39

Atlanta, 1953

He took the Pennsy down to Washington, then changed at Union Station for the Silver Comet, on the Seaboard Air Line road. The train was a shiny new streamliner, with a sleek stainless steel engine and all-room sleepers, painted on the outside with flamboyant streaks of green and orange and yellow.

Everything was very modern and splendid. There was a high-topped observation car with air-conditioning, and a glass roof, and carpeting and pretty new turquoise cushions on all the chairs. There was a dining car with real inlaid china, and a club car with a shower-bath and a barber on duty at all times, and even a library car. And as soon as they pulled out of Union Station in the nation’s capital, the conductors gathered up all the Negro passengers and marched them swiftly back into the colored car.

They were the best-dressed people on the train, Tom thought, in their new suits and dresses and hats for the folks back home. Some of them were ministers with their collars on; others wearing Phi Beta Kappa keys, or were hunched or white-haired with age. They walked back through the train with stiff-legged dignity, and the expressions on their faces were worse than anything he’d ever seen, even on the mobs of refugees that used to flounder past their tank columns during the war.

He looked away, telling himself that he was on a job. Thinking uncomfortably about how many men he’d heard testify, using the same expression: It was a job. Traveling down on the very same line, to some of the very same places. Blending in with the drummers, and the regional managers, carrying their own little kits, like Pep Strauss had.

The wolf held at bay. Playing pinochle in the club car, nursing a drink, and reading The Saturday Evening Post. Playing at being a real person with a real life. The ice pick or the garrote tucked discreetly away in the overnight bag. Another job in another town . . .

 

The train pulled into Terminal Station less than nineteen hours after leaving New York, just as advertised. It was still twenty of eight in the morning, but Tom had already been up for two hours, showered and dressed and breakfasted in the elegant new dining car, where a colored waiter served him coffee and bacon and eggs made by the colored cooks in the kitchen. He checked his bags in the Italianate villa of a train station with its twin cupolas, then killed another couple hours in the coffee shop, trying to chew his way through a copy of the morning Constitution. When the terminal clock struck ten, he threw a dollar onto the counter and caught a cab to the address he had from his friend with the feds.

The place turned out to be a light-fixture store, on a relatively quiet block of Peachtree Street, a mile or so north of downtown. It was in a low, long building, with the name ZACKS inscribed apologetically over the door, a dark-green awning pulled down against the heat, and a variety of Tiffany glass and little pagoda lampshades residing dustily in the front windows. It was a block where you could fall asleep just trying to walk down it, he thought.

He had the cab let him out around the corner, then walked quickly back past the window and in the door with his fedora angled down over one side of his face, not wanting to give someone the chance to see him coming. But just the alacrity with which he entered the store gave him away, the salesman looking up immediately at such an unaccustomed purpose of movement. One hand slipping inside his buttoned jacket, until he saw Tom’s face and he stopped—a sickly smile creasing his visage, the hand dropping guiltily back out at his side like a schoolboy caught raiding the cookie jar.

Even in the muted light of the store’s interior, Tom recognized him at once. Tick-Tock Tannenbaum. He’d sprouted the first, gradual curve of a paunch, in the twelve years since Tom had seen him last, and the close-cut, carefully barbered hair had receded past the crest of his forehead and was flecked with gray. The face had grown a little jowly, but there was still the same long, drooping nose, the heavy, almost Asiatic eyes, the sleek, batlike ears that he would know anywhere.

“How may I help you today, sir?” he asked in a loud voice. Fixing Tom with his eyes, then letting them go flat, and cold, and dead. The usual cheap gangster’s trick, until Tom told him, “Knock it off, Tick-Tock,” and the impish, boy’s smile that he remembered replaced it, his eyes gleaming.

“Let me show you some of our newest line of lampshades just over here,” he said, still booming, taking Tom by the elbow and leading him toward a far corner of the store, by the window and the moribund Tiffany.

Tom peered back deliberately into the interior of the store, in the direction Tannenbaum was steering him away from. Behind the counter he could make out a sharp-eyed man with a tie a little too gaudy, and a suit cut a little too sharp for the proprietor of a sleepy southern lamp store. He also seemed decidedly interested in what they were saying.

“Go easy with the boss here, huh,” Tick-Tock pleaded quietly once they were out of earshot, gesturing lavishly toward a row of brownish lampshades that looked to have last been cleaned sometime before Pearl Harbor. “Whattaya you guys want from me anyhow? Ya had me testify against Dandy Parisi three years ago, ya see how that turned out—”

“Shut up for once in your life,” Tom told him, smiling pleasantly. “I don’t want you to testify. Not now, anyway, and probably not ever.”

“Who is it, then? LA? Look, the only guy I ever knew about there was Benny, an’ he’s long gone—”

“Shut up, I said,” Tom told him, pretending to admire a red pagoda desk lamp. “What I want is information—background. That’s all.”

Tannenbaum chuckled for real. “Ohhh, I see, and I should give that to you why, because you fucks wrecked my life?” he said, waving a hand around the room. “Lookit this. All these fucking lampshades. Drivin’ me nuts bein’ around ’em all day. Ya know, Eva Braun used to make lampshades outta the skins of dead Jews. Sometimes I think she musta made one out outta mine, end up here—”

“You’re a disgusting piece of filth. And shut. The. Fuck. Up,” Tom told him again.

“But I don’t get it, I really don’t. Ya come in here askin’ for somethin’, ya must have somethin’ to gimme. Maybe cash?” Tick-Tock went on, looking suddenly hopeful as the thought occurred to him. “No? No money? Then why the hell should I help you?”

“You talked once before without money,” Tom said easily. “You talked, and talked, and talked. All over the country.”

“That’s because I was facin’ seven years up at that black hole in Dannemora,” Tannenbaum told him, “And because of your brother.”

“My brother?”

“Sure. He took me for a little ride upstate one afternoon. Over a hundred miles outta the City. God, that felt good after being cooped up in that cell for so long. Nice fall day, the leaves turnin’ already.”

“Where’d ya go?” Tom asked, trying to make his voice sound as if he knew the answer and was just testing him for some reason. Allie gave him his impish, boy’s grin again.

“Up home, of course. Dear old Loch Sheldrake, ‘the most affordable, most companionable, most delectable resort in the Catskills.’ Just so I could watch ’em dig up Hyman Yuran.”

“Poor old Hyman Yuran.”

The shmatte foreman. Lepke’s front, yet another one fingered because it was supposed he might talk. Sweating and lumbering around the hotel pool, with all the damned screaming and splashing kids who wouldn’t let him sleep. Thinking the hard blonde in the car might really be interested in him. Carefully knotting his best tie, and slapping on his cologne in the dreary, humid little room . . .

“That was pretty funny,” Tom said slowly. “Dumpin’ the body in your parents’ swimming pool excavation.”

The boy’s grin spreading slowly from ear to ear. “Yeah, well, that was nothin’ compared to watchin’ ’em dig it up. That whole brand-new pool. Sammy, my old man, runnin’ around shoutin’ about who was gonna pay for it—”

“What didja have against ’em, anyway, Tick-Tock?” Tom asked him. “What did they ever do to you, besides take you off Orchard Street, raise you out in the country in a nice hotel?”

“Don’t that speak for itself?”

He held out his hands, the grin souring his face.

“I was twenty-five years old, my old man still had me waitin’ tables, goin’ around settin’ up beach chairs. Layin’ out the shuffleboard court like I was one more cabana boy,” he told Tom.

“The only difference was, you got to own the joint one day.”

Tannenbaum shrugged. “When was that gonna be? Next year in Jerusalem? You don’t know my old man. He wouldn’t pay me till the end a the season. Not one dime. I didn’t even get to keep the tips. There I was, walkin’ around all summer with nothin’, no money to go out with girls. I couldn’t even go to the picture show in town.”

“So because you were cinematically deprived, you decided you might as well get a start bumpin’ people off.”

“Hey, I needed to do somethin’—”

“There was always college.”

“Eh, I tried a couple semesters. College wasn’t for me. After that, my old man got me a job as a tailor’s apprentice, at the College Shop up on a Hundred and Thirteenth Street. But that wasn’t for me, either. Spend my whole life measurin’ those Ivy League fucks for their tweed jackets and their nice suits? Crawlin’ around on my hands an’ knees to check how their nuts fall?”

“So killing strangers was all that remained.”

“I’d see all those guys around the hotel in the summer.” He shrugged again. “Lepke, and the Gurrah. Shimmy Salles and Curly Holtz. They always had money, they always had girls, no matter how fat an’ ugly they were. They did what they wanted, didn’t take no shit from nobody. They liked me, too. They were always tellin’ me I should come work for ’em, I could go far—”

“Ah, isn’t that special!”

“So, one day I run into Big Harry Schacter, down in the City. He worked for Lepke, asked me if I wanted a job. I told him sure, if it paid. They started me off at thirty-five a week. Just doin’ little jobs at first, you know? Some shlamming, throwing stink bombs in stores that wouldn’t pay off. Sluggin’ a couple fellas. Nothin’ like killin’.”

He was speaking freely now, living up to his nickname. His words soft and rhythmic and unending, just like the sound of a ticking clock.

“They moved me up from there. Maybe help take care of a body or two, like with Hyman. Drivin’ the cars, deliverin’ packages, that kinda thing. They were payin’ me a hundred twenty-five a week by then; it was a living. And I made it on my own, without my old man takin’ every goddamned nickel some yenta tipped me.”

He paused for a moment, as if trying to remember what the point was.

“But I never killed nobody.” He lit up again. “I never admitted to that.”

“How was it again they pinched you, anyway?” Tom asked.

“Ah, it was over Charlie Workman’s apartment, out in Brighton Beach. You remember, Charlie the Bug? Who went over to Newark an’ shot Dutch Schultz in the crapper?”

“I read about it. What were you doin’ there?”

“Just tryin’ to stay out of the way. Lepke was still on the lam an’ goin’ nuts that anybody who used to work for him might rat him out.”

“So you came back when he got arrested.”

“Sure. But then Reles, that piece a garbage, he gives himself up an’ starts talkin’ a mile a minute. I went back up to New York, went over to Charlie’s place in Brooklyn—”

“Why would you do that?” Tom interrupted.

“Why would I do what?” Tick-Tock asked, his weighted, Oriental eyes blinking slowly.

“You know you’re in trouble because one of your old partners is in stir, singin’ his heart out. So you go over to see a man who pulled the most famous job what ever was? Somebody like Charlie the Bug, who was more wanted than anyone ever was wanted or ever would be?”

The endless flow of words ceased for a moment, the clock halted.

“Why?” Tick-Tock repeated. “Because I figured, you know, maybe he could fix me up, get me a little money to get away on—”

“Why would Charlie the Bug have any money? He could barely show his face. You saw how he lived.”

Allie Tannenbaum was silent again, face fixed in a tight, close-mouthed smile.

“You tell me then,” he said thickly.

“You went there because somebody told you to go there. Didn’t they?”

Tannenbaum shrugged once more, and slowly wound down. “Well, ya know, maybe somebody might’ve suggested Charlie could help me out . . .”

“No, they didn’t. They told you to go there because they knew Charlie Workman was about to be pinched. Didn’t they?” Tom said. “They told you to go there because they wanted you to be in jail just then, and that was the best way to do it and make sure it looked right.”

“That mighta happened,” Tick-Tock Tannenbaum said slowly. “So what if it did?”

“Who told you to go get yourself arrested, Tick-Tock?”

“I dunno, if I ever did know,” he said tightly. “I put those sorts a things outta my head.”

“We’ll get back to that. Maybe you’ll remember. Maybe it was somebody who had word of when the cops were coming for Charlie the Bug and wanted to make sure you were there, too. Didn’t you ever wonder about that, Allie? Or did you have certain assurances?”

Tannenbaum gave a small, wry laugh. Over his shoulder, Tom noticed that the head of the man back behind the counter went up, like a Doberman’s ears lifting at the sound of an intruder.

“I never knew from assurances. I went where they told me.”

“A little out of your depth, weren’t you, Allie?” Tom said, taunting him. “The rich boy’s son, operating with Murder, Inc. You’d give ’em your best movie-gangster stare, but that didn’t work on them, did it? You were scared to death a those fellas. Weren’t you?”

“They were very scary guys,” Tannenbaum said offhandedly. “Especially if you didn’t do what you were told.”

“And you were told to get yourself arrested. By whom?”

He noticed that the man behind the counter was looking up again, his face all attention, almost visibly listening. Tom moved suddenly around Tick-Tock and strode across the store toward the man, whipping his assistant DA credential with its police-style badge out of his jacket and holding it up.

“Excuse me, sir, can I have a word with you—”

Before he was halfway across the room, the man turned on his heel and walked quickly out the back of the store without uttering a word. Seconds later, Tom could hear a car engine starting up, then receding rapidly down the street.

“Ah, whatcha have to go an’ do that for?” Allie moaned when he turned back to him. “Now I’m gonna get the heave-ho—”

“There are many opportunities today for a trained radio technician,” Tom told him, lighting a cigarette. “Also, there are marvelous opportunities in dry cleaning and carpet-stain removal.”

“Funny.”

“Just answer the goddamned question. Who told you to go over to Charlie the Bug’s and see that you got yourself arrested?”

“Well . . .” Tannenbaum hemmed, “I’m not gonna testify to it. But I couldn’t swear it wasn’t the Prime Minister.”

“Frank Costello?”

Tick-Tock just looked at him.

“All right. Now we’re getting somewhere. So then you went for a nice ride in the country with my brother, and decided to talk.”

“Sure, why not?” Tannenbaum grinned. “He was a very persuasive guy. After all, they elected him mayor twice—”

He could picture the long ride upstate. Neddy Moran at the wheel, maybe a detective with him up front. Charlie in the back seat with Tannenbaum, speaking kindly to him in that expansive, fatherly way he had. The way he had used on Tom himself. Asking Tick-Tock how he’d gone wrong, telling him it wasn’t too late to turn his life around. Unless maybe it wasn’t so hard to put this particular witness at ease.

“But that isn’t why you talked, Allie. Is it?”

The heavy eyes blinked slowly again. Tom wondering how he ever lasted so long in gangland with such an obvious tell. Because he was a useful idiot. For jobs like this one.

“Whattaya mean? Why not? I cut a deal for myself. When Reles started singin’, it didn’t make any sense not to—”

“But that wasn’t why you did it. Somebody told you to sing, too, just like they told you to get arrested. Didn’t they? And was that same person good old Francis Scott Key Costello?”

“It mighta been.” He shrugged defensively this time. “Look, I was tellin’ the God’s honest truth about all those jobs—”

“Sure, why not?” Tom told him. “They wanted those cases to stand. They wanted those boy-os off the street by then, they’d gotten a little too loud and a little too famous. And they wanted to make sure you could get very close to somebody else.”

“I can’t read people’s minds—”

“No, I guess you can’t,” Tom conceded, chuckling. “But you can tell me exactly what happened in the Rats Suite the night Abe Reles went out the window.”

“Reles! That piece of filth?” Tannenbaum scoffed. “Reles and his goddamned glass of blood snot? The man was a goddamned walking contagion, it’s a wonder we didn’t all catch TB—”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about his personal hygiene, Tick-Tock.”

“They ever tell you what he an’ his pals did to that poor girl back in Brownsville? The one who wanted to be the singer? When she wouldn’t give ’em a tumble they just took her—raped her an’ beat her all night long in some lot, then dumped her back at her old lady’s with a few bills. Told her they’d finish the job if she went to the cops?”

“He was scum. So what? You’re gettin’ religion awful late in life.”

“Yeah? Well, let’s just say I don’t give a damn about him. Why should I tell you anything about it?”

Tom sighed and flicked a hand out suddenly, grabbing ahold of the sleeve of Tick-Tock’s fine sharkskin jacket.

“Some nice work here, Tick-Tock. A beautiful piece of cloth,” he said, rubbing it between his thumb and a finger. “That silk tie must’ve cost you a penny, too. Much more than your average lampshade salesman can afford—”

“Look, I don’t know what you want—” Tick-Tock protested, pulling his sleeve away.

“You’re going to help me because otherwise I’m going to go straight from here to the closest police station and tell them all about whatever shenanigans you and your bashful boyfriend are runnin’ out of the back of this store,” Tom told him, grabbing his wrist again and squeezing hard.

“Yeah? You might be surprised.” Tick-Tock tried to leer at him. “I’m friends with the cops down here—”

“Then I’ll go to the detective squad. And if you’ve iced them, too, I’ll go straight to the state troopers, and then to the feds. You really want to bet there isn’t one cracker sheriff in this state just dyin’ to run some wise-ass New York sheenie into the penitentiary? You ever seen the chain gangs they have down here, Allie?”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” he protested more feebly now. “It’s like I said before. I can’t testify about anything I was an accessory to. You know the law—”

“And I told you,” Tom said, yanking him closer by his wrist, until he was right up to his face. “I’m not interested in testimony. You tell me what I want, I’ll turn around and walk right out of here, and you can go back to running the great Zacks Department Store and Hominy Grits Crime Ring. You’ll never hear from me again. But you better tell me all of it, every single thing. And you better tell me now.”

He let him go then, and Tick-Tock stepped quickly back, pouting at him reproachfully. He bit his lip, looking once again like a schoolboy, even as a middle-aged man. Tom wondered idly if that was all they were at heart, all these killers—just malicious schoolboys stuck in the casual sadism of the sixth grade.

“All right, then,” Tick-Tock said finally, his voice nervous and petulant. “All right, but you might not like what you hear. Don’t say you didn’t ask for it.”

“Just give it to me straight,” Tom told him, as hard and impatiently as he could, trying to hide just how right he had guessed his fears. “What happened?”