The Folks at Fifty-Eight (35 page)

Hammond smiled.

“What about all those even richer people from the Upper East Side? Who do they hate?”

“Any mother who drives a better fucking car than them.”

“And there’s nothing they all agree on?”

“Sure there is. Every last one of them still hates the fucking Japs.”

Gabriel paused for breath and then began again.

“Take yourself three blocks north, and four blocks west. Place you’re looking for is a humongous twenty-five storey fucking building on Forty-Second and Broadway.”

Hammond stopped smiling.

“Why am I looking for that?”

“They call it Times Tower. You can’t miss the fucking place. It’s where they print the New York fucking Times. Drop in on Anne O’Hare McCormick and Meyer Berger. Make their fucking week. Tell em you’ve just discovered a bunch of assholes who think they’re the fucking master race.”

As predicted by Marcus Allum, Hammond found himself instantly liking the highly colourful, slightly unwholesome, shockingly bigoted and outrageously profane detective. Gabriel was still some way from finishing.

“Looking for Nazis in this town’s like pulling a loose thread on a fucking sweater. You got any common fucking sense at all you’ll tuck the fucker back in and forget about it, cos you keep on pulling and you’re gonna end up with no fucking sweater.”

“You got a thing about this, huh?”

“I’ve been wading through this sewer for over forty fucking years. Yeah, I’ve got a thing about it. You wanna grab a coffee?”

They crossed the street to a diner. Gabriel clearly knew the elderly waiter, because he nodded and grinned when the old man called out to him. They ordered coffee and sat by the window. Hammond decided to further the introductions.

“So, where are you from originally, your family, I mean?”

“Me? I’m New York City born and fucking raised; grew up in a slum just off Delancey Street. That’s on the Lower East Side, case you ever wanna take a stroll and get the shit beaten out of you.”

“Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind. What about your family?”

“You wanna find a bunch of Nazis, or research my family fucking tree?”

“I just think it helps if you know a little about the people you work with.”

“Where’d you learn that, Washington Institute of psychological fucking bollocks?”

Hammond smiled. Gabriel shrugged his indifference.

“Well, I guess we’re on your fucking dime. What can I tell you? My mother was everything my old man and the neighbourhood weren’t. She was beautiful, genteel, dainty, a real lady. One part Irish and three parts Polack, so I guess that’s where I get my naturally relaxed attitude and good nature from. Worked herself into an early grave looking after me and my old man during the day, and working as a cleaner down at the local precinct six nights a fucking week.”

The coffees arrived. Gabriel drained the scalding liquid in one oversized gulp. Hammond gingerly sipped at his and persevered with his questions.

“How do you manage to drink it so hot?”

“You’ve obviously never been a fucking beat cop.”

“No, that’s true.”

Gabriel didn’t embellish. Hammond returned to the subject.

“What about your father?”

“We still wringing the fucking entrails out of that? Well, like I said, it’s your fucking dime. My old man was what you’d call a self-made fucking bastard. Used to come home soused every night, and kick seven fucking bells out of whichever one of us he managed to focus on first. Disappeared with some sorry-assed punch-bag he’d managed to stick his dick in less than three weeks after we buried my mother; when he ran out of clean fucking shirts, I guess.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. He wasn’t Polack or Irish, and he sure as hell wasn’t fucking genteel. Son-of-a-bitch was one-hundred-per cent belligerent Wop fucking cop. And if you’re wondering about the name, it’s Dawid with a W, and that’s pure fucking Polack.

“So you feeling properly fucking bonded now, J. Edgar? We done with the Washington psychological mumbo-fucking-jumbo, family-history shit? Or did you wanna hear how a troop of gypsies banged my granny on a long weekend down on Coney fucking Island?”

Gabriel snarled. Hammond grinned good-naturedly and persisted.

“You said your mother was three parts Polish, and your father pure Italian?”

“Pleased to see you were paying fucking attention.”

“But you also said the Poles hate the Italians?”

“They didn’t use to. . . I guess she must have started it.”

Hammond studied the deadpan features and grinned again.

“So you’ll help me to find these people then?”

“To do what?”

“First to find the girl. After that, to gather evidence and bring them to justice.”

“Fuck ‘em over, you mean?”

“Well, only metaphorically. The authorities will deal with them if we get the evidence.”

Gabriel raised his eyes to the heavens.

“Jesus Christ! That’s all I fucking need. So, you wanna prosecute ‘em, do you, bring em all to justice? Well hoo-fucking-ray for you. So tell me something, J. fucking Edgar. Do you have any fucking idea how many crimes they solve in this godforsaken fucking city, and how many of those result in a custodial fucking sentence for the shit-heel involved?”

Hammond shrugged his ignorance.

“Around a half of one fucking per cent, my friend, which eventually pans out around four-fifths of fuck all. Current rate is around three per cent of reported crimes that finally result in banging up some asshole, and the reported rate gets worse every fucking year.”

Hammond sipped at his coffee and said nothing. Gabriel went on. “And why is that, my good and true detective, I hear you ask?”

Hammond smiled. Gabriel answered his own question.

“Because every Jack shit knows that those dick-heads, down at the fucking precinct, will more than likely screw up the fucking prosecution. Or some feeble-minded ‘Judge middle-fucking-America’ will throw it out, rather than risk any flak. Thanks to a bunch of ass-wipe lawyers, rolling around Manhattan in their Lincoln’s and Caddys and Rolls Royce fucking imports, Joe Public doesn’t even fucking bother to report most of it.”

“That’s lawyers the world over, I guess.”

Hammond had felt he should say something. Gabriel was ranting again.

“Fuckers! They’re the main reason I quit the force. When the fucking revenue finally yanks its dick out of your ass, you get around two thousand bucks a year for enforcing the fucking law, and a hundred thousand for screwing it over. And all those city council assholes still can’t figure out why we’ve got so much fucking crime in this city.

“It’s gotten so bad that most of the flatfeet expect to get a fucking commendation for writing up a traffic violation that actually fucking sticks.”

“If it’s as bad as you say it is, then why don’t you get out; move to the country, or maybe another city or something?”

“Cos like I just told you, J. Edgar, I’m born and raised New York, it’s all I fucking know. Anyway I wouldn’t give ‘em the fucking satisfaction. And apart from all that crap, where the fuck else would someone like me fit in? That’s the trouble with these fuckin. . .”

“Some of the people I’m looking for are lawyers.”

The sudden announcement halted Gabriel in mid-expletive. He looked uneasy as he posed the next question.

“Not Wall Street lawyers?”

“Some are.”

“Whoa! Hold on there, J. Edgar. This wouldn’t have anything to do with a limestone-fronted fucking mansion, on the corner of East Sixty-Eighth and Park?”

“It’s possible.”

The mood instantly changed.

“Then do us both a fucking favour, my friend. Climb right back into that shit-box Pontiac and start heading south-west. If you’ve got any fucking brains, you’ll keep on through Philadelphia and fucking Baltimore. If you’re seriously fucking smart, and that shit-box holds up long enough, which I seriously fucking doubt, you won’t take your foot off the gas until you reach the banks of the fucking Potomac.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Listen up, and listen good. Forgetting fucking turf issues, there are two sets of people in this town you don’t fuck with. . . that’s the mob, and anyone connected with the mob.”

“I can see that.”

“Yeah, but what you can’t fucking see is there’s one set of people that even they don’t fuck with. . . That’s The Folks at Fifty-Eight.”

“The Folks at Fifty-Eight?”

“That’s what we call ‘em here. It’s like a collective fucking noun for every rich asshole who ever took a dump on Joe Public and wiped his ass with green.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t. . .”

“Nobody fucks with ’em, J. Edgar, and I mean nobody. The City Council don’t fuck with ’em. New York’s finest don’t fuck with ’em. The F.B.I. don’t fuck with ’em. Even fucking O’ Dwyer and the Mob don’t fuck with ’em. . . and for a very good fucking reason.”

“William O’Dwyer? You mean the Mayor’s in with the Mob?”

“They ain’t proved that yet, but so word has it. You knew where you were with LaGuardia, but with this fucker. . . Well, like I said, that’s what so much of the fucking Apple’s all about: worm ridden and rotten to the fucking core.”

Gabriel looked adamant. Hammond tried to placate.

“Look, I understand these people are powerful and it’s going to be tough.”

“Tough? Fucking tough, he says. You got any fucking idea who we’re talking about here? These people aren’t just powerful. These people are fucking unbeatable. A grain of sand’s got more chance of ending up strung round Joan Crawford’s fucking neck than you’ve got going up against that fucking lot.”

“You’re saying you won’t help me?”

“Fucking right I am.”

Gabriel stood up and walked out of the diner, without paying for the coffee. Hammond dropped a dollar bill onto the table and nodded a self-conscious thanks to the old man, before following him out to the street. He caught up within a few yards.

“Hold on a minute. Look, I’m not trying to cause you any trouble, or bring any of these people or the establishment down on top of you. I’m part of the establishment, for god’s sake. Look, forget about the rest of them. I’m not interested in going up against people like that. I just want you to help me to find the girl. That’s all, I swear.”

Gabriel remained intransigent.

“You still don’t get it, do you, J. Edgar? Well, forget Meyer Berger. Here’s a New York fucking newsflash for you, hot off the fucking press. . . I couldn’t give a flying fuck.”

Gabriel stood on the sidewalk, shuffling awkwardly. Hammond changed the subject.

“You got any kids?”

“Can you see me with fucking kids?”

Hammond studied him carefully for all of a moment.

“Yeah, I think you’d be a good father, well, apart from the profanity. I think you care about people, Dawid Gabriel, all sorts of people. Despite what you’d have me believe.”

Gabriel grinned and shook his head.

“This ain’t gonna fucking work, my friend. I’ve been snowed by the best in the fucking business; you sure as fuck ain’t that.”

“O.K. So, let’s say you’ve got a friend, someone you care for, a girl, a beautiful young girl. She’s in a strange city in a foreign country, and she’s in serious trouble, the sort that might even get her killed.”

Gabriel shrugged.

“Like I told you, it ain’t fucking working.”

“So how would you feel about it if the one person in that city who could help her, maybe even save her life, told you he couldn’t give a flying fuck?”

Gabriel stood for a few moments and then shook his head.

“Nope, still ain’t working. Moving fucking speech, though.”

He started to walk away again. Hammond called after him.

“Just to find her. Anybody needs dealing with, I’ll deal with them. You walk away.”

Gabriel stood quietly for a few further moments of indecision before saying,

“I am walking away. Take a look at the way my fucking feet are pointing.”

“Please, Mr Gabriel. I honestly can’t find her without you.”

The answering expression fell somewhere between annoyance and resignation.

“Like I told you before, it’s either Dave or Dawid. The rate’s a hundred dollars flat for the hire, and fifty dollars a fucking day.”

“That’s not cheap.”

“You want cheap, go beat down some other asshole gumshoe’s fucking door in Wop City, or the fucking Bronx. You want me holding your fucking hand, it’s gonna cost. Call it a crazy fucking price for a crazy fucking assignment. Now you wanna walk away?”

“No, that’s fine.”

“I should fucking hope so. And I swear on all that’s holy, J. Edgar, you get me fucking killed and I’ll come back and fucking haunt you. So, let’s see if we can get this shit-box Blackout into gear.”

“Where we going?”

“First to Queens. There’s a badge over there, might be able to wave an arm in the right direction, just so long as we stick the other one halfway up his fucking back.”

“Queens. Which way is that?”

“North, and then east over the island. Fuck it. Give me the keys, I’ll drive.”

The Pontiac shot away from the curb with the suspension lunging, the tires screeching, and a suddenly demonic Gabriel cursing at every second individual they passed. After a few incident-ridden blocks, he turned the snarl on Hammond.

“I hope to fuck nobody sees me driving this pile of crap.”

“At the speed we’re going? I’d have said that was unlikely.”

“You wanna fucking drive?”

“No, I’m good. It’s just a little fast for my blood.”

“You don’t feel safe? Well, now you know how I feel, chasing after these fucking bastards.”

“You seem to have a fascination with cars.”

“Whad’yer mean?”

“The Rolls Royce imports, the Lincolns and Cadillacs, the people from the Upper East Side hating anyone with a better car. . . Now you’ve got a problem with General Motors?”

“Not all of G.M., just most of it. And yeah, I’ve got a fascination with fucking cars.”

“And you always drive like this?”

“Yeah, I got a fucking fascination with that, too.”

“So I noticed. I get the feeling you’ve also got a fascination for the F-word?”

“You give me a single-syllable fucking word with as much fucking impact, that doesn’t have connotations of sewage, or sodomy, or else degrade every fucking woman, and I swear I’ll use the fucker. If you can’t, then maybe you’d just better just shut the fuck up and let me drive.”