Hurt Machine (19 page)

“You know, Moe, I think you’re a good man and that your heart really is in the right place, but you ain’t asking the right questions about the right person. There’s somebody involved in this whole mess that nobody wants to see for who he was, not really. Think about that and stop hounding me. Leave me be.”

By the time my mind snapped back to the moment, Maya Watson was across the street and disappearing through the entrance of the Stillwell Avenue terminal.

TWENTY-EIGHT

I was confused. Wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last. Who the fuck was Maya Watson talking about? No one in this entire mess was innocent. I suppose she might have been talking about Jorge Delgado, but that couldn’t be right. Any fool could see I was already taking a hard look at Delgado and Maya Watson was no fool. Maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough at him to suit her or maybe she didn’t like the fact that Delgado—guilty of Alta’s murder or not—had been beatified in the press. I mean, getting killed while saving the life of a little girl is a kind of permanent baptism. One good act, your last act, and all your sins get washed away. It’s like getting dunked in the cleansing waters and never needing to come up for air. Is that what Maya was referring to? I don’t know, there was something obvious I wasn’t getting. Wouldn’t be the first time for that either.

My cell phone vibrated and chimed in my pocket to remind me I had a voicemail message. I got off the crowded, noisy street and retreated to my car to listen. The car still smelled of Maya Watson’s vaguely sweet perfume. The message was from Detective Fuqua, but I would have recognized his voice even if he hadn’t given his name. He left his cell number and told me it was important to call him back as soon as possible.

“Mr. Prager, it hurts my feelings when you do not pick up my phone calls,” he said. “And it makes me suspicious as well.”

“You sound like a jealous wife, Detective.”

“I suppose.”

“Sorry, but I was busy making arrangements,” I lied. “My daughter is getting married in a few weeks.”

“Really?
Fantastique! Mazel tov.
You must be on
schpilkes
, on pins and needles, yes?”

His French I might have expected, but his Yiddish caught me off guard. “Your Yiddish is good, Detective Fuqua. Are there many Haitian Jews?”

“I worked in community relations in the Seven-One. Big Caribbean and Hasidic populations in the neighborhood. I got along very well with the Hasidim. They have great respect for the police.”

“For the law, Detective Fuqua, not the police. Those are two very different things. Jews are naturally suspicious of agents of the state. Long history of persecution at the hands of those agents, don’t you know?”

“Have you ever heard of the Tonton Macoute, Mr. Prager?”

“Papa Doc’s own private little terror squad.”

“Just so. No one need lecture a Haitian on distrust of the police.”

“Fair enough. So you and the Hasidim made nice. That explains your Yiddish, but it doesn’t explain how you knew I was Jewish.”

“Oh, but Mr. Prager, I know many things about you that you might not suspect. We should discuss them over lunch.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“That seems like such a waste of time,
non
? Why wait until tomorrow when you are sitting in your car on Stillwell Avenue at this moment?”

My skin prickled and I felt a solitary bead of sweat roll along my ribs. “How the fuck do you know where I am?”

“Such language, Mr. Prager. As I said, I know many things about you. I am sitting at a table on the other side of Nathan’s with too much food for me to eat myself. Come join me. I do not enjoy dining alone.” He clicked off.

As I walked the two hundred yards from where my car was parked to where Fuqua was sitting, I didn’t waste my time looking for the cops who’d been assigned to follow me. In the big crowds around Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs on a sunny June day, I could have been there for hours and never found them. When I was on the job, cops pretty much sucked at this sort of thing because they were almost all white males who might as well have had
COP
stamped across their foreheads. But since 9/11 and since the ranks of the department had opened up to women and every ethnic group you could imagine, things had changed.

“Mr. Prager, come sit,” Detective Fuqua said, standing to greet me with his right hand extended. I shook it with no enthusiasm and sat across from him. “It is a glorious day, is it not?”

“Weather-wise, yeah. Perfect. I love days like this in Coney Island.”

“Yes, perfect for a stroll with a beautiful woman like Maya Watson.”

“Get to the point, Detective.”

“Was Miss Watson any more forthcoming than she had been? Did she say anything helpful?”

I stifled a laugh.

Fuqua was confused. “Something is funny?”

“In a way. All I managed to do was to piss her off enough to take the train back to Queens.”

“That is unfortunate. Please, I forget my manners, take a hot dog.”

“I’m suddenly not very hungry,” I said.

“Some fries, then, at least. I adore Nathan’s fries. They are most unique in flavor.”

“I hear it’s because they use some corn oil in the deep fryer, but who knows?”

“Indeed, who knows? It is the flavor which matters.”

The aroma of the steam and oil coming off the fries was almost enough to make actually tasting them superfluous. Almost. I took a thick, ridge-cut fry, dipped it in ketchup, and bit into it.
Ummm
. The crisp brown and salted skin crunched and the moist, soft potato melted in my mouth. If there were things I would miss when I was dead, Nathan’s fries would be one of them. If I knew I was going to have a last meal, they would be on the menu.

“Would you like me to purchase beers so that we might drink to the wedding of your daughter?”

“No, thanks.”

“A pity.”

“So, Detective, can we get to the point of this?”

“Jorge Delgado,” he said, before biting into a hot dog.

“What about him?”

He finished chewing. “Let the man rest in peace, Mr. Prager.”

“He’s gonna rest in peace regardless of what I do. He’s dead.”

“But there is his family, his memory to consider.”

“No, not if he killed a woman in cold blood.”

“That may be, but you have been stirring the hive. And even very peaceful bees will sting when they are sufficiently agitated.”

“Just tell me what you’ve got to tell me, okay.”

“
Bon
. Good. Let me then speak plainly so that you might understand. Jorge Delgado did not murder Alta Conseco.”

“And you know this how?”

He laughed. “Because I have received indisputable word of this from on high.”

“You and God been chatting lately, have you?”

“No, this comes from an even higher authority, Mr. Prager.”

I understood, of course. “The brass.”

Fuqua shrugged his shoulders. “I could not say.”

“Too bad they didn’t use the overtime money they wasted having me followed around to actually help you find Alta Conseco’s killer.”

“Yes, too bad. As sad as that may be, Mr. Prager, I have already looked into Delgado as a suspect.”

“And …”

“Nothing.”

“In other words, the city needs a hero and Jorge Delgado’s been elected. The brass has been told, probably by the mayor, that no one is going to ruin the coronation. Not me, not anyone. And they told you to tell me.”

“For what it is worth, Mr. Prager, I sincerely do not think Delgado murdered her.”

“Is this your voice I’m hearing or is it the word of the brass gods?”

“My own. Delgado’s name came across my desk almost immediately. He apparently made no secret of his distaste for Miss Conseco. And while his alibi for that evening would not hold up in court, there is no proof he was anywhere near the Gelato Grotto when Alta Conseco was killed. There is not a single piece of forensic evidence linking him to the crime. I have showed his photograph in an array to everyone who gave a statement that evening. Not one of them identified him as a person they saw on the night in question. Not one of the employees identified him. I canvassed West 10th Street on my own time. Nothing. I even had an informal meeting with Mr. Delgado not unlike the one the two of us are sharing at this moment.”

“Funny how none of this turned up in those notes you shared with me,” I said.

“Not funny. Purposeful. The minute I heard about Delgado’s heroics, I made a separate file for safekeeping. I have my ambitions, and ambitions are best served with ammunition to back them up.”

“You’ll go far, Detective Fuqua, but be careful. I had an ambitious friend just like you once.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got too close to the sun and his wings melted.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

“Do that. Did you know Delgado tried to hire someone to hurt Alta?”

“And did this gentleman take the job?” Fuqua asked.

“No.”

“Would you be willing to produce him for questioning on the subject?”

“I don’t think I’d be willing nor would he to volunteer what he knows.”

“In that case, Mr. Prager, I would urge you to let this go, please. There can be nothing good gained. No matter who the murderer of Miss Conseco might be, the fact remains that she and Miss Watson stood by and let a man die.”

“All right,” I said, “you’ve done your job. I consider myself thoroughly warned. I will let the Delgado thing go for now. I don’t need any shit before my kid’s wedding, but I’m not gonna stop looking into Alta’s murder. That I won’t do.”

“That is only fair, I think.” He stood to go, leaving a table full of mostly uneaten food.

“Detective,” I called after him. “I’m curious. What happened to your refrain about all victims being equal in murder?”

“The tune I have just sung to you was not my own composition. My own song is unchanged.”

“That’s right, you have ambitions.”

“I am not ashamed of that.”

“Neither was my friend. He wore ambition like a badge of honor. Problem was, he forgot about the other badge he carried, the one that really mattered.”

Fuqua winced. That stung. Good.
Fuck him.

TWENTY-NINE

I’d been warned off cases before and, in the scheme of things, Fuqua had carried it off pretty well. He’d been fairly direct without getting all heavy-handed or nasty about it. There had been no direct threats to me or to the people close to me. He hadn’t gotten clichéd by listing the myriad ways the city or state could hurt my business. He didn’t try to bullshit me about it being his bright idea to make me get in line. In fact, I don’t think he enjoyed doing it at all. But he had the curse of ambition same as Larry McDonald. He saw big things for himself and didn’t think clean living was going to get him there. The fuck of it was, he was right. Larry Mac hadn’t climbed so high on the ladder by being a good cop—which he was, mostly. I believed Fuqua believed what he said about Delgado not being the murderer. Now maybe I was willing to believe it too.

That’s the thing about perspective. It had been what, two days since Delgado appeared on my radar screen? And in that short time, his initial appeal had lost much of its luster. Not all of it, most of it. That aria he had been singing to me, while not a faint whisper, was not exactly a siren’s song either. Did any of what Fuqua told me totally eliminate Delgado as a suspect? No, the late Mr. Delgado still had his charms. He’d hated Alta Conseco even before the incident at the High Line. He’d been angry enough to hire someone to maim if not kill her. And in spite of the fact that I trusted that Fuqua was telling me the truth, I was too familiar with the allure of ambition to trust him too much. If he could prove to the brass he had put me off Delgado, at least temporarily, there was probably a big reward—a bump up in grade or a plum assignment—coming his way. Apparently, a lot of powerful people had gone all in on making Delgado the next saint of New York. It wouldn’t do to have your new martyr found with a woman’s blood under his fingernails. Mostly I was clinging to Delgado’s possible guilt because I didn’t know where else to go.

Clinging to him as a suspect didn’t mean I wouldn’t keep my word to Fuqua. I wasn’t going to pursue Delgado until I got the all-clear from the detective. I meant what I said to him, that I didn’t need any shit before Sarah’s wedding. Anyway, by the time Delgado’s temporary sainthood had lapsed and his rep was primed for a bit of tarnishing, I might already be dead. If not dead, then certainly in treatment: losing my hair, my lunch, and my pride. I’d witnessed people go through surgery, radiation, and chemo. A doctor once told me that the kind of regimen I was in for was a kind of slow motion murder. That they sort of hoped the cancer would die before the rest of the patient, but that it didn’t always work out that way. Happy happy. Joy joy.

For now I needed to think and, more importantly, I needed a drink. I was depressed by the notion of having to go back to my list of hate-mailers. Christ, the thought of doing more grunt work, of spinning more tales out of lies, half-truths, and false threats was making me ill. I didn’t think I had the energy to go once more into the breach, not for this, maybe not for anything. And I couldn’t get Maya Watson’s parting words out of my head. That was a bad thing because it meant I wouldn’t get anywhere with it. I almost never made progress on a problem until I forgot about it. That was another good reason to have a drink. I backed out of my spot, away from the parking meter. I didn’t see that I was being followed, but just because I was looking for them now didn’t mean I’d spot the cops tailing me.