Bad to the Bone (21 page)

Moodrow pulled up short. “That’s pretty good. ‘A burnt-out Legal Aid lawyer…’ What happened at the conference?”

“It took place in the third building. The one farthest away from Houston Street. There were about a dozen Hanoverians in the room. One of them was wearing a jacket and a tie. He told us about the family and how destructive it was. He said that Hanover House is a greater threat to the culture than Communism, because it offers an alternative to the nuclear family. That’s why the media and the government constantly attack Hanoverian ideas. Then he went into the therapy itself. He said it was confrontational, designed to produce quick results for people who were strong enough to take it. There are rules that we’re supposed to follow from the first day. Like no drugs, ever. And no fighting with the other Hanoverians. ‘Minimum responsibility for our manifestations’ was the way he put it.”

“How many other candidates were there?”

“Four.”

“Did you see how many others signed up for therapy?”

“I was the only one who signed on the spot. The others said they wanted to think it over.”

“That’s because the cult’s reputation is so bad.” Moodrow began to spoon ice cream into two bowls. “That’ll also make Craddock suspicious about strangers coming in.” He shook his head firmly. “It’s not worth it, Betty. Not for the slight chance of coming upon Michael Alamare.”

“You know what’s bothering me, Stanley? It looks to me like everyone’s in it for the wrong reasons. Connie Alamare’s obsessed with her anger. You’re playing games with a maniac and cashing a paycheck. What about the child? How do you know the child hasn’t been killed? Or isn’t about to be killed? If you were responsible for the mother’s death, would you keep the child around?”

Moodrow, to Betty’s surprise, replied evenly. “Craddock’s gotta keep the child handy in case one of Flo Alamare’s pals decides to drop a dime about the kid. That’s assuming Flo was living in the commune before they found her in the Bronx. Which is not entirely clear.” Quickly, he outlined the information given to him by Tilley a few hours before. “I’m beginning to think Flo Alamare was part of whatever crew was handling this new drug, PURE. I remember a case in California about five or six years ago. Someone was making a drug in a lab and calling it China White. It killed a number of people before it disappeared. That was a lab mistake that caused that. Maybe it’s coming up the same way here. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if every half-assed chemist in the country was dreaming of some new drug to replace crack cocaine in the hearts of America’s drug consumers. Why not? Every time you turn the TV on, they show an eight-foot pile of money the cops took off some dealer. You know how that affects the creative criminal mind? They don’t see the bust or the skells in their handcuffs. All they see is the money.”

Betty poured herself a mug of coffee from the pot on the burner. She’d been after Moodrow to get himself a Mr. Coffee, but he preferred to make a pot in his old percolator, then reheat it on the stove. Betty poured milk into the mug, but it seemed to have no effect on the inky liquid.

“I screwed it up yesterday,” Moodrow said. “When I had the bodyguard alone in the office, I should have rolled up his sleeves. I should have checked his arms for tracks. But after I left Jim, I was walking toward Broadway, when I saw one of the Hanover Housecleaning trucks parked outside an office building. I went into the lobby and the Hanoverians were waxing the floors. Except for one guy in a blazer, they were wearing identical white short-sleeved shirts. I didn’t see any sign of tracks.”

Betty drank from the cup, then shivered. It was as bad as she’d expected. “I think you’re telling me that you don’t think Davis Craddock is holding Michael Alamare.”

“Yesterday, I was sure the kid was there. Now, I don’t know. I gotta go back up to the Bronx and talk to the doctors who treated Flo Alamare. Maybe she really did have a stroke. I mean Jim says PURE was being sold by a terminal street junkie named Deeny Washington. How could Deeny Washington get near Hanover House?” He stopped, then put his hand on Betty’s shoulder. “The thing of it is that Craddock’s dangerous. I know I can’t stop you from going in there. Maybe I don’t want to stop you. It’s what I’d do, if I were in your place. But if you’re gonna do it, I want you to take it seriously.”

Moodrow went to a closet in the hallway outside the kitchen and unlocked a small toolbox. The object he took out of it looked like a thick fountain pen.

“This is a one-shot, .38 caliber gun. We’ll go down to the range tomorrow and I’ll show you how to cock it and fire. I want you to carry it into Hanover House whenever you go there.”

“Stanley,” Betty said softly, “I really don’t think I could kill anyone.”

Moodrow’s face turned to stone. He smacked his palm down on the kitchen table. “In that case,” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm, “you oughta think about dropping the Mata Hari impression and just accept the guilt for Teitelbaum. Because, sure as shit, Davis Craddock wouldn’t have any trouble killing
you
.”

The call came in at ten-thirty and Moodrow, despite not having thought of Connie Alamare all evening, knew who it was before he picked up the phone.

“Hey,
paisan
, I just phoned to let you know that somebody’s doing something.”

Moodrow was tempted to hang up without replying, but that would only bring another, probably longer, call. “Like what?” he asked.

“My attorney dropped a subpoena on the
big gumbah
, himself. Davis Craddock has gotta come into court and testify about exactly when Flo and Michael left Hanover House.”

“When is this supposed to happen?”

Connie Alamare’s voice was more subdued when she replied. “Next month. It was the earliest date on the judge’s calendar.”

“What do you wanna bet Davis Craddock is gonna be out of town on the particular day? I got a fifty says he gets two postponements and then he lies. You want the bet?”

“So what are
you
doing? Eh,
capotesta
? Such a tough guy, but all you do is cash the checks. Maybe you were in it with that detective, Goobe. You and him—
imbroglioni
.
Maledizione
…”

“Stop working yourself up, Connie. What I’m doing is what I’m doing. You want a report, you’ll get one in writing. At the end of the month.”

“I don’t wanna wait to the end of the month to get my grandson.” She was shouting into the phone.

“For what?” Moodrow asked quietly.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Why do you want the kid, Connie? You bored? You need a toy to play with? A little kid, maybe? So you can make him into another Florence?”

“You bastard,” the old lady yelled. “You dirty bastard. You’re gonna hear from my lawyer.”

The phone went dead in Moodrow’s ear and he managed to find the receiver without turning his head. He wondered, for a moment, just what he’d do if he was taken off the case. Would he simply walk away, a mercenary without a paycheck? Or would he settle down and enjoy the game he was playing with Davis Craddock?”

“Was that Connie Alamare?” Betty’s voice drifted in from the bedroom.

“Yeah, that was the good widow herself.”

“She still crazy?”

“Actually, she’s gettin’ better. She’s cursing me in English, now.”

K
ICKIN’ ON THE BOULEVARD
is how the brothers put it. Drivin’ a big, black van with big, black windows. Scratchin’ out beats with the point of a knife against the dashboard. Rip this one up today, buy another one tomorrow. Singin’ about the heavy bread and all the sweet, sweet bitches that came with it. Singin’ about the “Pusher Man.”

“Song gotta be at least fifteen years old,” Wendell explained to his companion, Davis Craddock. “Back before nobody never heard about crack. Same shit, though, between them old days and right now. Nigger ain’t seven feet tall and can’t jump over the roof got only one way to get out. And it ain’t by steady beggin’ the white man for no bullshit job.”

They were driving north on FDR Drive, heading for the Bronx and a short conversation with a pure fool by the name of Billy Williams. Gonna pull the motherfucker’s card was what they was gonna do, but the crazy white man was actin’ like it wasn’t no more than a walk in the park.

“See here, Davis. Nothin’ make a brother feel better than pushin’ it back in the white man’s face. When a white man see me cruisin’ through his neighborhood, he thinkin’ one word: ‘nigger.’ When he see that my wheels costin’ twice more than his, he say that word out loud. When he see the gold hangin’ down my chest, he scream it: ‘Nigger, nigger, nigger, nigger’ till his tongue fall out his head.”

Craddock turned off the radio (he was taking it serious and Wendell appreciated that) and began tellin’ about how crazy his momma was and how his daddy hit the road and how he lived his life without no family and without no street either. How there was nothin’ in his life at all and how he made his life inside himself.

“That’s the only place to live it,” Craddock finished. “Inside yourself, so you know just who you are. I’m a nigger, too, but I’m invisible. Citizens who see me on the street don’t know what’s inside. I can’t change that…”

“Yeah, baby,” Wendell said playfully, “you can show the world your true intentions. Be like them jailhouse white boys. Get yo’ face tattooed. Little spider webs comin’ out from the corner of yo eyes. The pig see you cruisin’ down his street, he right away throw yo ass up against the car. Jus’ like they do for a brother.”

“I got a question,” Craddock said. “If our enterprise makes you rich and you move to a Caribbean island where everybody has black skin, are you gonna paint yourself white so you’ll be called a honkey?”

“We don’t call ’em no honkeys no more. We call ’em maggots now.”

“C’mon, Wendell, answer the question.”

“Shi-i-it. Be real int’restin’. Jus’ another black face in a black country? Maybe I try it on. See how it fits me.”

“Not ‘just another black face,’ baby. You’ll be the richest black face on whatever island you go to. But that’s not what we’re talking about. See, the thing of it is that I can walk around thinking thoughts from Adolf Hitler’s autobiography and nobody reads my mind. You can walk around thinking thoughts from the goddamned Gospels and the whole white world thinks you’re plannin’ to smash its collective head. It’s really fucking stupid, but it’s there, too. Like mountains or sewers. The only thing you get to control is what’s inside. Inside, you can be whatever you want to be and the best thing, the funniest thing, is that if you look inside, you and me decided to be the same person.”

Wendell cranked up the amps and they listened to Curtis Mayfield tell his stories: “Freddie’s Dead,” “SuperFly,” “Pusher Man,” “No Thing On Me.” The jam was definitely goin’ down. In the dash and in the world. Wendell had lined up wholesalers in Philly, Boston, New Haven and D.C. The man in D.C.—a white Italian man by the name of Rafe Antillo—was very large in the life. A
player
. Wendell would have to be careful or Rafe Antillo would take his shit off, but Wendell just loved bein’ a brother who sold shit to a white Italian man. Mother-fuckin’ Italians were the ones who brought dope to the ghetto in the first place.

But white or black, everybody loved PURE and when he explained what would happen if the junkies cooked it up, nobody seemed to be too upset. A few dead junkies, more or less, until they learned, wouldn’t bother the man. Look at what AIDS was doin’. Junkies dyin’ everywhere and nobody didn’t give a shit. Meanwhile, PURE was the baddest dope ever to come down the line. Have to be altogether crazy to fuck with it. Davis Craddock wasn’t crazy. Wendell Bogard wasn’t crazy either.

They got to Billy Williams’ apartment at four o’clock in the morning. Billy was at his night job, as expected. Wendell and Davis carried small, hooked pry bars, but they didn’t need them to get in. Davis had taken the set of keys Terry Williams kept in the property room at Hanover House and copied them without anyone knowing. Now he used them on Billy Williams’ lock, and in the quiet of a weekday morning in a middle-class working neighborhood the two men slipped into the empty apartment.

Billy came home at six-thirty. When he turned on the light and recognized Davis Craddock sitting on his living room couch, his face seemed to collapse. He was pale and blond, and the blood draining from his face gave his skin a transparent quality. He didn’t notice Wendell, who was sitting in the kitchen, until Wendell walked back into the living room. There was no pity in Wendell’s eyes, no humanity, either, but somehow Billy rallied. Billy, in his days as an acolyte, had been one of the most vocal of a small group of Therapists who fought against the admission of blacks to Hanover House.

“I knew you’d come,” Billy said directly to his former mentor. “But why this?” He gestured toward Wendell.

“Oh, man,” Wendell moaned, “the maggot done dis me. I mus’ be gettin’ to be a old motherfucker or somethin’.”

“What is he talking about?” Billy continued to speak to Davis Craddock.

“See,” Wendell said, “if I was a maggot, the bitch’d introduce hisself. Soft as he is, he oughta be takin’ care he don’t disrespect a man like me. ’Stead, he talkin’ like I’m his punk. No way I can eat that. I eat that, all the niggers be steady sayin’
ah’m
soft. That shit is bad for bidness.”

Wendell took a long, slender folding knife from his jacket pocket and flicked the blade open. Billy was sure the knife was meant for him, but Wendell went to the sofa and quickly slit the cushions and the backrest. He pulled out a small amount of crumbly yellow foam and threw it into the center of the room before repeating the action on the single club chair next to the couch. For a moment, Billy thought Wendell was searching for something, but Wendell wasn’t even looking at the cushions when he cut them open.

“What…” Billy began. “I don’t understand.” Then he noticed that both his visitors wore gloves and his heart sank.

“Who’d you talk to, Billy?”

Craddock’s voice was devoid of amusement. Billy Williams had never heard it this way. Neither had Wendell Bogard, who grinned in appreciation before turning his attention to a sideboard in the dining room. Very quietly, he began to pull out the drawers and empty them onto the dining room table.