The Letter Writer (7 page)
Authors: Dan Fesperman
“Tell me something. That last time you took a taxi, in 1928. What was the occasion?”
“A funeral.”
“Oh.” It stopped him for a second. “Family?”
“An employer.”
“He must have been a big deal.”
“He was.”
Cain waited for more, but Danziger nodded in farewell and turned to go. Cain watched until he reached the corner and melted into a crowd that was babbling three languages at once. Everyone crossed the intersection together. Then a bus lumbered by, and they all disappeared.
By the time Cain boarded the subway, the events of the past hour had begun to take on the qualities of a dream, barely believable. But one thing seemed real enough. Now he had a name for the body from the Hudson, plus a second homicide that might be related. The case would go back up on the duty roster, whether that asshole Mulhearn liked it or not.
Cain smiled, already looking forward to his next meeting with this strange old fellow.
IN THOSE LONG AGO DAYS
when I still rode in taxis and dined in restaurants, a valued associate of mine once invited me along to a prize fight at Madison Square Garden. The only pugilist whose name I recall from that night was Kid Lewis, the welterweight champion. My associate had decided that Lewis might interest me because he was a Jew from the tenements of London's East End. He lost in twelve rounds.
While I have since developed a fondness for the so-called “sweet science of bruising,” and now follow it closely in the newspapers, at the time I was far more interested in the doings of the spectators. They were a ravening mob of prosperous men, spittle flying with every shout. Most wore straw boaters, with cigars clenched between their teeth. Their eyes gleamed and their blood was up. I have never witnessed a more elemental outpouring of collective heat, before or since, although recent newsreels from Herr Hitler's rallies in Nuremberg come close.
I mention this because of what I observed only a few hours ago at Caruso's, on this night of my second appointment with Mr. Cain. The barroom tableau included another series of body blowsâverbal, this timeâand I beheld yet another overheated mob, eager for the kill. No one wore straw boaters, although many in attendance were fitted with the standard-issue hats of the New York City Police Department.
The first punches, so to speak, were thrown shortly after the pouring of the third round of drinks, just when Mr. Cain began picking up the tab.
“So your old lady, I hear she didn't make the move, huh?” This came from a portly man in uniform named Maloneyâ“as Irish as Paddy's pig,” as a former landlady of mine would have said. His mustache was flecked with foam. Laughter was barely hiding behind his eyes. “Something to do with your old partner, wuddn't it? Like how he couldn't keep it in his pants?”
An Officer Petrowski chimed in, followed in short order by cops named Kleinschmidt and Dolan:
“But you took care of it, is what we hear. How many slugs you put in his gut?”
“No, man, wuddn't the gut. Was a head shot. And some lowlife done it for him. Ain't that right, Cain?”
“So is that how the flatfoots do it down on Tobacco Road, laddie? Same way as the mob?”
I watched this unfold from a table in the back, where I was hiding behind the pages of a newspaper. I had arrived earlier rather than later in order to complete my vetting of Mr. Cain. Trust was no longer my primary concern. He seemed genuine enough, and as truthful as any policeman is ever likely to be. What remained was the question of his resilience, his fortitude, and what still troubled me were the rumors I had heard of a possible failure under pressureâthe very rumors to which these officers seemed to be alluding. If he had failed then, he would likely fail now, here in this saloon, and I would know he was not sturdy enough for the task at hand. I would have no choice but to limit my part in our collaboration. I'd show him Hansch's letters, as I'd already promised, and then bow out of the matter. So, I watched him closely.
Mr. Cain shook his head, as if dazed by the fury of these first blows. He opened his mouth to reply, but they shouted him down, and aimed for the same tender spots as before. The wife. The partner. The thug. The gunfight.
By then reinforcements were pouring in from the 18th precinct, up on 54thâplainclothesmen and radio patrolmen, a 95 man, a desk sergeant. They took up positions all around him, a semicircle that pinned him to the bar. The hungry looks on their faces said they'd been told to expect a rousing bout with plenty of action, and by the time Mr. Cain slid another row of nickels into place for the next round, fresh jabs were coming at him from every angle. Like Joe Louis going after Schmeling. Not that Mr. Cain would ever be confused for a heavyweight among these slab-faced Irishmen, Italians, Poles, and Germans. They were large men with large voices, some of them barely a step removed from the Old World that I well remembered, yet they were New Yorkers to the core.
Mr. Cain, unsteady on his barstool, swiveled back around just in time to take a figurative shot to the jaw from Dolan.
“So this guy you knew, he was fucking your wife?”
“Which guy's that?” Maloney again. “The partner or the guy he plugged?”
“Thought he plugged 'em both?”
“Then maybe they was both fucking her.”
A direct hit, acknowledged by a jubilant roar from the crowd. Mr. Cain wobbled on the barstool, and for a moment I feared he would topple to the floor and be crushed underfoot with the sawdust and the peanut shells. Then he regained his balance and slid off the seat, as if he'd decided to fend them off on foot. He landed stiffly, grimacing as he grabbed at his left thigh. He gripped the bar to steady himself. Careful, I thought. Go to the canvas now and you'll never get up.
“That limp of yours,” Kleinschmidt asked. “That for real?”
“Or just a way to duck out on the Army?” Maloney, yet again, joining in another combination. The other cops surged closer, grinning, mugs in motion, hanging on every punch. The door was still swinging open with new arrivals. The noise was at its highest pitch.
“Able-bodied young man like you would be perfect for the infantry if you wuddn't fakin' it.”
“But he's got a kid. Can't draft a lone wolf with a kid, can you?”
“A girl, iddn't it?”
“Yeah, but she ain't even here, is she?”
“Her name's Olivia,” said Maloney, who was close up in Mr. Cain's face now, leering, almost nose to nose. “Oh-Livia, as in
âOh, my.'
Saw it in his file. Does she take after her mom, Citizen Cain? A little fast and loose? Guess you'll find out when the boys start sniffing round, huh?”
Mr. Cain grabbed Maloney's collar with stunning quickness, and before anyone could react he was twisting and pulling it with both hands, as if breaking bones. He lifted Maloney off his feet, something I wouldn't have guessed was possible for a man so wiry. A button popped loose, then another as Maloney's pink face darkened from medium to rare. Barstools scraped and shoes scuffled in a great rush of movement. A mug shattered, and every voice was in full throat. Maloney spluttered a mouthful of beer onto his chin and uniform, as if he was beginning to choke. Now Mr. Cain was doing all the talking, and at top volume.
“She's twelve years old, asshole! She's my
daughter,
you fucking ignorant mick!”
“Easy man, easy!” It was Detective Yuri Zharkov, materializing from the crowd to grab Mr. Cain from behind, as if to protect him from his own rashness. Others joined in to separate the two brawlers. Mr. Cain bristled, then let go of Maloney's shirt. The officers holding on to Mr. Cain exhibited a certain gentleness, taking their cue from Officer Zharkov. The ones grabbing Maloney were rougher, the first suggestion that maybe some people thought matters had gone too far.
“Who showed you my file?” Mr. Cain shouted. “Who told you all this bullshit?”
Maloney grinned, beer dripping from his chin, while a few men behind him shook their heads and looked away. Maybe the file comment had crossed the line, an admission of official misconduct, something that might get them all in trouble. Maloney threw one last punch.
“You guys heard about his snooping around, didn't you? Down in the 95 Room, like some rat looking for cheese? He's a regular house mouse, our Citizen Cain. Never seen him once out on the streets. Always hiding behind his desk, or some piece of paper.”
There were a few grumbles, but they lacked heat or passion. As if sensing that he'd lost his momentum, Maloney raised his hands in a gesture of truce. Mr. Cain went limp, and the men released him, more in the attitude of allies than aggressors. Officer Zharkov acknowledged my presence with a sidelong wink, the only cop who'd yet taken note of me. The gesture reminded me of the way he used to offer a passing hello while walking his old beat, years earlier. We have always shared a certain understanding, especially in tight spots like this one.
But the main focus of my attention was Mr. Cain. And if I sat in admiration of his strength under duress, I approved of his next action even more. He turned toward the bartender and nodded at the taps. Then he lined up a greenback along with a new row of coins and announced to one and all, in a voice steady and clear, “My round, gentlemen.”
The bartender began filling the foaming mugs as the men stepped forward, eager to accept his generosity, and I saw Mr. Cain glimpse his own image in a tilted mirror high on the wall behind the bar. I wondered if, at that moment, he saw himself as the rest of us did: thin face, a trifle callow, a tall twig of a man who even after a long winter still had some sun in his cheeks, probably from hours spent in the open fields and country lanes of his home territory. A rube's haircut that marked him indelibly as an arrival from the sticks. In a roomful of people from so many different origins, he was the one true outsider.
But he was learning fast, and he no longer looked spooked, or overwhelmed. They had cornered him. They had given him all they had, but they had never knocked him down. I was satisfied with what I'd seen. Nagging questions remained about what must have really happened down at his old job, but I decided I was ready to move forward, double or nothing, for the task ahead.
ZHARKOV TOOK CAIN
by the shoulder and steered him toward the back of the saloon. Cain thought he was about to be subjected to a lectureâhe still couldn't believe he'd been stupid enough to call Maloney a mick. Instead the burly old Cossack whispered into his ear. “You have company, there in the back.”
The first thing Cain spotted was the gnomish wool cap. Next the shabby overcoat. Then Danziger's enigmatic face peeped above the top of a newspaper.
“Y'all know each other?”
“From my old beat down in the seventh,” Zharkov said. “We go back a ways.”
Cain made a quick calculation.
“So I take it he's been asking about me. And you've been talking.”
“Danziger is a very thorough man.” Zharkov smiled and turned back toward the bar, where the mobbing cops were still happily enjoying the bounty of Cain's latest contribution. Cain himself was still nursing his second beer. He approached the table.
“My assessment was correct,” Danziger said, nodding at the half-empty mug. “You are not that kind of drinker. Sober or not, I admire your ability to stay on your feet.”
“It was a near thing.”
“Yes. I saw. The one named Maloney was particularly troublesome.”
“He's a bitter old fuck, pardon my French. I guess that's what happens when they put you back in the bag.”
“In the bag?”
“Heard he got demoted from plainclothes, just last year. Pushing forty and he's still a patrolman. How long have you been here?”
“A while.”
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough.”
Cain pulled up a chair with his back to the policemen. He was still trying to calm down, and he wondered how much he needed to explain. So much had been saidâwild accusations, most of them untrue. A terrible event, yes, but they'd twisted it into something far worse. Most disturbing of all was the idea that Maloney had seen his personnel file, perhaps the very one that had been sitting on Commissioner Valentine's desk. Danziger reached across the table and patted his shoulder.
“Everyone has episodes from their past that they would rather forget.”
“The
past
? This was six months ago. And what would
you
know about it.” His frustration came pouring out. “Your idea of a big foul-up is probably the time you misspelled âschnitzel' in some hausfrau's letter. I'm talking about deathâtwo casualties, three if you count my marriage.”
Danziger's hand reached up with stunning speed and dexterity to clutch Cain's shirt front, much in the way Cain had grabbed Maloney's. The man's fingers were bent and bony, smelling of onions, the nails ink-stained, but their strength was undeniable. He spoke in a lowered voice, his eyes flaring.
“You know
nothing
of me. Those kinds of assumptions make you a fool in my eyes, yes?”
Cain, floored, could only nod. Danziger let go. He then frowned and bowed his head, seeming to already regret his actions.
“My apologies, Mr. Cain. An overreaction on my part. But do not presume ever again to speak for me or my interests, for I do not wish to work with a fool.”
“Same here.”
Danziger watched him for a second, and then nodded.
“So be it. If you wish, we may go now.”
“Where?”
“To the place of safekeeping, where the letters await. On Third Avenue, just below 85th.”
“That's in Yorkville. Maybe a block from where Klaus Schaller was killed. I pulled the report today.”
“Two blocks, in fact. I will take you there as well, if you would like. And then⦔ He spread his arms wide, like an impresario about to announce the featured act. “We will seek out the man who, I believe, will know how and why these deaths are connected. He may even know the names of the next ones.”
“Next ones?”
“Surely, in these kinds of cases are there not always more? I personally know of at least two likely additional targets. Come.” He stood with some difficulty. “Let us go before you are again drawn into the fray.”
Cain led Danziger through the mob, and opened the door just as a parting shot flew his way.
“Don't wind up in the gutter, country boy, or you'll land on the shit list in the Commissioner's âdrunk drawer.'â”
“Like that asshole Valentine ever turned down a drink!” another cop shouted.
Laughter from one and all.
The door slammed shut behind them. No more voices and clanking mugs. Just the tooting of horns, the hiss of tires on wet pavement, the leather scuffle of the walking hordes. A rain shower had come and gone while Cain was taking his beating, and the April air was invigorating. He could have sworn he even smelled daffodilsâfrom a window box maybe, or on a breeze from Central Park. Or maybe just from yearning.
Soldiers and sailors of all nations were everywhere, roaming the sidewalks on shore leave, or in transit between railcars and troop ships. Most were headed for Times Square, seeking one last fling before the maelstrom. Three limeys, linked arm and arm, bumped past them smelling of beer while singing “The White Cliffs of Dover.”
Further down Eighth a big crowd poured out of a movie theater. Some Jimmy Durante film, a man of no discernable talent, just a big schnozz and a rough voice, yet everybody looked happy enough. He wished Olivia was here, so he could take her to the pictures. The stuff playing in Manhattan wouldn't make it to Horton for ages, if at all. Cain picked up the pace, working the stiffness out of his gimpy thigh.
“Your limp,” Danziger said. “I suppose now I know how you acquired it. A bullet in the line of duty, yes?”
“You only heard part of the story, plus a lot of bullshit.”
“Granted. As I said, perhaps someday you will wish to tell me all of it.”
“Perhaps someday I'll
know
all of it.”
“Truly? Is it still so confusing for you? Due to trauma, perhaps?”
Cain glanced over at him for a few steps, then faced straight ahead.
“I don't know you well enough yet.”
“Of course. And now I am making presumptions about you. Forgive me.”
They passed two Dutch marines, chattering in a tongue that sounded almost German.
“You said you saw the report from the Schaller case,” Danziger said. “Have there been arrests?”
“No. They don't even have any leads. The guys up in the one-nine weren't too happy about me nosing around in their territory, so I kept the Hansch connection quiet. Figured that would just give Mulhearn an excuse to take it away from me again. We need to lay low up there.”
“Always good advice in Yorkville. For me, anyway.”
Cain thought of Angela Feinman and her version of laying lowâliving in the back room of a shuttered theater, locked in by day and performing by night. Or maybe she was just an addict, and would be living that way anywhere.
He deferred to Danziger to choose the quickest route, and the older man steered them onto a crosstown bus to the East Side, where they climbed a covered stairway to the Third Avenue El. The train rattled uptown through the night while Cain peeped into the upstairs windows of passing tenements. He saw a man in his undershirt reading the paper, a tired woman ironing, kids in shorts running from room to room, a girl curled on a bed with a cat, a stooped butcher untying his bloody smock.
Never take the subway.
That had been one of Clovis's lines whenever she reminisced about life in Manhattan. As a girl of privilege she'd always traveled in cabs and limousines. Cain couldn't afford the luxury. But he had grown oddly attached to the subway, despite its crowds and smells and inconveniences. The rattling old trains offered a fresh human tableau every day, a new performance on almost every ride. His wife, he decided, had never known what she was missing.
They got off at 84th and walked a block north beneath the gloomy steel latticework of the overhead tracks. It was like being in a tunnel, with the noises of the neighborhood echoing around them.
“It is just ahead,” Danziger said. “You will not be welcome, not until I have spoken. So remain quiet until I say so.”
Cain reached inside his overcoat, checking his holster. Danziger shook his head.
“Unwelcome, not endangered. It would probably be best for you to keep your hands out in the open. I do not even plan to mention that you are a policeman.”
“Then who am I supposed to be?”
“An interested party. No name necessary. It is not your concern.”
They approached a doorway wedged between the Berlin Bar, with bold gothic lettering and a noisy clientele, and a greengrocer with signs in English, German, and Hebrew, where a clerk was covering wooden trays of fruit with canvas while the proprietor cranked up the awning. The entrance was unlocked, and they climbed a narrow stairway to the third floor, where he followed Danziger to a door at the end of the corridor with no name or number. The only identifying mark was a thin block of bronze, no bigger than a pack of gum, which had been screwed into place on the right side of the door frame at a slight angle. Cain reached up to touch Hebrew lettering carved into tarnished bronze. Gouge marks in the wood made it look as if someone had recently tried to pry it out.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A mezuzah. Inside is a tiny roll of parchment, containing a verse from the Torah. When you are a part of the diaspora, it is your duty under Jewish law to post one at your door the moment you move in.”
“Did you?”
Danziger shook his head.
“I stopped living by Jewish law quite some time ago, when I became a member of my own diaspora.” He grimaced, as if he wished he could take the words back. Then he knocked gently on the door. “The man we are about to meet is Mordecai Lederer. He is a scholar, a very learned man, and I trust him. That is all you need know of him.”
The knob rattled, and the door opened to reveal a bearded man dressed in a white shirt and worn black pants. He looked a few years younger than Danziger, and the two men clasped hands in greeting. The man noticed Cain and frowned. An exchange followed in a language which Cain guessed was Yiddish. At one point Lederer raised his voice and shook his head, but Danziger persisted. Finally Lederer sighed and impatiently waved them across the threshold.
“If you happen to see his wife, or any of the womenfolk, do not speak. Do not even look.”
“He's the jealous type?”
“He is religious. And you are not of the faith.”
“Why here? Why this house?”
“I was carrying the letters with me when I went to meet Schaller. When I saw what had become of him, I decided to get rid of them with the greatest possible dispatch. But I did not deem it wise to destroy them, so I brought them here, the nearest location where I knew they would remain safe.”
The apartment was cramped, the air heavy with the smell of a simmering chicken. A radio blared from behind a closed door, broadcasting in a Slavic language. Lederer took them to the only other room, a square windowless chamber with wall-to-wall bookshelves and a bright threadbare rug covered with tiny angular animals, stitched in red. A small writing table and a cushioned chair were pushed into a corner. Lederer departed, shutting the door behind him without a further word. The room smelled of curling old paper, of ink and glue and leather bindings.
“His study,” Danziger said, eyeing the shelf on the opposite wall. “Not even his wife is allowed in here, so consider yourself lucky.”
“They only have one other room?”
“That and a shared kitchen, which tells you of the value he places on knowledge.”
Some titles were in Hebrew, some in a language Cain didn't know. None seemed to be in English. Just from a glance, Cain doubted that any of the books had been printed during the past fifty years.
“Most of them are written in Yiddish or Hebrew,” Danziger said.
“Those aren't the same?”
“They use the same lettering. The rest are in Czech. Lederer was born in Prague. He speaks no English, so we needn't worry about being overheard.”
“What about everybody else?”
“His wife wouldn't care. His mother is quite nosy, but she is illiterate, despite all of this.” He waved toward the books. “She grew up in an educated household, but not one in which learning was thought to be suitable for young ladies.”
“Do you write letters for her?”
“And read them as well. Or used to. None of her letters have been answered for more than a year now. Their relations in Prague have fallen silent. It has been that way across the whole of the east of Europe for some time now. Candles flickering to darkness.”
Their surroundings made his remarks seem all the more grave and ominous.
Danziger stepped over to the shelves, stood on his tiptoes, and pulled down a leather-bound red volume with gilded Hebrew lettering on the spine. He set it on the small table and opened it to the middle, revealing a sheaf of onionskin paper, neatly folded, four pages in all. Typewritten carbon copies, Cain saw. The text was in German.
“I keep these on behalf of my clients, in the event they wish to consult what they have written previously, or in case some legal question arises later, in correspondences with creditors, or public officials. I wrote three letters for Herr Hansch. Shall I read them to you in full, or just tell you what's important?”
“How 'bout the headlines for now, then a full text later.”
Danziger nodded.
“This first one is from the twenty-first of January. Hansch had only just arrived from California with three friends. One, I learned later, was Schaller. From the markings we have already seen on the bodies, I think it is safe to assume that all four of them were Silver Shirts, and that they would have been readily accepted by the local contingent of Bundists. Hansch wished to write his wife in Germany. We spoke for a while about the news he wanted to convey, and how I should phrase it. I think he was uncomfortable with me, for obvious reasons, so I reassured him that I had no interest in politics, no quarrel with anything he stood for. A lie, of course, but this is part of my service, putting the client at ease. The fee is the same regardless. Still, I sensed he was less than candid in his first letter. Not much news. All he really told his wife was that he was safely in New York after a long journey, and that he was among friends and hoped to find work soon. Nothing of importance for our purposes.”
