City Of Lies (22 page)

‘Crap?’ Duchaunak asked.

‘You know what’s going on here,’ Harper said. ‘You’re playing some kind of game with me. You have something on my father, something on Walt Freiberg. I don’t know what the hell you’ve got on them but it has absolutely nothing to do with me—’

‘Nothing to do with you?’

‘Fuck no. What the hell does whatever’s happening here have to do with me?’

‘You’re involved in this—’

‘Involved? Involved in what? What exactly am I involved in Detective?’

‘I don’t know,’ Duchaunak said. He looked down at the fingernails of his right hand. They needed trimming.

‘You don’t know?’ Harper asked.

‘Not exactly.’

‘Well, maybe vaguely?’

‘Vaguely, yes. I can do vaguely.’

‘So tell me what the fuck is
vaguely
going on?’

‘You don’t know?’ Duchaunak asked.

‘Don’t know what? Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell
is
it with you people? Is everyone in New York so fucking obscure?’

Duchaunak leaned back in the chair. ‘So who paid for the suit, Mr Harper? Who paid for the watch you’re wearing? What is that? That’s an Omega, right?’

Harper knew the answer but looked anyway. ‘Yes, an Omega.’

‘What is that? Fifteen hundred, maybe two thousand bucks?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Sure you do.’

‘Okay, say it is . . . say it’s two thousand dollars.’

‘So who paid for that?’

‘Walt Freiberg.’

‘And how the hell did Walt Freiberg get that kind of money?
The kind of money that buys English suits and two thousanddollar watches for someone who isn’t so far from a stranger?’

‘We’re not strangers.’

‘Have been for what? Twenty-five, thirty years?’

‘He says he kept an eye on me.’

‘What the hell would he want to keep an eye on you for?’

‘Maybe ’cause my father asked him to?’

‘And what kind of people have people who keep an eye on other people? What kind of people do that shit?’

‘Rich people.’

‘On the fucking money, Mr Harper, on the fucking money. Rich people. Too fucking right rich people. And how do people get rich?’

Harper looked up at Duchaunak. ‘Get to the fucking point will you? Say what you’re going to say and then go wherever you were headed to when you stopped off here.’

‘I wasn’t going anywhere but here, Mr Harper. I came here specifically to see your father.’

‘Don’t tell me, because you’re really sorry that someone shot him and you want to make sure he gets better fast?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘You do? Why would you be so interested in seeing that he gets better?’

‘Because it wouldn’t be right for him to die like this,’ Duchaunak said.

‘Right for him? How can a man die right?’

Duchaunak smiled. ‘You have a point there, Mr Harper.’

‘And your point, Detective? What the hell is
your
point?’

‘I think you should leave New York.’

‘I know. You told me already.’

‘I think you’ve stayed long enough . . . and I think you know why you should leave.’

‘Enlighten me, Detective. Tell me why you think I have any fucking idea what you’re talking about?’

‘Cathy Hollander.’

‘What about her?’

‘You know who she is?’

‘Sure I do,’ Harper said. ‘She’s Cathy Hollander.’

Duchaunak smiled. ‘That’s a sharp sense of humor you got
there. That’s a little dark though, right? Kind of dark humor that threads its way through your book.’

‘If you say so.’

‘So you know who she is for real?’

Harper shook his head. ‘What do you think? I met the woman on Monday, today is Wednesday . . . I don’t think that qualifies me as a character referee.’

‘You ever hear of Neumann and Marcus?’

‘Neiman, like the department store?’

‘Neumann,’ Duchaunak repeated. ‘Like the actor but spelled different?’

‘Neumann and Marcus . . . no,’ Harper lied. ‘I never heard of them. They like a vaudeville duo or something?’

‘You should go down the Comedy Store on a Friday evening. You could get like a half-hour slot and work all this out of your system.’

‘That where you go?’

Duchaunak didn’t rise to the bait. ‘So you never heard of these people?’

‘Neumann and Marcus? No, I never heard of them.’

‘Benjamin Marcus is a bigshot here in New York.’

‘That so?’

‘Sure it is . . . he’s a bigshot, carries a lot of weight—’

‘He’s like a real fat guy then?’

‘No, he’s not a real fat guy. You can stop winding, Mr Harper. I got a spring like a car and it won’t ever give. You know what I mean, right?’

Harper nodded. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘Cathy Hollander used to be in with Ben Marcus—’

‘In with?’

Duchaunak nodded. ‘Sure, used to be.’

‘How d’you mean,
in with
?’

‘Like she was the girl in the picture, Mr Harper. She was there to hear everything and say nothing, to do what she was asked, to take care of any special guests Mr Marcus might have down to New York—’

‘She’s a hooker?’

‘No, she’s not a hooker, Mr Harper. She’s a friend of the family, the Marcus family.’

‘So why is she with Walt Freiberg?’

Duchaunak smiled. ‘There was a wager about something or other and Mr Marcus lost to your father, and Mr Marcus had said that if he lost he would give Cathy Hollander to your father.’

‘You’re so full of shit,’ Harper said. He couldn’t help himself; started laughing.

‘Whatever,’ Duchaunak said. ‘These people have a different set of values, a different set of importances than people like you and I.’

‘
These
people? Who would they be then, Detective?’

‘The people you’ve been spending time with since you came to New York.’

‘And that would include my aunt?’

‘Sure it would.’

‘You know her?’ Harper asked. He was beginning to feel unsettled. Not once had he wished to face the truth of what Duchaunak was implying. Defences were up but starting to wear thin.

‘I don’t
know
her. I went and spoke to her today.’

‘What the hell for?’

‘To see if she was the one who asked you to come to New York, or to see if Walt Freiberg told her to bring you here.’

‘And?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think she wanted me to come,’ Harper said. ‘I think she believed it was what my mother would have wanted . . . for me to find out that I had a father before he died.’

Duchaunak sighed, glanced towards the door as an orderly came in and walked to the counter. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You think what you want to think, Mr Harper, but I have to tell you something, and whether you want to go with me on this or not I still have to give you some kind of an idea of what’s going here or I’m going to feel bad about myself. I got enough things to feel bad about without adding myself to the list, okay?’

Harper felt cold and loose within, like something was unravelling inside him.

‘Ben Marcus and Sol Neumann are dangerous people. Very, very dangerous people. Your father and Walt Freiberg were, maybe still are, involved with these people. These are not the sort of people you want to have in your life, Mr Harper. You’ve come here to New York, you’ve found out something that I’m
sure has been very difficult to deal with . . . you’ve got a new suit, a great looking watch there—’ Duchaunak stopped mid-sentence, leaned forward, and then he spoke again with a hushed and urgent voice. ‘You have to leave, Mr Harper. I’m telling you for your own welfare . . . you’ve
got
to leave New York. Go home, go back to Miami. I’ll keep you posted on what happens with your father.’

Harper didn’t reply.

‘You hear me, Mr Harper?’

Harper nodded. ‘I hear what you’ve said, but you sure as shit haven’t told me a great deal.’

‘I can’t,’ Duchaunak said. ‘I have to make a judgement call on this, and right now my instinct tells me that the less you know the better. I tell you some of the things that are going down here and you’re going to act strange with these people. You act strange with them they’ll know it in a heartbeat, and then—’

‘What?’ Harper asked. ‘Then what?’

Duchaunak shook his head. ‘Go home, Mr Harper. Please. Would you just go home?’

‘I’ll think it over.’

‘Okay, you think it over.’ Duchaunak started to rise from his chair.

‘You can lead a horse to water, right, Detective?’

Duchaunak smiled. ‘Right, Mr Harper.’ He buttoned his overcoat and reached out his hand.

Harper took it without rising.

‘Good luck.’

‘Thank you, Detective.’

Duchaunak started towards the door.

‘Hey!’ Harper called after him.

Duchaunak turned.

‘So what was the deal with baseball? You didn’t pay five thousand dollars for a baseball?’

Duchaunak shook his head. He reached for the door and pushed it open. ‘No, Mr Harper, I did not pay five thousand dollars for a baseball . . . I paid six.’

Duchaunak pushed the door wide and walked out into the corridor. He was gone before Harper had a chance to reply.

Harper stayed a while and drank his coffee. Didn’t think about the conversation with Duchaunak. Didn’t believe his mind flexible enough to take such inferences and innuendoes on board. Looked at the watch Walt had bought him, at the suit he was wearing. Felt like he was pretending to be something he wasn’t. At least here there were emotions. At least here he felt a little excitement, a little nervousness. What the hell was the point of such emotions if you didn’t experience them once in a while?

Took a cab from the front of the hospital back to the Regent. Driver talked all the way, interspersed with the radio, DJ hammering on about Dizzee Rascal and Social Distortion challenging Franz Ferdinand for the number one spot in the chart.

Harper seated in the back, scanning the streets for anything he recalled of his childhood. New York had changed, it had grown up and become an adult.

‘You from New York?’ the driver asked.

‘Originally, yes.’

‘Where you from now?’

‘Miami.’

‘Miami? Hell, I been to Miami. Miami’s a helluva place.’

Harper didn’t respond.

‘You here on holiday?’

‘No, some business I have to see to.’

‘You going to be here Christmas Eve, buddy?’

‘I don’t know,’ Harper said. He wondered how far they were from the hotel.

‘If you’re here, if you stay until Christmas Eve, then you have to take a taxi ride somewhere, okay?’

‘A taxi ride?’

‘Sure.’

‘For what reason?’

‘’Cause we’re collecting money.’

Harper frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Christmas Eve you take a yellow cab anywhere in the city, anyplace to anyplace else you like, and the money you pay is going to charity. The mayor’s even looking at taking all the private cars off the road for three hours in the afternoon so we can raise as much money as possible. You figure you can do that?’

‘I can do that,’ Harper said.

‘If you’re here . . . ain’t going to be no good you takin’ a cab in Miami, right?’

‘Right. If I’m here on Christmas Eve I’ll take a cab. You have my word.’

‘Good man. Good man indeed.’

And then they were drawing to a stop outside the Regent, and from the money that Walt had given him Harper paid the driver, and then he stood on the sidewalk for some minutes after the cab had pulled away and asked himself what he would do now.

He didn’t know. He didn’t have a clue. He turned and walked up the steps.

Ben Marcus, seated in his warehouse office, takes a call at his desk.

‘Ben?’ Freiberg says at the other end of the line.

‘Walter,’ Marcus replies.

‘Got a meeting place for tomorrow,’ Freiberg says. ‘Restaurant with a basement, place called Trattoria St Angelo. Other side of Gramercy Park, corner of East Twenty-fourth and Third. Noon is good for you and your people?’

‘Noon is fine Walt . . . we’ll see you then.’

‘Sure thing Ben.’

The call ended.

Worn-out looking duplex on Vandam Street.

Day is closing down; streetlights contribute their sodium-yellow glow to the proceedings and give the early evening a bruised and exhausted feeling.

House was easy enough to break into, nothing more than two deadbolts and a chain, and Albert Reiff and Ray Dietz sat in the
back kitchen waiting. They waited for more than an hour – smoking, saying little or nothing, patience of this kind never in short supply. A great deal of their lives required such a type of patience, and after a while time took on a different aspect for these people. This kind of waiting was easy.

Dietz heard footsteps on the sidewalk out front of the building and rose from the table. He nodded to Reiff, and when Reiff heard the key in the front door, when he knew that it was indeed this house that was being entered, he rose too. They stood each side of the kitchen door, listened as the owner came into the front hallway, as he set something down on the floor, switched on a light, took off his coat perhaps. It was no more than thirty or forty seconds from the point Darryl McCaffrey put his key in the lock to the moment he entered the darkened kitchen, but as he reached out his hand to flick the switch he sensed something was wrong.

Perhaps it was the smell of cigarettes. Darryl McCaffrey didn’t smoke. Whatever raised the alarm didn’t matter, for even had he identified the specific source of his disquiet he would not have had any time to act upon it. Dietz had a hold on his right arm, gripped it like a vice, and as Dietz pulled him through the doorway Albert Reiff grabbed the back of his neck and pushed him across the room and into the table.

Darryl McCaffrey, thirty-five years old, a social worker for the New York Metropolitan Borough, caught the side of his head on the edge of the kitchen table and went down.

He did not come round for a good eight or nine minutes, and when he did he was not only gagged, he was also duct-taped to a chair, his ankles bound with something, and facing him were two of the ugliest men he’d ever had the misfortune to see up close.

‘Mr McCaffrey,’ the man on the right said. ‘My name is Raymond. This is my friend Albert. Nod if you understand me.’