Old Flame (7 page)

CHAPTER

16

D
ave’s house sat atop the New Jersey Palisades, a few miles north of the George Washington Bridge. It was raining, but when it was clear, the view was spectacular. From his living room window you could follow the line of Manhattan just about to the Battery. Dave had invited me for dinner and refused to take no for an answer.

Franny went all out. Candles on the table, a standing rib roast that could easily feed twelve, and molten chocolate cake for dessert. For the most part, the conversation was light and easy, but all through dinner Franny seemed distracted. So did Dave. At bedtime, my nieces wanted me to tuck them in and show them my scar. I did. They thought it was cool.

When I returned to the table, Franny was pouring coffee. “You showed them, didn’t you?” she said.

“That’s what uncles are for.”

She shook her head in mock dismay.

“I understand you’ve been in touch with Ginny. Terrible what happened to her husband.”

“It certainly was.”

She sat down next to me. “I always liked Ginny. When you two split, it was as if I had lost a best friend.” She threw me a sly look. “I always thought you two would get back together.”

“It didn’t work out that way.”

“But now, you know, she’s single again, and she’s . . .”

“Into her own life, and I’m with Allie now, Franny.”

“Yeah, I know. But Allie’s not really our kind.”

I didn’t like where this conversation was heading. “Our kind?”

“You know what I mean. Allie is really sweet, but she’s . . . I don’t know.”

“Sure you do. Allie is Jewish, and your father was Puerto Rican. Now what?”

A blush tinted her cheeks.

“That’s
not
what I meant! You know me better than that.”

“I thought I did.”

“What I’m saying is that Ginny is part of our world, with the same values. You know, a Hell’s Kitchen girl.”

“And Allie is?”

“Different. She’s . . .”

“What’s going on, Franny?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “She’s going to take you away.”

“I’m not following.”

“From us.”

“Keep this crap up and I’ll walk off by myself. Allie is Jewish, and we’re together. Deal with it. How come you don’t have the same problem with Anthony? He’s at Dartmouth carving ice castles with his WASP buddies. And you sent him there. Oh, I forgot. They’re not Jews.”

She glared at Dave and her voice rose to a shriek. “He dropped out. I wanted a doctor, and what I’m going to get is another killer in the family.” She rushed from the table.

Dave stared at the tablecloth. The muscles in his face were slack. “Another killer in the family,” he mumbled. “Sweet Jesus!”

“Did you have any inkling . . . ?”

“No.”

“He never mentioned anything?” I said.

He clenched his fists. “Not a fucking word.”

“Don’t you ever talk?”

“All the time.”

“Then how in hell did this happen?”

“Who the hell knows? Raging hormones, a search for his inner self, boredom. Pick one.” He got up from the table and walked to the window.

“But you think it’s something else,” I said.

“Fucking kid. I think it’s me. Who I am . . . what I do, embarrasses him. Dropping out of college is his way of telling me.” He paused and looked around. “Franny’s afraid he’ll turn out like me. But she doesn’t get it. He didn’t grow up like we did. Didn’t have a father like Dominic. Anthony’s not like us. He’s soft, like his mother.”

“So, you’re getting it from both sides.”

“It’s fucking relentless. Franny’s tired of the life, Jake, and worried about the kids. She has a point. In this fucked-up family, ancestry is destiny.”

I got up from the table and walked over to him. The rain streaking the windows cast the city in a muted, gauzy shimmer. “That’s crap, Dave.”

We stood quietly for several minutes, staring out the window.

“And then there’s you. For a guy with one serviceable lung, don’t you think you’re taking on too much? You were supposed to be the smart one. Where’re your brains?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out for years.”

“Save your bullshit for someone else. You’re my blood. All I got. If it’s money you need, I can handle it. I got enough to set you up for three lifetimes.”

“It’s not money.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

“We’re a helluva pair, aren’t we?”

“A helluva pair,” I agreed.

He pulled a cigar from a humidor sitting on a nearby table and went through the ritual of lighting it.

“How’s the Danny Reno situation going?” he asked.

I filled him in on the scam and Liam’s connection.

“Reno hired that fucking imbecile to pull his heists? Now, that’s a really sharp criminal mind.”

“That’s not the only thing. I think Liam is involved with a skinhead group that I ran into at Neon. Skinheads equal racists, equal death threats, equal Tony Ferris. Not such a major leap.”

“I heard about what happened at Neon.” There was pride in his smile. “Even gimpy you really fucked them up.”

“They pissed me off.”

“A mistake they’ll not soon repeat,” he said.

“Do you know anything about these guys, Dave?”

“Like where do they hang out? There’s a motorcycle repair shop on Eleventh and Thirty-fifth. You might find them there. Want some company?”

“Do I look like I need it?”

He patted my cheek. “I guess not. But that brings another thought to mind.”

“Which is?”

“If you follow the dots, faint though they may be, Liam is connected to Reno, and connected to Ginny, who was married to this Ferris character. It’s a stretch, but could Ferris’s death be related to Reno’s scam? Barak hasn’t gotten to Reno yet, so he takes out anyone even remotely related, including their houseplants and pets.”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“Hell of a family, the Doyles,” Dave said. “Talk about the fruit of the poisoned tree.”

“Except for Ginny. So far, she seems to have escaped the family curse.”

“So far,” he agreed.

“But when you come right down to it,” I said, “screwed-up families are screwed up in their own uniquely screwed-up ways.”

He smiled. “Aren’t we special?” he said.

When I returned home, there was a message on my answering machine. Kenny Apple had set up a meeting with Barak for the next morning at Café Birobidzhan in Brighton Beach.

I looked out the window. The rain had stopped and the clouds had magically disappeared, revealing a climbing moon in an empty sky.

Brighton Beach, or Little Odessa, as the locals refer to it, is just up the road from Coney Island, and just about as stylish. I suspect the folks who developed the area had the seaside resort of Brighton, England, in mind. Maybe that’s how the neighborhood looked early on, but not anymore. Now all the signs are in Cyrillic, and it’s packed with about a jillion immigrants from every SSR in the former Soviet Union. And preying on them was the Russian mafia, an organization that—according to Kenny—Barak was affiliated with when it suited his purposes.

The Café Birobidzhan was the only bright spot on a street that brought new meaning to the term “urban decay.” The block hadn’t seen a sanitation truck in years, the stores were tired and ramshackle, and overhead, the El cut through the neighborhood like a ribbon of scar tissue.

It occurred to me that Danny Reno was holed up just a few miles away.

Although the café hadn’t yet opened for business, the large sign over the door was fresh and new, and it sparkled with gaudy chase lights.

“Do you have a negotiating plan in mind?” Kenny asked.

“Nope.”

He rubbed his chin.

“Have you given any thought to what you’ll give in return for Reno’s, shall we say, safety?”

“Uh-uh.”

The chin rubbing took on more urgency.

“Why are we here?”

“You set it up.”

“I know that. But what do you hope to accomplish?”

“Make a new friend.”

Kenny nodded. “I see,” he said. “Should be an interesting meeting.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Kenny smacked the door with the flat of his hand. A very large gentleman with thick features and a bad haircut, wearing about a pound of gold around his neck, appeared behind the glass.

“We’re here to see Barak,” Kenny said. “Kenny Apple.”

The thug unlocked the door, and we stepped into the reception area. I heard the sharp click of the door locking behind us. The walls were covered in gold-flocked red velvet. Very tasteful. Autographed celebrity photographs dotted the walls. There wasn’t one I recognized.

He motioned for us to turn around and patted us down. Neither Kenny nor I was carrying. It seemed to please him.

“Come!” he said, crooking a finger and motioning for us to follow.

We walked through the restaurant, past tables with upturned chairs sitting on top, past the restrooms, and stopped at a closed door with a sign that said Private.

Bad Haircut opened it and ushered us in.

Behind the desk stood a man with a shaved head and a narrow, hawkish face. His eyes were set deep under a slightly protruding brow ridge. He had no eyebrows. A silver-framed photograph of his wife and pudgy-cheeked son sat on his desk.

“Thank you, Avner,” he said to Bad Haircut, who nodded and left. He turned to us. “Gentlemen. Please have a seat.”

We sat on a sofa covered in buttery leather.

“Now,” he said, “which of you is Kenny Apple?”

Kenny raised his hand.

“So,” he continued, “you must be Steeg.”

His voice was soft, with just the barest trace of an accent.

“I am.”

“How can I help you?”

I pointed at the photograph.

“Nice family,” I said.

Barak picked up the photograph and smiled.

“Thank you,” he said. “They are my world. Everything is for them.” He replaced the photograph on his desk. “So, I ask again. How can I help you?”

“It’s about my friend Danny Reno.”

“Ah yes. The elusive Mr. Reno. So, you represent him?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “It’s good to have friends,” Barak said.

“What will it take to square things?”

“A great deal of money, I’m afraid. With interest compounding at a rather alarming rate, Mr. Reno’s debt to me is approaching a million dollars. Very serious money, Mr. Steeg.”

“We both know that Reno doesn’t have that kind of money.”

“Does one truly know what is cooking in another’s pot? I’m a businessman, Mr. Steeg. Nothing more. And Mr. Reno is a businessman. He understood the risks when he approached me.”

“So, you both lost. It happens.”

“Without question. But I relied on his guarantees. And now”—he shrugged—“I find that his assurances were worthless. I have no recourse to the courts, and to be seen as weak by my competitors is fatal. Your friend has left me with no choice.”

“Look, there’s got to be a way to work this out,” I said. “Reasonable people can reach reasonable outcomes.”

His lips curled into a smile. “I’m listening,” he said.

I glanced over at Kenny Apple, hoping for a glimmer of a suggestion, or at least some inspiration, but he just sat there looking impassive.

“Let me think about it a bit, and speak to Reno,” I said. “Maybe we can come up with something.”

“Of course. Take all the time you need. But not too much. Unlike God, my patience is limited. And while you are thinking, I will continue to look for Mr. Reno and his associates. If I happen to find him, I will kill him and those who help him hide from me, in ways that will serve as an object lesson to those who even consider fucking with me.”

“Are you threatening me?”

His lips stretched over his teeth in what passed for a smile. “In my business there are only facts.”

CHAPTER

17

T
hat went well,” Kenny said. “I don’t know about you, but I nearly soiled myself.”

We were on the train heading back to Manhattan.

“Barak is a very serious guy,” I said.

“You think? Any ideas?”

“Yeah. Danny had better find a new place to live, pronto.”

“Did you catch Barak’s suggestion that Reno might have some money stashed away?”

“Hard to miss.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Kenny said.

“Me either. This whole thing is an infinity of scams. Have a chance to go through Torricelli’s files yet?”

“I just started.”

“Anything look promising?”

“You know, hanging around with you is turning into a job. When I have something, I’ll let you know.”

“Fair enough.”

“Do you have any thoughts on who might have iced Ferris?”

“Not a one.”

“Let me see if I understand this,” Kenny said. “You were winging it when you met with Barak, and you’re basically doing the same thing with Ferris’s murder. Is that about right? No wonder the crime rate is on the upswing.”

“ ‘Winging it’ is too harsh. ‘Letting it play out’ is more accurate.”

“I’m not following.”

“Murder is the most ambiguous of acts, and the people who engage in it raise ambiguity to high art. What you think are facts are really idle speculations, and things are never what they appear to be. Getting to anything approximating the truth is all a matter of whether the Universe is benevolent or not.”

“You mean the Hand of God.”

“No. God and I have been on the outs for a long time now.”

“Why is that?”

“Look around. If He truly exists, He should get down on His knees and beg our forgiveness. Each and every one of us. If we’re all His children, that makes Him the adult, and He should know better.”

He regarded my blasphemy with something approaching shock.

“It’s the Universe, Kenny. And if you want to make the Universe laugh, make a plan.”

“But without a plan you don’t even have a fighting chance.”

“You have just stumbled upon the voodoo that I do so well.”

Kenny got off at 14th Street, promising to delve further into Torricelli’s files and divine their secrets. I got off at 34th Street to see a man about some photographs.

It had started to rain. Again.

Duck’s Choppers, on the south side of Thirty-fifth, was wedged between a car wash and a diner the Board of Health somehow missed. A gray van was parked at a nearby hydrant. Four guys stood out front working on their tricked-out machines. One had a shaved head and a spiderweb tat on his scalp. They looked like they lived in a Petri dish.

“I’m looking for a fat fuck with a shamrock tat.”

Three of them glared at me through sullen eyes. But the guy with the scalp art giggled. “That’s Big Tiny, a guy you truly don’t want to fuck with. You’d just be inviting a world of shit into your life.”

“Thanks for the tip. Where is he?”

“Inside.”

“Get him. Tell him Steeg is here to talk about peace in the valley.”

The puzzled look on his face said he had no idea what I was talking about. “Whatever,” he said, scampering into the building.

While waiting for Big Tiny to make his appearance, I reached down, grabbed a ball peen hammer, and turned every window in the van to splinters. The three jerkoffs stared goggle-eyed but made no move to jump me. Apparently, my special brand of single-minded lunacy was a new thing for them.

A few minutes later, Big Tiny ambled out.

His eyes lit on the van. And then they lit on me. There was the briefest glimmer of recognition before I hit him in the mouth with the iron. In a spray of blood and teeth, Big Tiny fell in sections.

I knelt beside him and spoke very slowly, but loud enough for his buddies to hear.

“It’s time to drop photography and look into a new hobby. If I hear that you or your shit-for-brains friends were in the same zip code with anyone even remotely associated with me, I’ll fucking kill you. Understood?”

The Neverland look on his face told me it would be some time before he understood anything, but I was sure his storm-trooper buddies, who continued to want no part of me, would fill him in on the details.

“By the way,” I said, “tell Liam Doyle I said hello.”

I went to Feeney’s. Nick met me at the door. “There’s a problem,” he said.

“With the kind of a day I’m having, that’s not a surprise.”

“Ginny’s here, and so is Allie.”

A surfeit of joy beyond imagining.

I wasn’t surprised. With Ginny back in Hell’s Kitchen, the three of us were now stuck in the same tight geography, and sooner or later, we were bound to be tripping over each other. Apparently, that moment had arrived.

“Where are they?”

“Allie’s at the bar, and Ginny’s in a back booth having lunch. What do you want me to do?”

“I think it’s time for the two women in my life to meet.”

“Are you fucking nuts?”

“Some have claimed. Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”

“I can hardly wait,” Nick said.

“And I’ll have the corned beef hash.”

I walked over to the bar and planted a kiss on Allie’s cheek.

She beamed. “What a pleasant surprise. I was hoping to find you here.”

“But the surprise doesn’t stop here.” I took her hand. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

I led her over to Ginny’s booth.

Ginny looked up, glanced at me, then took her measure of Allie. The corners of her eyes tightened. Allie was doing some appraising of her own. I had the feeling that neither was particularly impressed.

“Steeg. When did you get here?” Ginny said, never taking her eyes off Allie.

“Just now. Ginny, this is Allie. Allie, this is my ex-wife, Ginny.”

Allie’s smile turned hollow, but she handled herself with aplomb. “Steeg told me about your husband,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

The tightness in Ginny’s eyes loosened. “Thank you. That was kind.” She scootched over to make room. “Please join us,” she said.

Artfully done, especially the
us
part.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to take a rain check. I have a meeting. Just thought I’d stop by. Besides, I’m sure you two have a great deal to discuss.”

“Are you sure?” Ginny asked.

“Absolutely.” Allie gave me a peck on the cheek. “See you later, Steeg?”

“Sure. We’ll have dinner. I’ll call you.”

“Great! Nice meeting you, Ginny.”

I slid into the booth.

“She’s very pretty,” Ginny said. “What does she do?”

“Allie’s an advertising exec.”

“How long have you been dating?”

“Going on six months.”

“Is it serious?”

“I hope so.”

Nick brought my hash and another beer for Ginny. She fiddled with her sandwich—tuna salad, I think.

“I can’t bear living with Jeanmarie and Ollie, and I can’t stand being alone. I think I made a mistake moving back.”

“At least you have company.”

“She and Ollie are not exactly what I had in mind.” Her fingers slid across the table until they touched mine.

“What do you have in mind, Ginny?”

She leaned forward, and her hand covered mine. “It was good for us, wasn’t it?”

I drew my hand back. “Let’s talk about your marriage.”

“I was about to say you don’t know what you’re missing, but I guess you do.” She sat back in her seat. “I know. That was inappropriate. Shame on me. Now, let’s get back to your question. Our marriage was good. Tony understood me.”

“What does that mean?”

She pushed her plate aside. “Next you’ll be asking me if I have an alibi for the night Tony was killed.”

“Do you?”

“It goes back to your last question. Tony did understand me, but he also understood that I . . . sometimes indulge in other interests.”

“By that you mean . . .?”

She took a dainty sip of beer and her eyes locked on mine.

“You know exactly what I mean. In fact, that’s what I was doing the night he was murdered. I can supply you with the gentleman’s name and address if you’d like.”

I passed her a napkin and a pen. “I would.”

As she wrote, she said, “He claims that I’m his first shot at adultery—what a horrible word! — and he’s a little skittish about the whole thing. It’s kinda cute, actually.”

“Did anyone see you together?” I said.

The grieving widow giggled. “My bedroom is hardly a public place,” she said.

“Did you mention any of this to Pete Toal?” I asked.

“Never asked. Guess he figured Steeg’s ex-wife was pure as the driven snow.”

Another myth shattered.

“And Tony was fine with this.”

She smiled seductively. “I guess he figured I was worth it,” she said. Glancing at my plate of hash, she added, “Your food’s getting cold.”

“Lost my appetite.”

“Why, because I don’t measure up to your exacting standards?” she said, her voice rising. “Don’t judge me, Steeg.”

“I’m not in that business.”

“I know what’s on your mind,” she said.

“What might that be?”

“You’re wondering if I didn’t have
other
interests when we were married. Aren’t you?”

As a matter of fact, it was exactly what I was wondering, until I realized it didn’t matter anymore. Not at all.

I got up from the table.

“See you around, Ginny.”