“You know De Niro? Bobby and me are LIKE THIS!”
Jeremy’s delusional Latvian drove with his head canted over his shoulder, talking between Jeremy and me. Sometimes he yelled at things I couldn’t see. Sometimes he sang. Jeremy pretty much ignored him.
“How did you find Day?” I asked. “He can’t be using the name.”
“No,” my brother grinned. “He’s using Knight.”
My mouth fell open. Jeremy said, “Prowsie made the conjecture. We added it to my interpretation of his needs. We were actually quite the little team, Carson.”
“Day needs control. I know that much.”
“Ah, but to exercise that control, he needs boys. Very special boys. So he’s where all the lost and troubled little fellows are, Carson. Where Jimmy can wait for the special lad that comes along maybe once a decade.”
“Juvenile detention?”
“Juvie detention is too busy an environment, Carson. Guards, social workers, parents, cops, shrinks running in and out. Too many curious eyes. You need time alone with your boy if you want to make him a man. A very special man.”
“Where are we going?”
“Long Island. It’s a bit of a trip. Damn, I haven’t eaten in seven hours, I need some repast. Is the Four Seasons near? They have a Chocolate Velvet that’s simply –”
“We’re in a hurry. There’s your choice.”
I pointed to a vendor on a corner. Jeremy got a skewer of beef, chicken for me. We ate as we crossed the East River and headed out to Long Island. The air began to smell of burned rubber and bitter chemicals as we wound past factories and warehouses. Ludis kept up a running dialogue with himself, seemingly oblivious to anything but the surrealist movie playing in his head.
After a half-hour, we passed a long stretch of hurricane fencing. On the other side, on a scruffy field, a guy in crisp military fatigues was putting several dozen teenage boys through a regimen of calisthenics. They’d do a few jumping Jacks, then the instructor blew his whistle and everyone dropped for push-ups. Another blast from the whistle and they were up and flailing again. Half the kids looked as if they were ready to pass out.
I looked ahead and saw a big red sign: CAMP WILDERNESS.
“Boot camp,” I said, putting it all together. “Juvie version.”
A juvenile boot camp was where hardened, streetwise kids were sent for rehabilitation through hard work and regimentation. They spent most of their days with the supervisory personnel, often cast in a mentoring position.
“Tough love for wayward lads,” Jeremy said. “But for Jimmy, it’s a bad-boy buffet.”
Ludis turned in his seat. “We been this camp place three times. You still gonna shoot a film here, Hollywood?”
“I think this location will play a big role, Ludis. It has an atmosphere of forebod—”
Ludis jammed on the brakes as a bright red Camaro fishtailed from the camp’s staff parking lot. A guy in shades was at the wheel, teeth flashing as he blew by.
“That was him,” Jeremy whispered. “Jim Day. James Knight, these days. He’s leaving early. He’s usually here until four.”
My phone rang. Waltz. I looked at Jeremy and put my finger to my lips, be quiet.
“What’s going on, Detective?” he asked, tension beneath his voice. Behind it, I heard a babble of voices.
“Things are unfolding, Shelly.”
“That’s all you can say?”
“Bear with me a few more hours. What’s the commotion in the background?”
“It’s the big event, remember? Pelham’s addressing the conference. She’s still an hour away, but the street’s jammed with supporters and protestors. Never seen so many goddamn signs. I got pressed into service. No, the Chief pressed me into service, showing the NYPD flag for Pelham. We hauled two guys from the crowd for wearing NEUTER THE BITCH buttons.”
“Does that go against free speech?”
“Underneath the words was an AK-47.”
“Gotcha. Any more dolls show up?”
“No.” His voice drew tight. “What have you got on Folger? What are you planning to –”
“Can’t hear, Shelly. You’re breaking up.”
I snapped the phone closed and we became a bolt of yellow lightning, picking up Day five blocks later at a red light. Ludis pulled three cars behind, yelling out the song “My Way”. Day drove without fear, as if unfettered passage was his due. He cut, swerved, dove across lanes, drawing gestures and horn blasts.
We followed to an industrial area just south of the Harlem River, watching from a distance as Day’s car roared toward a windowless brick building on a corner, a small two-story warehouse. Faded lettering on the building’s side said CASSINI’S PRODUCE.
An electronically controlled door rolled open and Day’s car disappeared inside.
Jeremy said, “We’re jumping out here, Ludis.”
“No,” I said. “Let’s take some time and figure out a –”
Jeremy was out and sprinting away. I cursed and jumped from the cab, following him around the corner of the building. I saw my brother pushing through a broken hurricane fence into an adjoining weed-strewn lot and studying the warehouse. I noticed something else: a surveillance camera mounted on the side of the building, maybe a hundred feet away. I saw another at the corner.
“Jeremy,” I hissed. “Cameras.”
He nodded from two dozen feet away, waved, crept to a loading dock piled with broken pallets, his attention riveted on the building. I ran after him. Stealth be damned, all I wanted was out of there. My brother was peeking around a corner toward the rear of the structure.
“Jeremy, come on. We could be in Day’s sight.”
“Just a sec. I’m checking to see if there’s another door.”
“Get over here. We’ve got to step back and figure how to …”
He leaned around the corner, looking away. “How to what, Carson?”
I couldn’t answer. I was looking into the eyes of Jim Day.
Detective Abel Alphonse Cluff sat in his office with his butcher paper pushed to the side, staring at two stacks of records on his desk. One was a computer printout of the clients Dora Anderson had served in her two years in Newark’s Children’s Services department, the other was admissions to the Bridges juvenile treatment facility during the same two-year period. Cluff shouldn’t have had either set of lists, probably, from a legal point of view, but in twenty-five years with the NYPD he had developed a network that moved information a bit more efficiently than official channels.
He looked down at the records, sighed. Page after page of names.
“This crap don’t ever go anywhere,” he wheezed, wishing he was out on the street with a real hand in the game.