The Letter Writer (34 page)

CAIN WAS SO OVERCOME
with relief that it was several minutes before he spoke.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Keep quiet, how 'bout it.”

Hardly reassuring, but by now they were on Fifth Avenue, headed toward Midtown along the east side of Central Park. The location made him feel relatively safe, almost cheerful. So did the Olds, which felt more like a family car than a mob wagon. There was a Felix the Cat doll down on the floor to his right. He'd already dug out a school pencil, well chewed, from the seat to his left. Kids rode in this car with their mom and dad. Surely it wouldn't be used to run death errands like Anastasia's Packard.

Just as he was starting to feel better about things they turned right into the park at 72nd, and the darkness was complete. Okay then, maybe not so good. He now envisioned being garroted beneath the trees, followed by a midnight burial on the fringes of the Ramble, or the Sheep's Meadow, one of those big fields that Olivia liked so much. His bones would be discovered years later by a puzzled landscaper, or maybe never.

They drove deeper into the park, the car slowing. But the driver was just being careful on a curve. Weaving past dense foliage, they topped a slight rise. At this point they were past the halfway mark through the park, and he began to take hope. At least now they were heading back to civilization, and looming above the treetops just ahead were the twin towers of a grand apartment building, which even in the dim-out was lit as brightly as a birthday cake. After everything Cain had been through in the past hour, it looked like an oasis across the sands.

“What's that building up ahead, the one that looks like a castle?”

“Funny you should ask. That's the Majestic.”

“Well named.”

“Ain't it, though.”

They emerged from the park, crossed Central Park West and braked at the curb alongside the Majestic. Stu turned and slung his arm across the back of the seat.

“You were way out of your league back there.”

“I got that idea.”

“You're way out of your league here, too. But who knows? Play your cards right and you should at least get out of it with your skin.”

“I take it I'm here to see Lansky.”

“
Mister
Lansky. Third floor. You're expected.”

Cain slid left across the seat and unlatched the door. Then he hesitated.

“I guess he wouldn't like it too much if I decided to not show up.”

Stu shrugged. “Your choice. Him or Albert.”

“That's an easy one.”

Cain got out, waltzed through the entrance, and gave his name to the doorman, who directed him to the elevators.

“Apartment three-oh-one, sir.”

Lansky answered the door himself. He
was
a little man, not an inch over five feet, which hadn't been apparent around the table at the Astor. Cain had to suppress his astonishment. The last thing he wanted to do was get off on the wrong foot, and he was nervous enough as it was.

Once again Lansky was sharply dressed in clothes that looked prosperous, with creases in all the right places even at this hour of the day.

“Come in, Cain. We've got the place to ourselves tonight, so make yourself at home.”

It was a comfortable room, large by Manhattan standards, with plush-looking wallpaper, a big Oriental rug, and a long couch facing two love seats and a wing chair. Off to one side was a grand piano. But the real draw was the row of big windows across the front, which looked out onto a moonlit view of the treetops of Central Park. Cain strolled over for a look.

“The view is what makes the place,” Lansky said. “Drink?” He stood by a cart loaded with bottles and crystal decanters. Cain was about to say no when he realized how badly he needed one.

“Bourbon, straight up.”

Lansky poured a whiskey for himself and brought the drinks over. He made a short speech before handing Cain the glass.

“You're a pretty sharp 'tec, Cain, but you're not exactly a fast learner. So I've brought you here in hopes of imparting a little education, since our lesson the other day didn't seem to make a dent. I like to think we'll be able to speak frankly, man to man. But if you intend to run home when we're done and scribble everything into that notebook of yours, well, then I might as well have Stu take you back to Midnight Rose's. So, whadda you say?”

“We'll keep it man to man, and nothing goes on paper.”

“Swell. Like I say to my associates: Trust your memory, and keep your business in your hat.”

He handed over the drink, and as he did so their eyes locked. Lansky's gaze was sharp, probing, and Cain now saw how the Little Man made up for his unimposing stature. Even in the studied informality of the moment, his eyes told you that there were wheels in his head that never stopped turning. He was calculating angles, laying plans, anticipating the next question, arranging the next dodge.

Cain realized how badly he had overreacted during the drive over here, thinking he might be murdered in Central Park. Not Lansky's style at all, nor would he ever be a shot and a splash kind of guy. Lansky could pull off whatever he needed without even giving an order. He'd just make a suggestion to somebody, who'd make a suggestion to somebody else. Then one day you wouldn't show up for work, and your seat would remain empty at the dinner table. Gone without a trace, except for a few well-placed rumors about how you'd crossed the wrong guy, or maybe absconded with the kitty from the commissioner's favorite charity. In fact, for all anyone knew you might still be out there, spending the loose change. That's how Lansky would do it—excuse me:
Mister
Lansky.

That unsettling train of thought probably explained why Cain flinched noticeably when Lansky made a sudden move to shut the window blinds.

Lansky, taking notice, straightened and then smiled.

“Now, see? That's the nature of power in this town. I make even a suggestion of a threatening move, and you're halfway to the floor.” He slapped Cain on the shoulder. “Perception. It's something you can't buy with all the money on Wall Street. The very thing that allows Charlie Luciano to still call the shots from inside a prison cell. A few symbolic gestures might be needed once in a while, but otherwise nothing even the slightest bit illegal has to be done. Then who comes calling in our nation's hour of need? No less than the United States Navy.”

He squeezed Cain's shoulder before letting go. He nodded toward the couch.

“Whadda you say we sit down?”

“Sure.”

Cain was relieved to discover that his voice was still working. He sat at one end of the couch. Lansky settled into the wing chair, with arm rests that made it look like a cushiony throne. Cain's eyes were drawn to a family photo on a side table. Lansky's wife with their two young sons and an infant daughter, everybody smiling and in their best clothes. Lansky followed his gaze.

“You got a kid, too, I hear. A girl, right?”

Not the sort of information he wanted the Little Man to know, but that was probably why Lansky brought it up.

“Yes.”

“It's the best part of living, having a family. Having a wife? Well…” He waggled a hand, his little joke about infidelity, or maybe a nod to Cain's recent history.

“So let's get down to business. As I'm sure you know, you've made a lot of people unhappy.”

“That's been made pretty clear to me.”

“And I know you're probably thinking, hey, these mugs are really getting away with something. Am I right?”

“One of them is.”

Lansky nodded.

“Yes, he is. As you've seen for yourself, Albert is a man of excesses. Far too often he strikes out on his own, and thinks he's a damn genius for doing so. But that's Albert, not us. Which is why we will deal with Albert in our own time, in our own way. So, you see, if you and that old Jew keep poking around you're going to fuck this up for everybody.”

“Then why didn't you let Albert kill me? Not that I'm ungrateful.”

“Because the only thing that would fuck this up even more would be if he killed the very cop who'd just been asking the DA about him. That would have sunk this thing for sure, and right now, I've gotta tell you, it's a real good thing. And I don't just mean for Charlie and me. It's a real good thing for this country.”

“If you say so.”

“Don't you get smart with me!”

Lansky leaned across the space between them, jabbed a finger against Cain's chest and left it there. This was the pivot point of the night, Cain sensed, the moment at which Lansky would begin making demands, and Cain would either pass the test by capitulating or fail miserably by standing up to him. The worst kind of choice, in other words, pitting his life against his honor. Or so he thought.

To his everlasting surprise he instead got a lecture, a plea, plus a wave or two of the flag. What's more, the performance felt oddly sincere, as if the Little Man wanted earnestly for Cain to believe that, at least this once, he really was doing the best of deeds for the best of motives.

“There is one reason only that I'm in on this deal, Cain, and it's very simple. I am a patriot, helping my country. Don't smile, don't even think about it, unless you want your face knocked through those windows.”

“Okay.” Cain didn't move a muscle. Lansky's finger was still pressed firmly against his chest. Finally he removed it, and settled back into the chair.

“Tell me something. Do you know how I used to spend my weekends around here back in the thirties?”

“No.”

“Busting heads at Nazi rallies, all over town. You ever heard of Nathan Perlman? Used to be in Congress, now he's a judge?”

“No.” Cain had been rendered almost speechless. He could hardly believe the pleading tone of Lansky's voice, as if the man's soul were on trial and he was delivering the closing argument for his own defense.

“Well, he came to me personally back in thirty-five and said, ‘We Jews have to start demonstrating a little more militancy.' A judge, mind you, so I took him at his word. And one night Walter Winchell calls—he lives in this building, you know—and he tips me off to a rally of a bunch of Bundists up in Yorkville. Well, I get on the horn to as many of my pals as I can. There were only fifteen of us, but let me tell you, by the end of the night those brownshirts were calling the cops to help
them
get out of there alive.”

Lansky's face was beaming.

“And you know what I did last year, even before Pearl Harbor ever happened?”

“I don't.”

“Signed up with my local draft board. Told 'em I'd do anything. You can check. It's all in writing. Knew they'd say I was too old for soldiering, so I said I'd work in a machine shop, like when I was a kid. Run a lathe, a drill press, whatever they needed! Of course they never got back to me. But then, you see,
then
I get word from Lanza that this Haffenden guy is trying to put together some deal for the waterfront, so of course I get on board.
Of course!
Because it's my chance to do something!

“Now, is Charlie thinking this way? Hell, I don't know. Maybe Charlie sees a way out of the joint, 'cause that's Charlie. I do know he hates that asshole Mussolini, whose cops rounded up half the wise guys in Sicily, bad blood all around. But he's in this for the full ride, even if he gets nothing out of the deal. Lanza, too. All our guys. As for Albert, well, we knew we had a problem as soon as we heard what he'd been up to.”

“The plot, you mean. To burn the
Normandie.
”

Lansky shook his head in exasperation. “Dumbass figured he'd be doing Charlie a favor. Make it look like a bunch of German zealots had done it, to scare everybody into begging for Charlie's help. Then the damn thing burns anyway, and Haffenden's people come looking for us, and things start moving in the right direction. So when we hear what Albert's been up to, Charlie about blows a gasket, and tells him to clean up his fucking mess before he ruins it for everybody. And, Albert being Albert, he just makes a bigger mess, which brought you into it.”

“And now you want me out of it.”

“Of your own accord, and for the good of your country.”

“What about Albert?”

“Like I said.”

“You said you'd deal with him. I need something better than that.”

“Or what, you'll haul him in?” Lansky laughed aloud. “Like I said, Cain. You're not a fast learner, although you are persuasive, so I'll tell you one thing, and one thing only about where this is headed. But it sure as hell had better not leave this room, because right now even Albert doesn't know it's coming.”

“Okay.”

“Albert, he's practically forty. Only two months younger than me, in fact. Nonetheless, I have it on the best of authority that Albert will soon be enlisting in the United States Army. They're going to make a soldier out of him. They'll post him somewhere well beyond the city. He'll be training soldiers to be military longshoremen. That will take him off the streets and out of that candy store. He'll live in a barracks and take orders. And you can take that to the bank.”

Cain was astounded. What's more, he believed it. Murder, Inc. goes to war. The final swipe of the mop to clean up Anastasia's mess, once and for all, so that the bizarre waterfront security alliance of mob guys, prosecutors, and the Navy could march onward without further distraction. It was just strange enough to be true.

“Then do we have an understanding, Detective Cain?”

“Maybe.”

Lansky raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth. For the first time tonight, he was the one who seemed astounded.

“Just one other thing,” Cain said. “The old Jew, Danziger. Or Sascha, as you know him. I want him left alone.”

Lansky frowned and tilted his head.