Once a Crooked Man (27 page)

“He's right, Max.” Vic nodded. “We could be out of here in a couple of weeks. Probably take more time to find a place than to actually make the change.”

Max thought for a moment. Aware that this was an argument he couldn't win he got up to leave. “I'll need to talk it over with Sal. Don't do anything until I call.”

“Sure thing,” said Vic. Blackthorn gave a theatrical bow. Max went out into the corridor ignoring the gesture. “One thing more. Stay out of the basement. I got someone down there locked in the Men's room.”

“Have you really, Max? How fascinating,” said Blackthorn. “Don't worry; I'll see to it that Vic only uses the Ladies.”

As Max started down the stairs he realized that his nephew hadn't told him what his fancy new project might be. As he turned to go back, his foot hit the strand of monofilament and the little cup tipped over.

“Shit!” said Max quickly pulling out his handkerchief to cover his nose. To get clear, he went headlong down the steps, taking two at a time. In his emotional state and with the added exertion his chest began to throb.

At the foot of the stairs he stood still and, using the wall for support, took deep breaths as he tried to calm his pounding pulse.

 

48

Eight-year-old Harry Murphy learned to swim at Shawnee Wigwam in the Pocono Mountains. Every year along with dozens like him he was sent off to camp for two weeks.

At the end of his first year at college, Harry came back home for the vacation and was told there would be no more summer allowance. The time had come for him to go out and get a job. For two days Harry trekked around local shops and restaurants. He tried the hospital and library, but nothing temporary was available. On the fourth day the annual flyer arrived in the mail from Shawnee Wigwam. At his mother's suggestion he called them up and asked if they were still hiring. After a perfunctory interview he was taken on as a counselor.

Among his duties was coaching the boys' baseball team. This took considerable patience and a high degree of tolerance. Few could pitch and none could hit. But everyone screamed advice. Runs were scored on walks, missed catches and wild throws. Most of these went to the wrong base. At the end of each week the boys played the girls. The coach of the girls' team was Charlene Louise Bogdanovich from Garden City.

As a baby Charlene had been pudgy and unattractive to everyone except her mother. As a small child she was cute and put on a bewitching smile the instant a camera was pointed in her direction. But for the next ten years she ate junk food in front of the television and swiftly regressed to pudgy and unattractive.

The change to womanhood began at twelve and by her sixteenth year she was well on the way to becoming a slim, silken-haired beauty. At the height of her charms she ravished Harry in the old woodshed.

The game was in the third inning. The girls were ahead by six runs. The wind began to blow. Storm clouds grew large on the horizon. Harry yelled at the kids to run for the Crafts Cabin as huge drops of rain fell. Charlene picked up the bases and gloves, Harry grabbed the bats and balls and they raced together into the equipment shed.

The heavens burst, the wind howled and the rain battered down on the corrugated roof.

As Harry turned from closing the door, Charlene Bogdanovich gave him another image to take to his grave. Dripping wet and with her smooth brown skin visibly steaming, she ever so slowly removed her shirt and shorts. Then she turned away, bent over and ever so slowly slid her panties down her legs. Kicking them away, she released her 36D bra and twirled it over her head like a professional stripper.

Breasts heaved as clad only in her sneakers and socks she walked to the pile of exercise mats where she lay down on her back. Lightning flashed. Thunder roared. Harry wildly dragged off his damp clothes and stumbled across the intervening chasm.

With a jarring crash his head smashed into something solid. The shock brought him back to consciousness. Whatever he'd hit conspired with the river current to suck him under the water. Stroking hard with his arms, he kicked himself back to the surface and found himself bobbing along between what appeared to be the hull of a ship and a floating dock. Frantically he felt for something to grasp on to but his hands just slid along smooth metal. The space between the vessels began to widen and Harry was swept out into open water. A brightly lit superstructure towered over him. He called out but no one heard his weak cry. High above he could make out aircraft wings overhanging what appeared to be the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. Dear God! He was floating beneath the Intrepid Air & Space Museum!

His panic was abated slightly when he saw a forest of stumps sticking up out of the water. The remains of an old wooden pier. As he did as a kid in his first swimming race at Shawnee Wigwam, he put his head down and thrashed towards them until his arms circled a seaweed covered pylon. Like a limpet he clung there for almost five minutes. Then he swam from stump to stump stopping at each to rest. Finally his foot touched friendly concrete and he was able to get a foothold. Then a grip. Harry hauled himself out of the water and onto dry land.

The wire mesh of the fence helped him to stand up and like a big fish he flopped over the rail to the ground. A euphoric sense of elation rushed through his body. With an audible chuckle he rolled over on his back. He was exhausted and soaking wet, but he was alive and for the moment he was safe.

The thought of a hot shower entered his chilled brain and brought him comfort. Back on his feet he shuffled across the blacktop towards Twelfth Avenue, now leaving a slimy trail like a snail.

At the edge of the road he reached into his pockets to make sure he still had his keys, money clip and wallet. They were there. Hopefully he would be able to dry out the contents.

Harry raised his hand to passing cabs. Some slowed down but none stopped. That was hardly surprising. He was soaking wet, barefoot, he wore a filthy undershirt, his pants hung low and his hair was a tangled mess. Screw them. He would walk home. It was only fifteen blocks and the exercise would warm him up.

But as he set out a troublesome thought entered his mind. Lizzie hadn't given him a way to get in touch with her. Was she still with Marty? No matter. Home first. Lizzie later. Block by block he moved north.

Unfortunately his mind was in better shape than his body. His limbs began to shake as his muscles tried to adapt to the insane conditions in which they found themselves. A prodigious effort was required to put one foot in front of the next. Harry was fascinated to see that no one took any notice of him. He was a homeless drifter, a panhandling bum, one of an army of deadbeats that slept on the streets and begged for spare change. A police car even pulled up beside him at the light but neither of the cops gave him a second look. To the rest of the world he had become invisible. A nuisance to be ignored.

By the time he reached his building he was in a frightful state but somehow he found the energy to crawl up the stairs. No one saw him go up to his apartment. No one heard his horrified gasp as he saw the devastation that was once his home. No one saw him stagger to the sofa and flop down.

The room was warm. The pillow beneath his head was soft.

Everything else could wait.

 

49

Max had stumbled out the door of the warehouse looking very much the worse for wear. Nino had helped him into the car and driven him straight to Mazaras. The ride gave his heart a chance to slow down, so when Nino punched the buttons on the keypad at the back door Max had almost fully regained his composure. Inside, at the end of the corridor, Cora was vacuuming the carpet in the room the girls used for relaxation.

Over the years as each of the women came and went they left behind little touches of themselves. An embroidered pillow. A group of picture postcards tacked to the wall. A tattered teddy bear. Several photographs. Many small ornaments and curios on a long shelf. Even a miniature poodle immortalized by a taxidermist. The furniture was old but amazingly comfortable in spite of its threadbare appearance.

Sitting himself down on the long leather sofa, Max patted the cushion. Cora switched off the vacuum and locked it upright.

“I need your advice,” Max said.

“That's a pity,” she replied.

“Why a pity?”

“You always ask me for my advice when you're in trouble.” With the back of her hand she brushed off traces of cigarette ash before sitting down. “How bad is it this time?”

“That's the problem. I don't know.”

There was a moment's pause before Cora asked, “This all started in the hospital, didn't it?”

“Yes, it did.”

“That's when you made up your mind to make changes?”

“Yes.”

“And that's why you went down to Colombia?”

“I'm shutting down Mazaras,” Max said.

Cora stared at him in disbelief.

“When that doctor told me I had to reduce the stress in my life, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out it was time to quit. The more I thought about it the more I liked the idea.”

“Go on,” said Cora.

“I talked to Sal and Enzo and we came to an agreement.”

“But it all didn't work out the way you planned. Where did things go wrong?” she asked.

“Sal decided we should cover our tracks in London. But you're right. There was a screwup. Rocco was able to deal with Santiago but he missed with Villiers. Now the Colonel's mad and he's on the loose.”

“Rocco missed!?”

“Villiers was warned off by some nut called Murphy. Sal and I yelled at him when he came into the Dragon to take a piss. He went outside and around the back overheard everything we said. Now the bastard is here with his girlfriend in New York. Says he wants to give the money back.”

Cora was more than a little confused. “What money?”

“Villiers had a case full of cash. He gave it to Murphy. He thought Murphy worked for us.”

“Jesus! No wonder you need help.” She got to her feet. “I need caffeine. Let's go upstairs.”

Fortified with steaming cups of strong coffee laced with Bourbon they sat down at the table. Max started from the day he left to go to South America and ended with Murphy's untimely leap into the Hudson.

“Before he drowned,” said Cora, “this Murphy never told you what he did with the money?”

“No. We have no idea where it could be.”

“And the girlfriend's in Brooklyn?”

“I got her in the basement at the warehouse.”

“Well,” Cora said after a moment of deliberation, “apart from dealing with the girl and the missing cash, you only have Villiers to worry about. When he surfaces, Rocco has to whack him. In fact, he needs to dispose of anyone who knows anything. Present company excepted of course.”

She reached over and put her hand on his arm.

“It's going to be fine, Max. You worked it all out great. I'll help you shut this place down. We'll make up a story. I can tell everyone we're doing some renovations. God knows we need them. I'll give them a month's money.”

She stood up and asked a little too casually, “What's the Murphy girl really like?”

“Kinda cute. With a Limey accent.”

“She might know where your money is. That would solve that problem.”

“Why should she tell us?”

“Use your Sicilian charm.”

“Then what?”

She snapped her fingers in the air.

“Then she can join her buddy in the Hudson.”

 

50

“Where is Detective Carswell?”

Harry opened his eyes to see a stranger staring down at him. The face was angular, the hair dark, the suit gray and the gun in his belt shiny.

“Where is Detective Carswell?” the armed intruder demanded once more.

“Who?” said Harry.

“The Brit agent in charge of your investigation.”

Comprehension returned. “Who needs to know?” he asked.

The man flipped open a badge. “Marty MacAvoy, Mr. Murphy. If you know where Detective Carswell is please tell me now.”

Harry propped himself up on his elbows. “I haven't seen her since she left here yesterday. What time is it?”

MacAvoy looked at his watch. “A little after four.”

The front door opened and a man with the physique of a bull came in carrying a folder, which he handed to the other. He wore his artillery on the left side of his waistband with a clip-on holster. This weapon was black.

“Thanks, Frank,” said MacAvoy giving the folder a cursory glance. “No sign of her?”

The big man shook his head. “Nope.”

“Goddam it!” was the succinct comment.

“You still want to hold off on a report?”

“Yeah. For the time being.”

Frank looked around. “Boy, they sure made a mess up here.”

Next to arrive was a diminutive person in a short-sleeve shirt and green pants. His hair was slicked down and he wore steel-rimmed spectacles.

“Harry Murphy, this is Special Agent Luigi Rienzi,” said MacAvoy. “Luigi's our IRS Criminal Investigation Coordinator.”

The little man took Harry's hand. “Wait a minute!” His face lit up. “
SEALS in the Snow.
Am I right?”

Harry nodded.

The agent broke into a big smile. “I knew it,” he said knowingly. “And you played the bad guy in that movie last year with Meg what's-her-name, the one with the hallucinogenic mushrooms. Am I right or am I right?”

“You're right,” said Harry.

“Lou!” interrupted MacAvoy.

“Sorry, Marty,” said Luigi, and he relinquished Harry's hand. “I see a lot of movies. Nice to meet you.”

MacAvoy turned to the first man. “And this is Frank Torregrossa.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Frank.

“So. Tell us your side of the story Mr. Murphy,” said MacAvoy.