Antenna Syndrome (9 page)

After a moment he remembered I was sitting across
the table. He gestured with both hands open, fingers waggling to
bring it on. “So, what the fuck’s your story?”

For some reason, Lutz liked me. Maybe it had
something to do with the fact that I’d got in the way of a knife
one night in a Brooklyn bar, taking one in the ribs intended for
him. Or that I’d kicked an ounce of coke under the table and into
the next booth just as four undercover cops showed up to arrest the
dealer sitting with us, and the dealer had assumed Lutz had turned
from customer to rat.

Maybe it had something to do with knowing each other
since high school when we’d been chess buddies, studying games by
Fischer and Spassky, attending tournaments in Manhattan where we
always got eliminated in the first round.

After high school we’d parted ways, him attending
law school in Chicago, and I didn’t see him for a decade. Then he
returned a few years before the Brooklyn Blast, hooked up with some
big players in town, and started making serious bucks. Now and
again we’d get together for a drink, which is how we’d ended up in
the same bar booth that night.

Anyway, I’d defended him and he’d returned the
favor. I’d spent a few days in hospital on his account, and when
the cops tried to nail me instead of him for possession, Lutz had
got me off. Ever since, I could always count on him for legal
assistance at a rate that was almost pro bono.

I told him about my case. Soon as I mentioned Harris
Jordan’s name, he got interested. He’d have been a lousy poker
player, I thought, watching him morph into a weasel – squinty-eyed,
nostrils flaring, twitching to pounce.

Our waitress returned with our food. We tucked in,
and I made short work of it. A mild beating certainly hadn’t dulled
my appetite. I kept talking between mouthfuls until I’d brought
Lutz right up to date, including my unconditional discharge this
morning.

“A word of advice...” Lutz pushed his plate away and
dabbed his lips with a napkin. “Get your goggles checked out before
you do any more work on this case. You might have withheld Jordan’s
name but while they had you in custody the cops could have used
your goggles to map your movements yesterday. If they went to the
trouble – but I’m thinking, why would they? – they might connect
that East Massapequa address to Jordan. Then cry havoc and let slip
the dogs of war...”

“I’ve got a guy who can check them out.”

“Get yourself checked out too.”

“What do you mean?”

“You slept in lockup, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“They could have drugged you, inserted an
implant.”

“Shit.” I got a little queasy, thinking maybe I had
an RFID in me. “Is that even legal?”

“Depends on whether they got a warrant for it.”

“Fuck.”

“Did you not think for a minute when you took this
case that you were entering a neighborhood that could be hazardous
for your health?”

“You know that line from Bob Dylan?
Money doesn’t
talk, it swears
.”

“Who’s Bob Dylan?” He said it with a straight face,
but he knew who I was talking about.

“Seriously, you think they’d tag me, just by
association?”

“Stranger things have happened.” Lutz signaled the
waitress for more coffee. “You watch the news. I don’t need to
remind you what the rank and file thinks of Harris Jordan.”

“But if the NYPD are as corrupt as he says they are,
even if he gets elected, they’ll never work with him.”

“I don’t know. The Commissioner’s one of the good
guys, and at least he supports what Jordan’s been saying, that if
cops were just paid better, they wouldn’t stoop to corruption.”

“Hope springs eternal.”

We finished our coffee and he drove me back to where
I’d left my car yesterday. As we stopped for a traffic light I saw
a young woman –perhaps once pretty – the left side of her face a
patch of burned skin, a puckered hollow where an eye should have
been. Her left hand displayed the same ravaged skin, like she’d
fallen asleep under a sunlamp. Another reminder of the Brooklyn
Blast – the environmental fallout, the plague of dermatological
infections.

Lutz let me off at the corner of 12th and Ninth.
“Try to stay out of trouble, okay?”

“Sure. Tell a farmer to stay away from manure.” I
got out of the car. “Trouble is my business.”

Lutz blew me a kiss. “If I’m not busy that day, I’ll
come to your funeral.”

Chapter 15

At the bodega I found my Charger where I’d left it.
I had a parking ticket and the hubcaps were gone but everything
else was intact. Who said there were no miracles?

I headed back to
Metamorphosis
to push Dave
Jenner for more information. Maybe he knew more about Myers than
he’d told me. Aside from stiffing his landlord, had Myers left any
enemies in the wake of his departure? Had anyone else asked about
his whereabouts?

I returned to 22nd Street and rented another parking
spot from the two Afro-American gents in the Hummer. A
Closed
sign hung in the front door of
Metamorphosis
.
It was past ten AM. Did Jenner only open after lunch? Seemed
unlikely, considering commercial rents. I peered into the darkened
store. From the rear wall, a fluorescent green Hulk glared
back.

I saw motion in one of the back aisles. Two men were
struggling, one astraddle the other and banging his head on the
floor, like someone trying to crack open a coconut.

The door was locked. I took out my pistol and rapped
it on the window. The guy in the superior position paused. I banged
harder. He climbed off his victim and came to the door.

“We’re closed,” he said through the door.

He had thick black hair, dark eyes and a nose like a
tomahawk that spelled Native American. He looked about forty. Two
parallel scars showed white across his swarthy cheek, and another
scar was notched into his chin.

“Open the door or I call the cops.”

The door didn’t look that solid. I might be able to
kick it open, but I didn’t want to hurt myself trying.

We stared at each other until he unlocked the door.
I went in and he backed away from my gun. Down the aisle the other
guy was now sitting up. Despite a nose leaking blood on his chin, I
recognized the store owner.

“You okay, Jenner?”

“Yeah.” He got to his feet and wobbled to the front
counter, looking like a mouse after a cat had bored of playing with
it. “This guy went all psycho on me.”

I’d kept the gun vaguely turned in the other guy’s
direction ever since I’d entered. Now I pointed it at his crotch,
as if his dick were to blame for all this. “Show and tell, friend.
Your name with some ID.”

“Nick Walker.” He took a driver’s license from his
wallet. The name and photo matched.

I handed it back. “What’s going on here?”

“He barged in here looking for Myers,” Jenner said.
“I said it wasn’t me but before I could even show him some ID, he
punched me in the face, knocked me down and tried to crack my head
open.”

“What’s up?” I said to Walker.

“Case of mistaken identity,” he said.

“Obviously. But why’d you want to lay a beating on
Myers?”

“He’s been messing around with a married woman. I
just wanted to throw a little scare into him.”

“Out of sheer moral outrage, or is this a working
gig?”

“I don’t take on anything unless I can really get
behind it, know what I mean?”

“Sure.” This case I was working wasn’t nearly so
much about the money as it was my personal effort to restore family
unity and the larger social order.

“Who sent you?”

“I can’t say.”

“Does he live in Long Island? Nod if you need to
deny you said anything.”

He nodded.

“Jack’s afraid to get his hands dirty?”

Walker cocked his head at me, realizing I was
already a step or two ahead of him.

“Funny,” I said, “since just yesterday he’d
mentioned he used to be a bouncer. Maybe he doesn’t have the juice
for that any more, or else he was just too busy mowing the
lawn...”

Walker shrugged. “So I made a mistake. Now
what?”

I turned to Jenner. “Want to press charges?”

Jenner and Walker exchanged looks. Walker tried on
contrition. Jenner expressed doubt.

“Not really,” Jenner said.

“How much did Jack pay you?” I asked Walker.

“Nothing yet.”

“What have you got on you?”

Walker showed his wallet. Less than a decent day’s
wage.

I gave his money to Jenner, a token of apology for
hurt feelings and bloody nose. I told Walker to go wait outside, I
might have something for him that would make this all good. He went
across the street and sat in a black Camaro with hood scoops and a
jacked-up rear end.

Alone with Jenner, I asked him whether anyone else
had been looking for Myers. Nobody. Had anyone other than the
landlord been stiffed by Myers, or nursing a grudge? None that he
knew. I warned him to set aside any more packages for Myers, and
let me know as soon as anything arrived. I reminded him of the
obvious, Myers was in deep trouble.

“Now go wash your face. You don’t want to scare off
customers.”

~~~

I crossed the street and joined Walker in his car.
He was smoking a contraband cigarette. He offered a pack of Eagle
Clouds. For a banned substance, they were ubiquitous. They were
Canadian, smuggled across the border via the St. Regis Reserve that
straddled the St. Lawrence River, a reversal from the traffic of
twenty years ago. Shit happens.

I lit up, relishing the sweet taste of organic
tobacco and all its guilty pleasures. Tobacco had been illegal in
New York for many years, ever since Commissar Bloomberg had turned
his tough-love affection on an unsuspecting electorate.

“So what’s in this for me,” Walker said, “now that
I’m out of pocket, and still haven’t found Joey Myers?”

“You can stop looking. He’s in the hospital.”

Walker assessed me with grudging respect. “You beat
me to the punch?”

“Yes and no.” I told him about Myers’s encounter
with the jumping spider and my small role in saving his life.

“Shit.” Walker powered his window down and flicked
his butt into the street. “I can’t beat the shit out of a guy on
life support.”

“If it’s any consolation, you can lie to Jack. Say
you kicked his nuts six ways to Sunday, and put him in intensive
care. I doubt Myers’s story made the news, so Jack will never know.
You’ll get paid.”

“Why you want to help me out?”

“Because I have a soft spot for Native
Americans.”

“Bullshit.”

“That’s Chief Sitting Bullshit to you, friend.”

Walker laughed and fingered another cigarette from
the pack. “Seriously, what do you want?”

“When did Jack ask you to throw a scare into
Myers?”

“He called me late last night, sounding like he had
a load on. He told me this astrologer had messed with his wife’s
head, gave her all kinds of crazy ideas. He just wanted me to
discourage the guy from any further, um, consultations.”

“All he gave you was a name and an address. You
never bothered to look for a picture so you’d recognize Myers?”

“My bad,” Walker shrugged. “How was I to know the
guy’d sold his store and moved on?”

I chewed over my options. I wasn’t sure I needed
help on this case but I could afford to dole out a little cash.
Although he’d fucked up royally here, it might be worth a few bucks
to turn Walker from a liability into an asset. I’d thought there
was something hinky about Jack Randall right from the start. Having
Walker in my temporary employ might guarantee advance notice of any
games Jack might be running behind my back.

“Tell me about yourself,” I said to Walker. “You do
this for a living – play rough with mistaken identities?”

“Times are tough,” he shrugged. “I used to work
high-rise construction but business is bad. Now I pick up what I
can – pest extermination, copper mining, escort service, salvage –
whatever pays the rent.”

“Where do you live?”

“Hunts Point.”

“Nice.” A waste water treatment plant, and a view of
Rikers Island from across the East River.

He shrugged. “The air’s not bad. Sometimes you can
even leave a window open at night.”

“Sweet. Just like the good old days.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Listen, I could maybe use you for a little
help...”

“What’s the gig?”

I sketched the outline of my case. “It’d mean you
don’t do any more work for Jack, or at least not unless you’ve
cleared it with me. I’ve got enough problems without him putting
obstacles in my way. You got a problem with that?”

“No. I don’t owe him anything. We used to knock
about in the old days but we don’t see much of each other
anymore.”

“Except when he wants you to lay a beating on
someone.”

“That was a one-off deal. Usually he’s a pretty
hands-on guy.”

“So am I. But let’s not get to the point where I
have to prove it to you.”

Chapter 16

Walker agreed to tell Jack he’d laid such a beating
on Myers that he’d be in the hospital for a few days. He’d keep me
advised if Jack had any other assignments that might interfere with
my case. From my end, I promised to call on him as soon as I needed
help. I reminded him I’d spent the night in jail and might be under
surveillance, so no unnecessary contact.

On my way back to the office, I swung by Chelsea
Park and circled it until I spotted a guy called Dachshund, on
account of his short legs and long torso. I tapped the horn and
rolled down the window. He got up from where he’d been sitting
under a tree and approached me, waving something like an airport
security wand. He wore camo jacket and pants, which was why I’d
circled the block three times before spotting him.