Mitchell Smith (13 page)

“Try the Jewish guy-more likely to accept cash payment.”

His lieutenant, sitting across from him, having ordered a club sandwich, which the Algonquin did very well, nodded and took a toothpick out of his next section of toast, chicken, lettuce, toast, bacon, tomato and toast.

The toothpick had a little cluster of yellow plastic threads at its tip to catch the eater’s eye, warning of the sharp sliver-a nicety no longer often seen. The Colonel was having shrimp salad.

His commander’s instruction had come in answer to the Lieutenant’s suggestion that a second source, a source “closer to the trenches,”

might be useful in monitoring NYPD activity in the delicate matter to hand.

“And for heaven’s sake,” the Colonel said, reaching for his iced tea,

“get a receipt. Give him one hundred dollars to start … a bottle of something-some of that sweet wine they like, or a bottle of Scotch with a fancy label.” The Colonel put back his head slightly, and took a deep swallow of his tea. His throat was so closely, so cleanly shaven, that the Lieutenant couldn’t see where his beard might have begun.

“Right,” the Lieutenant said, took a bite of his sandwich and chewed it.

When he’d swallowed, he turned in his chair to look at three sergeants in summer-weight sports coats and slacks. They were sitting on the sofa, crowded as three big birds on a short branch. -Tall, bony Mason on the left; Budreau, stockier, on the right; Master Sergeant Tucker (the biggest bird, and black) in the middle.

“Reminds me. -You people listen up, now,” the Lieutenant said. “Just because we’re in New York City, doesn’t mean you can go hog wild on per them. Your rooms are prorated and paid for, and each one of you has got exactly thirty-six dollars a day for food and transportation and that’s plenty. You overspend that, and it will for damn sure come out of your pockets. -Just don’t . . .

don’t come whining to me you got robbed by some nasty hooker! You will get short shit from me if I hear anything like that…… He paused to look down and tuck a small tongue of bacon back into his sandwich, and when he looked at the sofa again, saw that the two sergeants to the left and right were nodding their understanding and obedience. Master Sergeant Tucker, in the middle, sat stiff and upright, smoothly rounded out, large, solid and black as any ebony idol. He was looking at the Lieutenant in an unpleasant way, through gold-rimmed spectacles.

“I’m referring to these men, Sergeant, of course,” the Lieutenant said, and would have apologized further, but Sergeant Tucker stood up abruptly, flicked the men to either side of him lightly on their shoulders with his thumbs and forefingers (as if they’d had flies on their shirts, there) and when they rose, said, “With your permission, sir,” to the Colonel, then led his men to the door of the suite, and out. -Budreau, stocky, blackhaired, almost as wide as the jamb, was last through, and closed the door softly behind him.

The Lieutenant didn’t know what to say, after that. He had talked to black people all his life, and knew how to talk to them-better than any Northerner ever would.

The Sergeant had been rude-had been out of line, no other damn word for it. Now, the Colonel sat smiling at him from across the table, chewing on a mouthful of shrimp salad. When the Colonel had swallowed, he said,

“It’s best, usually, to let a Field First handle his men. -If he can’t do that, of course, you have to get a new Field First.” The Colonel sprinkled more salt on his salad.

`-You know, Bob,” he said. “Tucker was with me on Godiva. He’s familiar with the city…. And I do think we can ease up on the chicken this trip.” He pursed his lips. `-It’s just that this one, this trip is a make-orbreaker. I don’t have to tell you that. This one’s a make-or-breaker. . . .”

“That’s for damn sure,” his lieutenant said, eyeing the Colonel’s ring with some distaste. If the Academy people had a serious fault-it was being snotty. A V.M.I. guy could count on a lot of lectures. -A lot of shit, was what he could count on. “It’s best, usually . . . “

following which, a guy would receive bullshit on handling men if the ying-yang, just as if he hadn’t gone to a better school .

Same damn school General George C. Marshall went to. -The Lieutenant had a vision of himself confronting Sergeant Tucker, and getting that jig squared away. -Sergeant, we all make mistakes. I made one when I braced your men on that per them thing without going through you. -Then you made one, Tucker. A real bad one. You left me with shit on my face in front of the C. O.” . . . A little pause to let that sink in.

“-And shit, Sergeant, rolls downhill. You lay an attitude like that on me again-I will personally put the peg to you … and I mean right on through to the ground!-You read me?”

See what Mr. Wise-ass four-eyes tar baby said to that.

Off the boulevard, the sky unfolded over Queens, sunlight flooding freely over the long rows of one-story houses, the low redbrick buildings of small shopping districts, used-car lots, dentists’ offices, lawyers’ offices upstairs. It was not far from here to Ellie’s house, the house she’d grown up in. A mile—a couple of miles-and they’d be there.

“Want to go look at your house?” Her partner.

“We don’t have time,” Ellie said. “-I want to get back to New York and take another look at that apartment.”

“Nothin’ much to find, there. -That place was turned pretty good.”

The air smelled different now, away from the city, nearly a small town’s air. The edge of the Ford’s window, the narrow complication of panels, strips, the slit well for the glass, pressed up against Ellie’s forearm; she thought perhaps she hadn’t put the window all the way down, but wasn’t uncomfortable enough to move her arm to see.

The warm air poured into the car as they drove, stirring loose strands of hair behind her ears. She had her hair gathered back in a French knot, out of the way.

Ellie thought of someone she might meet someday …

a man touching her at the back of her neck, lightly as this wind. Not a lawyer. No one on the Force. A man at a party … looking different from the others. -Not very tall. Just a little taller than she was. A businessman…

beautifully dressed in a blue-black pin-stripe suit…

maroon tie. Gray eyes, deep … adult. Amused. “You’re not the type, are you,” he’d say, “-for police work? I’m sure you handle the job very well-but that’s not the real point, is it? Comfort is the point, isn’t it? Whether the job really fits you … whether you fit the job. You seem to me a little too gentle for that kind of work. A little too fragile. . . .” He liked her … thought she was interesting; Ellie could tell. He stopped a waitress, took two canap6s off the tray-liver pfttd, -with pimiento across the top-handed one to Ellie and ate the other, hungry as a boy. An important businessman; the hostess would tell her that in the kitchen. -No, not in the kitchen. Ladies’ room. A maid was there, a Central American girl in a black-and-white uniform, sitting in a chair against the wall, waiting beside a small stack of folded beige towels.

The party was in a beautiful apartment just off the park.

No., it was in a town house-the downstairs parlors in ivory, cream, and gold. Oak paneling, textured French paper for the dining room. “Jack’s a banker with interests in Europe. -A very important man…… The hostess would smile into the mirror at Ellie as they made up the sounds of the party barely audible. “—And very attractive. In the front parlor, after dinner, he’d come to her again, tell her funny stories about banking in Brazil. -Wide-shouldered, stocky, and strong. Bronze hair, streaked gray from his hairline back. He was ten years older than she was. Older, with younger eyes. -After they’d talked for a while, he’d put his hand on her arm, on her bare arm. She was wearing a Giles

“Bascombe dress, silver, trimmed in black lace. She’d saved and saved for it. -Now, it was just right. Ellie tried to think who the woman giving the party might be, but it was too much trouble. —Some friend of Clara’s. And after the party, he (Jack … ) wouldn’t call her or get in touch or anything. Nothing, nothing for months. She would almost foreet him, but then remember him again in the morning, or while she was sitting stake-out at some construction site, Midtown. -Then, one day, Anderson would call her upstairs, and Jack would be there, looking handsomer than Anderson-much better dressed.

“The Commissioner gave me a hand finding you. -We’re old friends. . .

.” Deep, soft voice, a harsh buzz to it beneath. Anderson just standing there looking like nothing at all. ‘-It’s been a long wait. I’ve been in …

China.” Would hold out his hand to her. Tough face, tanned, a little tired from traveling. His grip even stronger than Tommy Nardone’s. -A slight scent of shaving lotion. It would smell like new-cut grass….

At Jarnigan Street, after waiting for a Holsum bread truck to make the turn before him, Nardone took a left.

“Connie’s making’ a big dinner,” he said. “A friend of hers from high school, Patty, is comin’ into town. Patty Daley. Lives in Chicago-a buyer for Marshall Field’s.

Big career girl. Connie hates her … Connie loves her.”

Ellie laughed. ‘-No, I mean it! This girl is a career girl plus. She’s got an office—she’s got a secretary, event Connie’s green, I can tell you that.”

“She wouldn’t give up what she’s got-you and Mariefor anything.”

“No … but that don’t mean she wouldn’t want for Patty to fall on her face, just a little bit.”

“Well, I guess it’s nice if you can do both, have a wonderful family, and have some kind of career, too.”

“Patty don’t do both. That’s strictly … she’s strictly a businesswoman, you know? That’s it for her whole life, period. -She’s gone with guys, but they come in strictly second.”

“Well … it’s not easy to have a profession-for a woman-and have a family, too - “

“Oh, yeah.” Nardone said, agreeing quickly, worried that he’d hurt her.

“Oh, yeah. -Not easy.” He slowed the car almost opposite a low duplex in white aluminum siding, its two front entrances short flights of brick steps.

There was a tricycle in the left front yard; a bronze St. Francis with a small bird on his shoulder stood in the yard on the right. The house number on the black double mailbox was 1181-83, in small brass numerals.

Above that, in cursive brass letters, Dukakis-Ambrosio.

“That’s our guy,” Nardone said, “-the right side. His kids are too old for that stuff.” (By which he meant the tricycle.) He turned the Ford up and onto the concrete driveway on the right. The driveway was in good shape; so were the lawns.

“Owns the whole house,” Nardone said, setting the emergency brake and turning off the ignition. “-Looks like he keeps it good.”

They got out of the car, and Ellie went up the steps to the door, Nardone loitering by the driveway.

The doorbell was musical chimes.

A child with dark hair cut fairly short-hard to tell if it was a little boy or girl-moved a curtain inside the left front window to peep out.

Then, Ellie saw a woman’s face (dimly through the screen door) appearing at the small square lookout cut into the front door’s heavy wood. Locks clicked and cracked, and this swung open.

A thin young woman with a big blade of a nose, close pinched mouth, beautiful chocolate-brown eyes.

“You want something’?” A hoarse, rich voice, a smoker’s voice—once so common, now unusual. The woman had a stiff, vibrant permanent, thick with burnt-orange curls over traces of black, where luxuriant roots of hair, heavy, oily, dark and dense, had grown out swiftly. She was wearing very expensive clothes—a Bendel’s flowered silk, or something just as nice, and a cashmere sweater with mother-of-pearl buttons (something against the heavy chill of air-conditioning pouring slowly past her out the open door). She wore a square-cut tourmaline set in gold-Fortunoff’s, Ellie thought-on the ring finger of her right hand.

Then and there, Ellie figured that Charley Ambrosio had gotten his beak a little wet.

“Hey!” the woman said. ‘-I asked you something’. I asked you did you want something’.”

“I’m on the cops,” Ellie said, took her buzzer case from her purse to show her shield, then put it away again. “I wondered if Charley was at home … we could have a talk.” The thin woman gave Ellie the look, circular, then direct, that questioned whether Charley Ambrosio had been fucking this piece that went around all day with guys, pretending to do a man’s work just to get some stuff between her legs … maybe steal a decent woman’s husband.

“It’s business,” Ellie said. “-Not bullshit.”

“So?-Then go see Charley where he works. He’s at work. -What are you?

What division are you from?”

“O.K. if I come in?”

The thin woman put her skinny left arm up on the doorjamb to show that was not O.K. She still wore, on her left hand, the tiny diamond chip of her original engagement ring and a very thin circlet of gold. “I asked you a question,” she said. “Where the hell are you from? -You want to talk to my husband-you go see him on the job. My husband don’t bring his work home-you understand?” Movement caught her eye, and she ducked her narrow head, its wealth of hairdo, close to the screen door to see Nardone wander away from the Ford and up the drive alongside the house.

:‘Where’s he going’? -What the hell’s he doin’?” ‘He’s just looking around,” Ellie said. “-O.K. if I come in?”

“Huh?-No.” The orange curls brushed the door screen as she craned her neck. “Where the hell’s he going’!”

“Just around the back,” Ellie said. “O.K. if I come in?”

“What?-Listen-fuck you. You ain’t getting’ into this house. Get the fuck out of here!” Despite this tough talk, her slender, fine-boned hand trembled at the doorframe.

Ellie supposed she was frightened of what Charley Ambrosio would think if she let big-noses into the house, cops or not. -Maybe especially cops.

“Calm down,” Ellie said, “-we have no problem here.

Take it easy.”

“Then you get that . . . you get him out of the back of the house!”

The thin woman suddenly shifted back from the doorway, turned her head, and called, “Char-” remembered her husband was gone from home, and in stead called, “Gramma … Gramma!” in a voice piercing as a jungle bird’s in a Tarzan movie. “Watch the back! Watch the back-a guy’s back there!”