New York Dead (31 page)

“You don’t make love, Cary. You merely fuck.”

Cary raised herself on an elbow and looked at him. “Do you really think so?” she asked wonderingly.

“Yes.”

She nodded. “You’re right, I think, but I do fuck surpassingly well, don’t I?”

“You do,” Stone said; then he fucked her again.

When they had exhausted each other, she lay on her back, her breasts pointing at the ceiling. “You think it’s terrible that I’m still fucking you, now that I’m married,” she said.

“Yes. And it’s just as bad that I’m still fucking you.”

“You wait. One of these days, perhaps before very long, you’ll get married, but you’ll still want to fuck me. And believe me, my darling, you will. Because I’ll never let go of you.”

“Yes,” he said, “I will.” Whenever she wanted him, for as long as she wanted him.

On Thursday nights at Elaine’s, the big table across from the bar was kept for the guys—the regulars who had been coming for years, whom Elaine had fed when they were broke, the starving writers who might not have made it in New York without the nurturing and bonding that went on in an uptown neighborhood saloon. They wandered in and out during the evening, bitching about their agents and the promotion budgets for their most recent books, moaning about the pitiful advance sales and the huge reserve for returns on their royalty statements.

There were guys who were getting a million dollars a book now—sometimes more—and others who were getting twenty-five thousand and pretending it was two hundred. There were guys who had given up on writing fiction and were churning out screenplays for the movies and television, and there were guys who were doing it all—books, magazines, television series—the works. They were bonded by the common knowledge that nobody—not their wives, sweet-hearts, or publishers—believed they really worked for a living, and, sometimes, they weren’t too sure of that themselves.

Stone often sat with the bunch these days, and he liked them. He wasn’t exactly sure he was working for a living either, so they had something in common. Most Thursday nights, somebody would bring a girl, and they were always smart and pretty. Stone envied them their girls.

This Thursday night, drained of desire by Cary, relaxed,
and depressed, Stone got drunk. He had three Wild Turkeys before dinner—which was, in itself, a big mistake—drank most of a bottle of wine with his pasta, and, when Elaine said she was buying, couldn’t resist a Sambuca or two. He switched to mineral water for a while, until he felt steadier, then started on cognac. By the time he and a couple of other guys closed the place at 4:00
A.M.
, he was ambulatory, but only just.

He walked carefully from the place, uncharacteristically gave the burn on duty a buck, and thought for a minute about whether he should walk. He usually walked; it was good for the knee and for the gut, but tonight walking seemed out of the question. He flagged a cab, gave the driver the exact address, explaining that he wished to be driven to the door, not to the corner, then hunkered way down in the backseat and tried to keep from passing out. That was what he was doing when the shooting started.

They had pulled up to the light, and the cabbie had decided he felt like talking. “You follow baseball?” he asked, half-turning toward the backseat.

Stone was trying to answer him when there was a sound like a watermelon being dropped from a great height, and the driver’s face exploded, leaving a huge hole spouting blood. As Stone hit the floor of the backseat, the screech of rubber on pavement told him the shooter was on his way.

Stone scrambled out of the cab, and, operating instinctively, yanked the left side door open, shoved the dead driver aside, and got the cab in gear. A block and a half ahead, a van was roaring away. Stone stood on it. He switched the blinking caution lights on, leaned on the horn, and streaked off down Second Avenue after the van.

There was almost no traffic on the avenue at 4:00
A.M.
“Where the fuck are the blue-and-whites?” he demanded aloud, suddenly aware that he was now cold sober. “Where are you, you sons of bitches?” The cab was new, and he
gained on the van for a minute, until the driver realized he was being pursued. Still, Stone was keeping pace a block behind. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get any closer, since he wasn’t armed; all he wanted to do was to attract a blue-and-white or two. He tried to make out the license plate on the van and failed.

At Forty-second Street, the van hung a left and nearly turned over. “That would be good,” Stone said, “turn the fucking thing over and save me some trouble!” Good luck, too. On Forty-second Street a blue-and-white was parked in front of an all-night joint, the cops drinking coffee from paper cups. Stone glanced in the rearview mirror as he passed and saw the cups go out the windows on both sides and the car start after him.

The van turned left again and started up First Avenue, keeping all four wheels on the ground this time. Stone managed a wide four-wheel drift and made up a few yards on him. The blue-and-white was doing even better; it was faster than both the van and Stone’s cab. At Fifty-seventh Street, the blue-and-white overtook Stone, and the cop in the passenger seat was waving him over. Stone shook his head and pointed ahead. “No! Get him! Get him! He’s the cab killer!” The cop didn’t seem to understand, but the driver floored it and went after the van. Stone followed. At Seventy-second Street, another blue-and-white joined the chase. At Eighty-sixth Street, the van driver made his mistake. He started a turn to the left, then saw a hooker crossing the street. He wavered, missed her, then, too late, tried to get the van around the corner. It teetered on two wheels, then went over and slid twenty feet on its side, coming to rest against a parked car.

“This is one for Scoop Berman,” Stone cackled, skidding to a halt behind a blue-and-white. “I wonder where the little guy is tonight.”

The little guy came out of the driver’s window, holding
an impossibly large pistol equipped with a silencer. He popped off one shot, which shattered the window of a blue-and-white, then a returning fusillade knocked him back inside the van.

Four cops approached the van warily now, three pistols out in front, another with a riot gun. They hesitated, then the bearer of the shotgun crept around the front of the van and peered in through the windshield. The shotgun went off, and Stone made it around the van in time to see the cop reach into the cab through the hole he had blown open and remove Scoop Berman’s pistol.

The cop used the butt of the shotgun to clean out a larger area of the windshield, and with help, pulled Scoop out of the van onto the pavement.

“You the cabdriver?” a cop asked Stone as they crowded around Scoop.

“No, the passenger. The driver’s in the front seat, there, missing most of his head.”

“Well, we finally got the fucker,” another cop said. “That’s cabbie number six he’s offed. We’ll get a fucking commendation for this one.” He pulled out his notebook. “Let’s have your name,” he said to Stone, “and we’ll want a statement from you.”

“My name’s Barrington. I was fourteen years on the job, detective second, most recently out of the 19th.”

“I know you,” another cop said. “You were Dino Bacchetti’s partner.”

“Right.”

“Let him write out his own statement,” the cop said to his colleague. “He’ll do it better than you.”

“I know this guy,” Stone said, nodding at Scoop. “His name’s Berman; he’s a free-lance television cameraman. You want me to talk to him?”

“Yeah,” said the cop. “If you know him.”

Stone went and knelt over Berman. “Scoop, how are you
feeling? An ambulance is on the way.”

Scoop was gutshot, twice, and there was blood around his lips. His eyes focused. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “I thought you was out to pasture.”

“I was, buddy, but I was in the cab.”

Scoop looked worried. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “You okay?”

“I’m okay. Scoop, did you shoot the other cabdrivers?”

“Yeah, the bastards always got in my way when I was on a story. Other cars would get out of the way, you know? But not hacks, the sons of bitches.”

Stone turned to a cop, who had a notebook out. “You get that?”

“Yeah,” the cop said. “You know, I wanted to shoot a few cabbies myself, at times.”

“Stone,” Scoop said.

“Yeah, Scoop?”

“There’s something I never told you. I shouldda told you, but I didn’t. I wanted it for myself.”

“What’s that, Scoop?” He could hear the ambulance approaching.

“The night Sasha took her dive, remember?”

“You bet I remember.”

“I was there, remember?”

“I remember. You got her on tape. It was a good job.”

“There was a guy on the scene had these black glasses, with tape on them.”

“I remember. His name is Van Fleet.”

“That’s right. He works on stiffs.”

“Right.”

“I think he knows something. I think he saw who tossed Sasha, or something. He was acting funny at the scene. I tried to find him after I showed you the tape, but he was gone. I bought him a drink later, tried to get it out of him, but he wouldn’t talk to me.”

“Okay, Scoop, I’m glad to know that. Thanks.”

The ambulance screeched to a halt, and two men came with a stretcher. Stone stood up to let them at Scoop, and, as he did, he saw Scoop’s eyes glaze over and his head fall to one side. A paramedic produced a stethoscope and listened to his chest.

“This one’s had it,” he said to a cop. “No ticker at all, and, with those kind of holes in him, he ain’t gonna resuscitate, believe me.”

“Ah, shit,” the cop said. “I wanted to see him stand trial.”

“No, it’s better this way,” Stone said. “All neat and tidy; you got your confession.”

Later that morning, when Stone finally got into bed, he discovered he was drunk again.

Chapter

48

O
n Friday, Stone sat down and thought about his options. He should have gone to the FBI, he knew, when he got the first letter. Their kidnapping case was still open and would remain open until there was some sort of resolution, but they had already conducted their own investigation of Van Fleet and had turned up nothing. Neither had their search of his loft produced anything, and they were unlikely to find Stone’s new information compelling. Anyway, his years as a police officer had made him very nearly constitutionally incapable of going to the FBI for anything.

He could, too, have gone to the police, maybe approached Delgado directly, but it had already been made abundantly clear to him that the police hierarchy considered the case closed and did not want it reopened. If he could deliver Van Fleet and Sasha, handcuffed together, Delgado
might listen to him, but not otherwise.

His best alternative was Dino. Dino was even less anxious than Delgado to reopen, because he didn’t want to piss off his superiors, but Dino was his friend, and he still felt guilty about the treatment Stone had received from the department. The trouble was, Dino was in Las Vegas. Stone called Dino’s mother and learned that he was due back from his honeymoon sometime the following day. Stone heaved a sigh of relief. Dino wasn’t going to be easy, but at least he would be in town.

The phone rang.

“Stone. It’s Hi Barker.”

“What’s happening, Hi?”

“I got him. He’s mine for the Sunday-night show. Is there anything else I should know before I interview him?”

“I told you everything at lunch. I’ll leave it to you how to handle him.”

“Will you be there?”

“I’ll be there with a cop,” Stone said. “Where do I go?”

“We’re broadcasting from what the network calls the ‘executive studios,’ on the top floor of their headquarters building on Seventh Avenue. You know the building?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll leave your name with the security guard—and what’s the name of your cop?”

“Bacchetti. What time?”

“Be there at a quarter to eleven, sharp, and go straight to the control room and stay there. We go on the air, live, at eleven thirty, and I don’t want Barron to see you.”

When Stone hung up, he was starting to feel excited.

At noon Saturday, Stone called Dino’s new apartment in the West Village. A woman answered.

“Hello?”

“Is Dino back in town yet?”

“No, who is this?”

“This is Stone Barrington.”

“Oh, yes, we met at the wedding. This is Mary Ann’s mother. I’m just over here tidying up a little so the place will be nice when they get in.”

“What time are they due, Mrs. Bianchi?”

“I’m not sure exactly. They were supposed to come home last night, but Dino was on a winning streak, and they missed their plane. He said they’d get whatever flight was available today. Dino wanted Sunday to rest before going back to work.”

“I see. Mrs. Bianchi, would you write a note to Dino and ask him to call me the moment he gets in? Say that it’s important.”

“Okay, I’ll tack it to the door, so he’ll be sure to see it.”

Stone thanked her and hung up.

The day droned on with no word from Dino, and Stone began calling every hour on the hour. There was no answer. At seven thirty, he got out his tuxedo and began to get dressed. At eight, he called Dino again and still got no reply. At eight thirty, the doorbell rang. Stone thought about it for a moment, then he retrieved his badge and gun from the dresser drawer and strapped on the ankle holster.

When Stone opened the front door, a limousine was at curbside and a mustachioed, uniformed chauffeur stood on the stoop. Stone asked the chauffeur to wait. He went to the living-room phone and called Dino’s number again.

“Yeah?” Dino—sleepy, exhausted.

“Dino, it’s Stone, hang on.” He ran back to the front door. “What address are you taking me to?” he asked the chauffeur.

“Sorry, sir,” the man said, with what seemed to be an Italian accent, “I can’t tell you; it’s supposed to be a surprise. I’m not supposed to wait either; I’ve got a schedule to keep.
If you can’t come now, I’ll have to leave.”