Dead Red (12 page)

“He say anything to you about his plan to go back to being a cop?”

“Said he was thinking about it, but with all the shit he’d seen in the Middle East, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. I know he wanted to get out of Mom’s and into his own place. I don’t think the taxi driver thing was gonna cover that.”

I told him about Ricky doing some work for Jack Knight.

“He mentioned that. I teased him about growing a mustache and sporting some sharp sunglasses. Maybe getting a Ferrari.”

“It was a bit more mundane than that. He was pretty much taking pictures of accident scenes and witness statements. There was a little missing person stuff, but nothing that was gonna get him his own apartment.”

Robby nodded at that, and we both took a drink in the silence. He closed his eyes and craned his neck upward, getting lost for a minute in the hum of the BQE.

“Un-fucking-believable, Ray.” He placed the cool bottle against his cheek. “What a shitty way to go, you know? After the years on the force, the time over there, he gets fucking shot down in his own ’hood.” He opened his eyes and looked at me. “I know he’s my brother and all, but no one deserves that shit.”

I looked into my beer.

“What did he wanna talk to you about that night?” Robby asked.

“I was hoping you knew something.” I gave him the whole rundown of how Ricky had called me, picked me up, said something about making a mistake, and then all hell breaking loose inside the cab.

Robby closed his eyes, picturing the scene in Ricky’s cab. I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed. We stood like that for half a minute.

“He didn’t tell you what the mistake was?”

“No.” I pulled out my cell and brought the Latina girl’s picture up. “It might have had something to do with her.” I handed my phone to Robby. “You know her?”

Robby looked at the picture and shook his head. “No. Who is she?”

“I’m not sure, but she’s got some connection to the missing girl Jack Knight’s been hired to track down.”

“The PI Ricky was working with?”

“Yeah. This photo was on a phone your brother had with him that night. It was the wallpaper—the photo on the main screen—and according to the phone’s history, he mostly used it to call one untraceable number.”

“Untraceable? Like prepaids? Whatta they call them? Burners?”

“Yeah. You use them until you want—or need—a new one, and toss it.”

“Had a sociology professor in college,” Robby said. “He swore the decline of American civilization is the result of us becoming more and more a disposable culture. We throw away more shit in this country than most of the rest of the world even has. This girl,” he held up my phone, returning to the matter at hand, “you think she was the one Ricky was calling?”

“That’s as good a guess as any.”

“So the question is—besides
who
she is—why would she need a burner?”

Now it was my turn to smile. “You ever give any thought to being a cop? You sure as hell think like one.”

“Don’t like guns,” he said. “They do bad things to people. That’s the writer asking that question.”

“I’m sure the cops interviewed you, right?”

“Oh, yeah. They were over at the house yesterday. Asking me and Mom a lot of questions about Ricky and his ‘friends and associates.’ Did we notice any behavior out of the ordinary? Shit like that.”

“What’d you tell them?”

“I could barely tell them shit. Mom wasn’t much help either. Ricky was either working or sleeping. They may have lived in the same house, but they didn’t see each other all that often.”

I thought about that. “What about your cousin? The one who owns the taxi company? He’s not one of the ones inside, is he?”

“Nah from my dad’s side. He stayed in the back of the church and then split right after.”

“How is the driver who was shot doing, do you know?”

“I heard he got out of ICU today.” Robby shook his head. “My cousin, Fred, he’s a real good guy. Always there to loan you money, take you to dinner when you’re low on cash, shit like that, y’know?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s also made it a point of giving ex-convicts jobs. He’s got a couple working in the garage. Guys from the neighborhood who need a break.”

“This driver who was shot.…”

“Michael Dillman. Got busted a few years ago for something. Did a couple of years, and when he got out he hit up Fred for a job driving a cab.”

“That’s a pretty risky hire.”

“That’s Fred. The guy said it was a one-time, stupid mistake. Owned up to it and convinced Fred to give him a job. He’s been clean ever since.”

I took another sip of pilsner. It was getting warm. We’d have to head back inside in a few minutes. I did have work to do.

“So, do the cops think this guy’s past might have had something to do with the shootings?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure they’re gonna check it out, right? I would.”

“Your cousin doesn’t have a record, does he?”

“Fred?” Robby laughed. “Hell, no. Fred was an altar boy
and
an Eagle Scout. He was the one the family thought would go into politics or something. Worked his way through City College while driving a cab. Learned enough about the business and saved up enough cash to buy into it. Fred never had the time to get into trouble.”

“Any idea why his drivers would be targeted?”

“No. The cops are looking into Fred’s work with the city to unionize taxi drivers so the taxi owners would increase pay for the drivers and get their franchise fee raised. He knows that business from both ends. Everybody likes Fred.”

It’s just his drivers someone’s not so crazy about
.

We stayed silent for a bit and ended up taking our final sips simultaneously. I patted Robby on the back. “Let’s go back inside. There’re a lot of guys who’ll be pissed if they don’t get a chance to offer their condolences. You okay with that?”

He raised his bottle. “As long as I got another one of these coming.”

“That,” I said, “will not be a problem. But this time, I’m getting you a good one.”

Chapter 10

BACK INSIDE, THE DECIBEL LEVEL had increased, and someone had started feeding quarters to the jukebox. At the moment, Bruce was singing about heroes, redemption, and saviors rising from the streets. The AC and the ceiling fans were going full tilt. Even so, Mikey looked like he had run a marathon behind the bar but seemed to have everything under control. I couldn’t see Debbie at the moment, but I assumed she was somewhere among the huddled masses that had grown since I had gone outside with Robby.

A few of the guests had started smoking, creating a sort of inside haze that mocked the one we’d just left. This was not the time or place to remind these guys that the No Smoking law in New York City had passed some years back. What was I going to do? Call a cop?

I noticed Mrs. Mac coming from the back and I grabbed Robby by the elbow. She gave me a look as if to say, “Is that the brother?” I nodded and she made her way through the smoke and the crowd, getting thanks and quick embraces along the way.

“There’s the owner,” I said. “Mrs. McVernon. She’s a cop’s widow and has nothing but love for ‘her boys in blue.’ This,” I gestured with my hand to take in the whole place, “was her husband’s dream. Prepare yourself for a big hug.”

“I’m half Italian and half Puerto Rican. I’ve been getting big hugs since they cut the umbilical cord.”

Mrs. Mac came over and opened her arms. Like a good boy, Robby did the same and stepped into hers. They held each other as Mrs. Mac whispered something into Robby’s ear. He nodded and said, “Thank you.”

When they separated, she held Robby at arm’s length and appraised him.

“Aren’t you just the spitting image of your brother?” she said. As far as I knew, Mrs. Mac barely knew Ricky T and probably would not have recognized him if he had passed her on the street. But, when you’re a seventy-year-old cop’s widow who owns a cop bar, you could pretty much say what you wanted.

“Yeah,” Robby said. “We come from a pretty strong gene pool, I guess.”

“Your father must be a handsome man.”

“My mother thought so. He passed away some years ago.”

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. Do you have any more brothers or sisters?”

“No. Ricky and I were it.”

Mrs. Mac shook her head. “Oh, listen to me. I must sound horribly nosy. My husband and I never had any children of our own, and sometimes I just…”

“No need to apologize. My mom’s pretty close with her sister—my cousins are floating around here somewhere—and we’ve got some relatives still in the neighborhood.”

“Good,” Mrs. Mac said. “Family is very important in times like these.” She looked right at me as she said that last part.

I put my arm around Robby. “I’m gonna get Robby another beer and introduce him around, Mrs. Mac.”

“Will your mother be showing up?” Mrs. Mac asked.

“I’m not sure.” He told her the same thing he’d told me. “But she does send her regards and her thanks, Mrs. Mac.”

“Well, if I don’t get a chance to see her, do extend my condolences.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“Good.” She gave Robby one more hug and went back in the direction she’d come from, then disappeared into the sea of mourners. I took the opportunity to duck behind the bar and get another beer for Robby and myself.

“My mother,” I said, handing him his Brooklyn Pilsner, “would say you handled yourself with poise.”

“Like I said, Ray, it’s been a lifetime of weddings, wakes, communions,
quinceñeras
, you name it.” He raised his bottle. “Thanks.” He took another sip and looked around at the crowd. “Who do I pay for this, by the way? And how much?”

“You know Billy Morris?”

Robby closed his eyes and thought about that. “The barbecue guy?”

“That’s him. He’s got some sort of connection with a meat guy and he shelled out for the food.”

“Wow. That’s pretty damned nice.”

“That’s Billy.” I looked around and couldn’t see him. “I’ll introduce you when he comes around again. As for the bar tab, the guy you wanna thank is—”

“Jack Knight,” a voice said behind me. He stuck his hand out to Robby. “I’m the one called the PBA and got them to foot the bill for the drinks. Told those cheap fucks it’s the least they could do for an American hero and brother cop.”

Robby pumped Jack’s hand a couple of times and said, “Wow,” again. “This is all pretty amazing. Thank you.”

“Your brother was the real deal, Robby. Whoever did this to him better hope they get caught by the Canadian Mounties, ’cause anyone else gets their hands on them, they ain’t gonna get much due process.”

Robby managed a smile and nodded, not knowing what to make of Jack. Most people who meet him feel the same way.

“Thanks, Jack,” he said. “I’m gonna find my cousins and make sure they’re staying out of trouble.”

“You do that. Don’t leave without having one with me, okay?”

“Okay.”

As Robby went off in search of his cousins, I turned to Jack. “Why’d you shine him on like that? Mrs. Mac told me you’re picking up the bar tab.”

Jack held up one index finger to me, turned, and held up the other index finger to Mikey. He stage-whispered the word “Heineken” and turned back to me.

“Look around, Ray,” he said. “What do most of these guys think of me?”

I paused and gave him an awkward shrug and an uncomfortable grin.

“I’m an asshole. Maybe not as much as I used to be, but still … I worked hard for that rep. These guys don’t need to go changing their minds about me. Too much for them to think about.” He reached over and grabbed his beer from Mikey. “You remember the last time I was here, Ray?”

“How could I forget?” I sighed, remembering that fight lost me a second date with the beautiful Elsa.

“See?” He grinned. “I was an asshole. Engaging in fisticuffs with another party guest, let alone
you
?” He took a sip of beer and leaned into me. “Started going to AA meetings a few weeks after that.”

I looked at his beer.

“Learned I wasn’t an alky. Just a drunk. Did get me to start drinking less, though. Kinda got old, waking up in my car, not knowing how I got home. God damned lucky I never killed anyone. That I know of, anyway.” He thought about that for a few seconds. “At least, not behind the wheel.”

“So, you don’t want these guys knowing you’re paying for their drinks.”

“For what? To get a bunch of phony pats on the back and ‘Attaboys’? I’m good. You and Mrs. Mac know. And Ricky T.” He raised his glass to the ceiling.

“I didn’t know you’re religious, Jack.”

“I’m not. God can go fuck himself, all I care. Where was he when Ricky was getting all shot up? Sending another tsunami to a third-world country with dark-skinned people that actually believe in Him? The hell kind of all-mighty being is that, Ray?” He made a half circle with his beer. “These guys? They think
I’m
an asshole? Least I don’t go dropping the ocean on top of a buncha poor folks or opening up the earth because I’m bored or angry or whatever the hell reason God has for working ‘in mysterious ways.’ Talk about your assholes. Jesus H, man.”

I’ve known Jack for almost ten years, and for the second time today, not only did he surprise me, this time I found myself agreeing with him.

“Anyway,” Jack said, “since we got a minute alone, we need to talk.”

“About what?”

“Turns out I
am
gonna need someone tomorrow. I’ve been trying to get an interview with this witness to an accident for weeks now, and he calls me this morning, says he’s back in town, and gonna be in the neighborhood tomorrow.”

“What neighborhood?”

“The Burg. He works on and off for a liquor store over there. Bushwick and Grand.”

That was the subway stop one past my school’s. “Where’d the accident happen?”

“Right there at the corner. My client’s truck ran over a pedestrian.”

“Jaywalking?”

“I wish. Driver was making a right, didn’t see the ped crossing. Fucking guy barely speaks English. He’s Russian or something. Gave the cops a one-sentence statement: ‘I hit the woman in the crosswalk.’ Companies oughta have these guys driving around with lawyers riding shotgun.”