BETTY HALUKA KNEW IT was raining hard the minute she got out of bed. She knew it was raining, despite the closed windows and drawn shades in Stanley Moodrow’s apartment, because the giant sitting at the kitchen table, sucking on a hot cup of coffee, was soaking wet. So wet that his fingertips were wrinkled, like those of a child left too long in the bathtub.
“What happened to you?” Even through bleary, pre-coffee eyes, Betty could sense Moodrow’s distress.
“You remember how beautiful it was yesterday? The sun was out all day, right? Could you believe it was gonna get down to forty-four degrees in less than six hours? It was like summer when me and Jim decided to put out the word that we were looking for Babbit. We did the bars until they closed, then hit the social clubs. Around four o’clock, Jim took the car and went home to Rose, but me, I decided to look up an ex-con named Montrose who hangs at a club on Avenue D. The mutt wasn’t there, and when I came out, it was pouring. I can’t run no more, Betty. I had to walk the whole way home.”
“Any luck?”
“With finding Babbit?”
“What else?”
“Nothin’.” Moodrow was unperturbed. “Probably don’t come from around here. We’ll take him, though. The Lower East Side’s been torch heaven since the city announced they were gonna auction off the empty buildings. The bars are like gossip columns, only instead of talking about movie stars, they talk about who’s pulling off which scam. I’m not saying we’ll find Babbit today, but sooner or later, if the guy’s a professional, which he obviously is, he’s gonna pop to the surface.”
“And you spent all night doing this?”
“It’s a slow process,” Moodrow explained. “And last night was just the beginning. Last night was the easy part, talking to bartenders and regular neighborhood people. Tonight, I’m gonna look for some of the informants I had when I was still in the job. I turned Jim onto my snitches before I retired and we’re gonna dig ’em up and lean on them a little.”
“Well, you better get into the shower.” Betty slowly crossed to the stove. “You’re gonna catch cold if you don’t get out of those clothes.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” Moodrow pulled himself out of the chair. “I better change before Leonora gets here.” Oblivious, he trudged down the carpeted hallway, leaving a series of wet pools behind him.
“What’s with Leonora?” Betty called.
“I think we maybe got Holtz.”
Betty filled her cup quickly, dumping in a minute amount of milk and a packet of Sweet ’n Low, before following the trail of Moodrow’s wet clothing into the bathroom. Moodrow was sitting in the tub, the shower beating down on him, surrounded by a cloud of steam.
“Jesus,” he said, “I didn’t realize how cold I was. I didn’t realize how tired, either. Ten years ago, I could put in forty-eight hours without thinking twice about it. Now after one night, I feel like a side of beef in the freezer.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what happened?” Betty demanded unsympathetically.
Moodrow leaned back in the tub. The water was rising, the heat putting him to sleep. “Supposedly, the Department of State has Simon Chambers’ signature on file in Albany. Supposedly, Simon Chambers swears, in writing, to the accuracy of the information in Bolt Realty’s corporate charter. Supposedly, Simon Chambers is the president of Bolt Realty. Only problem is that Simon Chambers is lying in a nursing home in Brooklyn. He stroked out fifteen months ago. Not only can’t he sign his name, the doctor says there’s nothing happening between his ears at all. I personally eyeballed Chambers’ predicament and the doctor’s not kidding. Not even a little bit.”
Betty, careful to put the cover down, sat on the edge of the toilet and thought for a moment before speaking. “You think Holtz is involved in some kind of securities fraud?” she finally asked.
“I stopped off at Leonora’s last night. I gave her the tape I made with Rosenkrantz and told her about Simon Chambers being too sick to sign his name. She seemed to think there’s a case to be made. Anyway, she’s taking it up with the Attorney General’s office.”
Despite Moodrow’s exhaustion, Betty insisted on cooking breakfast. She was going to Inez Almeyda’s funeral later that morning, a chore she was dreading, and she wanted to spend a few minutes alone with her lover before he dropped off to sleep. She started butter melting in a frying pan, cracking eggs into a bowl despite his weak objections. “Stanley,” she asked over the hiss of scrambled eggs dropping onto hot fat, “do you really think you’re going to find the people responsible for what happened?”
Moodrow, surprised, looked up from his coffee. “Of course I’m gonna find ’em. What’d you think? Look, Betty, this kind of work is full of disappointment. You have to be prepared for frustration, which is exactly why you can’t be pessimistic about the outcome. You can’t check out a lead with the feeling that you’re doing bullshit work and you’re never gonna get anywhere. You’d go crazy.”
“Don’t evade the question,” Betty responded, her voice harder than Moodrow had ever known it. “I need to know if you’re going to catch them.”
“Why?”
Moodrow’s question was sincere and Betty, recognizing that sincerity, also recognized the necessity to respond. “Ever since it happened,” she began, “I’ve been thinking about the bastards who set it up. I wish I could have done what Paul Dunlap did. That I could have a gun and kill the three brothers. Hell, I almost wish the brothers were alive, because at least I’d have a focus for the hatred I’m feeling. And that’s what it is, Stanley—it’s plain, naked hate. Every time I close my eyes, the scene pops into my mind. Intense, like a movie. It plays exactly as it happened, except that Dunlap fades away and it’s me standing next to the van. It’s me pulling the trigger. I kill them and I feel good about it.”
Even while Betty Haluka was driving off to Inez Almeyda’s funeral (and Stanley Moodrow was pulling the covers over his head), two of Inez Almeyda’s murderers, Marek Najowski and William Holtz, were meeting to discuss the future of the Jackson Arms. Martin Blanks was attending to his own business in Hell’s Kitchen; he hadn’t been invited, despite the fact that his character was at the center of their discussion.
“Ya know something, Marek,” Holtz observed. “I have to admit that I never liked Marty Blanks. Too much of a wiseguy. He thought he knew more about this business than you did. I’ve done a lot of criminal law and that know-it-all crap seems to come with the territory. I never met a hotshot criminal who didn’t want to tell me how to try his case.”
“It’s not being a criminal that screwed up Marty Blanks,” Najowski said. “It’s being Irish. I mean the Irish are whiter than white, but they’re cursed with that Papist bullshit. And with the British. Between the Roman Church and the British, the Irish can’t see their own best interests.”
Holtz smiled at this observation. “The Irish,” he asserted, “are stubborn and stupid. They’ve always been that way. That’s because they spend their lives grubbing in the earth for potatoes. They substitute poetry for analysis, which, as far as I’m concerned, is the ultimate proof of their corruption.”
Najowski laughed dutifully while Holtz retreated to a small refrigerator and took out a magnum of Moet et Chandon Brut, a moderately priced (by William Holtz’s standards) French champagne he thought in keeping with the dual nature of their meeting.
“Here we go, Marek,” Holtz said, pouring, “I propose a toast to your success.” He noted Marek’s grimace, but held the glass out until his client accepted it. “Indulge me, all right? Drink.”
Najowski sipped at the champagne, then put the glass on Holtz’s desk. “It’s okay wine,” he observed, “but I don’t see how it’s a celebration. We’re gettin’ our asses kicked.”
“I didn’t want to tell you before,” the lawyer said smoothly, “because I didn’t want to stir up false hopes, but just before you arrived this morning, I got a call from Moe Grebnitz. I think you know him. He specializes in outer-borough properties and our Jackson Heights parcels have caught his attention. He’s made a firm offer of nineteen million. Even considering the enormous fee I intend to charge for my services, you should show a profit of about three million. Without going through any of the disclosures involved in co-op conversion.”
Marek sipped at his champagne, then shook his head. “I was looking for a profit of twenty million dollars. Should I celebrate settling for three and a half?”
“In some ways,” Holtz observed, “you should celebrate just getting out with your ass in one piece. And three and a half million isn’t bullshit, no matter what you were expecting.”
Marek grinned crookedly. “You talk like I didn’t have a partner.”
“Isn’t that what we’re here to discuss?”
Marek got up and began to pace the room. “Of course, I have no intention of splitting any profit with the bastard who cost me ten million dollars,” Najowski said firmly. “If Blanks hadn’t been such an asshole, we’d have brought off our original plan. Now, he’s gotta pay. I assume there won’t be any problem on the corporate end.”
Holtz shook his head. “None at all. Blanks owns fifty percent of a corporation registered in the Bahamas. His sale of that stock to Marek Najowski will be on file the moment Blanks is no longer in a position to protest the transfer. Nobody on Grand Bahama Island will ever question the deal. The way I see it, the only question is how we find someone to do the job.”
“Forget about it,” Najowski said firmly. “No question about who’s gonna do it. I’ve already checked it out. See, the one advantage I have over an asshole like Marty Blanks is that he thinks he’s so goddamned tough, I wouldn’t dare take him on. He has no idea of my resources, of what I’ve done in the past or what I might do. I treated Blanks as an equal and he rewarded me by destroying my investment. All because he thought some ex-cop was coming to get him. When I reminded him that we were partners and should make decisions together, he laughed at me. Him and his nigger partner. They shit all over me and I’m gonna pay them back.”
“I presume the ex-cop is Stanley Moodrow? The private investigator who came to my office.”
“Exactly.”
“He’s an asshole.” Holtz refilled their glasses. “An old man trying to be tough. Maybe your partner’s been sniffing his own cocaine. Maybe the drugs have made him paranoid.”
Najowski waved the lawyer away. “I don’t care what made him do it. What I give a shit about is making him pay for it. Maybe I’m not Olympic caliber, but I’ve been target shooting competitively for ten years. You get me within two hundred yards and I won’t miss.”
It was seven o’clock by the time Moodrow, in Betty’s Honda Civic, arrived at the Jackson Arms to interview Pat Sheehan. The few days since the shooting had brought a number of changes to the building. The first, the new locks on the lobby door, caught Moodrow off guard and he had to use the intercom to get inside. He rang Mike Birnbaum instead of Pat Sheehan, because he couldn’t be sure how Sheehan would react to his visit. Moodrow preferred to make his first appearance at the ex-con’s door. Just in case Sheehan was feeling antisocial.
But Pat Sheehan let him in without a murmur of protest and the reason became evident as soon as Moodrow passed through the door. Louis Persio was not lying on the couch—even the small pieces of his life were absent: the brown medicine vials, the oxygen mask and the green tank of oxygen, the newspapers and magazines piled on the coffee table, the gauze pads, the surgical tape, the clamps and scissors. Moodrow spent a moment taking it in.
“Louis go to the hospital?” he finally asked.
“Louis is dead, Moodrow. I buried him on Sunday.”
“I didn’t know.” It was all he could think to say.
“Nobody knew,” Sheehan responded. “Nobody wanted to know. Even in the hospital. I took him there myself, because 911 couldn’t tell me when the ambulance would get here. No big deal, really. Louis was having trouble breathing. It happened every time his fever went up. I took him over to Elmhurst General.”
“And they didn’t wanna take him?” Moodrow felt a familiar tug. By playing the sympathetic acquaintance, he could maneuver Sheehan into talking about Maurice Babbit. That was why he’d come. At the same time, Sheehan, slumped in a worn easy chair, was so deep in his grief, a nonprofessional would have backed away immediately. Moodrow, on the other hand, was a thorough professional; he’d interviewed the families of victims on dozens of occasions. Instinctively, and without any lessening of sympathy, he kept Pat Sheehan talking.
“You go in the city hospitals and the first thing you see ain’t a nurse,” Sheehan said. “Forget the nurse. First you gotta get past the security. By the time the taxi dropped us off, Louis was very weak. I carried him into the hospital and it was like nothin’. It was like carryin’ a pile of sticks. Only the sticks were hot. They were burnin’ up.”
“What’d the security say? He try to stop you?”
“No. He took one look at Louis and he went back to find the nurse. See, I found out later from the same guard that you’re better off comin’ in by an EMS ambulance, because then it’s registered and if they let you lay around without treatment, you could come back at them. If you just walk in, it’s your word against theirs as to when you arrived. The nurse came in about five minutes later—the guard was practically dragging her—but I could see she wasn’t too interested in Louis. ‘AIDS,’ she said. Real short, as if he got sick on purpose. The only thing I could say good for the bitch is that she didn’t make us wait in the waiting room. There musta been twenty people in that room with AIDS. You could see ’em tryin’ ta sit up in them plastic chairs. Most of ’em were alone and they didn’t look as bad as Louis. At least they could walk in by themselves.”
Moodrow settled down on the couch. Patience and a willingness to listen are the most important ingredients of nonviolent police interviews. “The city hospitals have been disaster areas for about five years.”
“Yeah,” Sheehan agreed. He looked up at Moodrow through swollen eyes. “That was the one thing I couldn’t afford for Louis. I couldn’t afford private hospitals. I woulda got insurance if I could, but I didn’t think of it until after he got sick and by then it was too late. Nobody wants to sell insurance to someone with AIDS. They’d have to be crazy.”
“So you got stuck with Medicaid.”
“Yeah, that’s the story. Not that it woulda made no difference. The nurse put Louis on a bed in the corridor because the rooms were full. Shit, even the corridor was full. People were everywhere: cryin’, moanin’, pukin’. One drunk was bleedin’ so bad the sheet on the bed was soaked. His head was cut open and he was holdin’ his bandage in his hands from where he pulled it. Pulled the stitches open, too, but nobody was doin’ shit about it. The nurse listened to Louis’ heart for about five seconds, then told me to wait for the doctor. I told her that Louis needed to see someone right away, but she said if I made any trouble, the security guard would put me out of the building. She said she only had seven nurses and six doctors instead of twelve nurses and eight doctors and it was Friday night and they already had five gunshot wounds. So we should just wait.”
Sheehan paused for breath, watching Moodrow closely. Like all mourners, he needed to talk, but his relationship with Louis Persio had isolated him from his old prison buddies, as well as the straight world. “What could I do? I didn’t think he was that bad. Plus I expected the doctor would come any minute. Louis was still talking to me. He was talking about how I came back to him after I got outta the joint and he never expected it. He told me—I already knew this part—how his parents dumped him after the first time he got busted and when they found out he was gay, they made it permanent. Even sent him a letter sayin’ please don’t come home for the holidays. Louis said I should mail the letter back to them on the day of his funeral. His voice was very soft and I was havin’ a hard time hearin’ it, because of how crazy it was in there. One man started screamin’ in Spanish. He was already handcuffed to the bed, but the security came anyway. They held him down while a nurse gave him a shot. I don’t know what was in it, but about twenty seconds later, he lights up with a big toothless grin and starts goin’, ‘Gracias, gracias, gracias.’ Me and Louis both laughed and you can’t blame me if I thought he was gettin’ better. Then he just stopped breathin’ and I screamed so loud the doctor musta figured Louis got murdered. He was a Chinese guy and he checked Louis out for a few seconds and shook his head. ‘No, no. So sorry.’ ”
“You got anything to drink?” Moodrow asked after a moment’s silence.
“I don’t want nothin’.”
“Well, I do,” Moodrow said firmly. “Do me a favor, if you got it, tell me where.”
“Look in the freezer. There’s a bottle of vodka in the freezer.”
Moodrow retrieved the bottle and two glasses, then returned to the living room. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. A grieving ex-convict, a middle-aged ex-cop—not the most likely combination. Moodrow was faced with an ancient cop dilemma: how to intrude on grief and suffering without being crushed by it.
“I said I didn’t want none.” Sheehan pointed to the second glass.
“Just in case,” Moodrow said. “So I won’t have to make two trips.” He poured three inches of vodka into his glass, then sipped speculatively. “This shit doesn’t have any taste to it. I like bourbon. Then I know I’m drinking something. It’s awful, but it’s there.”
“Why’d you come, Moodrow?”
“Look, I didn’t mean to bother you.” Now that the moment was at hand, Moodrow found himself reluctant to get started. Better, he decided, to let Sheehan push a little. “If I woulda known about Louis, I wouldn’t have come. At least not this soon.”
Sheehan sighed without looking up. “I owe you, Moodrow. No question about it. I owe you for makin’ ‘Louis feel a little bit easier. Most of the people in the world took one look at Louis and ran for the holy water. You treated him like any other human being. He laughed about it. No shit. Who could of believed that the last person, besides me and the nurse, who could stand being next to Louis would turn out to be a cop? That meant more than the favors.”
“It wasn’t any big deal,” Moodrow said. He was actually blushing. “Don’t make a big fucking thing out of it.”
“Tell me what you want, Moodrow.”
“I’m still trying to locate the people behind what happened here. I was wondering if you spoke to any of the dealers. You know…What we talked about last time I was in the apartment.”
“I talked to a few people, but I don’t have no answers for you. My sense is that most of ’em came from Hell’s Kitchen, but I couldn’t find out why they came. I didn’t get close enough to ask that kinda question. Maybe if I had more time…But they’re runnin’ for cover, now. Word’s out that the cops are gonna close the place down.”
“That’s definite,” Moodrow said. “The dealers are gonna get busted for criminal trespass and the buildings gonna be patrolled by street cops for the next couple of months.”
“I guess that’s it for me, too,” Sheehan said. “My name ain’t on the lease.”
“Don’t give up too soon.” Moodrow refilled his glass, then filled Sheehan’s. When he offered the drink, the younger man accepted it without comment. “Talk to the paralegal. What’s his name, again?”
“Kavecchi.” Sheehan twisted his face into a grimace. “That guy makes me crazy. He complains about everything.”
“Well, he also knows everything about housing. Between him and the fact that the landlord’s scared shitless, you might find a way to keep your apartment.” Moodrow hesitated momentarily, looking down at his hands. “There was one other thing I wanted to ask you about. We got the name of the scumbag who set the fire. The arsonist. We got it through a print he left behind, but we can’t find him. When I pulled his package, I noticed that he was up in Clinton the same time you were.”
“Yeah?” Sheehan, interested, sat up straight. “A white guy?”
“Right. Name of Maurice Babbit.”
“Babbit? No shit.”
“You knew him?” Moodrow couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice.
“ ‘Knew him’ is a little too strong for it. Babbit was a crazy and I kept as far away from the nuts as possible. You gotta remember there ain’t that many white people in the joint, so when you get one who’s crazy enough to set people on fire in their cells, you learn who he is before he torches your cell. Babbit got out two years before me.”
“That’s right. He’s off parole and we can’t find him.”
“You think I know where Babbit lives?”
“Actually, I don’t. I thought you might know people who were close to him. Maybe one of his buddies is on parole. It’d give me a way to go.”
Sheehan, sitting back in the chair, took his time considering the request. “I don’t think I could give you no names,” he finally said. “It’s too late in life to start rattin’ people out. If I knew where Babbit was, I’d tell ya, but if I give ya the names of guys who used ta be friends of mine and you go leanin’ on ’em…People been leanin’ on me and Louis for too long. Neighbors, parole officers, Medicaid doctors, emergency room nurses, landlords. I don’t want it on my conscience that I put you on someone who used to be my friend.”
“I’m not gonna lean on anyone.”
“Bullshit.”
Moodrow giggled, putting his hand to his mouth. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It’s bullshit. If I had to press someone to get to Babbit, I would. Still, if you’re sayin’ you know people who were close to Babbit, there’s gotta be a way we could do this.”
“There’s a way. There’s always a way. That’s why you came here.” Sheehan raised his head. “I’m not goin’ back to work for a week, because I ain’t got the heart for the packages and the traffic. Which means I got enough time to check it out. Ya know, Sylvia Kaufman’s face was the only face I could count on for a smile in this building. That would be reason enough to finger a crazy motherfucker like Maurice Babbit, even if I didn’t owe you, which I admit I do. Plus I gotta be doin’ somethin’ and right now it can’t be work.”