Blue Eyes (3 page)

“And Isaac? Is Isaac with him?”

“Pimloe tell you that?”

“No. He says Isaac's mooching for Papa.”

“Crooks hang with crooks,” Brodsky said.

Coen decided to walk the rest of the way. Men stared at his pajamas. He kept his holster out of sight. Remembering Brodsky's allegiance to Pimloe, he cupped his hands and shouted at the car. “Brodsky, you were a mutt before Isaac took you in. He taught you how to blow your nose. Only Isaac's dentist could cure your bloody gums.”

Brodsky shut his window and fled from Coen.

Herbert Pimloe was a deputy inspector at forty-two. He hated Coen. He wanted to smear him in Isaac's shit. Isaac had been a DCI (deputy chief inspector) by the age of forty, and Pimloe resented this. He was obsessed with Isaac's career. Isaac had controlled the office before he jumped into the Bronx, and now Pimloe was in charge of the First Deputy Commissioner's investigative units, but he didn't have Isaac's hold over detectives and typists. And he couldn't charm the First Dep, even though he occupied Isaac's old rooms.

Pimloe graduated magna cum laude from Harvard College, with a senior thesis on the aberrations and bargaining skills of Hitler, Stalin, Churchill, Mussolini, and De Gaulle. His friends went on to law school and medical school and business school and departments of philosophy, and Pimloe mumbled something about criminal justice. Having measured the brain power of the chief finaglers of his time, he developed a singular distrust for colleges and books. He became a rookie patrolman in the NYCPD. He handled a riot baton and a Colt .38 Police Special, and escaped the draft. After five years of walking Brooklyn and Queens, the First Deputy picked him up. Somebody must have noticed the magna cum laude in his personnel file. He typed for the First Dep, wrote reports for the First Dep's whip, Isaac Sidel, did bits of undercover work, changed from a Colt to a Smith & Wesson. He rose with the younger chiefs of the office, always a step under Isaac, fumbling in Isaac's shadow until Isaac disappeared, but there was no easy way to get rid of the Jew Chief. Isaac could haunt an office.

Brodsky called for him at a quarter to seven. Brodsky had been Isaac's chauffeur, and although this fact gave Pimloe immediate status in the eyes of other deputy inspectors, he was suspicious of the chauffeur; he didn't enjoy being compared to Isaac. Moody, he wouldn't go home to his wife. “Jane Street,” he said. “Find Odette for me.”

The chauffeur laughed.

Pimloe questioned him. “Do you think the glom is hooked?”

“He's hooked. He's hooked.”

“Are you sure?”

“Herbert, don't I know Coen? He'll take us to Zorro. You'll see. We'll throw the tribe on their ass.”

The chauffeur couldn't get another word out of him. He missed Isaac. Isaac never moped in a First Deputy car. Brodsky couldn't get comfortable driving for a Harvard goy inspector. He landed Pimloe on Jane Street.

“Herbert, Coen will produce. I swear.”

Pimloe dismissed him with a feeble nod. His mind was thick with Odette. He swaggered in her hallway, ringing a whole line of bells. “Cunt,” he said, slipping into Isaac's idiom. He couldn't get into the building. Odette's landlady peeked at him from the opposite side of the door. He showed her the points of his deputy inspector's shield. “Official business,” he mouthed into the glass, his lips fogging the door. The landlady undid the latch, Pimloe squeezing in. He lacked Isaac's sweet smile, but he could still steal the pants off a Jane Street landlady. “Madam,” he said, collecting his Harvard undertones, “is the actress in?”

“She's upstairs.”

“Shy about answering her buzzer, isn't she?”

“That's the rules. Is this a breakfast call? I don't allow strange men in my house before eleven.”

“Nothing to worry about, madam.” He handed her an old Detectives Endowment card. “My number's on the back. You can ring my superior, the First Deputy Commissioner of New York.”

The landlady scurried toward her basement apartment, clutching Pimloe's card, and Pimloe went up the stairs. He wasn't scrubbing indoors on the First Deputy's account; he was considering the cleavage under Odette's jersey, the dampness of her bellybutton, her manner of frowning at men. “I had to go and fall for a dike,” he muttered on the stairs. She wouldn't come to the door until he shouted, “
Odette, Odette
,” into the peephole.

“It's me, Herbert. It's time for a conference. Let me in.”

Pimloe smiled when the lock clicked, but she kept her chain guard on, and she stared at him through scraps of light in the door.

“We can have your conference right here,” she said.

“Odile, are you crazy? This is Herbert Pimloe, not one of your uncle's gloms. I carry a badge with a star on top. I don't whisper to girls in a hall.”

“Then talk loud,” she said.

Pimloe could have snapped the chain off with his thumb, but he wanted to suffer for Odette. He saw the outline of her nose, slices of mouth, the startings of a chin.

“Odile, give me a minute inside. I'll hold both hands on the door.”

“Inspector, I'm only Odile to my friends.”

Pimloe brushed the chain with a row of knuckles, playing the inspector for Odette.

“Where's Zorro?”

“How dumb do you think he is? César wouldn't come here. But I had another visitor.”

“Who?”

“The Chinaman. He stole all my garter belts while I was uptown.”

Pimloe could feel the dwindle in his underpants; he'd shrunk with the first mention of Chino Reyes. There was no revolver in his waistband. He kept his Smith & Wesson locked in a drawer, preferring not to be weighted down with a handgun. He hadn't realized the Chinaman enjoyed fire escape privileges at Odette's. He wanted no encounters on the stairs with César Guzmann's pistol. So he wagged his goodbyes with a droopy finger and made the street before Odette could shut her door.

3
On Fifth Avenue Coen wore herringbone, and magenta socks. Coming across the park he disregarded the pull of rooflines and burnt stone. Coen dreaded the East Side. During the time of his marriage, while guarding the ingénue of a Broadway musical, a light-headed girl with weak ankles and a list of hectoring suitors, Coen was taken up by the producer of the show. He became a fixed piece in the producer's entourage, appearing at his Fifth Avenue penthouse with and without the ingénue. Coen flexed his muscles, showed his scars and his gold badge, told stories about gruesome child murderers and apprehended rapists, passed his holster around. It took him three whole days to notice that his wife had moved out. She was staying with the young dentist Charles Nerval.

The producer gave Coen use of the maid's room. Coen slept with the ingénue. He slept with the producer's
au pair
, a Norwegian girl who knew more English than Coen. After hints and prods from the producer, he slept with the producer's wife. He got confused when the producer's friends began calling him “the stickman.” He shook hands with columnists from the
Post.
Collecting money owed to the producer, Coen wore the fattest of ties. He missed his wife. At parties he wrestled with a muscular thief the producer had put in his entourage. Coen didn't mind the charlie horses and the puffs on his ear. He drank whiskey sours afterward, spitting out a little blood with the cherry, and sharing a hundred dollars with the thief. The producer would advertise these wrestling matches. He gave Coen and the thief spangled trousers to wear.

The thief, a Ukrainian boy with receding gums, hated the matches and hated Coen. Once, biting Coen on the cheek, he said, “Kill me, pretty, before I kill you.” The boy had not spoken to Coen until then. Ten years older, with a harder paunch and stronger knees, Coen could have thrown the boy at will, but he prolonged the matches to satisfy the producer's guests. During the climax of the fifth or sixth match, with Coen scissoring the boy, he heard the twitches of the guests breathing encouragement on him, their bodies forked with agitation, and he closed his eyes. The boy took advantage of the lapse to free himself and hammer Coen with his elbows, an unforgivable act according to the producer's rules. The guests tore the boy off Coen, booing and launching kicks, the women kicking with as much fervor as the men. Groggy, Coen leaned over the boy, slapping at ankles and shoes. He moved out of the maid's room. He broke off relations with the producer's wife. He cooked at home. Stephanie, his wife, was suing him in order to marry the dentist Nerval.

Coen prepared for Vander Child. He mentioned his name to the doorman of Child's apartment house. The doorman called upstairs. Coen sat on a scrolled lobby bench with his knees wide apart. The doorman smiled under the starched blue wings of his dickey and began to patronize Coen. “I'm afraid Mr. Child doesn't know any Manfred Coens. State your business, please.”

“Tell him
Pimloe
,” Coen shouted into the plugboard. “P-I-M-L-O-E.” The doorman let Coen pass.

Child welcomed him in a flannel gown with enormous pockets. A handsome man with a mole on his lip and a negligible hairline, he was just Coen's age. Coen found it hard to believe that Child could have a daughter of seventeen. They stood chin to chin, both of them a touch under five-feet-eight. Child had greener eyes. He liked the detective Pimloe chose for him. He mixed Coen a fruit punch with rum and sweet limes. Child insisted they drink from the same bowl. Coen felt dizzy by the third sip. On Child's couch each discovered the other was a ping-pong buff.

“Use a Butterfly?” Child said.

“No. Mark V.”

“Fast or slow?”

“Fast,” Coen said. “Where do you hit?”

“At home. I hate the clubs.”

Coen seemed unnerved. “You have a table here?”

Hugging his gown Child walked Coen through bedrooms, a sitting room, and a hall of closets. A high-breasted girl in another flannel gown swore at Child from one of the rooms. She sat on a round bed drinking punch and jiggling some earphones. “Who's the Sammy?” she said, pointing to Coen. “A new customer? Is he a live one? Vander dear, am I going to perform on trapeze?” She threw the earphones at Child. He ducked and nudged Coen out of the room.

“My niece,” Child said. “She has an active imagination. She thinks I live in a brothel.” They stopped in a corklined room with soft blue lights and a regulation ping-pong table. Coen admired the luminous green paint on the table. Child put a Butterfly in his hand. He could hear the girl sing a school song. “Carbonderry, my Carbonderry,” she said. He hefted the ping-pong bat. Child fed him a fresh ball and volleyed in his flannels. Coen chopped with the Butterfly. Child smirked.

“Who taught you that? Dickie Miles? Reisman? Do you want hard rubber, a pimple bat?”

“No. I'll play with this.”

With the ball coming off blue light, Coen had to squint. He wondered when Child would begin talking about his daughter. He had trouble with Child's serves. Swaddled in herringbone he couldn't smash the ball. The necktie was making him gag. Child helped him undress. Coen played in boxer shorts. Uneasy at first, he grew accustomed to the undertable currents on his kneecaps. Child had a greater repertoire of strokes. His loops got away from Coen. His flick shots would break near Coen's handle. Coen slapped air. Child attacked his weak side, forcing Coen into the edge of the table. Twice the Butterfly flew out of Coen's hand. The girl was singing again. “Carbonderry, my Carbonderry.” Her mocking, nasal cries upset Coen's ability to chop. The ball made a thick sound against his bat. Child had a lead of 18-2 when the girl came in. Seeing Coen sweat in stockings and shorts amused her. “Darling, isn't this the bloodhound who's going to bring Carrie back? He has cute nipples for a cop.” She approached Coen's half of the table. “Did he tell you I'm his niece?” Coen looked away from her open collar. The girl was taller than him, and her bosoms hovered close to his neck. “He really is an uncle, you know. Nobody believes it. Vander doesn't have favorites in his cast.”

Child pushed little dents into the Butterfly with a finger. “Shut your mouth, Odile.”

“Vander, couldn't you use the bloodhound in a bigger way? He's naked enough. And marvelous with a paddle in his fist. Get him to swish it, darling. I want to see.”

Child threw his bat. It struck her on the shoulder, and she shaped a perfect scream with the muscles in her jaw. Her nostrils puffed wide. In pain, her bosoms had a glorious arch. Moaning, her body grew lithe. The girl's physicality astonished Coen. She could shrink a room with any of her moves. She ran out with Child. He heard them chatter in a corridor. Child came back much less interested in Coen. “Odile's an actress,” he said. “Don't be taken in by her rough talk. She has pornography on her mind.” Child scored three quick points and collected the bats. He brought Coen into his study. “My daughter went to school with Odile.”

“Blood cousins?” Coen asked.

“Yes, blood cousins,” Child said, scrutinizing Coen. “Odile's the older. She could sway Caroline. They both became involved with a Jew pimp.”

“Is he from Manhattan, the pimp? Does he walk, or drive a car?”

“He has a Spanish name, that's all I know.”

“Guzmann?” Coen said. “Is it Guzmann. César Guzmann?”

“Maybe.”

“How did your girls meet César?”

“You said César, Mr. Coen. I didn't. It might be Alfred, Pepe, Juanito, God knows.”

“What were they doing with a pimp, Mr. Child?”

“This isn't East Hampton, Coen. The pimps cruise around Caroline's school every morning looking for fresh tail. They fish pretty hard. Several Carbonderry girls have run off with Spics. The school hushes it up. You can't keep a chastity belt on Amsterdam Avenue.”

“You think your daughter's with this pimp then? If your niece was mixed up with him too, she ought to remember his name.”