Mad Dog Justice (21 page)

But those days are dead and gone
.

Heading north on 2nd Avenue, Roddy notices the east side of the avenue is walled off by a chain-link fence; it’s where the 2nd Avenue subway line is being carved out of granite beneath the street. Walking into a brisk wind, Roddy turns back and checks to make sure no one is following. He sees a man dart into a store halfway down the block. With his radar activated, Roddy decides to make a move.

At the intersection of 90th and 2nd, Roddy turns the corner and stops abruptly. He leans against a building’s wall, waiting. If anyone’s following, he’ll turn the corner and virtually slam into Roddy. He slips his hand into his pocket, feels the pistol, and waits.

After five minutes, Roddy decides he’s not being followed.

Approaching 92nd Street, he decides to take an extra turn around the block to make certain he’s not being tailed. He circles the block slowly until he’s once again at the intersection of 90th and 2nd Avenue.

Midblock on the south side of 92nd Street, he comes to a brownstone between 2nd and 1st Avenues. He climbs the outside stairs and opens the door. In the vestibule, he reads the nameplates on the intercom. Finding “Noori” next to a button for apartment 3-A, he presses it.

“Yes,” says a voice on the intercom.

“Omar, it’s Roddy Dolan … from McLaughlin’s.”

“Dr.
Dolan
? Please come up.”

The buzzer sounds along with an electric click in the door handle. Roddy pushes it open and makes his way up a narrow stairway to the third floor.

Omar stands at the open door to his apartment. He looks no
different from when Roddy last saw him: same medium height, olive complexion, his thick black hair swept back with a severe widow’s peak, and a pencil-thin moustache, but in contrast to the tuxedo Omar wore at the restaurant, he’s now dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt.

They greet each other warmly and Omar invites him in. It’s a typical brownstone apartment facing north on a quiet side street: a living room, kitchen with an eating area, and a bedroom. It reminds Roddy of the apartment he rented when he was at New York Hospital when he met Tracy. That place, too, faced north, and they loved the diffuse light coming in through the windows, even in winter. It was where Tracy and he first made love. His throat thickens at the thought of Tracy. He wonders where she is and what she’s doing at this moment. A pang of sadness seizes him as he recalls the last words she said on the telephone.

“Roddy, we’re so over.”

Roddy and Omar do some catching up. Omar’s been working at the Capital Grille on 42nd Street, and his wife works for Verizon on East 86th Street. His daughter is an honor student in middle school.

When Omar asks about Roddy’s family, sorrow seeps through Roddy as he thinks again of Tracy, Tom, and Sandy.

My life’s in the cellar. I’d gladly trade places with Omar and live his life
.

“Omar, I came to see you because I’m trying to understand what happened to Kenny Egan.” Roddy looks down and notices his foot tapping on the floor.

Omar’s lips curl downward and his face darkens. He shakes his head. “Not a good man, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”

Since Omar’s no longer an employee, Roddy is certain he’ll speak candidly about his former boss.

“Omar, please be frank. I know Kenny did a terrible job. But I’m trying to find out why he disappeared.”

The irony of all this is so striking. Here he is, asking about a dead man—one he shot and killed—as though he has no idea what happened to the guy.

“I’m not surprised he’s gone,” Omar says. “When I was first hired, the restaurant was running smoothly. But it soon went to the dogs.” Omar shakes his head, and his tongue pokes against the inside of his cheek. “I didn’t like the crowd. I don’t mean the regular people and businessmen; they were fine, and I enjoyed serving them. But there was a certain element that began coming—criminals—and they worried me.”

“They were just customers,” Roddy says, trying to gauge Omar’s response.

“Yes, but I had the feeling Kenny was doing business with them.”

“What kind of business?”

Roddy’s foot tapping quickens. His cheeks feel hot. Omar might know about Kenny’s dealings. Maybe some answers are forthcoming.

“I don’t know. They whispered back and forth … Kenny and those Russians … and the Italian mafia, too. I just had the feeling Kenny was up to something.”

“Any idea what it was?”

“No. And I didn’t want to know. Kenny was spending more time in the back office than in the front of the house. One time—and I wasn’t snooping—I opened the office door and Kenny was playing blackjack on the computer. He was gambling, losing money, drinking too much, and using cocaine, too. His nose ran all the time. He was a different man from the one who hired me a few months earlier.”

“Was there anyone Kenny seemed really close to?”

Omar shakes his head. “Kenny was
everyone’s
friend, if you know what I mean.”

Roddy nods his head. “Can you tell me anything more about
Kenny and those mob types?”

“I wish I could, Dr. Dolan, but that’s all I know. I just had a bad feeling about the place, and it turns out I was right.”

“Yes, you were, Omar. The place was a den of scorpions.”

R
oddy stands at the corner of 3rd Avenue and 84th Street. Trucks, taxis, and cars barrel uptown on 3rd through a haze of exhaust. The cold air holds the fumes at ground level and Roddy’s eyes sting. He’s again reminded of living on the Upper East Side years ago when he and Tracy met.

Crystal’s building, on the intersection’s southwest corner, is more than twenty stories high and built in a wedding-cake style with set-back tiers beginning at the upper floors. Danny told him she lives in apartment 12-K.

The doorman, a burly, red-faced man, greets him. When he asks to see Crystal Newcomb, the doorman says, “Sorry, sir, but she moved a few months ago.”

“I’m sure she left a forwarding address.”

“I’m not supposed to give out that information, sir,” says the doorman in a lowered voice. He glances right and left and then looks into Roddy’s eyes.

“Understood,” Roddy says and glances about. The lobby is empty, and no one is approaching the front door. “Maybe you can tell Ben Franklin where she’s living now.” He slips a $100 bill from his wallet, folds it twice, and hands it to the doorman. The guy’s eyes shift left, then right; he pockets the bill and murmurs, “I redirect her packages to 301 East 79th Street. The building’s called Continental Towers.”

C
ontinental Towers is a brown monolith at the intersection of East 79th and 2nd Avenue. The building is set far back from the street. The sidewalk fronting it must be fifty feet wide. A hunter-green awning projects out to the curb.

Entering through a revolving door, Roddy stands in an expansive lobby reminiscent of a hotel. The lobby ceiling is two stories high. A doorman’s lectern is near the entrance. A concierge’s desk is at the rear, behind which stands a man wearing a jacket and tie. At the right rear of the lobby, a door leads to an in-house dry-cleaning service. The place looks like a self-contained city, with dozens of people coming and going each minute. A continuous chorus of voices and the dinging of five elevators echo through the lobby.

He asks the doorman for Crystal Newcomb.

“Who may I say is calling?” asks the doorman, whose nametag reads “Luis.”

“Roddy Dolan, from McLaughlin’s.”

Some moments later, he’s directed to the elevator, having been told she lives in apartment 40-A.

Stepping out of the elevator, Roddy makes his way down a football-field-length corridor. The aromas of coffee and toast fill the air. The sequence of apartments runs from 40-G to 40-A. The A-line faces the B-line apartments.

When the door opens, Crystal greets him wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe. Her blond hair cascades down the back of her neck. It’s damp; she recently showered. Roddy inhales the fragrance of shampoo. Crystal’s lips have that plump, trout-pout look from injected collagen or Juvéderm. It was part of her signature look at the restaurant. Roddy’s reminded of the way she escorted diners to their tables at McLaughlin’s—her hips swaying as she cradled leather-bound menus in her arms.

Without makeup, her face looks softer and less sexually aggressive than when she prowled the front of the house at
McLaughlin’s. Roddy senses Crystal’s restaurant seductiveness was an act—a theatrical production for the sake of the glitterati, gawkers, mob goons, and anyone craving a woman’s sexual sizzle. She was a caricature employed to entice men amid the primal aroma of charbroiled steaks and chops. It was one of the few good moves Kenny made while running the place.

Standing at the door, Crystal smiles. Her breasts nearly burst from the terry-cloth robe, which shows the slope of her shoulders and the pale flesh of her neck. She cants her hip. “My, my, look what the cat dragged in,” she murmurs.

The directness of her gaze startles Roddy. He’s suddenly aware of looking seedy since he hasn’t shaved in many days. “May I come in?”

“Of course, Dr. Dolan.”

“It’s Roddy.”

“Sure, Roddy. Are you all right?” She dips her head, and her eyes narrow.

“I’m on vacation. Please forgive how I look.”

She smiles. “I’m so surprised to see you,” she says, opening the door widely.

Her apartment faces southwest. At the fortieth floor, Crystal has an unobstructed view over a large swath of prime Manhattan real estate. Huge picture windows line the western and southern exposures. A glass door leads to a balcony facing south, high above 79th Street. The Chrysler and Empire State Buildings are visible in the wintry distance—morning light casting a bright orange glow on their eastern facades.

“It’s an incredible view,” says Roddy.

“I’m renting from the owner,” she says with a quick smile and leads him to a spacious dining alcove off the living room.

The place is furnished in teaks and honey-colored woods. A three-piece ensemble dominates the living room. One sofa is upholstered in buttery-looking leather, the other two in plush
velvet. The couches are arranged around a pewter and glass coffee table that must have cost thousands. Colorful Persian rugs cover much of the polished red hardwood flooring. High-end artwork—either expensive reproductions or genuine works by Picasso and Klee—adorn the walls. The apartment’s owner must be a knowledgeable and wealthy collector.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the den wall, which can be seen through open French doors to the right of the entrance foyer. A door at the other end of the apartment is closed. Roddy assumes it’s the master bedroom. The place must be stratospherically expensive—on the Upper East Side, the Silk-Stocking District—and perched on the fortieth floor with spectacular views. Roddy wonders how Crystal can cover the nut on this apartment. He thinks of Omar’s place, and it occurs to him that Crystal has options far beyond what Omar could reasonably contemplate.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Crystal asks, sauntering through the living room.

“Sure, Crystal. Coffee would be fine. How’ve you been?”

“I’m doing well, thanks. And you?”

“Oh fine,” Roddy replies, peering at an expensive reproduction of Munch’s
The Scream
, set in a sandalwood frame. He recalls Tracy’s art history course—the one she took at Westchester Community College—and her explaining the painting depicted unreasoned fear, the anxiety that escorts us through the maze of life.

Unreasoned fear? My fear has a damned good reason
.

“How’s Mr. Burns doing?” asks Crystal.

“Oh, he’s fine.”

“Such a nice man, Mr. Burns,” Crystal says, sitting across the table from Roddy. Her body lotion is vaguely reminiscent of jasmine. It’s not similar to anything Tracy’s used, and yet he’s suddenly reminded of the tang of Tracy’s skin and the fragrance of her hair each morning as he nuzzled her among the warmth of
the bed linens. God, how he misses her. There’s something elemental about a woman’s scent, he thinks, and when he pictures Tracy again, he grows momentarily light-headed.

Crystal shifts her position in the chair, and her breasts nearly tumble from the bathrobe. She cinches the robe more tightly and shoots Roddy a quick smile.

He wonders what made him think of coming to see her or Omar. In a deep recess of his mind, he asks himself if he’d be better off talking to one of the former busboys or bartenders to get a better take on Kenny Egan. What on earth would Crystal know about Kenny’s less-than-savory activities? Would she really know any details of Kenny’s romancing the goons? He’d thought Crystal was nothing more than a vacuous lure for the steakarati, but now he isn’t so certain.

Roddy peers out the south window at the midtown skyline with its geometric formations and spires. From the fortieth floor, he hears nothing of the traffic roar—just a faint whooshing—a strangely hypnotic white noise far below.

Crystal pours coffee into mugs and sets them on the table. “So what brings you here, Roddy?”

“I was hoping you could tell me a little about Ken Egan. He and I went way back, and it still bothers me how he just disappeared.”

The bald-faced lies we tell in this life
.

Crystal shakes her head and her mouth droops. “I always wondered why you and Mr. Burns stayed friends with Kenny. Because you’re the last guys on earth I’d ever imagine being his partners—an accountant and a surgeon—even if you were only silent partners. It was such a strange fit.”

“How do you mean?”

Just let her talk. Let her open up a bit
.

“You’re both family men from the suburbs, and you’re partners with
Kenny Egan
? Kenny from
Las Vegas
?” She chortles. “What’s wrong with
that
picture?”

“How much did you know about Kenny?” He sips coffee, trying to appear casual, but his muscles are so tense they’ll soon begin aching. And that right foot begins its incessant floor tapping.

“What did I know? Only as much as I needed to. He was a heavy drinker and a drug user, too. He once asked if I’d like to do a line of coke with him. But I declined. To be perfectly frank, Roddy, he was pure sleaze, through and through. I still don’t understand how you and Mr. Burns became his partners.”