Forced Entry (38 page)

Moodrow tried to contain a rising excitement. Maybe the trip wouldn’t be wasted after all. “Do you think we could take a look at Mr. Chambers?” he asked. “The reason I’m asking is because I gotta make sure it’s the same guy we wanna talk to. I really don’t think it can be him, because the Chambers we wanna talk to has been active within the last year, but if I could take a look, I’d be sure.”

Louise Eller activated the intercom, asking her receptionist to send in “Nurse Rawlins.” A few minutes later, a middle-aged black woman opened the door without knocking and stepped inside.

“You want me, Louise?” she asked.

“I want you to take these officers to Simon Chambers’ room. Let them have a look at him. It shouldn’t take them more than a few minutes to make an identification.”

The message was clear enough. They could have their look, as long as it didn’t take too long and they left when they were finished; Nurse Rawlins was along to see that things went smoothly. Not that Moodrow had any objections to being rushed. His main interest was in separating the Longview Nursing Home from Bolt Realty, to determine if Chambers’ presence was entirely innocent.

The tall nurse, her manner utterly unconcerned, led the way through a series of corridors to a single room at the southern edge of the building.

“One second, Ms. Rawlins,” Moodrow said, before they’d gotten inside. “Could I ask you a couple of questions?”

“About Adolph?” The nurse giggled.

“Who’s Adolph?”

“That’s the name we had for Chambers. He was a son of a bitch before he had his stroke.”

“So, you called him Adolph’ because he was nasty?”

Rawlins laughed again. “We called him ‘Adolph’ because he was a damn Nazi. He’s even got a tattoo on his arm. In fact, he’s got two tattoos on him. He got a swastika on his right shoulder and two lightning bolts on his left. The lightning bolts have something to do with a political party. His legs were all broken up from the accident. He couldn’t do anything for himself, but he used to tell the people who were helping him exactly what would happen to them once his party took power. The guy was crazy and when the blood vessels started popping off in his brain, the whole staff had a party.”

Tilley laughed on cue, his nerves tingling just as Moodrow’s were. “This guy have any visitors?” he asked.

“Just the lawyer. I don’t know his name.”

“Can Chambers write? Could he sign a document?”

“No way,” Rawlins said firmly. “He’s paralyzed. Damaged on both sides of his brain and twisted up like a pretzel.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re too sympathetic,” Moodrow observed.

“Chambers used to call us subhuman. He’d say, ‘Ah, here comes a subhuman. Does it think it can find a minute to do its job?’ You hear that for a few months and you start saving your sympathy for the people who appreciate it.”

B
ETTY HALUKA KNEW IT
was raining hard the minute she got out of bed. She knew it was raining, despite the closed windows and drawn shades in Stanley Moodrow’s apartment, because the giant sitting at the kitchen table, sucking on a hot cup of coffee, was soaking wet. So wet that his fingertips were wrinkled, like those of a child left too long in the bathtub.

“What happened to you?” Even through bleary, pre-coffee eyes, Betty could sense Moodrow’s distress.

“You remember how beautiful it was yesterday? The sun was out all day, right? Could you believe it was gonna get down to forty-four degrees in less than six hours? It was like summer when me and Jim decided to put out the word that we were looking for Babbit. We did the bars until they closed, then hit the social clubs. Around four o’clock, Jim took the car and went home to Rose, but me, I decided to look up an ex-con named Montrose who hangs at a club on Avenue D. The mutt wasn’t there, and when I came out, it was pouring. I can’t run no more, Betty. I had to walk the whole way home.”

“Any luck?”

“With finding Babbit?”

“What else?”

“Nothin’.” Moodrow was unperturbed. “Probably don’t come from around here. We’ll take him, though. The Lower East Side’s been torch heaven since the city announced they were gonna auction off the empty buildings. The bars are like gossip columns, only instead of talking about movie stars, they talk about who’s pulling off which scam. I’m not saying we’ll find Babbit today, but sooner or later, if the guy’s a professional, which he obviously is, he’s gonna pop to the surface.”

“And you spent all night doing this?”

“It’s a slow process,” Moodrow explained. “And last night was just the beginning. Last night was the easy part, talking to bartenders and regular neighborhood people. Tonight, I’m gonna look for some of the informants I had when I was still in the job. I turned Jim onto my snitches before I retired and we’re gonna dig ’em up and lean on them a little.”

“Well, you better get into the shower.” Betty slowly crossed to the stove. “You’re gonna catch cold if you don’t get out of those clothes.”

“Yeah. You’re right.” Moodrow pulled himself out of the chair. “I better change before Leonora gets here.” Oblivious, he trudged down the carpeted hallway, leaving a series of wet pools behind him.

“What’s with Leonora?” Betty called.

“I think we maybe got Holtz.”

Betty filled her cup quickly, dumping in a minute amount of milk and a packet of Sweet ’n Low, before following the trail of Moodrow’s wet clothing into the bathroom. Moodrow was sitting in the tub, the shower beating down on him, surrounded by a cloud of steam.

“Jesus,” he said, “I didn’t realize how cold I was. I didn’t realize how tired, either. Ten years ago, I could put in forty-eight hours without thinking twice about it. Now after one night, I feel like a side of beef in the freezer.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what happened?” Betty demanded unsympathetically.

Moodrow leaned back in the tub. The water was rising, the heat putting him to sleep. “Supposedly, the Department of State has Simon Chambers’ signature on file in Albany. Supposedly, Simon Chambers swears, in writing, to the accuracy of the information in Bolt Realty’s corporate charter. Supposedly, Simon Chambers is the president of Bolt Realty. Only problem is that Simon Chambers is lying in a nursing home in Brooklyn. He stroked out fifteen months ago. Not only can’t he sign his name, the doctor says there’s nothing happening between his ears at all. I personally eyeballed Chambers’ predicament and the doctor’s not kidding. Not even a little bit.”

Betty, careful to put the cover down, sat on the edge of the toilet and thought for a moment before speaking. “You think Holtz is involved in some kind of securities fraud?” she finally asked.

“I stopped off at Leonora’s last night. I gave her the tape I made with Rosenkrantz and told her about Simon Chambers being too sick to sign his name. She seemed to think there’s a case to be made. Anyway, she’s taking it up with the Attorney General’s office.”

Despite Moodrow’s exhaustion, Betty insisted on cooking breakfast. She was going to Inez Almeyda’s funeral later that morning, a chore she was dreading, and she wanted to spend a few minutes alone with her lover before he dropped off to sleep. She started butter melting in a frying pan, cracking eggs into a bowl despite his weak objections. “Stanley,” she asked over the hiss of scrambled eggs dropping onto hot fat, “do you really think you’re going to find the people responsible for what happened?”

Moodrow, surprised, looked up from his coffee. “Of course I’m gonna find ’em. What’d you think? Look, Betty, this kind of work is full of disappointment. You have to be prepared for frustration, which is exactly why you
can’t
be pessimistic about the outcome. You can’t check out a lead with the feeling that you’re doing bullshit work and you’re never gonna get anywhere. You’d go crazy.”

“Don’t evade the question,” Betty responded, her voice harder than Moodrow had ever known it. “I need to know if you’re going to catch them.”

“Why?”

Moodrow’s question was sincere and Betty, recognizing that sincerity, also recognized the necessity to respond. “Ever since it happened,” she began, “I’ve been thinking about the bastards who set it up. I wish I could have done what Paul Dunlap did. That I could have a gun and kill the three brothers. Hell, I almost wish the brothers were alive, because at least I’d have a focus for the hatred I’m feeling. And that’s what it is, Stanley—it’s plain, naked hate. Every time I close my eyes, the scene pops into my mind. Intense, like a movie. It plays exactly as it happened, except that Dunlap fades away and it’s me standing next to the van. It’s me pulling the trigger. I kill them and I feel good about it.”

Even while Betty Haluka was driving off to Inez Almeyda’s funeral (and Stanley Moodrow was pulling the covers over his head), two of Inez Almeyda’s murderers, Marek Najowski and William Holtz, were meeting to discuss the future of the Jackson Arms. Martin Blanks was attending to his own business in Hell’s Kitchen; he hadn’t been invited, despite the fact that his character was at the center of their discussion.

“Ya know something, Marek,” Holtz observed. “I have to admit that I never liked Marty Blanks. Too much of a wiseguy. He thought he knew more about this business than you did. I’ve done a lot of criminal law and that know-it-all crap seems to come with the territory. I never met a hotshot criminal who didn’t want to tell me how to try his case.”

“It’s not being a criminal that screwed up Marty Blanks,” Najowski said. “It’s being Irish. I mean the Irish are whiter than white, but they’re cursed with that Papist bullshit. And with the British. Between the Roman Church and the British, the Irish can’t see their own best interests.”

Holtz smiled at this observation. “The Irish,” he asserted, “are stubborn and stupid. They’ve always been that way. That’s because they spend their lives grubbing in the earth for potatoes. They substitute poetry for analysis, which, as far as I’m concerned, is the ultimate proof of their corruption.”

Najowski laughed dutifully while Holtz retreated to a small refrigerator and took out a magnum of Moet et Chandon Brut, a moderately priced (by William Holtz’s standards) French champagne he thought in keeping with the dual nature of their meeting.

“Here we go, Marek,” Holtz said, pouring, “I propose a toast to your success.” He noted Marek’s grimace, but held the glass out until his client accepted it. “Indulge me, all right? Drink.”

Najowski sipped at the champagne, then put the glass on Holtz’s desk. “It’s okay wine,” he observed, “but I don’t see how it’s a celebration. We’re gettin’ our asses kicked.”

“I didn’t want to tell you before,” the lawyer said smoothly, “because I didn’t want to stir up false hopes, but just before you arrived this morning, I got a call from Moe Grebnitz. I think you know him. He specializes in outer-borough properties and our Jackson Heights parcels have caught his attention. He’s made a firm offer of nineteen million. Even considering the enormous fee I intend to charge for my services, you should show a profit of about three million.
Without
going through any of the disclosures involved in co-op conversion.”

Marek sipped at his champagne, then shook his head. “I was looking for a profit of twenty million dollars. Should I celebrate settling for three and a half?”

“In some ways,” Holtz observed, “you should celebrate just getting out with your ass in one piece. And three and a half million isn’t bullshit, no matter what you were expecting.”

Marek grinned crookedly. “You talk like I didn’t have a partner.”

“Isn’t that what we’re here to discuss?”

Marek got up and began to pace the room. “Of course, I have no intention of splitting any profit with the bastard who cost me ten million dollars,” Najowski said firmly. “If Blanks hadn’t been such an asshole, we’d have brought off our original plan. Now, he’s gotta pay. I assume there won’t be any problem on the corporate end.”

Holtz shook his head. “None at all. Blanks owns fifty percent of a corporation registered in the Bahamas. His sale of that stock to Marek Najowski will be on file the moment Blanks is no longer in a position to protest the transfer. Nobody on Grand Bahama Island will ever question the deal. The way I see it, the only question is how we find someone to do the job.”

“Forget about it,” Najowski said firmly. “No question about who’s gonna do it. I’ve already checked it out. See, the one advantage I have over an asshole like Marty Blanks is that he thinks he’s so goddamned tough, I wouldn’t dare take him on. He has no idea of my resources, of what I’ve done in the past or what I might do. I treated Blanks as an equal and he rewarded me by destroying my investment. All because he thought some ex-cop was coming to get him. When I reminded him that we were partners and should make decisions together, he laughed at me. Him and his nigger partner. They shit all over me and I’m gonna pay them back.”

“I presume the ex-cop is Stanley Moodrow? The private investigator who came to my office.”

“Exactly.”

“He’s an asshole.” Holtz refilled their glasses. “An old man trying to be tough. Maybe your partner’s been sniffing his own cocaine. Maybe the drugs have made him paranoid.”

Najowski waved the lawyer away. “I don’t care what made him do it. What I give a shit about is making him pay for it. Maybe I’m not Olympic caliber, but I’ve been target shooting competitively for ten years. You get me within two hundred yards and I won’t miss.”

It was seven o’clock by the time Moodrow, in Betty’s Honda Civic, arrived at the Jackson Arms to interview Pat Sheehan. The few days since the shooting had brought a number of changes to the building. The first, the new locks on the lobby door, caught Moodrow off guard and he had to use the intercom to get inside. He rang Mike Birnbaum instead of Pat Sheehan, because he couldn’t be sure how Sheehan would react to his visit. Moodrow preferred to make his first appearance at the ex-con’s door. Just in case Sheehan was feeling antisocial.

But Pat Sheehan let him in without a murmur of protest and the reason became evident as soon as Moodrow passed through the door. Louis Persio was not lying on the couch—even the small pieces of his life were absent: the brown medicine vials, the oxygen mask and the green tank of oxygen, the newspapers and magazines piled on the coffee table, the gauze pads, the surgical tape, the clamps and scissors. Moodrow spent a moment taking it in.