Jungle Of Steel And Stone (8 page)

"To tell the truth, I wasn't planning on it. There's somebody I'd like to talk to."

Reyna patted Veil's arm as she rose. "Then you go ahead and take care of your business. I really am all right. I'll take a cab home."

Veil paid the bill, then walked Reyna out to the curb and hailed a cab. When the taxi pulled away, he crossed the street and headed for the subway.

V
eil searched the streets around Columbia University, then headed into Morningside Park. Fifteen minutes later he found Picker Crabbe. The tall, gaunt man was seated on a park bench near West 120th Street, casually leafing through the latest issue of
Hustler
while he waited for customers. The man glanced up and saw Veil approaching. He flung the magazine to one side, jumped up, and started running down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Veil easily caught up with him, grabbed him by the arm, and spun him around.

"What the hell's the matter with you, Picker? This is the second time you've run away when you saw me."

"You're a crazy man," Crabbe said, wincing and raising his arms in front of his face as if to ward off a blow. It was just past ten in the morning, but the man's pupils were already dilated from the effects of cocaine.

Veil laughed as he released Picker Crabbe's thin arm. "If you ran every time you saw a crazy man in New York, you'd die of exhaustion before noon."

Crabbe sniffed, then pushed a strand of greasy gray-brown hair away from his eyes. He looked as if he wanted to run, but he stayed where he was. "You beat up on me pretty good."

"That was a year and a half ago."

"It was the kind of beating a man don't forget. You
thought
about what you were doing to me. Man, I ain't never been beat on like that."

"I don't see any lasting damage."

"Damage ain't the point, man. It hurt."

"It was supposed to hurt, and you were supposed to remember it the next time you were tempted to get into the child pornography and prostitution game. One of the kids you were pimping for had been kidnapped three months before, beat on, and drugged."

"I didn't do no kidnapping, and I didn't do none of that other stuff. I was just working for a piece of the action."

"I know. The man who did do the kidnapping is dead. You are out of that business now, aren't you?"

"Yes!"

"Good. Maybe you deserved to die, Picker. At the time I did give some thought to killing you. I didn't, so I figure you owe me something."

"What do you want?"

"Information. What were you doing parked on Sixty-ninth last night? I know you were supposed to be watching the art gallery, so give me the condensed version of the story."

Crabbe blinked slowly. "What art gallery?"

Veil sighed. "Picker, I just had a talk with those two jerks you got to tail the woman. Incidentally, they asked me to tell you that they resign."

"Oh, Jesus."

"So let's cut through the bullshit, okay? What were you doing there?"

"You're right. I was supposed to keep an eye on the place. There were other guys too. It was my bad luck to have you come along on my shift."

"Why were you supposed to watch the place?"

"To make sure that idol wasn't stolen. If it was, to try to

stop the guy; if I couldn't, to get a good look at who it was doing the stealing."

"Somehow I find that funny, Picker. You're telling me a thief was sent out to make certain the statue wasn't stolen by another thief?"

"It's the truth."

"Who hired you?"

"I can't tell you that, man."

"Now, Picker . . ."

To Veil's astonishment, tears welled in Crabbe's eyes, then picked up grime like mascara as they rolled down his cheeks. "I'm being straight with you, man," Crabbe said in a near whimper. "I don't mind telling you most of what I know, because I don't know that much. But I can't give you that name. I know you can bust me up, and God knows I don't want you to, but I can't give you the name. He's as crazy as you are, man; you're two sides of the same coin— except that you'll hurt me for this but you won't kill me. This guy'll hurt me worse than you did, and
then
he'll kill me. For sure. He likes it."

"How would he know you told me?"

"I ain't takin' no chances, man. I don't want to be tortured, and I don't want to die."

Veil looked at the trembling man before him, saw the tears in his eyes and the defeated sag of his shoulders. Suddenly he was disgusted with the terror in the world and ashamed of that part of it he had, with whatever justification, helped nurture. Picker Crabbe made him feel profoundly sad. There were too many Picker Crabbes in the world, he thought; victims who victimized, producing victims who victimized.

"Forget it, Picker," Veil said quietly. "I don't want the name of the man who put you on the job. But tell me this: If your man is so interested in the statue, why didn't he just have you steal it?"

"I'm not sure. He may have been afraid there was a police stakeout."

"So you and the others were put in place just to make certain that the police did their job?"

"I'm just guessing. He moved so fast, nobody could have stopped him."

"Why do these people want the statue?"

"I don't know."

"The two men you sent out told me you were going to give them a grand each if they brought you back the idol. Is that true?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have the money?"

"I could've got it."

"From the man whose name you won't give me?"

"Him or others. It was a street contract. The word was out that the statue was worth five grand to certain people." Crabbe paused, put a dirty index finger beside his nose. "I'd heard about the contract, but I knew those other two hadn't. I figured I had nothing to lose by promising those two guys a thousand each to follow the girl, then grab the idol from that guy if she found him. I'd still clear three grand."

"All right, then there's a general street contract out on the statue; anyone who brings it in and hands it over to certain people can collect the reward. Was it your idea to follow the woman?"

"Nah. The same guy who put me on the street to watch the gallery gave me the woman's address and suggested that I keep an eye on her."

* * *

Veil sat in the cool shadows at the rear of the church sanctuary throughout the afternoon. At four-thirty, a door to the left of the altar opened and a priest stepped through. The man was around six feet, Veil's height, and in his mid- to late fifties. His hair was thick and black, with a few pronounced streaks of gray. A solid man with broad shoulders, he walked with a severe limp that caused his body to roll from side to side as he moved to the center of the altar rail, kissed his purple vestment, then knelt and prayed for a few minutes. Finally he rose and entered the confessional to the far left. Veil looked around, determined that he was alone, then walked quickly to the confessional, went in, and sat down on the narrow wooden bench inside.

"I've come to talk about sin, Father," Veil said softly as a small door opened in the partition separating the two men.

There was a long pause, then, "Veil?" The priest's voice was hoarse and gravelly, as if something had been broken in his throat.

"Yes."

There was another equally long pause. When the priest finally spoke, there was a note of dry humor in his voice. "Am I to assume that you've found your way to God?"

"No, Father. I'm afraid I'll have to seek salvation in other ways."

"There are no other ways."

"For now I'll settle for having found my way to you."

"What do you want with me, Veil?"

"I need information that you may have, Father."

"Veil, this is a confessional."

"I'm aware of that, Father, and I don't mean to be disrespectful—but this is Little Italy, and I don't want to risk having anyone see you talking to me. I've attracted quite a following since yesterday, and I haven't quite figured out who's watching whom."

"God protects me, Veil."

"I need to get plugged in on some family business, Father."

"It isn't proper for you to come to me with such a request, Veil. I can't help you."

"I think you can. This isn't a matter anyone would have spoken to you about in the confessional. No disrespect meant here, either, Father—you happen to be one of the most truly religious and good men I know, but you also happen to be the closest thing to a 'house priest' the mob has."

There was a sudden, palpable increase in tension inside the confessional. "It is because I am not judgmental."

"It's because three generations of your family have been Cosa Nostra; you're the only male who didn't go into the business—everyone around you did. As far as being judgmental is concerned, I don't recall that I was too judgmental when you came to me for help in finding out where your mistress had taken your illegitimate son; you couldn't go to anyone else. I was the one who negotiated what you might call a reconciliation agreement. Now I'm asking for your help."

The priest heaved a deep sigh. "What are you looking for, Veil?"

"Somebody else's god. You've heard about the idol they call the Nal-toon?"

"Yes."

"What have you heard?"

"I read the newspapers, listen to the news reports."

"What else do you hear?"

"Notwithstanding the great favor you did for me, Veil, I don't think it's right for you to come to me on a fishing expedition."

"This is a bit more than a fishing expedition, Father. The Mafia wants the idol, don't they?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why?"

"No."

'"Father . . . ?"

"It's the truth, Veil. The fact that it's wanted by the capos is common knowledge on the street; indeed, there's a bounty for anyone who brings the idol in and hands it over to any of the top people in the five families. However, the reason for their wanting it is a carefully guarded secret."

"They could be worried about the possibility that it wouldn't be turned in if people knew why they wanted it."

"Perhaps. I don't care to speculate."

"You mentioned five families. What happened to the sixth?"

There was a prolonged silence, and Veil could sense the conflict and indecision in the other man on the opposite side of the partition. "Vito Ricci is dead," the priest said at last. "His operations are being absorbed by the other families, along with those people who are deemed worthy. The Ricci family no longer exists."

Veil suppressed a whistle. "That's some bit of news."

"It's no news at all yet. The police and the FBI know that Vito is missing, of course, but that is all they know. It hasn't made the papers. Nobody will ever find his body, and the authorities will eventually just naturally assume he is dead."

"Execution?"

"Yes. It was Vito who was responsible for trying to squeeze the idol through that smuggling pipeline. Apparently he wanted it for personal reasons. It was an insane act, Veil, and it was not even properly executed at this end. If things had been properly planned, the idol never would have ended up on an auction block, and it certainly wouldn't have surfaced in some art gallery on the East Side in the same week that the first article appeared in
The Times.
The whole thing was an unmitigated disaster, and Vito paid for his mistake with his life." The priest paused, added dryly, "He must have been getting senile."

"Maybe. Is there a contract out on the K'ung?"

"The what?"

"The black who stole back the idol. Are there specific orders to kill him?"

"No, but I don't suppose that will prevent his death. The easiest way to obtain the idol, of course, is to kill the man carrying it."