The Letter Writer (33 page)

“I said scram!” Cain shouted. Andy left, shutting the door behind him. After that there was nothing to say.

Gerhard ate quickly, and then licked his fingers. He went down the hall and washed up in the common bathroom. Cain decided they should wait another ten minutes, explaining to Gerhard with hand signals and basic English, which he seemed to understand. Cain hoped this would be enough time for Andy to lose interest and be on his way. The last thing they needed was someone else tagging along, or demanding further pay to keep his mouth shut.

Cain's plan was to put Gerhard up for the night in a more secure and respectable place, a small hotel he'd picked out on Seventh Avenue, much further uptown. He'd show his shield and, if necessary, have a uniform drop by a few times to make sure everything was okay. It wasn't perfect, but for one night only it would probably be safe enough. Then, first thing in the morning, he'd march Gerhard over to Gurfein's office and hope that somebody there spoke enough German to take an official statement.

After that, it would be out of his hands. Either the DA would do the right thing, or he'd let Anastasia slide. That, too, was imperfect, but for the moment it was the best plan he could come up with.

When they got downstairs the lobby was empty and no one was in the cage. It gave Cain a bad feeling as their footsteps echoed on the floor tiles. He slid a hand inside his jacket, feeling the stock of his Colt, and he was on the verge of telling Gerhard to turn around so they could wait a while longer when two guys emerged from a rear hallway with guns drawn. They wore dark pinstriped suits and white fedoras, and their pistols looked big enough to blow you to kingdom come.

“Take your hand out of the cookie jar,” the first one said, aiming at Cain's chest. “Real slow like. Then put your hands on your head.”

Cain did as he was told, trying to keep his cool in hopes that Gerhard wouldn't panic and get them both shot. The German looked worried, his eyes wild, brow creased. He'd already raised his hands into position to fend off any blows.

The first guy strolled up, casual as you please, and reached inside Cain's jacket to remove the Colt. The second thug broke into a grin.

“Nice work, flatfoot,” he said. “We'll take the kraut off your hands now. Good to finally get something out of all those tax dollars we spend on all you boys in blue.”

“As if you guys pay taxes.”

“Tell him he's coming with us, how 'bout it.”

“You tell him. I don't speak German.”

“Hey kraut!” The first guy shoved the gun underneath Gerhard's chin. He reached into Gerhard's pocket and pulled out a knife. “That's much better. You're coming with us!”

Gerhard glared at Cain, as if to say thanks for nothing. He bowed his head and walked out of the building with the first guy behind him, pressing a gun barrel to his back. The second guy lowered his gun and walked up beside Cain.

“Let's take it outside.”

A big dark car was idling at the curb. A Plymouth Road King, not a Packard. The first thug and another guy were putting Gerhard in the back while a third fellow watched from a perch near the hood. He, too, was armed. The thug next to Cain spoke again.

“So who's your shadow?”

“Shadow?”

“Your little friend out there. If he's your guardian angel, better give him a whistle before he does something stupid.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. You mean Ace Andy, the bum?”

“Don't get wise. He's been with you for this whole tour, up one block and down the other, like you had him on a string.”

Cain looked in both directions, noticing nothing beyond a few bums, and all of them had their eyes averted, scrupulously avoiding this bit of unpleasantness outside the Victoria House. All except for Ace Andy, who stood just across the street with a wry look on his face and a fresh greenback in his right hand. So, then, outbid in the end, by these guys who'd probably picked up his trail the moment he hit the Bowery.

But who was this shadow they were talking about? Cain wondered again about the odd recurring feeling he'd had lately, a sense of being watched, or even stalked. Archer? Not after what Cain had given him. But the thought gave him an idea. Feeble, but an idea nonetheless.

“Probably a cop,” Cain said. “I'd asked for some backup.”

The thug chuckled and got out a toothpick, which he used to begin working at something stuck between his molars.

“This guy ain't no cop, I can tell you that. Way too wet behind the ears. But he's steady. Hey, Bingo!” He shouted to the guy posted by the hood of the car. “What happened to our little ghost back there?”

“Scrammed. Guess he didn't like your looks.”

“So there goes your backup,” the thug said. He tossed the toothpick to the curb.

The Plymouth revved its engine. The lookout stepped away and the car smoothly glided toward the next corner and turned out of sight. Poor Gerhard. And poor Cain, who'd just lost his last hope for making a case to Hogan. His shoulders sagged. At least he'd gotten the tag number on the Plymouth. In the morning maybe he'd write the whole thing up, start to finish, and drop it off at Hogan's office, just in case. Then he could figure out how to best protect Danziger. For now, Anastasia had beaten them.

“Well, nice meeting you,” Cain said, “but I better get my gun back from your friend over there.” He stepped toward the curb only to have the thug wheel on him and get right up in his face. The big gun was back in full view.

“Where you think
you're
going, pal? Me and Bingo, we're still waiting for your ride. So hold your horses.”

“
My
ride?” His voice was a little weak. “For what?”

“The boss would like to express his gratitude. Now how 'bout shutting it until we're in Brooklyn.”

Cain did as he was told. For the moment, he was out of ideas, even feeble ones.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN
looking at Albert Anastasia's mug shot and seeing him in the flesh was, to Cain, like the difference between seeing a tiger at the zoo and meeting up with one in the wild. The former is tame, or at least caged, its primal instincts held in check for your idle observation. The latter is a force of nature, eyes gleaming, muscles poised, ready to pounce and devour.

“So you're the flatfoot I been hearing about,” Anastasia said, voice a little raspy, eyes aglow. He walked slowly toward Cain in measured footsteps, as if worried about scaring off his prey.

Cain swallowed with some difficulty, unable for the moment to come up with a suitable reply other than “Yep.”

“Shame,” Anastasia said, shaking his head slowly. “Real shame about that.”

They were in the back room at Midnight Rose's, the very place Gerhard had scouted on Saratoga Avenue. Cain knew this not only by the address, but also from the awning out front, printed with the words “candy,” “soda,” and “cigars,” like Gerhard had said. Except Gerhard, by now, was probably settling into the silt on the bottom of some river.

Cain had tried to keep calm on the way over, mostly by repeating to himself, in the manner of a Catholic praying the rosary, Danziger's maxim about the mob's unbreakable rule, the one that forbade killing a cop. Because it created too much trouble, too much grief with other cops, too much scrutiny from prosecutors. It was too sloppy altogether, and never worth the aggravation. Right?

By the time he got out of the car—a black Packard, no less—he'd decided to approach this confrontation like a business meeting. Seek the best possible deal by using whatever leverage remained at his disposal. But, of course, Gerhard had been his biggest asset, and Cain was still trying to come up with a fresh approach when Anastasia emerged from the back.

He wore baggy gray flannel pants, a wrinkled white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, black suspenders, and a yellow necktie, sloppily knotted. His combed-back hair, as advertised, was wavy and shoved higher on one side. The biggest surprise was his aura of casual menace, a sense that he approached the most brutally violent acts with the indifference of a man smashing a bug, or prying loose a dead mouse from a trap—an almost blasé attitude that seemed to lurk at the back of his eyes. Or maybe Cain had read too many press clippings while going through the man's file. The words “Murder, Inc.” flitted around his brain like a bat trapped in a closet. It was just business to this guy, and as with any business he probably grew bored from time to time—an idea which only compounded Cain's anxiety.

“You've been causing an awful lot of trouble for me,” Anastasia said. “But we're all done with that now.”

“Okay.” Was he offering a way out? At that moment Cain realized that maybe he did have something to offer. His cooperation, of course. A cop's surrender. Craven and submissive and completely unworthy, yet redeemable in full for one human life if the offer was accepted.

“ ‘Okay'? Whadda you mean with the ‘okay'? We ain't here to bargain. This thing's done.”

Cain wet his lips and swallowed, or else he might not have been able to utter a word.

“Don't you guys have a rule against killing cops?”

“Rule?” Anastasia grinned widely. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, playing to his audience. “Hey, you fellas remember that last rule we heard about? What was it, Bingo?”

“Never kill a mob boss.”

“Yeah. Never kill a mob boss. Maybe our guest here could ask Joe ‘The Boss' Masseria what became of that one.”

Cain knew the answer from the file: Anastasia and three others had shot Masseria dead at a Coney Island restaurant.

So that was that. Somehow, by knowing that his fate was now inevitable, Cain was able to, if not relax, then at least marshal his wits, even though all his wits gave him in return was a snappy comeback.

“I'll make sure and ask him if I bump into him a few minutes from now.”

Anastasia laughed, pulling his hands out of his pockets and clapping them sharply. So, then. Not bored after all, Cain thought, or at least not bored by this job. Glad to have helped brighten your workday, sir. He wished he had his gun back. Point the barrel right at his open mouth. Shatter the teeth and blow a hole through the back of his neck. The goons would shoot him immediately, but at least he'd have the pleasure of recompense.

Instead, his only recourse was to stand there in silence, thugs to either side. Anastasia stepped back across the room while rubbing his hands together in apparent relish. He plucked a gray suit coat off the back of a chair and spoke to one and all: “Okay, gents. What do you say we all go for a spin?”

Yet another unwanted ride in a stranger's car. It seemed to be the only way Cain got around anymore.

Out at the curb, the black Packard stood waiting. Cain thought of it now as a hearse, a prop for some movie shot on a gray film set where the street lamps were misted over. Except in reality it was a fine April evening, a little chilly maybe but with the stars out—one of the few benefits of the dim-out—and a rising three-quarter moon suitable for lovers and children alike.

Anastasia sat up front, Cain in the back with beefy escorts to either side. The boss rolled down his window.

“What'll it be tonight, sir?” the driver asked. “East River or the Hudson?”

“I was thinking maybe the Harlem.”

They crossed through Brooklyn and headed up into Queens. Along the way, shoppers were still out on the neighborhood streets with their sacks and baskets. Cain looked up a cross street and saw kids playing beneath a dimmed street lamp, one last game of hopscotch before mom called them to bed. The guy named Bingo spoke up.

“Hey, Cain. Look at it this way. You'll be immortal. Up on the wall of the fallen. At the cop bars down on Centre maybe they'll even name a drink for you.”

“The Cain Cocktail,” Anastasia said. “A shot and a splash.”

They all had a nice laugh and settled back into silence. To Cain it was surreal. A jolly old time with men seated to either side, everyone in a suit, with a crisp breeze pouring in through the window, as if they were headed for a night on the town.

Traffic was light, another perk of wartime. They crossed the Queensboro Bridge back into Manhattan and headed up East River Drive. They exited and rolled down to a wharf, only a few blocks from where Angela Feinman's body had been found. The driver cut the headlights as they rolled onto cobbles.

“Just doing our part for the dim-out,” the driver said, laughing at his own joke.

“Shut up and drive!” Anastasia said. “I'm not paying you to laugh.” Becoming testy now that it was almost time to get to work.

Cain looked straight ahead. Deep shadows. An approaching shimmer of black water along an abandoned stretch of wharf. He thought back to that first night on the job, down by the Hudson, and he imagined writing his own name onto that list of victims in his notebook:
Woodrow Cain, 34, white, gunshot.
Although he supposed the real cause was stupidity, or not knowing when to quit.

They parked and opened the doors. Cain got out with them. The thugs again flanked him, holding his arms. He kept expecting to panic, to cry, to piss his pants. But all he felt was disbelief, a simmering anger. Anastasia led the way toward the water, turning his back on them. That was when Cain tried to lunge away from them, twisting both arms and kicking out with his feet. But the goons held tight, grunting and laboring without complaint. Fully accustomed to this type of resistance, probably. All in a day's work.

They walked him onto the wharf and turned him so that his back was to the water. He looked up at the staved-in windows of an empty warehouse, a blank stare from every opening.

Anastasia chambered bullets into a huge revolver and slowly raised the barrel. The men holding his arms leaned away from him, which made Anastasia smile.

“That's right, gents. Keep your suits clean.” He aimed at Cain's nose and stepped closer. They heard tires bouncing on cobbles, a big car by the sound of it. Then a tunnel of headlights swerved around the near corner and illuminated them all. Cain's hopes soared and then collapsed as he saw it wasn't a cop. Anastasia turned his gun toward the car. One of his thugs reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a revolver.

The car switched off its headlights. An Olds 98, long and black. The passenger door opened, and a shadowy figure stepped out onto a crunch of broken glass.

“Fine night, gentlemen. But not for this sort of thing.”

Anastasia frowned and lowered his gun.

“This is none of your business, Stu.”

“Never said it was. But the Little Man says otherwise. Sorry, Albert. This one doesn't belong to you.”

So the cavalry had arrived, courtesy of Meyer Lansky. But why? Was this a reprieve or a temporary stay of execution, merely to allow for a change of venue, a different executioner? Somehow he'd gotten caught up in the middle of a mob tussle, a tug-of-war in which his arms were likely to be pulled off. And while that didn't exactly sound promising, without it he'd be dead by now.

Anastasia raised his gun and again pointed it at Cain's face.

“Yeah, well. We'll just see about that.”

“You know the score, Albert. Don't be stupid.”

Anastasia seemed to quiver with anger as he aimed, the trigger finger moving but not yet squeezing. With the possibility of hope now on the horizon, Cain lost his composure, breaking into a sweat. A bead crawled down his spine like a caterpillar. Another rolled to the tip of his nose, as if to provide Anastasia with a target.

“Goddamn it!” Anastasia again lowered the gun. “Then take him, you asshole kike! Get him the fuck outta my sight!”

“He'll work it out with you, Albert.” Stu was walking toward them now, cool as you please. He wasn't even carrying a gun. “You know he always does.”

Anastasia waved him off and stalked back toward the Packard, refusing to watch the handover. And then, just like that, the two thugs let go. Stu took Cain's left arm as gently as an usher at a wedding and steered him toward the waiting Olds. Cain barely breathed until the doors were shut and he was seated in the back, alone this time. Then he exhaled deeply and wiped the sweat from his nose.

Stu slid in up front, next to the driver.

“Next stop, Curtis. You know the way.”

Yet another strange ride in another strange car. Cain wondered if he'd ever go for a ride in New York that was his own idea, and not somebody else's.

They drove off into the night, with Cain still in one piece, and still very much alive.