The Letter Writer (35 page)
Authors: Dan Fesperman
“You don't exactly have much leverage, you know.”
“I could go to the DA tomorrow, tell him everything you just admitted to me, not to mention tell him all about my little ride to the Harlem River.”
“Not if you value your life.”
“You just said bumping me off would fuck up everything.”
“Sure, if you did it Albert's way.” Lansky smiled, the wheels turning again behind his eyes.
“But it's not my life we're talking about. It's Sascha's.”
Cain had no more cards to play, and he supposed Lansky knew it. Lansky scrutinized him for a while longer and then smiled wryly.
“You know, Cain, the way I see it, it's probably good business if I can find some way to ingratiate myself with one of New York's finest. 'Cause you never know what dividends that might pay somewhere down the road. Right?”
Cain couldn't bring himself to say yes to that kind of mortgage on his future, so instead he nodded and smiled uncomfortably, which seemed to amuse Lansky a great deal. What had Cain really expected? To be able to walk out of here clean as a whistle? He would be lucky if he walked out at all.
“In that case,” Lansky said, “I have something for you. Something to give Sascha. Come with me a second.”
They stood and crossed the room, walking past the piano to a wood-paneled study with wall-to-wall bookshelves. Lansky opened a desk drawer and retrieved a black book. Now
that
would probably have lots of interesting reading. He also got out an envelope and a sheet of paper, and began rooting through the top drawer of the desk, presumably in search of a pen or pencil. That's when Cain remembered what he still had in his trouser pocket.
“Allow me,” he said, producing the fountain pen that he'd pocketed at the Astor.
Lansky smiled and stared at Cain for an extra second or two.
“Never let it be said that you're short of chutzpah, Cain. Are you familiar with that word?”
“No, sir.”
“That does not surprise me. One moment, then.”
He opened the black book in a way that Cain couldn't see the contents. He eyed the page for a second, put away the book, and began writing. It took only seconds. He capped the pen, stuck it back into the desk with a wink at Cain, and then folded the paper, which he slipped into the envelope. With a lick of his tongue, he sealed it and handed it over.
“For Sascha. A down payment on his continued silence. In fact, if I'm not mistaken it may well suffice for all future installments. Listen to me! Just thinking about the guy, and I start talking the way he does.” He shook his head, as if marveling. “The fucking Dictionary!”
Cain took the envelope. “May I ask what it is?”
“The thing Sascha has always liked best. Information.”
Cain emerged into the night feeling like he'd attained an imperfect but defensible sort of justice, if only at the level of one friend looking out for another. The war would continue, of courseânot just the larger one abroad, but the one here with its casualties on every front, some of them hidden forever. But he would have at least defended one small citadel, however compromised in his tactics.
The moon was rising over the park, and after everything he'd just endured he felt like a stroll. Maybe he'd even stop for a beer along the way. Kick back and collect his wits before heading home. Give Olivia a kiss goodnight, maybe talk about when she would next see her mother, and then he might make a date with Beryl. Tomorrow he'd alert Danziger and sound the all-clear. He was eager to see what was in Lansky's note.
He crossed the street to be as close as he could to the trees and flowers of the park, with their springtime perfume that was strong even in the chill. This wasn't bad at all, being alive like this. Then he stopped and turned, having experienced once again that odd fleeting sensation of a watchful presence at his back. Considering what had just transpired, he was frankly a little surprised to feel it again.
He looked toward the trees and down the sidewalk. Nothing. Just as he was about to be back on his way, a voice called out his name.
“Cain!”
A familiar voice, although he couldn't yet place it. He looked again, and still saw no one.
“Cain! Over here!”
The voice was calling from the trees, from perhaps ten feet inside the stone wall that bordered the park, where he now saw a familiar face emerge into the moonlight. A face from home. James Vance, Rob's younger brother. He was slowly raising his right arm, which Cain now saw held a pistol with a long barrel, rising like a periscope from the deep.
“These bullets are Rob's!” James shouted. “This gun is his! I'm finishing this for him!”
Even as Cain's muscles tensed for a leap to safety, he thought he also detected a second man, just emerging from the trees. But by the time that thought had registered he was throwing himself to the ground, the gun had already fired, and the bullet had found a target.
I HAVE LIVED A LONG LIFE
âlonger, anyway, than the numeric span of my years would imply. That is the first thought that drives my actions as I watch the desolate young man raise his gun into a firing position and take careful aim at Mr. Cain. A long life. Or long enough.
Besides, if I am ever to make good on my recently stated intention to act more out of concern for the safety of Mr. Cain and his daughter than for myself, then I had better move now or forever be branded as a fraud and a liar. The tragedy of this moment, the absolute
blunder
of it, is that I should have seen it coming. Instead, I underestimated the danger of this forlorn fellow, who on both occasions when I saw him before had looked so hopelessly lost and out of place that he seemed a mere zephyr, a bothersome bit of wind but nothing more. Now, too late, I see him as I should have. His is the bottomless grief of the untethered, of those who are capable of any action. I missed this because I was distracted and diverted by more familiar faces, marked by a more familiar brand of danger.
But there may yet be room for me to act. Because for men such as him it is never sufficient to simply fire a weapon and be gone. They must announce their presence, and enunciate their purpose. They must ritualize their vengeance. And that is what I see and hear him doing now as he calls out again to Mr. Cain. So perhaps there is time.
I have put myself into this position thanks in part to the assistance of friends. When Mr. Cain and I parted company the night before, I knew he would not keep his promise to lay low. It was clear in his eyes and his manner. He lied so that I would not act. So I lied as well, and made ready to assist him.
Mr. Cain is a restless man, prone to risk, so I knew he would act quickly. But he is not rash, he is not a fool, and I knew as well that he would wait until after dark. My own status as a hunted man made matters tricky, and I was not certain where Mr. Cain would venture first. So, I enlisted Fedya and Beryl as lookouts. Fedya in particular was excited to be included in such a seemingly dubious enterprise. Beryl acted only out of concern, although I took pains to ensure that her assignment was the more benign of the two.
I stationed Fedya at the newsstand on Saratoga Avenue, the very one where Gerhard had watched Hansch disappear into Anastasia's Packard. Beryl took up her post on a park bench across the street from Lansky's home, at the Majestic. Surely, one of these places would be Mr. Cain's eventual destination, whether of his own choosing or not, and when he arrived, my observer would notify me so that I could hurry to the scene.
And after that? I did not know. I did not even think about it all that much, perhaps because I did not wish to confront the possibility that I would be wholly inadequate to the task of helping him in the face of such formidable opposition.
Fedya being Fedyaâa wonderful friend, but one who has never engaged in these kinds of activitiesâhe soon grew bored and restless. Even though he paid for his right to his post by purchasing three newspapers and a magazine, he deserted after only an hour in order to fortify himself for further duty with a cup of coffee at an eatery around the corner. As luck would have it, Mr. Cain must have arrived shortly after Fedya's departure, because by the time Fedya returned the operator of the newsstand told him all about the excitement that had transpired in his absence. Fedya telephoned me sheepishly with the news, and for more than half an hour I paced the room, fearful that hope was lost.
Then Beryl telephoned with the news that Mr. Cain had miraculously arrived at the Majestic. I departed immediately, even hiring a taxi, and as soon as I arrived I dispatched her to retrieve the poor, distraught Fedya and put him to bed.
So here I am, then, lurching forward, my body moving with an alacrity I have not experienced in ages as the young man, James Vance, shouts his intentions and prepares to carry them out. Even as I do so, I realize somewhere deep within me that the man I used to be would not have been up to this task.
During the Great Warâthe
first
Great War, I suppose we should call it nowâI often heard accounts of men my age calling for their mothers and crying like infants as they died in the trenches. They suffered their final agonies in a panic, dying poorly and pitifully, and I probably would have done the same.
But twenty-four years have passed, and with them a second lifetime. When the idea of death now intrudes upon my thoughts, I find to my surprise that I am calmly accepting, I am prepared. Perhaps it is because I have endured much and have survived more.
For once, then, let it be said of Danzigerâor of Sascha: I will leave it to you to chooseâthat he acted on motives that were entirely selfless. Let it be said in five languages, if possible. And, if necessary, let it be said in memoriam. But do let it be said.
Consider that to be my final request as I cross the darkened sidewalk toward the space that separates the boy from Danziger. I plunge forward into the breach as the gun fires. I cry out, I know not in what language. American, I suppose.
The bullet strikes. The ground rushes up to greet me.
FROM THE MOMENT HE REACHED
Danziger's gurney at Bellevue, Cain resolved that he would splurge on a taxi for the old fellow's funeral. But, please, he prayed, let that happen in some other year, and by some other cause of death.
The gurney was parked in the emergency ward, not in the mortuary. That at least offered cause for hope, although matters were far from settled. It was something of a snafu that Danziger was at Bellevue at all, so many blocks from the shooting. But ambulance drivers apparently had their turf wars, too, so here they were. Nurses had just wheeled the gurney out of an operating room. One of them hovered nearby, her scrubs still bloody.
“You're not allowed here, sir.”
“Police,” he said, flashing his shield.
She probably would have ordered him out anyway if his eyes hadn't looked so pleading. So instead she waited, a rare moment of grace in such a bustling place, and she indulged him for a few seconds while he surveyed the pale, thin, unconscious figure stretched out on the white sheet. Danziger's mouth was agape, as if he might begin snoring at any moment. His chest was stitched up like a cadaver's. Then time was up.
“I'm sorry, sir. Police or not, you can't stay. This is a recovery area.”
“Okay then.”
He touched the gurney but didn't dare touch Danzigerâgerms, a jinx, who knew what maladies he might visit upon the poor man? He went to the waiting room to begin his vigil.
Between all the mayhem in front of the Majestic and the reams of police work that followed it had taken him hours to get here. As soon as James Vance had seen what his shot had doneâstriking an old man instead of Cainâhe'd stood dumbfounded as Cain rushed to Danziger's aid. Cain glanced up just in time to see Vance raise the gun a second time. Their eyes locked. Vance's were desolate. He then turned the gun on himself and placed the barrel in his mouth.
“James, no!”
The young man blew out the back of his head and crumpled to the ground, another member of the Vance family whose blood would forever weigh upon Cain's conscience.
Cain remained at Bellevue until dawn. Eileen, the family spy, still contrite in her duplicity, had gotten in touch long ago to ask if it was okay if Olivia spent the night at her mother's apartment on the Upper East Side. He supposed it was. If Clovis could handle being a mother again, then it was actually a relief. She might be just what the girl needed in the coming year. Even if they ended up parenting by subway, maybe they could make it work. Not for themselvesâthat was dead on the floor of the drunk's shack in Hortonâbut for Olivia.
Shortly after sunrise, a nudge awakened him. Creaky and sore from the chair, Cain looked up and saw the nurse from the night before. Her face was so filled with concern that panic rose up like something alive in his throat. She put a hand on his arm, as if to steady him, and spoke. “You're Mr. Danziger's friend, right?”
He nodded, too scared to speak.
“It looks like he's going to survive, but he might not be conscious for quite a while. Besides the bullet he also took a blow to the head when he hit the ground.”
“A few more hours, you think?”
“More like days.” She hesitated. “Maybe longer. I guess what I'm saying is that there's really no sense in you waiting. Maybe you could leave a number.”
Cain nodded. Then he noticed for the first time that Beryl was seated to his left, as quiet as could be. She must have arrived during the night. They stood to leave. Only then did he begin learning of the measures Danziger had taken to protect him.
On their way out the door he felt inside his jacket for the envelope Lansky had given him. He thought about leaving it behind but felt responsible for protecting it, so he merely tapped it like a talisman. Then he took Beryl's hand and they strolled into the morning.
Danziger rejoined the world six weeks later. By that time he looked as if he were intent on assuming a third identity, so changed was he by his time in a coma. He was pale and bony. The nurses had shaved his beard and stubble, and had clipped his hair to military length. Only his eyes remained the same, still shining with that June vitality from the moment he reopened them.
“What am I supposed to call you now?” Cain asked.
Danziger smiled weakly, his eyes flickering with amusement. “That is up to you.” The voice was raspy, but filled with warmth. His diction was impeccable as always, the accent still roaming across two continents. “Friend will do for now.”
“Sounds about right. I've brought you some things.”
“Yes?”
“Fresh news, for starters, from the United States Army.”
“An invasion of Europe?”
“Sorry, no. This is from the home front. The newly enlisted Private Albert Anastasia has reported for duty at Fort Indiantown Gap, out toward the middle of Pennsylvania. He's got a bunk in a barracks, gets three squares a day, and says âYes, sir' about twenty times an hour. Who knows, maybe he'll learn to act like a human being.”
“Doubtful.”
“Probably. But I hear his wife is looking for a house in Jersey, for after the war. So there's that.”
“And what of our other friend? Should I fear a visit in the night sometime soon?”
“Mr. Lansky continues to pursue a patriotic course of action, or so Hogan tells me.”
“Hogan himself?”
“Gurfein joined the Army. Some intelligence outfit called the OSS. Maybe he couldn't stomach the idea of working hand in glove with all those goons he'd been trying to put in jail. As for whatever beef there was between Lansky and you, well, he says that's over now.”
Danziger took a moment to digest that.
“You are sure of this? He gave his word?”
“He did. About five minutes before you saw me walk out of the Majestic.”
“Then perhaps this time I can keep my current name. Or even go back to my old one.”
Cain told Danziger what had become of their investigation. It no longer existed. The files for four unsolved murders had already been marked for storage in the cold case drawer. A fifth, the murder of Angela Feinman, had been established as the handiwork of the late Dieter Göllner.
“They didn't all get away, though. Hogan at least took an interest in Herman Keller, over some business deals he'd brokered that were a little too cozy with Germany. Seems he was in violation of some laws that only my father-in-law could understand.”
“Laws which will mysteriously not be applied to Chase National Bank, or to the machinations of their favorite lawyer, correct?”
“Correct. I guess some people always have the muscle when they need it.”
“Now and forevermore. And you, Mr. Cain? Do you remain employed?”
“One week suspension without pay, but that's over and done with.”
Danziger raised an eyebrow.
“Not for anything we did. For losing my sidearm. Anastasia's guys never gave it back. Two weeks ago I got transferred to headquarters to work an internal investigation with Zharkov. There are some indictments pending on some of my former colleagues in the fourteenth precinct, and last week Hogan dropped some more dirt in through the transom, so it looks like we might be busy a while longer.”
“A man of his word, after all.”
“And from all I've heard, the waterfront operation actually seems to be working. Lanza put some Navy people aboard some of the fishing fleets. Just last week some mob guys out on Long Island helped round up a few saboteurs that the Germans had landed from a sub. Luciano moved to his new digs at Great Meadow prison last month, and it looks like Lansky will be visiting every week or two. Not that anyone really thinks they'll only be doing the country's business.”
Danziger shook his head in apparent amazement.
“Oh, and one other thing about Lansky. He gave me this. For you.” Cain held out the envelope, still sealed. “He called it a payment for your continued silence.”
Danziger wrinkled his brow and, with some difficulty, reached out to take it. He struggled for a few seconds to tear it open, and then sighed in exasperation.
“Allow me,” Cain said.
Cain retrieved a knife from Danziger's breakfast tray and slit open the envelope. He pulled out the folded sheet of paper and handed it over, and then moved around the bed so he could read over Danziger's shoulder. Having resisted the temptation to open it for all these weeks, he figured he'd earned the right.
Danziger unfolded the paper to reveal a few brief lines in Lansky's neat handwriting. There was a name, Maria Corazza, followed by an address in Queens, and then a single word, “Widowed.”
“So is thatâ¦?”
Danziger nodded. For a few seconds he seemed to be in disbelief. Then his eyes darted back and forth, as if he were watching a newsreel inside his head.
“She's the real reason you never left New York, isn't she? The whole reason you were willing to take the stupid risk of going back to your old neighborhood.”
“The whole reason? No. But one of them. Foolish, of course.”
“What about now?”
Danziger's eyes were swimming. For a moment he didn't speak. He blinked, but no tears fell. Then he drew a deep breath and smiled, still holding on tightly to the paper.
“Now,” he said, “now I believe that I shall go on living for a while longer.”
“Good plan,” Cain said. “For both of us.”
