Buried on Avenue B (21 page)

 

CHAPTER 54

AN HOUR AFTER
crawling out of the armpit of southeastern Jersey, O'Hara is rolling down a country lane in a bucolic Westchester village called Waccabuc. Instead of three-family houses, it's three-acre zoning. Instead of warehouses, short-stay motels, and toxic waste, it's gentlemen farmers, bed-and-breakfasts, and horse manure.

Crisco resides in a sprawling '70s modern hewn from stone, cedar, and glass. In the gravel drive are a little white Mercedes and a mud-splattered GMC pickup with “T & C Contractors” on the cab. The his-and-hers vehicles play off each other nicely, the automotive yin and yang of upscale suburbia, but O'Hara knows how fond these perps are of trucks and vans. Working vehicles evoke honest skilled labor, and provide a legitimate reason for them to be parked in an elderly stranger's driveway.

From the scammers' database, she's learned that phony home repairs are a cornerstone of elder abuse. A guy knocks on an old man's door and offers to fix a couple loose shingles on the roof, then tricks/intimidates him out of $3,000 for ten minutes of work. Or a guy sprays some old lady's driveway with gasoline and charges her as if he repaved it. Thanks to the database, O'Hara is current on seal-coat suspects and paving and roof-repair suspects. “When the suspect was pulled over,” read a typical police account, “his truck bed contained a spray rig with five gallons of Dewitt blacktop sealer. Recovered from the vehicle, along with multiple receipts from pawnshops and a prescription for Xanax, were two-way radios and a police scanner tuned to San Antonio area police agencies. . . .”

The lady of the house is in her late forties, early fifties, tall, attractive, stacked, and although her tits could have been acquired anywhere, her eyes and attitude could only come from the streets. She seems as out of place in leafy Waccabuc as O'Hara. “I'm Darlene O'Hara with NYPD Homicide,” says O'Hara, displaying her gold shield. “Pizza says hello.”

After a contemptuous once-over, her host waves O'Hara inside. A flagstone entry opens dramatically on a two-tiered living room that looks out on a lake and nothing else. No neighbors in sight, just hundreds of acres of preserve. If Pizza's strained circumstances are a poor inducement to a life of crime, this place is more persuasive. Based on the view, they could be a thousand miles from New York, not fifty.

“Pizza's a hater,” says Crisco.

“I can see why. How many old people you have to scam to pay for this?”

“My husband has a successful landscaping business.”

“T & C Contractors,” says O'Hara. “Of course. I jotted down the name in case I ever need some quality work done or want to pass it on to the IRS. Right now, though, I need to talk to you about Benjamin Levin.” O'Hara takes out the picture of Levin sprawled on his bathroom floor and places it on the glass coffee table. “I understand both you and Pizza were crazy about him.”

“I never met this man in my life. I haven't been to Florida for years. It's too depressing. I need sun, I go to St. Bart's.”

“Maybe you never met him, but you took him for over a hundred thousand, and that's not just from Pizza. I also know you used this boy in your scams, and he's dead now too.”

O'Hara takes out the cropped gallery shot of Hercules and places it beside the photo of the old man.

“Negative again,” says Crisco.

“You don't know him either?”

“Of course not.”

“A kid like him must have seemed like a gift from God. With his white-blond hair, no one thinks Gypsy for a second. But I would have thought you'd have treated such a valuable asset a little better.”

O'Hara takes in Crisco's sneer along with her lake and trees. The disparity between Pizza's Union City apartment and this is so wide, it seems unfair, even to O'Hara, and Crisco and Pizza were playing with the same pieces. With the same mark (Levin) and the same prop (the kid), Pizza extracted rent money, and Crisco, enough to live large for months. The only difference was their level of shamelessness, and that might be the only distinction that matters.

NOW O'HARA LAYS
out the two mug shots. “This one is Fudgesicle, and this is Popsicle. They're a team, and like your husband, they do distraction burglaries. They use a van that reads Sarasota Water Authority instead of a truck that says T & C Contractors. I suppose you don't know them, either.”

“Of course not.”

“Well, they know you, because they robbed the same guy you and Pizza were milking, and they also used the boy. In the process, they got him killed. I'm getting pretty close to these two, and I'd be concerned about that if I were you. Because once I get them in the box for murder, they'll give up their sister if they thought it would help. For all I know, you are their sister, or cousin.” And then, to piss her off, “Or mother.”

Crisco's expression doesn't waver, but it does piss her off.

“I'm going to have to ask you to leave now,” she says.

“Could I use the bathroom? It was a long ride from Union City.”

Crisco points past a large open kitchen, and O'Hara walks down another stone corridor. From behind a door comes the hollow sound of a daytime studio audience. O'Hara makes sure Crisco hasn't followed her, then cracks the door of a guest bedroom. On a recliner facing the TV is a sparrow of an old lady in a black dress and shawl.

“I adore Dr. Phil,” whispers O'Hara.

Without taking her eyes from the set, the old woman nods in agreement. “He's very reasonable.”

“Maybe he's part Gypsy,” says O'Hara.

“Could be,” says the woman, smiling at the screen. “You never know.”

“The golden child, the blond-haired boy,” says O'Hara. “Do you miss him?” The old lady doesn't respond or turn from the TV, where Dr. Phil interviews a teenage girl with an eating disorder.

“Can I ask you another question?” asks O'Hara softly. “Why did they risk him? Why did they put the boy in danger?”

The old lady glances at O'Hara for the first time, then turns back to the screen. “If the bear don't hunt,” she says, “the bear don't eat.”

O'Hara hears Crisco's angry heels in the hallway, but by then it's too late. When Crisco flings open the door, O'Hara stays where she is, right behind the old lady's shoulder.

“I said you could use the bathroom,” says Crisco, “not disturb my family.” She says something cold and clipped in Rom to the old woman, who shrugs.

“We're just a couple ladies watching Dr. Phil,” says O'Hara.

“Actually, I'm glad you've had a chance to meet my mother. Now you know why people preying on the elderly is not a problem for Gypsies. Unlike you, we don't entrust them to strangers, or leave them to fend for themselves. We take care of them. Let me show you out.”

O'HARA EATS SOME
suburban “Chinois” in a shopping center and gets on the Saw Mill River Parkway back to the city. Southbound traffic on a Saturday evening is slow, and O'Hara is worn to the nub by her cold and the strain of navigating the upside-down Gypsy universe. Despite the twisted logic, that last sanctimonious salvo from Crisco didn't entirely miss the mark. If O'Hara's mother had a medical crisis and couldn't take care of herself, would O'Hara set up a hospital bed in the living room and have her move in with her and Bruno?

A call from Wawrinka saves her from having to answer. “Dar, how you doing?”

“Been talking to Gypsies all day. My head is spinning.”

“Got something. We located Popsicle.”

“Where?”

“South Carolina. A couple hours' drive north of that Walmart, a town called Quinby.”

“He liked the area so much he decided to settle down?”

“Yeah . . . to the bottom of a pond right next to Ninety-Five. The pond is on a golf course in front of the seventeenth green. Every summer they hire a diver to dredge up all the golf balls the hackers hit into it. Then they wipe them off and sell them back to the same hackers.”

“Last night, this guy wades in in his wet suit and hauls out eight huge bags like he's picking cotton underwater. As he's going in for another, he steps on something soft. Fortunately they don't have gators, or there wouldn't have been anything to step on.”

“How do you know it's Popsicle?”

“Everything checks—height, the studs in what was left of his ears. Plus the timing. The coroner puts him in the soup six months, which is when he and Fudgesicle and the kid were passing through. But here's the clincher. They do an autopsy, and guess what they find in his lower intestines?”

“I'd rather not.”

“The one-point-five-carat stone missing from the ring you found in the Volvo. Before Popsicle stashes the ring, with the rest of his private swag, he pops the stone and swallows it.”

O'Hara isn't surprised Adams turned up dead, but is sorry to hear it. With another witness dead, the chance of learning what happened that morning in the old man's condo is that much less, and after soaking at the bottom of a pond for six months, she doubts the corpse will offer any clues.

“So Popsicle got caught with his hand in the cookie jar?”

“Looks that way. The little guy was beaten to a pulp. All the bones in his face were shattered.”

For the remainder of the drive, O'Hara considers the scenarios that might have led to the final encounter. Had Fudgesicle been aware of his partner's poaching for a while and waited to kill him until it was convenient? He couldn't do it until they'd stolen the Volvo, because he needed a second driver to drop off the van or maybe he waited till he had a spot to dump the body. The severity of the beating, however, suggests something more spontaneous.

Due to the traffic, it takes another hour to get back to the city and another thirty minutes before O'Hara is clomping down the steel stairs to Miss Marla's
offisa
. “Someone's in there,” says the toothless homunculus.

“Then give her a rain check.” A woman in emotional disarray gets the bum's rush, and O'Hara takes her still-warm seat. “I hope it didn't interrupt anything too lucrative.”

“Darlene. The only fortunes I give now are happy ones.” Marla pulls a tissue from her sleeve and honks her nose. “By the way, thanks for the cold. You talk to Pizza?”

“And Crisco.”

“That one's a sharpie,” says Marla.

“With a view to prove it. But some of what I'm hearing doesn't make sense. Pizza told me that she snagged the old Jew on a chat line. She charms him, gets him to send her a few thousand dollars.”

“Working a Willie,” says Marla. “That's what they call it.”

“So Pizza is working her Willie, and Crisco snatches him out from under her nose and proceeds to work him for a hundred times more.”

“So what's your question?”

“How did Crisco even find out about him? Would Pizza pass a mark on to someone she hates?”

“Would you turn over a big case to another detective because you thought he would do a better job? Well, Pizza wouldn't either.”

“Does she get a finder's fee?”

“Why would Pizza give up the whole for a piece? And how could Pizza trust Crisco not to stiff her?”

“So if Pizza doesn't run her mouth, how would Crisco know she has someone on the hook?”

“I don't know for sure. But I can tell you it wouldn't be hard. Let's say that Pizza is on T-Mobile, then all Crisco has to do is make a friend at T-Mobile. The friend makes a copy of Pizza's phone bill and sends it to Waccabuc, where Crisco spreads it out on her kitchen table. She sees that on Wednesday night, Pizza spent twenty minutes talking to someone in Saint Augustine, Florida, which I know from
Jeopardy
is the oldest city in America. The next night she calls the number again and talks for half an hour. That month's bill, half is spent gabbing to one number in Florida. Since Crisco knows for a fact that Pizza doesn't have a family in that part of Florida, and doesn't know any Gypsies who live there either, that means Pizza is talking to a
gadje
, an American, and the only reason Pizza would be calling an American is if she is working him. So one afternoon Crisco dials the number herself. She comes up with some story—it wouldn't take much for a lonely old man—starts flirting and telling him how hard it is to find a good man even at her age. The next thing you know, the American belongs to her.”

“How do you know he's an American?”

“American,
gadje
, whatever.” For Marla, anyone who isn't a Gypsy is an American. That means American is just another name for a mark. P. T. Barnum couldn't break it down more succinctly.

“Doesn't Pizza have any recourse?” asks O'Hara. “I read that when a Gypsy feels himself wronged by another Gypsy, he can call for a trial, or a
kris
.”

“No one is going to stop what they're doing and travel hundreds of miles to settle a dispute over day-to-day hustling. Most
krisa
have something to do with a dowry—a marriage is arranged and falls apart so quickly the family of the groom demands the return of the dowry.”

“So marriage doesn't work any better for you than Americans?” In the candlelight, O'Hara catches a Gypsy eye roll. “Please,” says Marla, “and if it's not about a dowry, it's about something important. A serious accident or a death. One Gypsy kills another, and the family of the victim demands a payment. The last one I heard about involved the murder of someone's grandson.”

“You remember what happened?”

“Nothing. They blew him off. In the end, it all comes down to money. Money makes the monkey dance.”

“And if the
kris
doesn't go your way?”

“You're stuck. Submit to a
kris
, you have to accept the decision, good or bad. Refuse to comply, you risk
marime
, which means you are expelled from the world of Gypsies. After that, no Gypsy will have anything to do with you. For a Gypsy, that's the same as death.”