Once a Crooked Man (24 page)

A metal door rattled up. Muffled voices. A man laughed. The engine was switched off. The world became very quiet. The trunk opened. The glare of fluorescent lights above momentarily blinded Harry. Big Arms from the car wash lifted him out. A wiry individual wearing a Mets baseball cap closed the trunk.

The cab was parked in a garage workshop, the floor thick with years of oil and grease. The Mets fan spun him around and pushed him over to a workbench, where he emptied the contents of all his pockets into a manila envelope held open by Big Arms. Both men tied Harry to a metal chair and secured the chair with electrical wire to the bench. Before ducking under the descending door they turned out the lights.

Harry sat in the dark with one eye now completely closed by the congealed blood on his eyelid. They had his wallet, his keys, the pencil and both pieces of paper. His address was on his driver's license. If they went to his apartment they would see the camera cases and the empty leather suitcase. Might they recognize it?

What else could they find?

 

40

Rocco tore open the envelope from Big Red's Garage and tipped the contents out on the table. The three men gazed down at them. Enzo picked up the wallet and laid out a MetroCard, Visa, MasterCard, American Express and Discover cards, a driver's license, union cards from SAG/AFTRA and AEA, a Health Plan card, a faded photo of a young man in a police uniform holding a citation and standing beside a pretty girl, a money clip with nine twenty-dollar bills, a five and two singles, a Chase Bank card and a condom.

“You suppose he's a faggot?” said Rocco.

“Who knows?” replied Max.

Rocco picked up the bunch of keys. There were two large and two small. Max smoothed out the pieces of paper.

“That one's from me,” said Enzo. He pointed at the other. “What's that one?”

“It says,” replied Max, “‘North side of Twenty-Fifth Street … between Broadway and Fifth Avenue.'”

“Hall and front door,” said Rocco, thumbing through the keys. “Mailbox and what looks like a lockbox. Where's he live?”

Max picked up the driver's license and his eyes met Harry's for the first time. The actor knew how to hold his head and give the right smile to take full advantage of the lighting even in the DMV.

“The famous Mr. Harry Murphy,” Max said drily, and threw it down. He picked up the SAG/AFTRA card. “‘Screen Actors Guild,'” he read. “What the fuck is that?”

“A union. It's the actors' union. Actually, it's two unions combined,” said Enzo.

“He's an actor?”

“Seems that way.”

“Actors have unions?”

“Sure they do,” said Rocco. He flipped through the other cards. “One for theater, one for live television and commercials and one for when they work in movies. SAG has always had the best health plan of any union.”

“How you know all this?”

“I know a pimp in the Bronx who's one of them. Bastard's always boasting about his benefits.” He reached for the license and memorized the address. “What do you want to do?”

Max handed him the keys. “Take these, but let us have them back. Go there. Take the place apart. See what you can find. Nino can take you.”

“Got it,” said Rocco, and he hurried out.

Nino drove fast uptown. As they turned onto 56th Street Rocco told him to park on the far corner until he came back out.

“You got your phone with you?” he asked.

Nino reached into a pocket and showed him his cellular. Rocco pulled out his Ruger KSP-321XL. Tucking it in his waistband, he got out and let himself into the building. Inside he read the mailboxes. Murphy was on the top floor. He inserted the small key in the lock and pulled open the box and grasped the letters that had been delivered earlier. Closing the box, he pushed through the inner door and climbed the stairs three at a time, all the while shuffling through the mail. At the apartment he rang the bell. After thirty seconds he let himself in.

Before turning on any lights he took a cursory look in each room to make quite sure he was alone. In the bedroom closet he felt in every pocket, ran his fingers along every seam, checked each piece of clothing and then threw it on the floor. The labels showed Murphy did most of his buying at Brooks Brothers, L.L. Bean and Bloomingdale's.

Each pair of shoes was examined and added to the pile. On the upper shelf were boxes of sweaters, gloves and scarves. A plastic see-through bag contained packets of new socks and handkerchiefs. All of it was checked and tossed on the pile. A blue American Tourister suitcase lay empty. Rocco noted that the flight label on the handle was from British Airways and dated the day before.

He moved over to the bedside table, picked up the answering machine and pressed “Play.” Murphy had one new and five old messages. Rocco listened to them all but learned nothing and dropped the device on the floor. He flipped through each book and magazine, emptied the bedside drawer onto the coverlet. The pictures on the wall were taken apart one by one. In the chest of drawers under the window were shirts, socks and underwear. Rocco tore out the lining paper from the drawers but only found an old airline ticket stub to Houston, Texas.

The bedding was dragged off and the sheets and coverlet shaken out. Leaning the mattress against the wall, he felt around the box spring and propped it up against the mattress. Two furry coffee mugs and a belt lay on the floor amidst a mass of fluff and dust.

He strode across the living room into the kitchen, turned on the light, opened all the cabinet doors and emptied out all the jars and boxes. He tipped or dragged out everything from the drawers, icebox and freezer. Glass and crockery shattered as they hit the floor.

Standing up on the kitchen counter, he looked above the cabinets but saw nothing but dirt. As he jumped down, his hip caught the edge of the kitchen table. The impact pushed it to one side to reveal three metal cases.

From the first he pulled out a fancy camera and put it on the table. He bent down to examine the inside of the case. A key turned in the front door and it opened and closed. A girl's voice said, “Harry?”

The living room light was switched on. “Harry, is that you?”

Rocco smoothed his hair back and walked into the living room.

A pretty young brunette stood by the sofa with a purse over her shoulder. When she saw him she gave him a smile. “Hello,” she said pleasantly. “Are you a friend of Harry's?”

“You might say that,” replied Rocco. “Who are you?”

The girl walked over and held out her hand. “Lizzie. I just came over with Harry from London.”

Rocco shook a strong hand. The girl passed him and went towards the bedroom. She immediately saw the mess.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, spinning around. “What have you done? Just who the hell are you?”

Rocco reached behind his back and pulled out the Ruger, causing the girl to put a hand to her mouth.

“Lie down,” he said, “on the floor. On your face.”

“No, please!” she whimpered. “No! Please don't.”

“Just shut up! And lie down! Face on the floor!”

The girl meekly did as she was told.

“Don't move a muscle!” he said menacingly. Keeping the gun pointing in her direction, he retrieved a belt and tie from the bedroom floor and used them to secure her ankles and bind her arms behind her back.

“Now get up!” he ordered, and pointed to the sofa. “Sit there!”

With his help, the girl struggled to her feet and sat down. Her frightened eyes never left him as he took out his phone and dialed.

“Benny, get in touch with Max,” he said. “Tell him a chick just walked into Murphy's apartment. Says she's a friend of his. Came over on the plane with him. The label on her suitcase shows their flight was yesterday. Yeah, she just came up. No. Everything's fine. I need to know what Max wants me to do with her. I'll wait here.”

While he finished his search he put down his phone on the table but kept the Ruger pointed in her direction. The books, CDs and photographs were all checked and dumped to the floor. A Filofax was given a peremptory glance and stuffed in his pocket. Each piece of furniture was shoved away from the wall and the carpet flipped over. A search of the bathroom took less than a minute. In the closet he opened every box and bag and dumped out the contents.

Back in the living room he noticed an old suitcase made of leather. It was empty. On a side table was a black TUMI with wheels. Except for the name, the flight label on the handle was the same as the one in the bedroom. “‘Elizabeth Carswell,'” he read, and looked at her. “That you?”

She nodded.

Rocco opened the case and systematically went through her clothes, throwing each one to the floor. The contents of the makeup and toiletry case followed. The phone beeped and rumbled on the center table and he picked it up.

“How soon?” he asked, looking at his watch. “The keys? No problem. I'll give them to you as soon as you get here.”

Rocco made sure the girl couldn't move and then ran down the stairs. Benny drove up a few minutes later and held out a manila envelope at arm's length. Rocco dropped in Harry's keys. As Benny drove off, Rocco waved to Nino to pull over.

Back in the apartment he picked up the girl, draped her over his shoulder and went swiftly down to the street, where he bundled her into the car.

From 56th Street they took the West Side Highway to the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. Once through, they made their way to Gowanus and a large warehouse that had been abandoned to vandals, spray paint and pigeons.

Inside, Rocco propelled his captive across a dark floor. The ceiling fittings were all broken, but lightbulbs had been randomly strung across the hallway on lengths of wire. Rows of makeshift shelves were stacked high with an assortment of cardboard boxes. Bundling the girl past them and down a flight of stairs to the basement, he pushed her through a door marked MEN and slammed it shut. There was no lock, so he took a length of rusty pipe and jammed it under the top of the lower panel, kicking the other end hard into a crack in the concrete floor.

As he left he heard the girl sobbing loudly.

 

41

Lizzie waited until the man's footsteps faded away before she stopped the phony sobs. She looked around but the darkness was total. When her captor had gone into the bedroom to get a tie and belt, she had jammed her purse in the back of her skirt beneath her blouse. Taking out her lighter she flicked it on and held it above her head.

Her prison cell was once a men's toilet complete with rows of urinals, basins and mirrors. Everything was covered in black dirt. With her shoulder against the door she gave it a good shove but to no avail. Squatting on a WC in one of the stalls, she took out a cigarette and lit up.

The end glowed red in the darkness as she took a deep drag and wondered if she made the right decision in Harry's apartment. Her abductor had acted tough and strong but he'd been careless. With her training she could have taken him out at least twice but if she had disarmed him that would have blown her cover. On the other hand, if Harry was in some kind of trouble her decision to play the innocent girlfriend could be one she could live to regret.

 

42

The big metal door rattled up and jerked Harry to his senses. A man came in, turned on a light and walked over to him. This one wore a dark suit, a pale blue shirt, a dark red tie and in his lapel was an American flag pin. He pulled the leather glove from his right hand, reached down and pulled out a large serrated knife from his leg. The bare bulb above glinted on the blade. Harry tensed, but the man only used it to free him from the chair. Slipping a finger under the tape over his mouth, the man yanked it off. At the sink he pulled down a few sheets of blue paper from the dispenser and moistened them under the faucet.

“Here,” he said, holding out the wet paper. “Wipe off your face.” A trace of garlic wafted through the air.

Harry got up and stretched his arms and legs. There was little he could do about the deep ache in the back of his neck and shoulders. On the wall above the bench was a dirty piece of mirror, courtesy of Goodrich Tires. Harry leaned close and saw that congealed blood ran from his hairline to his chin. As he sponged it off with the towel the cold water felt good. In the same mirror he saw that a Ford LTD Town Car was parked outside with the back door open.

Harry glanced around as he was pushed out. The workshop was part of a repair facility for yellow cabs. He thought about making a dash for it but in the darkness he had no idea which way to run. Also, he could see that the perimeter fence was topped with coils of razor wire.

As they drove out through the gate, Harry had no idea where he was being taken or who he was going to meet. Apparently Lizzie's plan was working. But only if Agent MacAvoy's men hadn't lost track of his whereabouts. The car bounced over the curbstone. A couple of turns and they were on Tenth Avenue passing a sign for 37th Street. When they reached 79th, the driver turned towards the river and pulled up a few yards short of the on-ramp to the West Side Highway. The driver got out, locked the car and motioned for Harry to follow him.

“This way,” he said, and headed towards an underpass beneath the West Side Highway. Bums and vagrants huddled along the walls in the stagnant air of the concrete passageway. Many lay stretched out on sheets of cardboard. Sullen eyes watched Harry and the driver pass. The acrid smell of unwashed bodies, feces and urine was almost unbearable. An old woman cackled like a witch as they passed, her face so black she could have come from the depths of a coal mine.

At the other end of the tunnel was the pedestrian walkway that runs along the eastern shore of the Hudson. On the far side of this was a high chain-link fence that insulated the inhabitants of the boat basin from the rest of the world. The driver pulled out a key, opened a metal gate and pushed it open.