Buy Back (21 page)

“I work Sunday.”

“Did you pick up a woman at Donut House on Sunday?”

“What kind woman?”

I sat forward. “Any kind of woman.”

“Yes, I pick up woman.”

“From Donut House? On Court Street?”

“Yes, I pick up woman, but not from Donut House.”

“So you didn’t pick up a woman from Donut House?”

“No. I pick up woman on Sunday. Not from Donut House.”

I sat back. I don’t know what country he came from, but it must have had inside-out lightbulbs and chairs on the ceiling.

As we drove, I witnessed kids bundled up for school being guided out the door by their parents onto stoops cluttered with pumpkins, dried cornstalks, and plastic skeletons.

Rooster bars don’t conform to the Liquor Control Board’s rules on when taverns have to close, which is at four. That’s when these places open. Sometimes they serve people who started their revels at midnight, the club kids, the social vampires. Mostly they serve the night shift. These poor guys have been up all night and need to sleep while it’s light out. Not many people find that an easy thing to do. It helps to knock you out if you have a couple pops. If you needed an excuse to drink, this was as good as any. Except I don’t think Freddy needed much excuse.

Comanche was the name of the place, and like most of the roosters, it was in a basement to help insulate it from discovery by the uninitiated. The cops know about these places, unofficially, because they’re some of the best customers of the roosters. The NYPD never sleeps.

There was no sign for Comanche; you just had to know it was the basement stairwell around the corner from the shuttered fried chicken place. At the bottom of the stairs I rang the bell, and a red light came on overhead. There was a lens next to the door. I was being scoped out. Not that they could tell I was from the Liquor Control Board just to look at me, but I guess they figured they could at least refuse entry to falling down drunks. The door buzzed. I went in.

You’d certainly have never known it was seven in the morning. More like seven in the evening. The bar was on the right with about a dozen padded bar stools and ten patrons. Six tables were on the left, almost all full. A jukebox was playing Billy Joel.

Low ceilings, red lights, and cheap Remington prints were the decor. Remington is the one who was famous for his Native American portraits. Otherwise the place was just a basement tavern devoid of any natural light and smelling a little musty, a little smoky, a little yeasty. Even though smoking is against the law in bars and restaurants in New York, it wouldn’t make sense for roosters. Can’t exactly have people standing outside a rooster smoking or it would be obvious there was an after-hours pub there. They were running illegally anyway.

Only the sanitation workers had uniforms on, green from head to toe. You couldn’t tell what the others did, whether they were night maintenance men, postal workers, or security guards. There were only three or so women.

I got the once-over as I moved down the bar looking for Freddy. I didn’t exactly fit the profile in my suit and topcoat. The final seat at the bar was open, but there was a glass of beer with a coaster on top. Next to it was an empty shot glass.

I don’t know about other places, but in Brooklyn, a coaster on a glass means the patron stepped out and will be back.

A large Hispanic bartender with shaggy hair and sharp sideburns was suddenly across from me. He had a dark smile and a thick neck. “You LCB?”

They ask this of me at rooster bars. They ask anybody who doesn’t fit the profile. It’s done because a Liquor Control Board agent has to identify himself if asked. If not, anything that happens afterward is entrapment. That’s what I’m told, anyway.

“I’m not LCB. Just the same, I’m not ending my day, I’m just starting it. So I can’t really have a drink and do my job, hope you understand. Got any coffee?”

He cocked his head. “It’ll cost you the same as a drink.”

“That’s fair enough. You’re in the business of selling liquor, not coffee. My name is Tommy. I was hoping to run into someone here.”

“I’m Hector, and I don’t want no trouble.” His neck muscles flexed, and the large hands dropped out of sight. As they did so, the bar went quiet. Except for Billy Joel.

“Like I said, Hector, I’m not LCB, so I’m not trouble.”

“You’re looking for somebody, which means you’re some sort of cop or bounty hunter.”

“I guess from your experience that someone who looks like me and says he’s looking for a friend has been trouble in the past. OK, I can understand why you’re anxious. I’m not a bounty hunter or private detective or some ball buster. I’m not trouble, Hector, so you can relax. So can your customers.” I held my coat open and turned all the way around so he could see I had no gun or other weapon. “I was hoping to run into Freddy.”

The front door opened.

“Fucking aye…” It was Freddy registering that something in the bar was wrong. It took a few seconds for him to see me as the center of attention and realize who I was. “Tommy?”

The whole room seemed to exhale.

Hector put out a hand, and I shook it. “Sorry. I have to be careful.”

“No sweat, Hector.”

“Coffee is on me. I just made a pot.”

“Nice of you, thanks.”

Freddy’s arms were waving uncertainly at me as he approached. “Tommy, what’re you doing here? I still say you look like Kirk Douglas with the cliff chin.”

“You told me you were working the night shift. I was in the neighborhood with a little time to kill, figured I might find you here, buy you a drink.”

He slid in front of the beer and knocked the coaster off the top. “That’s white of you, Tommy, thanks. But even a drunk like me knows you want information. Am I right?”

“I wouldn’t try to snow you, Freddy. Of course that’s why I’m here, but you’re your own man. You can tell me nothing. We can talk about the Giants.” I almost mentioned the Mets, but in October that can be a sore subject; better to not mention it at all. “I’ll still buy you the drinks, because I like you and consider you a friend.”

Freddy looked surprised, and touched. His denture glowed in the neon light. “Jeese, Tommy, that’s nice of you to say. I don’t got a lot of friends. Other booze hounds don’t count.”

Hector put the coffee down in front of me along with a container of sugar packets. “Cream?”

I shook my head. “Thanks anyway. Get Freddy whatever he’s having.”

Freddy ordered another beer and a shot of B&B, then turned to me. “I feel funny drinking booze when you drink coffee.”

“Sorry, Freddy, but I’m just starting my day. When you’re on day shift I’d be happy to drink brandy, but if I get in the bag right now I won’t be able to do my job.”

Freddy elbowed me. “Lightweight.”

“What can I say. Some people can do it and others can’t. I don’t have the constitution to drink except after hours.”

“C’mon, you’re a big guy! You can handle it.” He was elbowing me again.

“No can do. It’s coffee for me.”

He looked a little miffed that I couldn’t be convinced.

“Freddy, you’re the only one that mentioned the Kirk Douglas thing.” I pointed at my chin.

He brightened. “No!”

“I kid you not.”

“That surprises me.” He finished his beer as the new round arrived. A trembling hand made the B&B shot vanish. “So did you really wanna talk about the Giants?”

“We can if you want, but I want to ask you about Sunday night.”

“I was working then.” He slurped down half his beer and began looking for Hector for another shot. Poor Freddy really was a rummy, and I felt a little guilty for enabling him. Then again, I had no doubt he’d drink just as much with me there as without, except he’d have more pocket money for food this way. Well, it was nice to think he’d spend it on food, something like a salad, and not Tic Tacs.

“What do you know about the gig Sunday night?”

I could see Freddy’s eyes begin to glaze over. He was approaching a tipping point, or perhaps I should say the tipsy point. I was probably a little too late to have him talk to me sensibly. Home and bed were in his near future. That’s the problem using booze to get people to talk, especially with drunks. They have surprisingly little staying power and tend to get smashed.

“I thought we were going to talk about the Giants?”

“We can if you want.”

“I’m a Jets fan, anyway.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Freddy, you have my sympathies. I used to be a Browns fan. My Dad was from Cleveland.”

“Tommy, do you really like me or are you just saying that?”

See what I mean? When they start to get smashed they start to get maudlin.

“Don’t we always have a chat when we see each other at the museum?”

He stared at the beer that had just arrived. “I sometimes wonder about things, about how people see me.”

“How do you want them to see you, Freddy?”

“I’m a pretty good guy, you know. I have a daughter, I ever tell you that?”

“You showed me her picture once.”

He was fumbling with his wallet and almost dropped it, twice. “See?”

The wallet and the faded image of a little brunette girl on the lap of a department store Santa swayed in front of me. “She’s in Colorado. Works in the hospitality thing. She has a degree and everything from an institute.”

“You must be proud of her.”

“She spends Christmas with her mother in Reno.” Now he didn’t seem proud or fond but a little angry. I exchanged a glance with Hector down the bar. His eyes were telling me I should be thinking about getting Freddy home. Just as well. Both Freddy and I knew I was humoring him. Saddest part was he didn’t seem to mind.

“Freddy, you look a little sleepy. Been a long night. Let me drive you home.”

“I got a car.”

That was a scary thought.

He added, “It’s at home, though, Tommy.”

“Where do you live?”

“I take the bus home.”

Hector stepped over and handed me a slip of paper with an address in Kensington on it in ballpoint pen. “Car is on the way.” His eyes told me he kept slips of paper like this around for when he needed to pour Freddy into a car service.

“Thanks, Hector. Freddy and I will go together.”

“Funny, though.” Freddy pointed a trembling finger at me. “The kitchen staff was the only ones.”

“Only ones?”

“That’s the ticket.”

Freddy began to stir the dollar bills he had on the bar, trying to figure the tip.

“So you say the kitchen staff were the only ones. The museum kitchen staff?”

He was counting on his fingers, working on the tip.

“Freddy, let me get the tip.” I threw a ten on the bar. Hector nodded his appreciation from across the room. I stood. “Your ride home is coming. Let’s get some fresh air.”

He steadied himself on the bar and turned toward the exit. My hand was an inch from his shoulder to make sure he didn’t fall. On the steps up to the street, I had my hand an inch from his back.

On Vanderbilt, we waited for the car to arrive as a new sunny Friday was under way in Brooklyn, bustling citizens looking at their watches, iPods, and phones as they headed for Grand Army Plaza and the subway. They probably had one foot in the weekend, thinking about Halloween parties or maybe a drive to Westchester to look at the fall foliage.

Freddy groaned boozily as he sat himself on a car hood.

Friday. I had the weekend to come up with that missing cash or default on my payment to the pink monkey. At that moment, standing there with a drunk at eight in the morning, up to my eyeballs in debt and a killer trying to tweak me, going back into Comanche and putting both feet in the bag seemed like a possible option. Then I would go home to my own bed and put my head under the pillow and hope that when I woke up this would all be some kind of stress dream, that I was actually someone with a normal job and a normal life full of pumpkin carving, candy corn, and football games.

“So what was that you were saying about the kitchen staff at the museum? Was this Sunday night you were talking about?”

“That’s the ticket. Only ones.”

“Only ones? What does that mean?”

“They’re the only ones who saw the robbers. They just got in and got out. In and out.” Freddy chuckled to himself. “And this all happened with Snoopy right there.”

“Snoopy.”

“Ol’ Snoopy was there that night.”

I knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway. “Atkins?”

“Snoopy. We call him that because of the way he walks, with little steps.”

The town car rolled up to the curb. “Freddy, is it unusual for Atkins to be there at three in the morning?”

Freddy stood and reached unsteadily for the car door. “He does these spot inspections. Comes snooping around. That’s why we call him Snoopy.”

“So where were all the guards when the paintings were stolen?”

“Snoopy had a roll call to make sure everybody was there.” He climbed into the backseat. “In the locker room.”

I stuck my head in after him and handed the driver twenty dollars and the address. “Make sure he gets to the door.”

The Arab driver rolled his eyes. It wasn’t a Blue Diamond car, so I didn’t quiz the driver about Sunday.

“Take care, Freddy.”

“That’s the ticket.”

The car zoomed off toward the plaza. I was glad that was over.

It was still too early to find Snoopy at the museum, but not too early for Ariel’s Patisserie Bistro. It had been three days since Huey had been shot. Maybe Ariel had reopened. I at least had to go see, no matter how much I didn’t want to. I didn’t know if Ariel might somehow have the impression I had something to do with Huey getting tweaked. According to Jocko, that did seem to be the word on the street. After getting an alcoholic drunk, I might as well top that off by upsetting a pending widow.

I flagged down a town car with a twenty. No way was I walking around Carroll Gardens exposed for any length of time, not with the punk sniper out there.

The bistro was open even though it was before nine, and the French African girl at the counter purred that I could find Ariel at Viscotti’s.

During the night, Huey had finally died.