Two Jakes (60 page)

“Please,
Mr. Lacuna. Not that I am judging you, but you must have known that nothing
good would come out of killing a child. I myself would not accept such a
commission. As a practical matter, they are risky. They attract attention and,
I must say, justifiable outrage. The death of a criminal or crooked politician
may be investigated, of course, but the murder of an innocent can generate
unforeseen consequences, as appears to be the case in this instance.”

“I
don’t get it. The girl is dead. The old man disappeared. We did our job.”

“The
child was raped.”

“That
wasn’t supposed to happen. It was a mistake. The guy who fucked up was taken
care of. Shit happens. The cops still have nowhere to go. It’s over. What do
you care?”

“Other
than disgust at the morality of your assignment, not much. But somebody now
knows the reason the girl was killed. Inquiries are being made. That means
somebody else has talked. My client wants to know who that somebody is.”

“It
wasn’t me!”

“We
are inclined to believe you. Dr. Bimm has vouched for your discretion, although
as a reference, and probably as a man of healing, he leaves a lot to be
desired. I myself find it hard to believe someone of your stature would be the
source of the leak. So it must be one of the men you hired. I want their names
and I want to know where to find them.”

“I
told you one of them is dead. The other man killed him after he raped the girl.
And you don’t have to worry about that guy. Why would he say anything? It makes
no sense."

Sobok
leaned into his prisoner, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Once
you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is the
truth. Sherlock Holmes. I want the names of the two men, and everything you
know about them.”

Lacuna
was shivering, and not only because it was cold in the basement and he was
naked. He was well past philosophical discussions about plausibility. Sherlock
Fucking Holmes? All he heard was the word “eliminate.” Loud and clear.

“You’ll
never get away with this. My family will hunt you down like a dog.”

Sobok
yawned. Lacuna tried another tack.

“Listen,
you’re just doing a job. I can respect that. I’ll double what you’re getting.”

“This
is getting us nowhere, Mr. Lacuna. Let me cut to the chase, as you Americans
say. I cannot be threatened, or bought. I do not have a dog in this fight –
another of your delightful sayings – and your pitiful organization no longer
has the resources to find someone like me, if they ever did. You will notice
that I am not wearing gloves. I am not worried about fingerprints or DNA. And,
as by now you have undoubtedly surmised, this is not about vengeance. It is
about information. My employer wants me to clean up the mess you have created.
I’m afraid that means that your prospects aren’t favorable. You realize that,
of course. But I can spare you indescribable pain. And I promise to leave
without touching the woman.”

Renzo
Bucatelli had regained consciousness and began rattling in his chair and
shaking his head violently.

“Go
fuck yourself,” Sallie Mae croaked. He would have spit in Sobok’s face, but his
mouth felt like the Mojave Desert.

“I
don’t think that will be necessary. I met a very nice lady on the plane. The
situation has promise.” Sobok sighed. “Unlike yours.”

He
walked from view briefly and returned holding a paper bag, which made a
metallic clunking sound when he put it on the floor. He reached in the bag and
took out a small jar of Vick’s Vapo Rub. With practiced speed he opened the
jar, smeared a dab of the pungent salve on his finger, and rubbed it under his
nose. Two sets of frightened eyes followed his every mood.

“The
names, please.

“Listen,
whoever you are,” Lucana said in an unsteady voice, “we can work something
out.”

“The
names, please.”

“You’re
going to kill us anyway.”

Lacuna
felt like his heart would burst out of his chest. He felt an incredible urge to
urinate. He remembered how he had ridiculed some of his own victims for doing
that. He clenched. Not me. Not me. Not me.

“I
know it’s a cliché, but some things are worse than death, Mr. Lacuna.”

Sallie
Mae Lacuna braced for what was to come. He took several deep breaths and his
pounding heart slowed. His tolerance for pain was legendary among friends and
enemies alike. And he was fiercely proud of his reputation as a “stand up guy”
who, unlike the weak sisters now common in the watered-down mafia, never ratted
anyone.

“Suck
my dick, you miserable piece of shit! You’ll get nothing from me.”

“Well,
then, you would be the first,” Sobok said, shaking his head in resignation. He
reached down to the paper bag, pulled out a can of charcoal lighter fluid and
deftly aimed a stream into the Renzo Bucatelli’s lap. He then reached into his
pocket and pulled out a pack of matches.

“Think
Kielbasa,” Sobok said.

***

The
next morning at 9 A.M. sharp, after a wonderful and wildly expensive American
breakfast of fresh orange juice, bacon (in lieu of his usual sausage – which
after the previous night, had less appeal), eggs, home fries and toast, Hagen
Sobok walked out of the Fives Restaurant in the Peninsula Hotel. A
tough-looking Vietnamese was standing by the open back door of a silver and
gray Rolls-Royce Phantom. Sobok got in and sat down, smiling at the man who was
paying him $100,000.

“Cong
Bao, drive around the block,” the man ordered as the driver closed the door. He
then turned to Sobok. “Well?”

“I
have the names.”

“You
are confident that Lacuna told you the truth?”

Sobok
smiled. The Mafia boss had folded like a cheap suitcase after seeing what
happened to his bodyguard, whose scream actually split the duct tape on his
mouth. It sounded for all the world like an air raid siren before the man
mercifully fainted.

“I
can be very persuasive.”

“What
now?”

“Your
information was correct. One of the men Lacuna hired is already dead. The other
shouldn’t be too hard to find. His name is Banaszak and he probably lives in
Manhattan.”

“Probably?”

“Yes.
Lacuna said the man spoke of things that indicated a current knowledge of
Manhattan. It’s not conclusive, of course, but a working hypothesis. In any
event, this is where I will start. If I have any trouble I also have the name
of the contact in Atlantic City that Lacuna used. But I don’t think I’ll need
him.”

“Either
way, I want the contact taken care of as well.”

This
fellow is bloodthirsty, Sobok thought. He was glad he didn’t mention Lacuna’s
mistress. He’d called 911 about her as soon as he’d gotten to Manhattan, using
a throwaway cell phone. She would recover.

Sobok
didn’t think he had to point out that killing those who arranged his kind of
work just wasn’t done in the small world of assassinations. He thought of his
own agent and was momentarily angered. This man would not hesitate to order the
death of Clovis, either. And he might not stop there.

“The
contact is not a threat,” Sobok said evenly. “He apparently never even knew the
target. He has friends. Why rile up those people? They might put two and two
together. Massacres tend to attract attention.”

“OK.
You’re the expert. But you’d better be right, Roddenberry.”

It
was the name Sobok was using. The man missed the Star Trek humor. As for the
implied threat, Sobok merely nodded. But he mentally filed it away.

“Was
Bimm’s information helpful?”

“Quite.
Not many people knew where Lacuna was so vulnerable. It made my job that much
easier. Although I found the man distasteful. I can’t believe he is a
physician.”

“How
did you get Lacuna .…?

Sobok
held up his hand. “It would be better if you only knew what you read in the
papers.” He smiled. “But, of course, they will exaggerate.”

The
Rolls Royce was back in front of the hotel. The driver came around to open his
door.

“I’ll
be in touch,” Sobok said as he got out.

Cong
Bao closed it behind him, and said, “Did anyone ever tell you that you look
like .…”

“I
get that a lot,” Sobok said, smiling.

“Some
people think I resemble Sulu.”

“Don’t
see it. Sorry.”

CHAPTER
21 – WORKING GIRL

“I’m
sorry you spent so much time looking for the wrong guy,” Scarne said. He and
Evelyn were sitting in his office the day after he saw Dr. Gadomski. “The name
now is Banaszak. Wit Banaszak.”

“You
sound pretty sure he’s the one.”

“Too
many coincidences. Right age. Lived in the parish. Father was a baker, at least
some of the time, who died early, as did his wife. Son left Staten Island 40
years ago. Army Ranger in Vietnam. Old friends lost contact. Possibly
alienated. If I was going to build a contract killer, all the pieces fit.”

“And
you got this from a jelly donut, Jake. Even Sherlock would be proud.”

“Let’s
find out if he’s dying from cancer.”

“Well,
I already called up the major cancer centers in the city and inquired after
anyone named Gadomski. I used that concerned relative ruse you suggested. No
one by that name is being treated. I was feeling bad about that until I
realized how uncharitable I was. Who wants to rejoice that someone is battling
such a terrible disease. And now that I know the Gadomskis are innocent, I
really feel like a crepe hanger. But I’ll start all over again, in Manhattan. I
can be Banaszak’s relative just as well. And having a first name is very
helpful.”

“How
long will it take.”

“There
are 300 new cases of pancreatic cancer every year in Manhattan alone,” Evelyn
said, looking at a piece of paper. “But about 60 percent wind up at
Sloane-Kettering. I’ll start there and then move outward. I’ll also check the
Internet White Pages for his name. I’ll have something within the hour, I
should think.”

While
she went to work, Scarne called Dudley Mack and filled him in.

“It’s
him,” Dudley said simply.

“Don’t
get your hopes up. He might be dead. Then we have a problem.”

“What
about Bimm?”

“We
have no proof other than the fact Pearsall didn’t like him and he might be
involved in some shady real estate deals, which might not be shady at all.”

“Bimm
is a crooked fat scumbag pervert.”

“Don’t
mince words, Deadly. Tell me what you really think of him.”

“He’s
been behind every bent real estate play on Staten Island the last 20 years.
He’s a lawyer’s wet dream, too. After he fucks you on real estate, he sues you
because he never thinks he’s corn holed you enough. Can’t be trusted, never
keeps his word and is a closet pedophile. Those are his good points.”

“He
ever screw you?”

“He’s
still breathing, isn’t he? I met him once at a charity thing. He’s big on
those, though I hear the charities never see as much as he pledges. It was like
shaking hands with a placenta.”

“Doesn’t
make him a killer, Duds. I have to connect him to Banaszak, if it is Banaszak.”

“It’s
Banaszak, Cochise. And if you make the connection you’ll make my day.”

Scarne
had barely hung up when Evelyn walked in looking triumphant.

“Got
him!”

“It’s
only been five minutes.”

“We
were lucky. I started in Manhattan, where there is only one W. Banaszak listed,
at 221 West 84
^th
Street. Then I called Sloane and asked for the
Oncology Department. I told them I was Wit Banaszak’s sister and was outraged
they were still sending dunning notices to him. Didn’t they know my brother was
a very sick man with pancreatic cancer? Certainly, they said. I actually spoke
to a nurse who knew him. She said she thought he didn’t have any living
relatives. I told her I had just come over from Poland to tend him.”

“And
she believed you?”

“I
was using my Meryl Street
Sophie’s Choice
accent,” she said, shifting
into the accent.

“Jesus
Christ,” Scarne said in admiration. “You are dangerous.”

“Anyway,
she switched me to billing, where they were even more forthcoming, since they
thought there might be money involved. Turns out there is a few thousand
outstanding but they hadn’t sent out any notices. Must have been the insurer,
or another physician. But they asked me to confirm the address. I guess they
thought they might really have to dun Banaszak. I was happy to comply.”

***

This
is the way it happens sometime, Scarne reflected, when things start falling
into place. Yesterday, the search was seemingly hopeless. Now he stood outside
a four-story walkup on 81
^st
Street just off Columbus Avenue. Why
would a hired killer live in a nondescript building on the upper West Side
without a doorman for security? Well, why not? In Manhattan nondescript didn’t
mean cheap, and contract killers are probably only in danger from their peers,
who wouldn’t be deterred by a doorman in any event.

The
directory on the foyer wall listed W. Banaszak in 4G. Scarne wondered how a
terminally ill man would handle four flights. It couldn’t be easy. He pushed
the buzzer. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Man’s not home. Might be dead, upstairs or
elsewhere. As Scarne was thinking and leaning on the buzzer, a young woman came
in and started to put her key in the inside door. She was very pretty, dressed
to the nines, carrying a Michael Kors handbag and smelling of expensive
perfume. He stopped pushing the buzzer and got in line behind her. The girl
removed her key from the lock and turned to look at Scarne. He gave her his
most reassuring smile. Close up, she wasn’t as young as he first assumed. Early
30’s, he guessed. Honey blonde hair, which looked natural, nice freckles. Tight
body, with curves. Corn-fed Midwestern type. She wasn’t going to open the door
and let a stranger in.

“You
a cop?”

“I’m
private. You have good instincts. A working girl?”

“What
do you think?”

“Well,
since you didn’t belt me, I guess you are. No offense, anyway.”

“None
taken. Let me see your creds. I saw you pushing Whitey’s buzzer. What do you
want with him?”

He
flipped open his wallet. She studied it and he decided not to lie about
visiting a sick friend. A sharp hooker is hard to fool.

“I’m
working a murder case. A 16-year-old girl. Banaszak may or may not be
involved.”

“Was
she a hooker?”

“No,
just a high school kid. Does it matter?”

“I
guess not. Can’t imagine Whitey being involved. He’s a nice guy. His real name
is Wit. He told me it means ‘life’ in Polish.” Scarne thought that was
borderline hilarious. “Kind of looks out for me. Helped me out when I needed
it. Obstreperous customers, you know.”

“Obstreperous?”
Scarne grinned.

He
couldn’t help it. He liked her. She grinned back.

“I
always liked that word. Don’t ask me to spell it. I don’t do much entertaining
in my own building, but I don’t worry if Whitey’s around. He used to travel a
lot though, and, of course, he’s been real sick the last few months.”

“What
does he do for a living?”

“Don’t
know. Don’t care.”

“Fact
that he’s good with the ‘obstreperers’ might indicate he’s not a Bible
salesman.”

“Good
point.”

Just
then an elderly woman pushing a combination walker and shopping cart entered
the foyer, which suddenly became very crowded. She barely glanced at the other
two as she opened the inside door with a key and then looked pointedly at
Scarne.

“Would
you mind?” It was not a question.

He
obligingly pushed the door open and then let it slam behind her. There was no
‘thank you’ from the woman, whose backward glance through the glass-paned door
was disapproving. She obviously thought Scarne was a john.

“Why
didn’t you just follow the old biddy in,” the girl said, sticking her tongue
out at woman’s back. “That was your chance.”

“You’re
my chance. We both know that I’ll eventually get in, so why don’t you come up
with me while I break into Banaszak’s apartment. I might be able to tell you if
he’s a hired killer. Always good to know. And if he’s not, you can keep an eye
on me. I’d want a friend watching my place while it’s burgled.”

She
studied him. And then playfully punched him on the shoulder.

“You
are something else. Remind me of my crazy brother. Come on up. I’ve got the
keys to Whitey’s apartment. He asks me to water his plants when he’s away.”

“When
was the last time he asked?”

“About
a week ago. But it’s understood that if I don’t hear from him in a week, I can
go in and check the flora. We both work odd hours, and can’t always connect,
you know. So I’m due to look in anyway.”

Odd
hours indeed, Scarne thought. A hooker and a hit man.

The
girl’s apartment was on the same floor but down the hall from Banaszak. Scarne
waited outside her door while she went in to get the keys. They walked together
to 4G and she put a key in the door’s lock. Scarne grabbed her arm.

“Wait
a moment. It’s been a week since you saw Whitey?”

“Yeah,
so what?” She looked confused. “Why? It’s not unusual. I told you he travels a
lot.”

“Well,
think about it. He’s very sick. Terminal. Maybe he didn’t go anywhere. Let me
go in first.”

She
thought that over.

“Oh,
shit. Yeah, be my guest.” She handed him the key. “Here, you go.”

Scarne
walked in just ahead of the girl. Both cautiously sniffed the air. They looked
at each other and smiled. A bit stuffy, but that was all.

“The
plants are gone.”

She
pointed to a windowsill. Scarne could make out faded circles where the pots had
rested. Inside one circle was a thick envelope, taped up. It was addressed to
‘Daisy.’ He picked it up. ‘Who’s ‘Daisy’?”

“Me,”
she said, grabbing the envelope. She expertly slit it open with a finger and
pulled out a sheaf of fresh $100 bills. She did a quick, practiced riff.
“Jesus, must be three or four grand here.”

“There’s
a note.”

She
stuffed the bills in her pocketbook and unfolded the note. After reading it she
handed it to Scarne. He read:

“Dear
Daisy,

You
know I’ve been sick. I’m going into the hospital, and I’m not coming back to
the apartment. Ever. Sounds dramatic, I know. But that’s the way things are.
The landlord has a security deposit, so you can go in the place until the end
of the month. Anything you want, take or sell. Then tell the landlord. He’ll
rent the place in a minute. It’s a little bigger than yours, so maybe you can
be first in line. I know you hated those damn plants, so I ditched them. They
were getting ratty anyway. Neither of us had a green thumb, so don’t sweat it.
The money is for all you’ve done and because I don’t know anyone else. Sorry I
didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. You’re a good kid.

Whitey”

Scarne
looked up from the note.

“No
green thumb? I thought someone from Oklahoma would be an expert at
horticulture.”

“Close.
I’m from Kansas. And if horticulture is supposed to be a pun, it ain’t bad.”

Scarne
laughed as he began to look around. The apartment had obviously been set in
order. The plants probably weren’t the only thing ditched, he assumed.
Banaszak, in addition to being neat, was not the kind to leave guns, silencers,
stilettos, explosives or garrotes lying around. No cloth or leather bound
ledgers with neatly written references to past jobs: ‘Vinnie Boombatz, August
8, 2005, double tap to the head, Brooklyn, $25,000, Gardunia family account.’
No cork board with before and after photos of victims.

On
a table in the corner was a 32-inch flat screen color television hooked up to
DVD player. Next to it was a tall wooden tower containing dozens of CD’s and
DVD’s. Banaszak was apparently fond of movie musicals.
South Pacific, The
Music Man, West Side Story, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.

Seven
Brides for Seven Brothers? Also on the table was a framed photo of a squad of
soldiers, warrior-posed in camouflage fatigues and bandanas, heavily armed,
looking as if they just returned from a mission. Jungle dirty. Tired smiles.
Four in the back row standing with weapons across their shoulders. Three
kneeling in front, one of whom was Banaszak, looking a lot older than in the
photo in Gadomski’s office. Not quite the thousand yard stare, but working on
it. All the men has moustaches and sideburns. That meant the photo was taken late
in the Vietnam War. Officers were increasingly looking the other way as
opposition to the interminable war mounted and fragging incidences increased.
Although, Scarne knew, throat slitters like this bunch were probably given
plenty of slack anyway. He picked the picture up and walked over to Daisy, who
was in the small galley kitchen looking at the refrigerator door.

“Did
you ever see so many door magnets,” she said. “I used to tease him about them.
Told him they were going to sterilize him like an X-ray machine.”

Indeed,
the door was covered with souvenir magnets: Disney World, the Smithsonian, the
Alamo, Busch Gardens, Graceland, Six Flags, Cape Cod, Gettysburg, a score of
Vegas and Atlantic City Casinos.