Forced Entry (11 page)

“So that’s it, Sylvia. We’re going down south where it’s warm all the time. Mom can’t take the winters and, to tell the truth, I can’t either.”

As Sylvia expected, Myron had not even bothered to show up for the meeting. But he’d found the time to go from door to door, trying to sell the furniture they couldn’t take with them into the fully furnished condo.

“Excuse me.”

Sylvia, startled, looked up at the giant standing next to the desk at the front of the room. Somehow, she hadn’t noticed him coming. Which seemed, in light of his size, clearly impossible. The word “Alzheimer” clicked on in her consciousness, as it always did when she was forgetful. Even while he introduced himself, she wondered if everyone over fifty had the same association after a moment of inattention. Each time it happened, she consoled herself by recalling the day and date, a sure sign, she believed, of continuing intellectual continence.

“Yes?” Looking into the small, dark eyes of the man who stared down at her, she felt that something was wrong with him. Or different, at least. Something strange, but not, in itself, threatening. Then she realized that he hadn’t smiled and he wasn’t blinking.

“My name is Stanley Moodrow I’m a private investigator. I used to be a cop. Betty Haluka told me a little bit about your situation. She asked me to come down here tonight.”

“Betty called me this afternoon,” Sylvia said, taking his hand. Her fingers, she noted, lay flat in his palm, like a baby’s head on a pillow. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time to talk tonight.”

“Have you gone to the police?” he asked. “I know a lot of cops and I could probably help you out there.”

“I phoned the precinct and Sergeant Dunlap assured me that he would be here tonight,” she replied politely. “Sergeant Dunlap is the Community Affairs Officer.”

“I’ll talk to him when he comes in.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sylvia, though she was too busy to consider it for more than a moment, saw Pat Sheehan start to enter the room, only to freeze in his tracks when he saw Moodrow. Then Al Rosenkrantz squeezed by Pat, trying to say “hello” to everyone at once, while Pat retreated through the doorway.

“Mrs. Kaufman.” Rosenkrantz wasted no time in coming up to her, ignoring the Yiddish epithet (which he didn’t understand, but which he was sure meant him no good) tossed at him, like spit, by Mike Birnbaum. “I’m so sorry. I can’t tell you how badly I feel.”

“Well, I think you should say that to Mrs. Park.” Sylvia stepped away from him. She wasn’t the injured party. Nor was she about to go into mourning. She wanted to save her home and she was determined to do it in the only way she could comprehend: by organizing and by raising money.

“Is Park here?” Al Rosenkrantz asked. “He called us yesterday and begged to be let out of his lease. Of course, considering the awful thing that happened, we agreed immediately.”

“No, Mr. Park isn’t here,” Sylvia said quietly. “He’s in his apartment.”

“Is the granny going to be all right?”

“Yong Park’s mother is still in the hospital. She’s all right physically, but she’s in shock. She won’t talk to anyone. Not even to her son.”

“Such a waste…”

“Mr. Rosenkrantz, I’d like to get started. I promised you a chance to speak to us, but I can’t give you the whole meeting.” Her resolve hardening, she watched Al Rosenkrantz, probably looking for Myron Gold, retreat to a chair off by itself.

“Please, may I address the meeting? I got a message for these
faygelah
guests you invited.”

That was Mike Birnbaum. As expected. Controlling Mike Birnbaum, though it was absolutely necessary, could easily turn out to be the most difficult part of her job.

“May I address the meeting?” he repeated loudly.

“I wish you wouldn’t, Mike,” Sylvia said, resurrecting a small piece of the union delegate who’d represented the teachers in her school for almost ten years. “Not until after we begin. I’ve done a few things today that I’d like to tell everyone about.”

“Sylvia,” Birnbaum raised his hand to wave her off, “whatever you say is okay by me. I’m an old man. I can’t even be in charge of myself. But I got to say I think it’s
meshugge
you should invite people to this meeting who ain’t tenants.” He indicated Rosenkrantz, Moodrow, and Porky Dunlap, who’d come in as he was speaking. “Two I don’t trust and I don’t know. One I don’t trust and I
do
know.”

Before Sylvia could frame a reply, Paul Dunlap approached her and began, without permission, to address the Jackson Arms Tenants’ Association. For a moment, she considered pushing him out of the way, but he was enormous and he wasn’t bullying her. He was enthusiastic. And she might need him later on…

“My name is Paul Dunlap. Sergeant Paul Dunlap from the Hundred and Fifteenth Precinct on Northern Boulevard. I just want everyone to know that the man who broke into the Park apartment and attacked Mrs. Park, was cornered in Manhattan and killed after shooting at officers trying to arrest him. The man had jewelry in his pocket that Mr. Park identified as belonging to his mother, and there were other, chemical, identifications on his clothing. We’re completely convinced that we got the right man. The case has been closed.”

Of course, Porky Dunlap had had nothing to do with the demise of Born Miller. Born Miller had been about to be arrested for trying to break into his mother’s apartment when he’d suffered a fit of temporary insanity (substance-induced) which had compelled him to pull his .44 on Patrolwomen Rita Mintz and Patty Ruthven. They’d pumped nine rounds into his chest before the pistol cleared his waistband.

Even worse, though Sergeant Dunlap wasn’t about to announce it, the connection between Born Miller and the Park family had been made through a credit card in Park’s name which Miller had been carrying in his wallet. The jewelry had come as an afterthought, while the “chemical identifications” were entirely his invention.

But Porky Dunlap, noting the smiles of relief on the faces in the room, was more than content to bathe in the gratitude due an overworked cop who had just made a timely arrest. It never occurred to Dunlap that his announcement would undercut the gravity of Sylvia Kaufman’s meeting, but Sylvia felt it. She felt the hope of organizing the tenants (which she defined as getting them to pay dues, to part with their money) slipping away from her, as it had on her first attempt to establish the Jackson Arms Tenants’ Association.

“Please, please.” It was Al Rosenkrantz, who also recognized the import of Born Miller’s death and was anxious to add his considerable weight to the evening’s momentum. “May I please address the group? I’m due in the Bronx in an hour and I have several announcements to make.”

“I guess we’re all glad to hear that Mrs. Park is going to be okay,” he began, ignoring the hostility focused on him, while noting that it came from sources besides Mike Birnbaum. “Nobody could feel worse about what happened in the building than Precision Management,” he continued, his eyes moving from face to face. “And nobody could be happier about what happened to the animal who did that to Mrs. Park than I am. Of course, you already know that the scum got into the Park apartment through a window by the fire escape and you might want to consider security gates for your own windows if you don’t already have them. Please don’t think we’re putting the entire burden on you, however. That’s what my announcements are about.

“First, you’ll be glad to hear that by tomorrow afternoon, the Jackson Arms will have a full-time, resident superintendent. Richard James Walsh.” Now he was getting some smiles and he returned them, careful to make eye contact. As expected, the Irish name was reassuring. He’d originally planned to drag Richard Walsh with him, to display Richard’s whiter-than-white face to the whole bunch, but Walsh had begged off, claiming a family problem. “And the
first
thing Dick Walsh will take care of—you have my word on this—is that disgrace in the lobby, including the mailboxes and the locks. Also, starting day after tomorrow, you can use the compactor shoots to get rid of your garbage.

“Second, we’ve decided to put security in the building. A twenty-four-hour doorman to watch the lobby and make sure that anyone entering the premises has a good reason to be here. There’ll be two shifts during the week, with relief on the weekends. These men will be dressed in blue uniforms and will carry mace and a nightstick; they’re being provided by Aback Security and they’ll remain in place until you people are satisfied that your homes are safe. We expect their presence to eliminate much, if not all, of the vandalism that’s been going on in the lobby.

“Third, you’ll be pleased to know that we’ve served Salvadore Ragozzo, the leaseholder on the apartment where the alleged prostitutes live, with an eviction notice and we’ll see him in Tenant-Landlord’s Court by the middle of March. We’d
like
to have some of you tenants down to testify about what you’ve seen. I’ve already taken up a lot of time, so I won’t ask for volunteers tonight, but anyone who would like to testify should call me at my office. I’m leaving some business cards on the table here, so you won’t have any trouble finding me if you need me.” He tossed the cards on the table, fanning them out and thanking the Lord that he hadn’t been interrupted. In spite of the chilly room, he was beginning to sweat. Maybe if they didn’t ask too many questions, he’d get out of here before he fucked up another shirt.

When Stanley Moodrow heard Sylvia Kaufman pronounce the title “Community Affairs Officer,” he nearly grinned. It was his own appointment to the position of Community Affairs Officer of the 7th Precinct that led to his retirement. Sending the CAO was equivalent, in his mind, to sending a form letter extending “deepest regrets.” Porky Dunlap’s speech, thrilling as it may have been to the tenants, had only added to his contempt, especially the claim about chemical tests, which, in his opinion, was just so much cop bullshit. In most cases, you had to beg the forensic unit to process that kind of evidence; sometimes it took months. It
never
took less than a week. Not unless the media was looking over the commissioner’s shoulder.

Al Rosenkrantz was a more difficult problem. Sure, he oozed insincerity, but he worked for a landlord. He was
supposed
to look like he loved throwing old ladies into the street. What he actually offered, on the other hand, was a fundamentally sound way to protect a building and would probably be enough to keep the Jackson Arms secure. Walking from the subway, Moodrow had taken a good look around. In the course of a long career with the NYPD, he’d been everywhere in New York at one time or another and his memories of Jackson Heights involved a stable, middle-class neighborhood, with clean streets and well-tended shrubbery around the houses and apartment buildings. His stroll had convinced him that little, if anything, had changed and that the landlord, whoever he was, had good reason to protect the property. In any event, the tenants were apparently buying Al’s solution. Their only questions revolved around “when” and “for how long.”

Moodrow left early, resolving to come back to visit Sylvia Kaufman at some later date. There was nothing he could do to help her with the organizing, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t go to work. He walked back to the Jackson Arms and checked the names in the tenants’ directory near the buzzers, running his finger down the line until he found the one he was looking for: Sheehan, 4A.

“Fuck,” Pat Sheehan said, opening the door. “Whatta you got, eyes in the back of your head?”

“Only for you, dear,” Moodrow returned. Stepping into the apartment, he made a quick, professional sweep of the living room, noting both the clean, inexpensive furniture and the shrunken man who lay quietly on the couch.

“Don’t get comfortable, Moodrow, ’cause you ain’t stayin’ around. I’m only lettin’ you in here, so I can get rid of you. For permanent. I’m clean and I been clean since the day I got out. I’m a UPS driver and I don’t get involved in nothin’ worse than a few beers. If I wasn’t on parole, I’d spit in your face.”

“Does that mean you don’t like me anymore? The amount of time we spent together before you went upstate, I thought we was real buddies.” Standing in the center of the living room, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, Moodrow seemed very permanent. “But, hey, Pat, a lotta things have changed since you roamed the Lower East Side. Like, I’m not even a cop no more. I retired. Now I’m a private eye.”

Pat Sheehan had no idea whether or not Moodrow was telling the truth, but he was certain that Moodrow’s primary aim in coming out to Jackson Heights had nothing to do with him or with Louis Persio. Not that Moodrow wasn’t dangerous. When you’re on parole, everyone connected with law enforcement is dangerous, because you can be remanded to custody on the mere
word
of a cop (or a parole officer after a cop whispers into his ear)—incarcerated and held without bail pending a parole hearing which might or might not come up before some con shanked you while you were asleep.

“So whatta you supposed to be? The Equalizer? I mean, you used ta be a fat Dirty Harry, but you ain’t a cop no more, so you must be somethin’ new.”

“
Fat
? Get offa my face. And the fucking Equalizer’s at least ten years older than me. I’m more like the Thin Man. You know: elegant, suave, cosmopolitan. My whole life I wanted a Waspy girlfriend called Nora, but all my old ladies came from little countries between Germany and Russia.” Moodrow, uninvited, sat in an armchair near the kitchen and stretched his legs out. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

Sheehan thought about it for a moment, trying to detect any trace of sarcasm in Moodrow’s request. He found none and went on to make the introduction. “This is my lover. Louis Persio. Louis, this is Stanley Moodrow from the 7th Precinct. Formerly from the 7th Precinct. Now retired.”

Pat Sheehan didn’t bother to add the facts about Persio’s condition and Moodrow had seen far too many cases of AIDS to have to ask. Persio nodded slightly at Moodrow. The right side of his face was covered with a flaking eczema and, though his eyes were bright with fever, they also burned with intelligence and with the knowledge of impending death. It wouldn’t be long, Moodrow speculated, until Pat Sheehan was free of whatever had made him take up this burden.