West 47th (9 page)

Hurley, meanwhile, was putting away his big omelet.

Mitch studied him some, forgave him for his cynical forecast of only six months for Andy and Doris.

Hurley had never been married but been as good as. To a girl he'd helped out of a jam and quickly gotten to know and love. About eight years ago. He was thirty then, she twenty. They'd hit it off from the start. He more than her, but it seemed that she'd catch up. They lived together, did all the usual things that people hoping to couple do together: painted kitchen cabinets, bought shoes, adopted cats, kissed votively.

The one consequential thing they didn't do together was her habit. Despite his being an experienced cop he didn't realize she had a habit until her habit had her, until in her head her habit came before him and she resorted to being cunning. Used his love for her to provide that which she had to have.

He took to shaking down cocaine dealers and bringing their packets home to her. On his time off he'd cruise Brooklyn streets, preying on dealers. They got to know his car, knew him for what those in the underbelly call a take-off guy. They disappeared when they saw him coming.

She often complained about the quality of the dope he brought her, demanded better. He'd never done the stuff, didn't know what better was.

One very late night he shook down a young dealer out in Bensonhurst. He should have known. It was too easy. The guy was obvious right out there on the corner of 20th Avenue and 78th Street, didn't run or resist, just whined protests and motherfucked him a lot. Gave up two fat packets that Hurley brought home to her. Eager to please. He should have known.

She freebased the stuff and it killed her.

Exactly as the young dealer, on behalf of the other dealers around there, intended it to.

These days Hurley lived alone on the West Side in a two-window, fourth-floor, rear apartment. Said he didn't need anyone, and when he couldn't live up to that he called certain numbers and got professionally serviced.

He could have done better, wasn't a bad-looking guy, had all his dark brown Irish hair and agreeable green eyes that more often than not smiled when his mouth did.

He nudged Mitch. “Eat your porridge.”

“Don't want it.”

“Why'd you order it?”

“It appealed to me abstractly.”

“Isn't that the way with so many things? Anyway, you should have had it with raisins. I knew you were going wrong when you didn't stipulate raisins. Does Maddie feed you oatmeal?”

“No.”

“I wouldn't think so. She's not the oatmeal type.”

“Shows how much you know.”

“Tell me, what's this Jersey case you're working on?”

“A guy and his wife over in Far Hills took a major hit, over six million.”

“And the guy got whacked.”

“You read about it.”

“Happens to be the case I'm on. The Jersey local and state people figure the swag might show up here. Which of your clients stands to lose?”

“Columbia Beneficial.”

“That being that, maybe we shouldn't give it our best effort.” Hurley was aware of Mitch's bad feelings towards Columbia and his reason for them. “On the other hand, if you recover you make a nice score, don't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Count on me for help.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I'll throw leads your way, keep you up on any developments.”

“Thanks.”

“For a cut,” Hurley added. “Say a fifth.”

“A cut?”

“That way we'll be more in it together.”

Hurley seemed serious, Mitch thought. He'd been helpful on a couple of Mitch's cases but hadn't asked for anything in return and had declined when Mitch offered.

“I've already got something for you,” Hurley said. “Could save you time, might even ultimately lead to recovery.”

“Like what?”

“A fifth,” Hurley pressed.

“Okay, a fifth.”

“Make it Jack Daniel's,” Hurley laughed. “In fact make it a case of fifths.”

Mitch regretted. “Really,” he told Hurley, “I'll cut you in.”

“Forget it. I don't need it.”

“Who doesn't need money?”

“True, but I think it would be bad for us to go commercial. Down the line it could cost what we've got.”

Mitch thought Hurley was probably right.

Hurley waited a beat, stabbed up what remained of his home fries, waited another beat. “When I stopped by the preese this morning word was the Jersey people were holding somebody.”

“Who?”

“Puerto Rican by the name of Donnell Costas. He was the Kalalis' driver. Maybe they knew or maybe they didn't that he had a rap sheet.”

“Any robberies on the rap?”

“No, but two burglaries back in the early eighties when he was seventeen, eighteen. One was suspended, the other cost him a year and a half. More recently he did serious time in Auburn and various other joints.”

“For what?”

“Driving a van of hairs [furs] that had lost its way between a warehouse on 35th and a retailer uptown. Claimed he didn't steal the load, was just driving it for some guy, wouldn't give up the guy or say where he was taking the hair, just stood up and did the time.”

“Not many stand-up guys like that anymore. Have they got evidence to connect him to this thing?”

“Not that I know of. When they picked him up at his apartment in Irvington he was packing to run.”

“Can't blame him for that. He had to know he was jammed up.”

“He was also packing a snub thirty-eight, which is enough to put him back inside.”

“What's your guess?”

“Who the fuck knows with these kind. They go from the lightweight to the heavyweight division in a night. Anyway, we'll have a better picture of the whole thing when Mrs. Kalali comes conscious. If and when.”

“What hospital is she in?”

“Right now Elizabeth Mercy but her doctor wants her moved over here to New York University, his hospital.”

“Whoever popped her must have left her for dead.”

“You'd think they would have put four or five into her to make sure.”

“That could be the break.”

“Yeah, but for now Mrs. Kalali is flirting with the angels.”

Chapter 6

At that moment in room 1118 of New York University Hospital Roudabeth Kalali was headed above in the direction of consciousness.

Below lay oblivion, a dark red, vacant realm of immeasurable depth where she'd been effortlessly suspended. A pleasant state, really, as quiet as an agreeable thought and void of responsibility. It had been as much Roudabeth's preference to remain there as it had been to leave; however she was compelled to ascend, as though she was lighter than this atmosphere, an etheric shape made up entirely of will. How long would it take, this strange rise? Time was without consistent character, meaningful one moment, inconsequential the next. Forever seemed as possible as never.

Above was the surface, a plane between somewhere and somewhere, between within and beyond. Ungeometric, illusory, and yet she now came to be pressed lightly against some sort of substantial inner underside, contained by it. It was like being trapped beneath the ice of a frozen-over pond, although she was having no problem breathing. Each breath promised there would surely be a next.

Was it only to pass the interim, or was it to pay off debts with explanations that her memory began having its way? Numerous gates of her memory sprung open, experiences rushed out, impressions competed for recollection.

A date came to her, clearly, like a title.

January 16, 1979.

Mehrabad Airport, Teheran.

It was the bright but cool afternoon of Shah Pahlavi's departure.

She, Roudabeth, was there, along with husband, Abbas. Among the Shah's entourage of fifty or so.

The Shah took off his homburg—he kneeled, bent and kissed the ground. The built-up heels of his black shoes were evident. The humility of his arched back. Did his lips actually touch the ground?

Queen Farah Diba could not entirely conceal her disapproval of this, the Shah's final gesture. She waited close by. Perhaps she sighed intolerantly. She looked away.

The Shah stood nimbly, gave no attention to where the kneel had soiled his trousers. He was in black, suit and topcoat, with a black and white diagonal striped tie.

Queen Farah had on a gray cashmere coat, belted snugly. She appeared more detached than solemn. Her plain pearl ear clips were an intentional understatement. There was no way of telling how much extravagant jewelry was contained in her oversize shoulder bag.

They, the Shah and Queen Farah, continued onto the jet, the Shah's private 707. Most of the entourage was only seeing off. Roudabeth and Abbas were included in those going along. The plane already had the belongings in its belly, the many packed trunks and all. Precious layers between layers. Precious stuffings in the toes of socks and the fingers of gloves. It was a getaway, a haul.

The boarding stairs were in place. Queen Farah was first to go up and in. Then the Shah. His black back was the last of him. He would pilot. He would fly himself away.

There were no questions regarding what or how much was taken. There hadn't been the indignity of a search. Thus, at thirty-thousand feet it had occurred to her, Roudabeth, that the jet was rigged to explode, that it might never reach Egypt.

Memory is documentary.

A personal newsreel of sorts that now cut to November 28, 1978.

Roudabeth and Abbas were at the house of the Shah's sister, Princess Shams. Forty-five kilometers west of Teheran. Shaharazad, the Princess's daughter, was also there. The four were seated munching apricots and pistachios, pomegranate seeds and strips of sugared ginger, drinking a vintage sauterne.

A phone call was expected from General Nassiri, head of Savak, the secret police. He had arranged for another sortie, as such undertakings had come to be called.

Princess Shams specified what she wanted taken for her. She laughed and said her age required embellishment. She was sixty-one. Shaharazad rattled off what should be gotten for her, as though placing an order. Abbas was feeling important, telling jokes he'd memorized from
Playboy
magazine. His phlegmy laugh, wide-open mouth. There was nutmeat impacted between his tea-stained teeth. Roudabeth recognized the opportunism in his eyes. She knew his eyes.

The telephone chirped.

General Nassiri would meet Roudabeth and Abbas at the Niavaran Palace. Princess Shams' limousine transported them. Crystal vials hung on the uprights of the car's passenger windows contained wilted springs of lavender freesia. Night was coming on. The limousine outsped it to Kheyabun-e-Sa-ad-Abad. They were shown to a remote room in the old Qajar section of the palace where they changed into suitable clothing. Roudabeth into a much worn, faded blue chador and veil, so she was only eyes and hands. A chador with extra deep pockets. Abbas, meanwhile, got into old, ill-fitting trousers, shirt, jacket and poor shoes. He had the appearance of one of those cheap labor sorts who, hoping to be hired to do anything, gathered each morning in Gamruk Square.

The General arrived. Roudabeth hadn't seen him since the previous sortie three months ago. He seemed shorter and thinner, as though the imminence of deposal was depleting him.

Only three persons knew the most recent code and had a key: the Shah, the General, the Director of the Bank. Now the General handed over his key and revealed the code. Abbas repeated the code aloud several times to memorize it.

Within minutes Roudabeth and Abbas were under way in a poor, abused Peykan. Going south on Kheyabun-Vall-ye-Asr. That major street was deserted except for the military trucks that roared by. And the rebel factions that were bunched at corners. Black-hooded Shah-haters with automatic rifles and knives in their belts. Night was their accomplice. Overcome with fervor they charged across the street. All at once they were in the Peykan's headlights, hundreds pouring around and over it as though the little car was a boulder in a river. Roudabeth was terrified, grateful for disguise.

There were other similar incidents along the way into the center of the city. A left on Kheyabun-e-Takhit-e-Jamshid and a right on Villa brought them to Sevome-Isfand. Abbas parked the car behind the Officers' Club. If stopped they were to say they were janitors, lowly floor scrubbers.

They scurried through a maze of back alleys. From times before they knew the way to the rear of the Central Bank. It was a formidable, contemporary building, a fortress for wealth, normally impregnable but that night with a traitorous rear door.

The Director of the Bank was waiting just inside. He allowed them in. Not a word from him. His part done, he departed. As far as anyone was concerned, he'd never been there.

There were two vaults: one for money, the other for the hoard. The latter was subterranean, down a long, wide flight of hard-edged steps. There it was, with an electronic pad on the left: ten numerals and ten symbols.

Abbas entered the code. He got it right on his second try. The time lock deactivated, the bolts automatically retracted. Abbas pulled the vault door open. It was massive, steel two feet thick, but it swung open easily. Immediately inside was the steel gate. The key opened it.

They were in.

The lights were on. No need to hurry. They couldn't be caught. They were one with the catchers.

First, there on a pedestal was the Pahlavi Crown of State with a white aigrette sprouted above a diamond the size of an apricot, and that above an elaborate diamond and pearl diadem.

Paired with it on the pedestal was Queen Farah's crown, created eleven years ago by Van Cleef & Arpels. Huge carved emeralds, thirty-four rubies, one hundred and five pearls, one thousand four-hundred sixty-nine diamonds for Farah Diba's head.

Roudabeth and Abbas disregarded the crowns, as well as the numerous tiaras. Even the tiara that displayed the world's largest rose pink diamond. The size of a peach pit.