Rough Justice (15 page)

“What guy? You remember his name?”

“Yeah. Yeah. What was it? Howard. Howard something …”

I let a lungful of smoke out in a small stream. I was almost afraid to ask. “Baumgarten?”

“That's it.”

“Howard Baumgarten.”

“Yeah.”

“The city comptroller.”

15

The dark came down slowly, the way it does in spring. The air turned a rich blue, shade by shade. I rode a cab uptown, up Park, through the dusk. I watched as the budding branches of the sidewalk trees sank back into silhouette. I watched the skyline lights to the north rise slowly out of the background of the evening.

It was hard to sit there, to sit still, with my mind working it over. Howard Baumgarten. The city comptroller. The man who won Cooper House its approval from a bought-off board. It might be nothing. It probably was. A shelter like Cooper House would have to have some city grants, connections with other institutions, other agencies. Baumgarten's office was sure to have a hand in it. Mikki Snow was probably just filling out some form or other or making a phone call when she spoke to Sam Scar.

It was probably nothing, but it was everything I had. Everything but the whispers running on and on in my head. So I couldn't let it go, couldn't stop working it as the cab headed northward. My one connection with Thad Reich's life. The Board of Estimate story I'd picked up for Stertz. I kept turning it over and over, looking for a way in.

The cab moved quickly in the light Saturday traffic. The massive front of Grand Central came closer, its chiseled Mercury spread his arms at me from above. I glanced up through the windshield to the west, toward the
Star
. It would be quiet there now unless a jet had crashed on the Garden or something. Ray Marshall, the weekend guy, would be at the desk. That meant there would be wastepaper basketball contests and a box of Dunkin Donuts by the coffeemaker. There'd be a lot of wire copy to rewrite and blotter stories to track down. Maybe, once the Saturday-night drinking started, there'd be a decent murder or two. If not, Ray would turn up the sound on one of the TV monitors and let fly with a running commentary on the latest episode of the latest cop show. Once I wandered in there and caught them all dancing to some FM rock. Maybe they'd be doing that tonight.

For a second or two, I thought of telling the cabbie to go on to Forty-second. Maybe I could drop in, I thought. Read the wires. Find out the latest from upstairs. Then I thought of the way they'd look at me, the things they'd say when I came in. By then, anyway, the cab was heading around the terminal.

And I started going at it again. Howard Baumgarten. The Board of Estimate. Mikki Snow—where was she? Somehow, I would have to try to track her down.

When I got out of the cab in front of my building, I stood on the sidewalk a second. I looked up at the windows of my apartment. They reflected the neon of the street back to me. I thought of spending the night in there. With the TV and the cracks on the wall, the red stain of light from the Triplex. A frozen dinner. The Scotch bottle. I swallowed hard and headed inside.

I rode up the elevator. Slogged down the hall. I reached out with my key to unlock my apartment door.

Then I stopped. I stared at the door. My free hand drifted up to my throat. I felt the fading mark of the wire.

I reached out again, turned the lock slowly. Turned the knob slowly. Pushed the door in, standing back. I edged closer to the opening, reached around the jamb. Flicked up the light switch. Kicked the door in with my foot. There was no one in the room in front of me. But I stepped in quickly, looked quickly to either side. Checked behind the door. Peered into the kitchenette. No one.

“You jackass,” I said aloud.

I kicked the door shut behind me.

I yanked my tie open as I went to the kitchenette. I collected some ice in a glass. Collared the Scotch bottle. Headed for my desk.

I dropped into my chair. Dashed out a shot of liquor. I was aching for it again. Wound tight inside. Eager to feel its heat break the hold of the day.

I set the bottle down on the desk. Tossed my cigarette pack beside it. Leaned back and threw my feet up next to both. I sipped the Scotch and felt it burn its way into me. I watched the red glow of the Triplex on the face of the night. I watched my own reflection staring at me.

And I heard footsteps at my back.

They started in the bedroom. They came slowly, calmly out through the bedroom door. I didn't turn. I kept looking in the window. The footsteps stopped directly behind me.

I stuck a cigarette between my teeth. I lit it. “You better have a gun,” I said.

I heard a laugh. “Sure, I got a gun. Every cop's got a gun.”

I tilted my head to one side.

“Aw shit,” I said.

Next to my reflection now, I saw the wavering image of Tom Watts.

I shook my head, disgusted. “I thought your weapon of choice was a dump truck.”

He laughed again. I could hear his lip curl. He took a few more steps around the room, looking it over.

I smoked my cigarette, drank my drink. Maybe if I ignored him, he'd go away.

“Shitty little place you've got here, Wells.”

“We can't all shake down hookers, Tommy. Some of us just get by.”

“A big-shot journalist like you oughta be able to strangle young men in a penthouse, I'd think.”

“You're just spoiled by years of the pad.” I blew smoke at the window. “Hey, by the way, you wouldn't happen to have a search warrant on you, would you?”

“Gee, I had one here a minute ago.” He tapped the pockets of his trenchcoat. Then shrugged, smiled. “What's a few civil liberties between friends?”

“Nothing. But we're not friends. Get out.” I pulled my feet off the desk. I swiveled around in the chair. “And try not to leave a trail of slime.”

He grinned. I saw his teeth. He shook a finger at me. “Now, I don't want to have to break your arms, John.”

“I don't want to have to call my lawyer.”

“I met your lawyer, I don't blame you.” He snorted. His green eyes caught the light, and the handsome face went wicked. He stuck a cigarette in it. As he lifted the match to it, his coat opened. He did have a gun, at that. He waved the match out. “Look, Wells,” he said. “We oughta talk.”

“You talk. I'm drinking.”

“Sure. Fine. I'll talk.” He ran a thumb over his lip. Thought it over. He looked a little reluctant to get started. As if this wasn't as much fun as, say, handcuffing a guy to a desk leg and then grinding a heel into his mouth. Finally, though, he nodded and said: “Okay. The way I see it, your position is this: upside down in shit to your ankles. I'm in a fair way to have you indicted for murder two and, frankly, nothing would make me a happier guy. But I'm not like you, John. I can't think about revenge all the time.”

“Well,” I said modestly, “I don't have to worry about greed and corruption.”

He shook his head, tapped an ash off onto my floor. Stared down at it. “The thing is: I might be willing to save the taxpayers some money—your trial, your bread and board, that sort of thing—if you thought you could find it in your heart to shut your fucking face up about E.J. McMahon.”

He stopped, let it hang there. Gazed at me with his green eyes, gauging my reaction.

I let him sweat, took a drag. Then I smiled at him. He smiled at me. I wagged my head. He wagged his. I chuckled. He chuckled back.

I said: “Good. That's good.”

“You like that?”

“Yeah. I do. It's sharp.”

“Hey. Happy to amuse.”

“The commissioner can shut me up long enough for you to bust me. But if you bust me, I'll bring in E.J. as a defense. Might even prove it.”

“I doubt it.”

“But it's a possibility.”

“Anything's possible.”

“Right. Right.” I laughed some more. He laughed some more, too.

“No one's listening to you, Wells,” he said pleasantly. “Why waste your time? Why waste the ink?”

“Damned if I know.”

“There you go.”

“It's, like, a complex.”

“Doctors can do a lot for those nowadays.”

“I mean, sometimes—sometimes I lie awake at night, and I think about some guy, you know, out in the boroughs. Working some shop somewhere, pulling twenty grand, thirty grand. Couple of kids, thinking about college. And paying a big hunk of every dime he makes to the City of New York. And then,” I went on, “I think about you. Selling that badge he bought you to the same bunch of scumbags who bleed his union and sell his kids dope and murder each other on his streets. I'm serious, Tommy. I lie awake.”

“That's not good, John. A man needs his sleep.”

“I mean, let me ask you something: Did you ever arrest anyone? Just out of curiosity.”

Watts was still smiling, but the smile had frozen. It looked sharp, feral. His eyes gleamed. “You know,” he said, “I'm really beginning to worry about you.”

“That's sweet. I'm touched.”

“I mean it. I really am. A man who kills a respected citizen is in a precarious position.”

I drank. I watched him over the rim of the glass.

“Pretty soon, you're going to be wanted for murder,” he said. “A dangerous business. You could be blown away resisting arrest. Or you could get depressed and hang yourself in a holding cell. Or Rikers …” He pursed his lips, shook his head. “Ooh, that bad, bad Rikers. I hate to think what might happen to you there if one of your fellow inmates took a dislike to you. Life, in such situations, can be a harsh and uncertain thing. I worry about you, John. Sincerely.”

He looked at me hard. I set my drink down on the desk behind me. I stood up, my cigarette clenched in my teeth. I sent his look back at him through the smoke.

“Kill the McMahon story,” he said.

“Your badge is mine, Tommy. You're mine.” It did not sound like my voice.

For a minute, Watts didn't react. He kept standing there, looking at me, as if I hadn't spoken. Then he dropped his cigarette on my floor. Right on the spot where Thad Reich died. He crushed it under his heel.

“That's one thing I can count on with you, Wells,” he said. “You're a real idiot. Sort of restores my faith in journalism.” He started for the door. But he paused with his hand on the knob. “Remember I gave you this chance, though. It's a last chance. Your time is just about up.”

“If you had something, you'd use it,” I said.

His eyes flashed angrily at that. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe I don't have anything yet. But it's lined up, Wells.”

“Sure it is.”

He yanked the door open. “It's lined up and ready. A witness. Someone who can connect you to Reich. Someone who can supply your motive.” He smiled. “I'll be back. So—sweep the floor, would you?”

He slammed the door shut behind him. I was free to start drinking in earnest.

16

The next time I opened my eyes, it was another day. Sunday, I think. I was lying on top of my bed. The bed was still made. I was still dressed. It's the fastest way to start your morning.

I rolled over, tried to sit up. The motion made the room swirl. I lay back down. I stared at the ceiling. Slowly, the swirling stopped.

I did better on the second try. I actually had myself on the edge of the bed. I stumbled to the bathroom, clutching my stomach. Then out into the living room, clutching my head.

I managed to make myself a mug of coffee. I stuck a frozen waffle in the oven and sat at the kitchenette counter, drinking. I stared at the spot on the floor where Tom Watts's cigarette lay. Soon, I smelled char and got the waffle out. I sat at the counter and stared at the cigarette. I munched on the waffle. I drained the mug. The waffle and coffee rolled around in my stomach. I had a smoke. It sat in my lungs.

I passed the time that way till nearly ten. Then I fell over to my desk chair, dropped into it. Plucked up the receiver and dialed the paper.