MOODROW WAS LYING IN bed, alone, naked, and fairly drunk, when the calls began to come in. He was alone because Betty had decided to stay overnight with her cousin in Jackson Heights; he was naked because he was drunk; he was drunk because he and Dunlap had celebrated their first useless day by hoisting six (or seven or eight) glasses of bourbon in the course of an Italian dinner.
The first caller was the paralegal, Ino Kavecchi, who launched into his own lament so quickly, he failed to pick up a hint of Moodrow’s condition. “Whatsa matter with these people?” he complained. “They don’t wanna help themselves out? I mean I went to every tenant who got a dispossess. To sign them up to a petition so we could process all of them at one time, remember? Well, I couldn’t even get all of them to cooperate. You believe that? Three of the families are gettin’ ready to haul ass outta there. Don’t make sense, right? I mean we’re gonna defend the shmucks for nothin’. It took me all goddamn morning to find someone to explain it. Not that I shouldn’t have figured it out, because it’s simple greed, like it usually is when people do shitty things. I mean the landlord ain’t been cashing their checks and they figure the judge is gonna give ’em a few months to find another place, during which they still won’t pay any rent. Since they got somewhere else to go, why not take advantage and live without rent for six months or so? I swear, if I read it in a book, I wouldn’t believe it.”
Moodrow’s head was beginning to spin with the energy of Kavecchi’s lament. “Hold it a second,” he ordered, shaking himself awake. “Did you check the empty apartments like I asked you?”
“That’s another ball-buster,” Kavecchi groaned. “Holy God, what a problem I had with that one. Unbelievable. I mean how am I supposed to know who’s a tenant and who’s a squatter? The place is a goddamn zoo.”
Moodrow was suddenly alert. “What are you talking about?”
“Like I admit I don’t know much about Jackson Heights, but I was under the impression this kinda shit didn’t happen out here. The place is like the Lower East Side. There’s dealers and dopers everywhere. I mean some whore propositioned me in the lobby. And this bitch was out front, man—she pulled up her skirt and flashed me. Then her boyfriend, when he saw I didn’t want the pussy, offered to sell me some crack. I mean I better get a haircut or something. People are makin’ me for a doper and I’m tryin’ to count empty apartments.”
“Innocencio…”
“Ino. Please call me Ino. Like EEEE-NO. I mean I’m third generation, already.”
Moodrow, groaning, suddenly realized that Kavecchi’s voice was the male equivalent of a Lucille Ball screech. “Ino, do me a favor and get to the point. I’m not feelin’ so hot.”
“I thought I was gonna go nuts, but then I ran into this old guy named Mike Birnbaum. What a fantastic break for me. I mean, like out of the goddamn blue, this guy walks up and asks me am I from Legal Aid and Betty said he should look out for me. He knows everything about the building. Everything.”
“Just tell me how many empty units, all right?” Moodrow’s voice began to rise. His head was throbbing in anticipation of the figure Kavecchi would give him.
“As of three o’clock this afternoon, there were thirty-two empty units in the Jackson Arms, but the most amazing part is that a bunch more people are getting ready to fly. I mean, it’s pretty amazing. I can go almost anywhere in the slums and get people organized. Not that a good tenants’ association means a sure winner, but without it you got no chance at all. Here in Jackson Heights, where the people have a little money, they hide in their apartments like rabbits. Go figure, right?”
“Right,” Moodrow sighed. “Go figure. Thanks for calling.”
“Whatta ya, tired?”
“Yeah, I’m tired.”
“Well, one more thing you oughta know before we hang up. I ran into this Asian named Assiz and he told me that a whole bunch of dispossess notices went out to the tenants in the other two buildings.”
Leonora Higgins’ call, which came ten minutes later, found Moodrow still naked in his bed, but far from asleep. He’d retrieved the bourbon from the kitchen cupboard right after hanging up on the paralegal and was sipping morosely when the phone rang.
“Yeah?” he said sharply.
“Stanley?”
“Leonora?” It’s me.
“How did I know?” Moodrow sat erect. In his heart of hearts, he wasn’t convinced that the owner of the Jackson Arms had anything to do with the violence, but the name or names would represent the day’s only small victory.
“I have some bad news for you, Stanley,” Leonora said calmly. She had no idea of Moodrow’s day or of his mental condition. Her own day had been long and difficult and she wanted a hot bath, a glass of white wine, and her bed. “I got into the computer this evening after court and HPD doesn’t have the name of the landlord and neither does DHCR. The property is owned by a corporation, and all the agencies have is the name of the company. Bolt Realty Corporation.”
“How could they not have it? How can you fucking regulate without knowing who you’re regulating? It could be fucking Hitler and they wouldn’t give a shit.” All of a sudden, Moodrow’s headache, temporarily driven into retreat by a renewed infusion of Oldfield’s Wild Turkey Bourbon, began to chip away at the bone above his right eye.
“You’re only partially right, Stanley. New York would give a shit if it knew Hitler owned property. The politicians would have to give a shit in order to protect their butts. That’s why they don’t require the information. They don’t want to know. In any event, according to the city and the state, the owner is a corporation named Bolt Realty. All other registered information concerns base rents, the size and nature of the property, and the conditions of the buildings. I can get you the date when construction was completed, the number of rooms, the median rent, the yearly rent roll, the base rent for each apartment, the last rent increase…”
“All right,” Moodrow complained. “I get the hint.” He rubbed impotently at the circle of pain spreading up into his forehead. “Wasn’t there some other place you said you were gonna try?”
“I’m trying to get into the state corporate charters. To take a look at the original application for a certificate of incorporation. But I’m having trouble, Stanley. A supervisor in Albany stumbled onto what I was doing and threw a fit.”
“Wait a minute, Leonora.” Moodrow sat bolt upright. “Don’t fuck yourself up with this. I don’t want you to take any risks when we don’t even know if the information is valuable.”
Leonora, warmed by his concern, smiled into the phone. “You know something, Stanley, you’re really sweet. You’re a very sweet man.”
“Like syrup,” Moodrow agreed, sipping at his drink. He’d made a career out of manipulating the NYPD without confronting it. “But I mean what I say: don’t put your ass on the line for this.”
“Well, not to worry, Stanley. I’m not in any danger, but I won’t be able to make another try for a week or two. If there’s anything else I can do in the meantime…”
Moodrow didn’t return the bourbon to the kitchen after Leonora Higgins hung up. Frustration is part and parcel of a detective’s working life. The rule is fifty fruitless interviews for each eyewitness, a dozen freezing mid-winter stakeouts in a battered Dodge van for each dope deal recorded on videotape. Moodrow was infuriated by a system that could regulate virtually every aspect of the real estate industry without ever recording the names of those it regulated. To an outsider, it would seem impossible, but after thirty-five years in the NYPD, Moodrow understood the cards weren’t the same for everyone. Hell, even the deck wasn’t the same. It wasn’t designed to be the same. Moodrow’s working career had been spent on the Lower East Side, amid the tenements and the projects, and he was accustomed to the bottom of the deck. What made him nervous (fueling his headache) was the nagging fear that he wouldn’t know what to do with the picture cards.
The ringing phone pulled him away from his speculations. This would be the last one and he could go to sleep (or at least turn out the light) when this was finished. It was Pat Sheehan, as he’d hoped. Moodrow had left a request for Pat to call when he’d been in Queens that afternoon, but had no real conviction that Sheehan would comply.
“Moodrow?” Sheehan’s voice was sharp and impatient. “It’s Pat Sheehan. What’s up?”
“That’s what I wanna know from you.”
“First, I gotta say thank you for sending that guy around about the eviction. He says Louis don’t have to go to court at all. The lawyer’s gonna take care of it. So thanks, all right?”
Moodrow had no difficulty in reading the reluctance in Sheehan’s voice. As an alumnus of the state penal system, hatred of the police was as much a part of his day-to-day life as the pulse in his wrist and Moodrow accepted that. Not that he wasn’t willing to take advantage of the debt Sheehan owed him.
“I want you to do something for me,” Moodrow said. “If you can. I know you got your hands full with Louis.”
Sheehan was surprised, at first, then relieved to be able to wipe the slate clean, then wary, as befits someone who’d occupied the position both of hunter and hunted many times in his life. “Tell me what ya want, Moodrow. Louis ain’t feelin’ too good and I can’t stay on the phone.”
“First, tell me what the situation’s like in the building now.”
“It’s drug heaven,” Sheehan snorted. “Whatever ya want, right? Crack, crank, blow, dope, dust. It’s all here now. Right in the open. I saw Birnbaum when I came in and he told me you busted someone. I figured it hada be for drugs, because I got approached twice on the way to my apartment.”
“So the dealers are making you for a player?” Moodrow asked innocently.
“Once you done time,” Sheehan observed casually, “it’s like you got a tattoo on ya face. Anyone else who done time could read it the minute he sees ya.”
“That’s gotta be a fucking drag.”
“Cut the crap, Moodrow, and tell me what ya want.”
“All right. Whatever you say.” Moodrow, lost in the details, sipped at his bourbon, his headache forgotten. “Lemme ask you a question, Pat. How do you figure all the drugs got in the building in the first place? Do these dealers got some kinda buzzard radar that they know when a neighborhood’s in trouble? How the fuck did they find their way into Jackson Heights?”
Sheehan took a moment before answering. “It’s a good question,” he admitted, “but I don’t got the faintest idea.”
“Well, I was thinking maybe you could find out. I mean, people talk to you. You listen carefully, there’s no telling what you might hear.”
“I don’t have time for that shit, even if I wanted to become a professional rat. Between my job and Louis, I walk around half-asleep.”
“You don’t have to do anything special.” Moodrow’s voice was soothing, persuasive. “But the people moving in must have something in common. Maybe they all come from the same area. Or they get supplied by the same wholesaler. I don’t know what it’s gonna turn out to be, but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your eyes open. If somebody wants to talk to ya, let ’em talk for a while. Don’t be so tough.”
“Should I start buying dope again, too?”
“Hey, Pat, whatta ya think it’s about?” Moodrow finally allowed the irritation to creep into his voice. “You think it’s about me being a hot shit and making some kinda big collar? No way, man. This is about Sylvia Kaufman lying on the floor with a busted hip while the room fills up with smoke. Her fucking bedroom, man. Where she has a right to be safe from murderers. When was the last time you spoke to her? Two days ago? Three? Four? Now she’s in a coffin and some torch is havin’ a party to celebrate the success of his enterprise.”
“That ain’t right, Moodrow,” Sheehan insisted angrily. “Sylvia was okay to me and Louis, but that don’t mean I’m in her debt. She wasn’t watchin’ my back.”
“Okay,” Moodrow apologized. “I don’t mean to say that you have an actual obligation to Sylvia Kaufman. But you have an obligation to me and I’m calling it in. Louis said he’d help me out if I helped you out, and I did what he asked. Now it’s your turn.”
“You talk good, Moodrow. For a man that’s fulla shit. Meanwhile, I’m gonna help you, anyway. I’m gonna do it because I owe you, and because Sylvia was decent to me and Louis when a lotta people treated us like garbage. But mostly I’m gonna do it because this is our home. Ya know, in the joint, the worst insult a con could give another con is to violate the man’s turf. To piss on his cot or trash his cell with garbage. Then it’s automatic you gotta do something about it, ’cause if you don’t, you’ll be washin’ underwear for the rest of your bit.”