Good Day to Die (13 page)

There were knots of kids, boys and girls, hanging out on the landings and in the hallways. They allowed us to pass, shifting aside without ever acknowledging our presence. Conversation ceased at our approach and all eyes remained on the floor until we were out of sight.

Streetwise is what it’s called. A kind of wisdom unrelated to age. And why not? Runaways, throwaways, punchaways, fuckaways … their lives have conspired to eliminate any normal avenue of escape. They don’t trust, because trust has never gotten them anything but the back of someone’s hand. Or the thrust of an adult penis into their midnight dreams. They gravitate to the street because the street is the only place that accepts them.

Me, I caught one break they didn’t get; I had the forest, instead of the street, for my place of refuge.

I learned the forest surrounding Mom’s house inch by inch, year by year. Following game trails, memorizing landmarks. Animals, especially deer, follow set patterns from food to water to food. Trails intersect, and a downed oak lying across a small pond or a moss-covered granite boulder or a rushing stream can mark individual trails the way exit signs mark an interstate. It’s all very disorienting if you’re thrust into it as an adult, but when you’ve got your whole childhood to figure it out (and the alternative to learning is dear old mom), you become very good at finding your way around.

After a few years (I was six when I began to explore), I started to make and mark trails with an old pocketknife, notching trees as I went. The Adirondack Park is crisscrossed with hiking trails, and eventually my own pathfinding efforts intersected these trails, again increasing my range. I don’t claim to have memorized all two million plus acres of the Adirondack Park, but within his own territory, the only things moving faster than Roland Means were the animals that caught his scent.

We sat in an anteroom for a few minutes before the door to Millstein’s office opened. A young girl, maybe fifteen, came out, her eyes on the carpet, shoulders slumped. She passed us without a word.

“Roland?” Barry’s face appeared in the doorway, his crewcut as spiky as ever. That crewcut suited his perky features perfectly, and I couldn’t imagine him wearing his hair any other way. Everything about him was quick and nervous, from the constantly jumping eyebrows to the sharp, staccato sentences delivered with a clipped, Chicago accent.

“Great to see you,” he continued. “Long time. Missed you. Damn, but you’re as stylish as ever.” He was wearing jeans, a cheap blue shirt, and a plaid sleeveless sweater.

“Too bad I can’t say the same for you. This is Captain Bouton. We’re working together.”

He ignored the jibe and reached for Bouton’s hand. “A captain, eh? Impressed. Really. Good to see Roland coming up in the world. Too bad about Linda.” He made the transition without a pause.

“Linda?” Bouton managed a tiny smile.

Millstein gestured toward the outer door. “Linda. Messed up once too often. Cocaine. Bad enough on the street, but she was bringing it into the house. Offering it to the other kids. Had to cut her loose.” He motioned us into his office. “You can’t reach ’em all. Too bad.”

Bouton and I took seats near Millstein’s desk while he bounced into his own chair and lit a cigarette. “So what’s up, Roland?”

“We’re working on the murders.”

“Thong?” His features darkened. “Hard to believe the cops are interested in what the gay community has to offer. Been gathering information for nearly a year. Offered it to that inspector. What’s his name?”

“Bowman,” Bouton said. Her smile had widened considerably.

“Wouldn’t even meet with me. Said unless I had an eyewitness, I shouldn’t bother him. Tried to tell him Thong wasn’t a serial killer. Patterns weren’t right.”

Bouton was grinning now. “Mr. Millstein, those are my exact sentiments. And that’s why we’re here. We’re looking for the true motive.”

Millstein glanced from Bouton to me. He was probably wondering who was in charge. And if it turned out to be Vanessa Bouton, whether he could (or should) trust her.

“I understand the Kennedy kid lived here for a time.” I handled his second unspoken question by ignoring it. Mainly because I didn’t know the answer myself.

Millstein popped out of his seat and crossed to a set of matching file cabinets. He rummaged inside for a moment, then pulled out a file. “Anyone else?”

“Rosario Rosa,” I said without hesitating.

He grabbed another file, then returned to his chair. “Why these two, Roland? You got something on them?”

“Not really.” I briefly explained my operating premise, noting his widening grin as I went along. Barry loved police intrigue. If he weren’t gay and sure to be rejected, I think he would have been a cop buff. “Anyway,” I finished, “there’s just the two of us, and we have to start somewhere.”

His head bobbed agreement and he pressed the intercom on top of his desk. A second later, a young blond girl opened the door. She was stunningly beautiful and heartbreakingly young.

“Yes, Barry?”

“Would you copy these two files for me, Ginny? I need them right away.” Sure.

He waited until she was gone, then turned back to us. “Ginny’s all of fifteen. Comes from Iowa. Been on the streets since she was twelve. Lost her virginity to her father when she was nine. The girl’s stronger than I am. Psychologically, I mean. Don’t really see how she does it.”

I glanced over at Vanessa Bouton. I knew she had a degree in psychology and I could almost hear the wheels turning. Too bad she didn’t have enough cop in her to stick to the task at hand.

“Tell me about John Kennedy, Barry. How well did you know him?”

“Oh, John-John. A bright kid. Sweet, but not serious. All a game to John-John. AIDS, the streets, the tricks, the cops. A big adventure. He tried to seduce me once. Not that he was the first or the last, male or female, to attempt it. Street kids think sex is all they’ve got to offer. A pity.”

“What about Rosa?”

“Didn’t know Rosa. Story going around is that he liked to hurt his tricks. A gay gay-basher. Highly unstable. Came up through the juvenile system. Foster care, Spofford, Rikers. Typical, really.”

Bouton, unable to contain herself any longer, cut me off as I started to speak. “Mr. Millstein, we’re thinking blackmail. Could either one of these kids bring it off?”

Millstein swiveled back and forth in his chair while he thought it over. “Don’t believe it,” he finally said. “John-John was bright enough. Wasn’t his style, though. Blackmail’s not a game, and John-John thought everything was a game. Rosa had the mentality. But could he follow through?” Millstein picked up a pencil and began to tap the eraser against the top of his desk. “Question is where they’d find a victim. (Every perp needs a victim. Right, Roland?) Talking about street prostitutes here. Get in the car, do your thing, back on the stroll. Also a problem with time. Four months between Thong’s first victim and John-John. How’d the victim keep John-John quiet. Did he pay off? John-John died broke. Rosa, too. Where’d the money go?”

Standard interview procedure calls for one cop to ask the questions and one cop to evaluate the responses. I wasn’t sure Bouton understood that, but I hesitated long enough to let her ask the next question. When she didn’t, I stepped in.

“Did Kennedy have a pimp?”

“One of the big reasons he came into the House. Old friend of ours, Roland. Razor Stewart.”

“I thought he was in jail.” At Millstein’s suggestion, I’d harassed Stewart until he’d made the mistake of taking a punch at me while in possession of a quarter ounce of cocaine.

Millstein shook his head. “Cut him loose in a prisoner dump. Overcrowding. Early parole. You know the game.”

“You have an address?”

“Probably get one. Just take a minute.”

He popped out of the room, gone in his customary flash, leaving me alone with Bouton.

“Why are you so concerned about this pimp?” she asked. “Wouldn’t Kennedy’s friends know more about his personal life?”

“A pimp could set it up, Captain. If it’s blackmail. A pimp would have the experience to find a target and the muscle to keep the money for himself. It’d explain why Kennedy died broke. It’d also make Kennedy’s innocence an asset. Besides, I like pimps. I like the way they hate.”

“You think this is a game, Means?”

“Tell you the truth, Captain, I was gonna put the same question to you.”

Millstein bounced into the room before she could reply. Dragging a young girl behind him. I wasn’t surprised to see her. Stewart, I knew, pimped girls as well as boys. Bouton, on the other hand, sat up in surprise, eyes widening as she took it in.

“This is Taisha,” Millstein said. “She knows Razor Stewart.”

“How ya doin’, Taisha?” I asked.

“Okay.” Her eyes bounced from me to Bouton. Trying to put it together.

“Taisha, do you know where Razor Stewart lives?”

“You gonna bust him?”

“I don’t think so. Most likely, I’m gonna kick his fuckin’ ass, then ask him a few questions before I cut him loose.”

She grinned at that. “Razor lives with some of his girls on West 147th Street. Number 865, apartment 2B.”

“How many rooms, Taisha?”

“Three bedrooms, but Razor sleeps out front. That’s so the girls don’t be sneakin’ out on him.”

“He bring tricks up there?”

“Naw, he don’t mess with no house tricks. Alls he got are street girls.”

I nodded. “You want me to give him a message? You got something you wanna tell him?”

“Yeah.” Her face screwed up in anger. “You tell him Taisha’s doin’ fine. Tell him I passed my GED, and I’m trainin’ to be a nurse’s aide. Razor always told me I was nothin’. Said I couldn’t do shit without him. But Taisha’s doin’ just fine.”

Taisha left and we chatted with Barry Millstein until it became clear he had nothing to tell us that wasn’t in the files he and his associates had painstakingly compiled. I stood up to leave, but Millstein held me back.

“Captain Bouton, would you mind if I talked to Roland alone for a minute?”

Captain Bouton minded like hell, but there wasn’t much she could do. She could treat me like an old sock in front of other cops, but civilian witnesses were a different matter. When she was gone, Barry turned to me.

“What’s the story, Roland? Thong going down? You really on the case?”

“Why, Barry? You wanna be there when I put the cuffs on? How ’bout when I put one through his forehead?”

His eyes glittered, but he knew when he was being kidded. “Need a straight answer, Roland. Friends’ll wanna know.”

“A straight answer, huh? Well, the straight answer is that I’m gonna give it my best, but it’s a piece of shit from beginning to end. It should put me back on the street, though, which is all I’m asking. Do me a favor, Barry, put the word out that people should cooperate with us. It might help a little bit. I don’t know if Thong had another motive besides insanity, but if he did, we’re not gonna find it unless someone points the way.”

“No problem, Roland. Fact, I could round up some of the people in those files if you want. Make it faster for you.”

“I don’t think so, Barry. I wanna string it out for a little while, but I don’t wanna have to muscle any of the kids. Just put the word out.”

I left him with a nod. Bouton was waiting in the hallway, a little frown on her face.

“What’d he want?” she asked.

“He wanted to know if we were serious.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I told him I had an appointment with a pimp. For me, that’s as serious as it gets.”

W
E WERE CLOSE ENOUGH
to jump on the West Side Highway and be Uptown in ten minutes, but I decided to take Amsterdam Avenue instead. I needed to find out how far Bouton wanted to go, and I wasn’t sure I could do it in ten minutes. Razor Stewart was a pimp, and pimps live by violence. Not the occasional violence of the armed robber or the street mugger. Pimps live by the minute-to-minute threat of imminent painful reprisal for any transgression, real or imagined. Prostitutes are beaten, stabbed, burned, and killed every day by New York City pimps who justify their behavior with the claim that sadistic violence is the only way to maintain social order.

The pimps may be right. It’s hard to imagine women hopping into cars with eight or ten or twelve strangers each and every night unless something hangs over their heads. I’ve met prostitutes who claim to love the life, but I’ve never met one who loved turning her money over to a sadistic psychopath. The only thing worse than living with a pimp, they told me, was living without one and being the legitimate prey of every maniac on the street.

“Means?”

“Yeah, Captain.” I was glad she broke the ice, and I kept my voice friendly. She was sailing into uncharted waters; if she was afraid, I wanted to know it.

“You’ve dealt with this guy? Stewart?”

“I busted him. About a year ago. He threatened to kill one of the girls living in The House of Refuge, and Barry asked me to take him off the street.”

“You always take orders from Barry Millstein?”

“I was on my own time, Captain.”

“I was kidding, Means. Lighten up.”

“Sorry, Captain. Guess I’m just sensitive. Ten months in ballistics will do that to you.”

“Tell me about Stewart. What are we in for?”

“Stewart’s a pimp, and from what I can see, all pimps are the same. They’re wife beaters in a polygamous culture. The only good thing about them is that they don’t run in gangs. You take off a pimp, you don’t have to worry about seven other pimps coming after you. Unless he decides to put out a contract.” I let the idea dangle for a minute, then laughed. “Just kidding, Captain. The bad guys don’t put out contracts on the good guys. Killing doesn’t happen unless you corner them like rats. Which is exactly what we’re gonna do to Razor Stewart. You gotta close your eyes and imagine it: There’s Razor, nodding out on his bed, thinking he’s the baddest badass in New Jack City. Then, here
we
come. Busting into his life. Pushing him around. Asking questions and expecting answers. We’re not gonna ask politely, Captain; we’re not gonna make any
requests.
If he refuses to answer (or if he asks for a lawyer), we’re gonna kick his brains out and he knows it. He …”