Crooked (8 page)

C h a p t e r                           1 0

 
N
icholas lived in an eighteenth-century three-floor walk-up on historically colorful Water Street. Old New York knew no more sinister block, one that had once boasted dives such as Kit Burn’s Rat Pit, where nightly rodent stompings, bear baitings, and terrier fights drew in the local skells, cribbers, and plungers. At another joint, bouncer Gallus Mags would bite off the ear of any patron she deemed obstreperous. Then there was Allen’s Dance Hall, where any and all acts of deviancy could be enjoyed while the proprietor pontificated from the Old Testament. Every single building on Nicholas’s block had been a rank bordello where hapless sailors fell prey to panel thieves, Mickey Finns, and shanghaiers.

But the digs where Kit Burn’s brother-in-law once delighted audiences by biting the heads off rats for a quarter was now a cozy seafood restaurant. Lofts that once held dance halls and turpentine saloons became spacious track-lit dwellings. Where once the streets reeked of alcohol and dung they were now awash in fish market aromas and exhaust fumes from the Brooklyn Bridge. Formerly teeming with sailors, merchants, and thieves, Water Street was now a quiet, unremarkable cobblestone street.

Nicholas’s apartment looked like it had been decorated in a hurry sometime in 1957. All the furniture was retro and arbitrarily placed, like feng shui gone bad. While some was new, much was old. A floral print couch and red wing chairs with white piping sat at opposite ends of the living room. There was a kitchenette that looked like it had never been cooked in and a bar with chrome and black vinyl barstools. A flecked pink and turquoise Formica kitchen table sans chairs. Strewn with junk mail, it hunkered between the couch and the large black TV—the only contemporary furnishing.

Down a short hallway from the living room with attached kitchen was the only other room, a large closet that served as Nicholas’s boudoir—a room just big enough for a bed, a bucket of ice, and a pile of chicken wings.

“So, how was your chat with whatshisname?” Nicholas handed Maureen a spicy wing.

“You know, we’re getting the sauce all over the sheets again.” Maureen stripped the wing in a single bite. “Any more wine over there? These wings are hot.” She brought her knees up under the black satin sheets.

“I got a cleaner over on Fulton who does a bang-up job with satin sheets. There’s a towel over here somewhere.” Nicholas handed her the wine.

“So you ready to hear about my talk with Drummond?” She drank from the bottle, spilling a little across her ample, freckled chest.

“Sure.”

“I asked him for the foot. This guy Yager wasn’t too thrilled about getting it for us. Better get another bottle of that stuff, Nicholas.” Maureen handed him the bottle and plucked a wing from the pile, her glowing back exposed all the way down to her garter belt.

“Anyway, that was quite a yarn, Swires being crocodile chow.”

“So what do you think?”

“I think this guy Drummond has some act going. So I made some calls to Costa Rica. I bet you didn’t know, but I speak Spanish pretty good.”

“I’d guess you’d have to, busting Mexican deportees all day.”

“Anyhow, I got switched around a lot, you know, until I talked to the policeman who covers the area where Swires got eaten.”

“So what did the cop say?” Nicholas took a pair of lemons from the bed stand.

“He corroborated their story. Then I said, ‘Look, Enrique, how much are they paying you?’ He said two hundred dollars. So I wired him three hundred.”

“You think you have a bottomless expense account, don’t you?” Nicholas started to roll a lemon on her thigh. She grinned wickedly.

“Well worth it. Said he was paid two hundred bucks to stick with the story, but that was all he knew. So I called the fishing lodge where the boats were stolen, told them the cop spilled the beans and that as a reporter for Condé Nast I was gonna ruin the lodge if they didn’t spill their beans. Know what they said?”

“What?”

“They hung up. So I call the cop Enrique again, say does he want more money.”

“How much this time?”

“Two hundred. I asked Enrique to nose around, get the lowdown. Long story short? Barney was never in Costa Rica. He had tickets, but someone else flew down there, and this someone stayed in a hotel under the name of Swires. But the guy at the hotel described a ‘tall Argentine woman’ staying in that room. That worth five hundred and change?”

“Yeah, that was worth five hundred. But c’mon, how’d you get this cop Enrique to open up like that?” Nicholas bit off one end of the lemon.

“Phone sex.” Maureen grinned. “That’s what he wanted. So I said a lot of stuff like
‘Oooo, muey bien, Enrique,’
and groaned.”

Nicholas sprayed the lemon on Maureen’s chest.

“Ouch, sssss!” She recoiled. “That smarts, Nicholas.”

“I’ll make it feel all better.”

The doorbell rang then, and it was ignored.

Some minutes later, there was some knocking on the front door, which was also ignored.

When the door was kicked open, Maureen rolled out of bed and onto her holster. But she no sooner had the Glock automatic in hand than there was a stranger with a badge and a gun standing over her.

“Police. Drop it.”

Maureen let her pistol fall to the carpet, drawing the black quilt from the end of the bed around her.

Nicholas reclined under the black satin sheets, arms folded behind his head, looking at the two detectives with mild annoyance. The detectives were familiar from his recent arrest: one detective was hatchet-faced, the other roly-poly. Maureen moved from the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, groaning with embarrassment.

Nicholas cleared his throat. “You have a court order of some kind?”

“Yeah.” Roly-Poly held up a piece of paper. “Sorry to bust in on your love nest here, or restaurant or whatever, but we gotta search the place. And take you downtown, pal.”

“What’s this about?” Maureen brushed her hair from her face.

“You got a permit for that Glock, nude lady?”

“In my bag, in the living room. I’m an ex-cop.”

Roly-Poly went to get the permit. Hatchet Face pointed to Nicholas.

“Put your duds on, pal.” He unfolded his warrant. “Seems a certain party indicated that you approached her this afternoon about selling a certain stolen painting.”

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. BB might have thought that she had Nicholas by the balls now, but he was grimly delighted. If she pulled this move, it confirmed for him that she was involved in swiping the Moolman, and that she wanted Nicholas out of the way. Push had come to shove.

Cigar embers lit red dots in the eyes of the high rollers who stood behind shabby curtains, ogling the stacks of wire cages backstage. Spanish whispers mingled in the gloom as owners and trainers fastened razor spurs to gamecock legs and brandished glinting syringes to drug the birds. Above, pin feathers floated among the rafters in swirls of tobacco smoke, the eager arena crowd below inebriated with the aroma of chicken shit and malt liquor, like some barnyard den of iniquity.

“Dos. El dinero en el pájaro
El Cid.
”
Drummond pressed two one-hundred-dollar bills onto an outstretched wad of money. The bookmaker eyed Silvi’s leather-bound cleavage as he handed Drummond his marker. After buying a small bottle of Martel and two tiny plastic cups for thirty dollars at the bar, Drummond led Silvi along the smoggy hallway toward the blazing lights of the stage. They went up two flights of bleachers to a second tier. The crowd could get a bit rough on the main floor.

“Cuba, it is where there is the best fights.” Silvi knocked back a shot of Martel. “Cocks, in Cuba, they fight with both legs gone.” She sighed, stroking his forearm with her nails. “You go to fights for many years? Drummond, you do not look the type.”

“For many years.” Drummond sipped his cognac, thinking about the arena in Chad where children were forced to fight to the death, and then about Panama. “Have you been to Club Gallistico?”

“Hmm. Panama City.”

Drummond eyed her for a reaction. He knew from her dossier that she’d been the mistress of a certain Panamanian general as a young woman, and had fled when the Americans invaded to take the country back from Noriega.

She met his eyes. “Yes, the fights there are good. But it is not, um, it is too…”

“Civilized?” Drummond arched an eyebrow.

Silvi only nodded, but held her thoughts as the crowd roared. The ring judge stepped into the arena, two men toting pillowcased birds in his wake.

Five minutes later, the jubilant crowd howled. The birds were reduced to flinching feathery wads, the arena strewn with their blood.

A portly, white-bearded man had sidled up behind Drummond.

“Ah, Mr. del Solar. Excuse us a moment, Silvi.”

Drummond soon returned to his seat, smiling thinly. “Apologies, dear Silvi, an old friend.”

He noted her forced smile, but it was necessary to keep her in the dark about this part of the operation. Her dossier also included a few incidents when she’d been double-crossed before. It was Drummond’s experience that such people were out to settle the score. She was to be trusted even less than Barney.

“Drummond, what will we do with Barney?”

“You can do whatever you like with him, darling.” His eyes twinkled. “Just as long as he ends up dead.”

C h a p t e r                           1 1

 
B
B had been married, once upon a time. Met the guy in art school. When they graduated they lived on the dingy urban edge making art nobody would buy. She had an inauspicious beginning selling art posters. He lucked out and got a job at the Met, first helping to restore frames, then actual paintings. Then he got a grant to go abroad, and by the time he got back, Beatrice had wheeled and dealed a partnership in the poster shop, which now did framing and mat cutting. During their separation, however, they’d drifted apart. They’d both realized they were bisexuals and couldn’t tolerate an open-ended marriage. They continued to live together platonically until BB started brokering local art from her store, at which time the profit margins ballooned and she moved closer to her buyers on the Upper East Side. She never heard from him again, and never went back to seeing men.

The morning dawned bright and cold. Karen came into the bedroom, her pale body and tiny breasts starkly framed by a flowing green kimono. BB smiled slyly from over a section of the Sunday
Times
as Karen climbed back into bed with a mug of strawberry coffee, black.

“Anything in there about Palihnic?” Karen ran a hand through her blond swirl, trying to tuck some behind an ear. She handed the coffee to BB.

BB sipped it and turned another page.

“Not that I’ve been able to find.”

“That was a fiendish thing to do, BB.” Karen giggled, then knit her brow. “I’m not sure why you did it, though, sweetie.”

“I won’t tolerate him sniffing around, whatever the reason. Or his impudence.” BB flipped another page. “Nobody gets away with that with me. That’s how I got to where I am. Like a bad dog, he needed negative reinforcement.”

She knew that Karen would panic if she knew BB had indeed arranged to have
Trampoline Nude, 1972
stolen. Luckily Karen didn’t know a Moolman from her cute behind. And taking the painting from that slob Bagby, was that really stealing? He’d stolen it himself, hadn’t he? No moral high ground there.

“Well, I guess they arrested him, right? So now they look for the painting. And if he doesn’t have it?” Karen idly stroked BB’s ponytail.

“I’m not sure. I guess if he doesn’t have the painting they won’t have anything to hold him on, and they’ll have to let him go. But if he’s smart he’ll know he should steer clear of BB.”

“Do you think he stole it?”

BB shrugged, glancing at auction listings. “Did you see this in Friday’s paper? The auction at Phillips?”

“Yes. I thought we might go this afternoon, if you felt like it. But when Palihnic is released, won’t he come directly to you, angry about you telling the police…?”

“If he does, he’s a bigger fool than he looks. What’s to keep me from calling the police again?”

“But he suspects you. He may even think the Moolman you shipped the other day was the stolen one.” Karen pulled the elastic from BB’s ponytail, and her black hair fanned out.

BB set the paper and coffee mug aside, slid her hand into Karen’s blond swirl, and kissed her. “But it wasn’t
Trampoline Nude, 1972
, was it? If I have to, I’ll get a restraining order.”

She pulled the sash from Karen’s robe and looped it around a stave in the bed’s headboard. “Palihnic is small fish, Karen.” She tied one end of the sash to Karen’s wrist. “I’m a big fish, and I eat the little ones.” She pushed Karen back against the headboard and lashed her other wrist. “He comes too close, and I’ll just gobble him up.”

Nicholas stalked out onto Centre Street holding his belt in one hand and his shoelaces in the other. He squinted up at the morning’s bright frigid sky, possibly casting a derisive glance at the heavens in response to his ill fate, and marched straight up to the limo.

The sardonic Greek awaited him, holding the back door open.

“Somebody don’t like you.”

Nicholas ignored him as he ducked into the backseat and began relacing his shoes. Another night of fun in jail, only this time he didn’t get Thules “Slick” Fick at his arraignment. What Nicasia managed this time was a judge who made himself available to order Nicholas released if he wasn’t charged. Mr. Patel did the lawyering this time, and got admirably tough with the folks in the DA’s office. Charge him or let him go. And the cops had diddly. No painting had been found, and BB hadn’t seen the painting in his possession.

So they’d let him go, but as he could already see from the back window of the limo, Detectives Hatchet Face and Roly-Poly were hot on his heels in a gray Crown Victoria. They followed as the limo headed up Centre, across Canal Street, where this whole episode had begun, and back to Gravy’s.

“Macallan, on the rocks with a twist.” It was mid-afternoon, and Gravy’s was almost empty. Nicholas peeked out the bar’s curtained window at the Crown Victoria lurking across Irving Place.

“The twenty-five-year or the eighteen, sport?” It was the same bartender, only this time her long blond hair was worn in a cascade down her back.

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. “Eighteen.”

“Have a double.” The bartender filled the glass. “Your girlfriend is up in Tammany Hall. Doesn’t look too happy.”

“I’m none too happy myself.” Nicholas smiled weakly and winked. He turned and trudged up the stairs. “And she’s not my girlfriend.”

Nicasia didn’t say anything when Nicholas entered. She just shook her head like a parent who’d all but given up on her teenager.

“My troubles notwithstanding,” Nicholas began, tossing his coat over a chair, “we have made some progress on Barney. We know he probably never went to Costa Rica, much less got eaten by any crocodiles. He might just be alive, somewhere.” He sat down opposite Nicasia at the big round table.

“We?” Nicasia swirled her seltzer.

“Yeah. I’ve got Maureen McNary working on this with me.” He took a healthy gulp of his drink.

“Isn’t she the one who used to be an NYPD detective in Brooklyn?”

“Yup. She went private. Does good work.”

“Why’d she leave the force?”

“I dunno.” Nicholas shrugged. “Her explanation had something to do with a stick with shit on both ends. That relevant?”

“Maybe I should just have her work on the case. Let you rot in jail for a change.” Nicasia flashed Nicholas a catty expression. “I’m not yanking your nuts from the roaster again, Nicholas. Understand?”

“You know, I just might not be as deep in shit as you think, Nicasia. I won’t be back in the jug. It’s somebody else’s turn.” Nicholas finished his drink and stood. “I’ll call when I’ve got more on Barney.”

“When?”

He stopped in the doorway. Nicasia kept her eyes down.

“Look, it could very well be that Barney purposely misled you about where he was going. It may even be that he wants us all to think he’s dead.”

“What do you mean?” She reddened, pushing her glass away. “Why would he do that?”

“I dunno, but whatever the reason, he may have buried himself. He’s a pretty clever guy. It’s not going to be as simple as putting a skip trace on him.”

Nicasia kept her eyes trained on the corner of the room.

“Hey, Nicasia?”

Red-rimmed eyes looked up at Nicholas, and he flashed a reassuring smile.

“Barney is almost as lucky as he is clever. I don’t think we’ve heard the last of him.”

Nicholas trotted down the stairs, wondering if that were true.

The bartender sauntered toward him from the other end of the bar. “What’s your name?”

“Nicholas.” He put out his hand and she looked him over skeptically. But she shook his hand just the same.

“Judy. I work Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday.”

Nicholas slipped two twenties across the bar. “No matter how shitty a day I’ve been having when I come in here, I’m always a happy camper when I leave. Why is that?”

She crossed her arms. “Judy thinks Nicholas has a naughty streak.”

He laughed and turned toward the door.

“A mile wide.”

“Hey,” Judy called after him, waving the netsuke peanut in the air between her thumb and forefinger. “You forgot your nut. The collateral.”

“My nut?” He flashed her a foxy grin. “I’ll leave it in your capable hands.”

He stepped out onto Irving Place, sucking in the icy air to clear his head. He needed to get rough with BB, and his scheme to make her cough up
Trampoline Nude, 1972
needed to be implemented ASAP. Blackmail is usually nothing more than knowing the truth about someone. He needed detailed information about her finances, and fast. Ages ago that took time. Now it just took smarts and a keyboard.

Next stop: Mel. And Dottie.