and how to follow shady characters. I also find your choice of restaurants interesting.”

“As I told you, it is a monthly extravagance.”