Hot-Wired in Brooklyn (4 page)

“Can’t say I have.”

“The dog doesn’t know it’s his until he bites it.”

“And?”

“And he learns absolutely nothing from the experience.”

I took a slow swig and gave Watusi a sour look, as if the beer’d gone flat.

“Are you drawing anything from the analogy, Eddie?” he said in a serious, professor’s voice.

I cracked an insolent smile. “I was waiting for you to tell me.”

“Then you don’t object if I do?”

“I’m all ears, Tooss.”

“Unlike the dog, you ought to know that the tail you’ve been chasing is your own.”

“You just lost me.”

He leaned forward. “Has it occurred to you that the closer you look at this young man Arnold, the more you see yourself as
you once were?”

“And?”

“And you don’t like what you see.”

He waited for a response, but I just sipped the beer in chilly silence. Finally, he sat back and I stood up.

“Gotta go,” I said abruptly, leaving the beer unfinished. He rose and followed me to the door. “I may have to stake out this
guy Shork for a while,” I said. “Can I count on you?”

“Of course, Eddie.”

“What about leaving Desiree?”

“There’s a reliable teenager downstairs who can baby-sit.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch.”

I was closing the door when he stopped me. “And what about Arnold Pulaski?”

I let go of the doorknob; the door swung back toward him
and my gaze turned colder. “You’ve been a real big help about that, Tooss. We won’t even have to tail him once he gets out
on bail. If I wanna know what he’s up to, I’ll just look in the mirror.” I walked out without a good-bye.

I brooded all the way back to Brooklyn. I was in such a dark mood as I neared the bridge that I took the East River Tunnel
instead. Arnold the chicken thief, make that
car
thief, as the young Fast Eddie? Not on your life. I’d had my ups and downs as a teenager, but Arnold as Eddie? Not possible.

Absolutely not.

Never.

The phone was ringing when I walked in. Herm Kowalski was on the line, and he wasn’t happy. “Jesus, Eddie! Do we have to scrape
the bottom of the barrel every single goddamn time?!”

“I sent you to Raymond Street, Herm. Who’d you expect to represent, Francis of Assisi?”

“Jesus, Eddie!”

“Okay, okay, tell me what happened.”

“You really wanna know?”

“Tell me, Herm. You’ll feel better.”

“Well, first I go lookin’ for a bail bondsman. That’s two hours wasted right there…”

“So, bill me, Herm. And?”

“I wait another hour, the kid’s father shows up, and after he sobs, groans, and begs, we finally get a bail bondsman. The
father doesn’t have a whole lotta collateral, so I agree to make up the difference. Judge Hines says that’s okay, and I’m
ready to spring the little prick.”

“And?”

“And then he takes his goddamn sweet time comin’ out!”

“Doin’ what?”

“Tellin’ off the guards, makin’ a fuss gettin’ his valuables back, like they’re worth anything…”

“And?”

“And when he does finally come out, I start to tell him off for makin’ me and his old man wait, and you know what he
says?”

I could guess.

Tuck you!’ he says. Then he starts callin’ me names. Shyster, Asshole, One-Eye, you name it!”

“Polack?”

“He skipped that one. The little son of a bitch! And after I’d helped bail him out with my own friggin’ money!”

“Sorry, Herm.”

“I’m not done yet. Then he starts goin’ on about some guy named Shork. Top of his lungs, screamin’! Made a hell of a scene!
Says he’s gonna bash the guy’s brains in! I thought they were gonna re-arrest him for the ruckus he was makin’, but the cops
just threw him out! Can you believe it, Eddie? Even the Raymond Street Jail doesn’t want this kid!”

“Sorry, Herm.”

“I’m still not
done,
Eddie! We’re on the sidewalk finally, and I’m tryin’ to explain the conditions of his bail, and he asks, ‘Who the hell sent
you?’ So I make a big mistake and tell him you did. And you know what he does?!”

I didn’t ask.

“You know what he does, Eddie?!”

I knew.

“The little prick spit in my face! And I’m billin’ you for it!”

I
had the dream again that night. I was back under the Brooklyn Bridge, hanging by my bleeding hands in the early morning cold.
The two goons who’d shown up at Shork’s office were there. One of them had Herm Kowalski s face. He was playing Superman’s
part, crushing my fingers under heavy, hob-nailed boots. When it was Calamari Breath’s turn to stab me, Herm did that, too,
with an eager smile.

Then Arnold entered, just as before. He leaned over me and whispered, “You poor, dumb, fuckin’ dago. Still haven’t figured
it out, have you?”

“Figured
what?”

“I’m just like you, Lombardi. But I’m
better”

My mouth filled with blood as I cursed him. I felt myself falling again, heard his demonic laugh follow me, and waited once
more for the hard impact of the East River.

The ringing of a telephone woke me. I studied the blurred face of my nightstand clock until the luminous little hand
focused into a three and the big hand into a five. I fumbled for the phone in the same muddled moment and picked up. There
was cop noise at the other end.

“Morning, Eddie,” said Nick DeMassio.

“Uhh.”

“Good
morning,
Eddie.”

I stared at the clock again. It seemed to hover in blackness above the nightstand. “Jesus, Nick, it’s still the middle of
the night.”

“Sorry to wake you, but I figured you’d want to know.”

“Know?”

“That guy Shork at Victory Wrecking.”

“Uh huh.”

“Somebody got more than mad at him.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He’s lyin’ on the floor in front of me with the action end of a ball peen hammer through the back of his skull. You
wanna look?”

Somebody popped gum at DeMassio’s end. I sat up. “Where are you?”

“His office. Victory Wrecking.”

“Jesus! Be right over.”

“Make it quick, okay? We’re all gettin’ bored.”

. . .

Victory Wrecking was lit up like a hookers’ convention. A half dozen prowl cars were parked outside the yard, their revolving
cherry lights washing garish purple over Shork’s dilapidated blue shack. Across the street, red-eyed reporters waited like
starving jackals.

DeMassio’s car was at the curb half a block down. I parked behind him, gave my name to the uniformed cop at the gate, and
walked in. The police photographer and the fingerprint guys were packing up their equipment while the meat wagon driver and
two attendants played gin on top of a waiting gurney.

A second uniformed cop stopped me at Shork’s office door and popped his gum in my face. DeMassio called out, “He’s okay.”
I blew the cop a mouthful of air, grinned a “Fuck you, too,” and went inside.

Shork was face down on the floor beside his desk, his head framed by a dark halo of coagulated blood. The hammer that had
killed him was still embedded in the back of his bloody skull.

I nodded DeMassio a quick hello. “Your case?” I asked. “Or is it just fun to look?”

“My case.”

“How long’s he been dead?”

“Since ten, or thereabouts. Night watchman found him.”

“How come he’s still decorated?” I was looking at the hammer.

“It’s wedged in between a coupla pieces of skull. Coroner doesn’t want to fool with it here. He’ll wait till he gets to the
morgue.”

“Took a lot offeree to drive it in that deep.”

“A lotta anger, too.” He stared expectantly at me. A smile should’ve come to my lips, considering what we were both thinking,
but it didn’t. Instead, a full squadron of moths fluttered in my stomach.

“Arnold?”

“Who the hell else?” said DeMassio.

My eyes drifted to the rectangular red metal box behind the open door. DeMassio watched me look. “Kid’s hammer, too,” he added.
“Name’s stenciled on the toolbox. Know anything about it?”

“I was here yesterday afternoon. Shork said he was gonna ram that box of tools up Arnold’s ass. Too bad he won’t get the chance.”

“We picked the kid up a couple of hours ago. At home. You know what he told the arresting officer? ‘Stupid fuckin’ mick. Served
him right.’ When he heard his own hammer was the murder weapon, he just laughed. He laughed all the way back to Raymond Street.
That’s where he is now.”

“Kid offer an alibi?”

“Yeah. A humdinger. Said he’d been ‘out,’ and this right after his old man swore he’d been home, in his room, ‘playing Monopoly.’”

“By himself?”

“They don’t even own the game.”

I leaned over the body for a closer inspection. There was fingerprint powder on the handle of the hammer, and plenty of prints.
Most were smudged, especially low on the grip, but there were enough partials and even one or two higher up that were close
to pristine.

“Wanna guess whose?” asked DeMassio.

I didn’t answer.

“Kid uses his own hammer, doesn’t even wipe the prints. Pretty stupid if you ask me.”

“Pretty stupid,” I echoed. I studied Shork again and walked behind his body to the desk. The wide top drawer was
open. Except for a few pencils, scraps of note paper, and a ruler, it was empty. He’d either just opened it or was ready to
close it when he got hit from behind. He’d turned his back, carelessly, on his murderer, as if getting a ball peen hammer
in the brain were the last thing he’d expected.

“You wanna see anything else?”

“Naah,” I said. “Haul him away.”

I followed DeMassio outside as the attendants rolled the gurney in.

“Well?” he asked finally.

“Well what?”

“Is this
your
case? Or is it just fun to look?”

My heart and my head weren’t in sync, so I couldn’t give him an answer. I couldn’t even give myself one.

“Well? What’s the situation, Eddie?”

“I don’t know yet, Nick. Honest to God.”

“Kid’s a lost cause. Open and shut case.”

“Looks that way.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Should be.”

We walked back to our cars, DeMassio’s face moving through a series of slow contortions, like something was puzzling him.
I had the same feeling, but I was managing not to show it.

“What is it, Nick?”

“One thing I can’t figure. The kid’s facin’ a murder charge, he practically signs his name to it, and he’s
laughin’
when he’s picked up.”

“You don’t know Arnold,” I cracked. But even to me the words sounded empty. The smile of certainty I’d planted on
my face wasn’t convincing either, but DeMassio was too cold and bored to see through it.

“The little bastard can’t be that stupid,” I said under the hard cranking of DeMassio’s engine.

The wind gusted as DeMassio drove away. Then, just as suddenly, the air became as still and soundless as the inside of a bell
jar. The laughter that rang in my ears was from inside my own head. My chest tightened, the sound of Arnold’s mockery grew
bolder and more cruel, and the squadron of moths in my stomach found new wings.

I
got back home around five-thirty. It was still dark, but I wasn’t ready to go back to sleep. Or dream.

So I made coffee.

At seven-thirty, my two closest
goombahs
_y
Tony and Angelo, came by.

I’ve known them my whole life. They’re as dumb as barber poles, as guileless as window glass, as true as still water. Only
occasionally do they make me crazy. They’re the best arguments I know for living an honest, slow-witted life. If there were
more people with Tony and Angelo’s kind of stupidity, this world would be a much better place.

It was Saturday, so Angelo didn’t have to open up St. Margaret’s School, where he’s the custodian. Tony should’ve been on
his shift for the Yellow Cab Company, but you never know with either of them.

“We saw your light on, Eddie,” said Angelo as I let them in. “We figgered you was awake.”

“You figured right. So, Tony, you takin’ the day off?”

“Huh?”

“Why aren’t you at work? You on a different shift now?”

Tony looked like he didn’t know, so Angelo chimed in, “We’re gonna watch ’em skate up at Rockefeller Plaza. You like hockey,
Eddie?”

“Sure, but what’s that got to do with Rockefeller Plaza?”

“That’s where they play hockey.”

“No. That’s where they
skate,”
Tony insisted.

“It’s the same thing,” Angelo protested.

“Ain’t,” said Tony in a small huff.

“Is so. It’s the same thing, right, Eddie?”

“Not exactly,” I said.

“See?” said Tony. I felt one of their debates coming on, and I wanted no part of it. They can argue for a day and a half about
why snow is white.

“So who’s right?” Tony asked.

“You both are,” I lied. “People go ice-skating at Rockefeller Plaza, and hockey players wear ice skates.” That seemed to do
it. Before they could find something else worthy of disagreement, I poured some coffee.

“I’m takin’ today off from work, Eddie,” Tony volunteered after a sip.

“That’s great, Tony. You and Ang have a good time.”

“You on a new case, Eddie?” asked Angelo.

“Can we help?” echoed Tony.

“Not this time.”

They invited me to Rockefeller Plaza, but I reminded them that it was Saturday. I spent every Saturday afternoon with my three
kid sisters, Maggie, Letty, and Fran, and their
three idiot husbands. Penance for being a habitual reprobate, black wolf and wiseass.

“I’ll see you here tomorrow,” I promised. “For lasagna.” Then I let them out. I finished my coffee, paced the room a while,
then stared silently out the window. I was searching for an answer to my questions about Arnold, hoping to snatch it right
out of the gray winter sky. When none came, I drove to Prospect Park, walked out by Swan Lake, and sat on a bench. Prospect
Park is a beautiful place in the winter, especially in the morning before the fog lifts. It’s a place to think, to sort things
out, and my Arnold problem needed a lot of sorting.