The James Deans (18 page)

“You know, Mike,” I interrupted, “Annie mentioned something to me about a group you and Brightman and a few other guys were in that I found pretty intriguing.”

He seemed surprised, if not upset. “Oh, yeah, what group was that?”

“The James Deans.”

“The James fucking Deans.” He laughed quietly, a smile that was part joy, part embarrassment washing over his handsome face. “I haven’t thought about the James Deans in twenty-five years. Man, we thought we were so cool.”

“Who were the James Deans, exactly? Annie wasn’t sure,” I lied.

“There was me and Stevie, of course, and Kyle Lawrence and Pete Ryder. Oh, yeah, and Jeff Anderson, too.”

He repeated the sad particulars of the tragedies that had befallen the group. Day, too, said they thought of themselves as a gang, but really weren’t. His riffs on being a fourteen-year-old boy sounded awfully like my own thoughts.

“We only ever had to do one thing that even remotely resembled a gang,” he said, completely without guile.

“What was that?” I asked.

For the first time Mike Day hesitated. “To get into the gang, you had to … um … take a scalp.”

“A scalp!” Wit started.

“Not a scalp scalp, not a real scalp.”

I could see Day regretted having brought it up, but I couldn’t let that get in the way. “Explain that scalp thing or it’s gonna end up in some national magazine and that won’t be good for anybody. You know what’ll happen if you don’t tell us. You were married to a reporter, for chrissakes!”

“Don’t remind me. Well, the scalp thing is what we called it, but what it meant was you had to steal something to get into the James Deans. You know, committing an act of defiance. I hope this isn’t going to cause Stevie any trouble.”

Wit reassured him. “Not at all, Mr. Day. It’s just background information. I won’t use it in my piece, so feel free to continue. You’ll notice, I’m not taking any notes.”

Mike Day breathed a big sigh of relief.

I was curious. “Do you remember what each member stole?”

He thought about it. Giggled. Flushed red. “I stole a box of sanitary napkins from Wiggman’s Pharmacy on Terrace Street. Jeff took his father’s watch. I didn’t think that should count.”

“Too easy,” I said.

“Exactly,” Day seconded. “Jeff always was a bit of a pussy, but Stevie said it counted.”

“The others?” Wit prompted.

“Pete stole Mr. Hart’s glasses right off the rostrum at band practice. Stevie took the school mascot, the Hallworth Harrier, from the hallway outside the gym. It wasn’t a real hawk, just a statue of one.”

“That leaves Kyle,” I reminded him. “What did he take?”

“You know, I don’t know. That’s funny, I forgot that. We never did find out what Kyle took, but Stevie vouched for him. He said that he was there and saw Kyle do it and that was good enough for us. Stevie’s word was always good enough for us.”

Wit and I exchanged sick, knowing glances. Mike Day, Pete Ryder, and Jeffrey Anderson might not have had a clue as to what Kyle Lawrence had stolen in the presence of Steven Brightman, but Wit did, and so did I. Knowing and proving, however, are not synonymous. We were still a long way from proving.

I DIDN’T WANT him to do it, but Wit volunteered. The truth of it was, we needed to buy more time, and unless we threw one of us to the wolves, we weren’t going to get it. Wit was the logical choice. He was less vulnerable to outside pressures than I. As a member of the press, he was fairly insulated from most physical threats. He was a long time divorced. His children lived well out of state. And in spite of what Thomas Geary thought of Wit’s inheritance, Wit assured me Geary was wrong.

“Poor sods don’t live at the Pierre,” he chortled.

So I had to turn rat. Before doing so, I made sure to finally get some sleep. The hangover I had skillfully avoided the night before through a combination of adrenaline and outrage had only been postponed, not canceled. By the time I dropped Wit off and pulled into my driveway at home, my head was tearing itself in two and my body literally ached from exhaustion.

Katy was still awake and was horrified by the look of me. “You didn’t come to bed last night and you were gone this morning before I got up. What’s going on, Moses? You’re not acting like a man on the verge of getting what he’s always wanted.”

“Get me a bottle of aspirin and we’ll talk about it.”

After a long shower and a handful of aspirin, I sat Katy down and told her why a little boy’s murder in 1956 meant I was never going to get any detective’s shield beside the replica she had bought for me two Christmases ago. She did not try to undo any of my reasoning. I was glad, because I had no more energy to fight, only to sleep.

“I might be going away for a few days,” I said before closing my eyes.

“Where?”

“It’s better if you don’t know. It’s better if no one knows. We’ll all be safer that way. Can you take Sarah up to your parents’ for a while?”

“I guess. Is it that serious?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t do another thing. Thankfully, sleep came crashing in before I could make sense of the look on Katy’s face.

THEY WERE GONE by the time I got up. I was never so glad to have my family away from me. I didn’t know how much physical danger any of us were in, but I wasn’t going to take chances with Katy and Sarah. There had been enough loss in our lives. There had been enough loss in the lives of too many people connected to this business. No one but Wit would be in any danger if I could pull off the rat routine. First I had to find Ralph Barto’s card.

Barto, whom I’d met at Joe Spivack’s funeral, was someone I needed to talk to. Not only had he been a U.S. marshal, he’d also worked for Spivack. He had offered his services to me, and I was about to take him up on that offer.

He picked up on the first ring. “Barto Investigations.”

“My name’s Moe Prager, Mr. Barto. We met at—”

“—Joe’s burial. I wouldn’t forget you. You got Joe’s flag. What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure yet, but can we meet?”

“Name the time and the place,” he said.

I gave him the address of the Brooklyn store. Although it was unlikely I was being watched, I thought it wise not to draw undue attention by going to Barto’s office. I instructed him to stroll into the store in the early afternoon just like any customer and that we’d take it from there. He didn’t question the arrangements.

The phone rang nearly before I put it back down. It was Larry McDonald. It was unnecessary for him to say anything more than my name for me to know word of our visit to Hallworth had already leaked back to Brightman. In a way, his call was a relief. There would be less guessing involved from here on out, and I could act preemptively.

“Fuck, Larry, I’m glad you called. There’s something we need to talk about.”

“What?”

“I think I may have to postpone my reinstatement for a week or two. I think Wit’s out to cause us all a lot of grief.”

That was met with silence. Good. I couldn’t be sure how much Larry knew of the details of what was really going on or even if he was taking his directives straight from Brightman. The further he was from the truth, the better I liked it. First, it made him an easier target for my manipulations. Second, it let me believe my old friend’s integrity was still intact. And I very badly wanted to believe that.

“What’s this nonsense about Wit?” he asked. “I was calling to tell you that they’re considering reinstating you as a detective second grade.”

“That’s great, Larry, but this other thing’s more important. Trust me, okay?”

“I’ve always trusted you, Moe.”

“Good, but we gotta talk. Maybe tonight. The Hound’s Tooth?”

He did not pause. “Seven o’clock.”

“Seven.”

Wit answered on the first ring. He sounded bright and alive, as if he’d been waiting by the phone all morning for my call. I had no trouble understanding how pumped he must have felt. He was on the hunt, but in danger himself. It was all very primal stuff.

“Word’s back to Brightman already,” I said. “I just got off the phone with Larry Mac. He was calling to let me know they’d up the stakes for my keeping my mouth shut. They’re thinking of reinstating me as a detective second grade. It’s amazing. In the seventies, I couldn’t make detective no matter what I did. Now I’ve made detective and gotten a bump in grade without even being reinstated. At this rate, I’ll make chief by November.”

“And what did you say?”

“That there was something more important going on. That you were out to cause us all a world of trouble. I didn’t mention Brightman by name.”

“And …?”

“We’re meeting this evening to discuss it. I think it’s time to buy those two plane tickets to California, Wit. Don’t forget, book them with a layover in St. Louis or Chicago. Leave a message on my machine with the details.”

“I’ll have them booked for us so the information is out there if anyone is interested. I’ve also called a few people at
Esquire
and let the name Jeffrey Anderson slip out of my mouth in connection to Steven Brightman.”

“Good. I’ll see you at the airport tomorrow.”

KLAUS WAS A bit confused by my showing up at the store when I was supposed to be preparing for my return to the job. I assured him that it had nothing to do with a lack of confidence in him. Beyond that, I was unwilling to say much else. Wit and I had to strike a proper balance in setting things in motion. While leaving enough of a bread crumb trail for interested parties to follow, we could not afford to leave whole loaves on the ground behind us.

Barto strolled in about a quarter past one and asked Klaus if he could help him select a red wine to have with dinner. I told Klaus to take his lunch break and that I’d be happy to help the gentleman. Klaus rolled his eyes at me and mouthed the word “Cop.” I guess Barto did look a little out of place. He was strictly a scotch and beer man.

“So what can I do for you, Mr. Prager? You were kinda vague on the phone.”

“No, I was very vague on the phone. The truth is I think I have an idea why Joe Spivack committed suicide. It’s why he left me the flag. He wanted me to wonder about that. It was a sort of challenge.”

“That don’t sound like Joe. He wasn’t a subtle kinda guy. If he had something to say, he’d just come out and say it.”

“Even if he was ashamed of himself?.”

Now Barto hesitated. “Maybe then. So why do you think he—”

“I don’t want to say anything about it now, because I would just be guessing. I think I owe him more than a guess. But I’m not going to bullshit you, Ralph, if it turns out I’m right, it won’t be pretty.”

“Joe’s dead. It’ll take more than sticks and stones to do him any harm. And if what you say is true about him leaving you the flag and all, then he wanted you to find out.”

“Okay, so you’re not gonna get squeamish on me?”

“I can’t afford to,” he confessed. “I got ex-wives in two states to support.”

“You said something to me at the bar that day after Joe was buried about Spivack and Associates having financial trouble, but that he refused to let anybody go. Do you remember telling me that?”

“I do.”

Barto went on to explain how last year had been a financial nightmare at Spivack and Associates. Most of Spivack’s staff were old-school investigators, either ex-marshals or ex-cops. They had been slow to adapt to the use of computers and other electronics.

They were seat-of-the-pants types of guys, and Joe Spivack had an aversion to taking divorce work. He felt it was beneath him.

“The Moira Heaton thing,” Barto continued, “now that was the kind of thing Joe loved. But those kinda cases are few and far between. That case kept us going for a time, but by last year even that had petered out.”

“Do you know where Joe got the money to prop up the company after things went south?”

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Prager, I didn’t give a shit where he got it from. When I went to the bank with my paycheck, they cashed it.”

“When you were a marshal, where were you stationed?”

“Vegas, Miami, but mostly New York. Why?” he asked. “Is that important?”

“Maybe. You met Spivack in Miami?”

“No. Up here, but we had mutual acquaintances down in Florida.”

“How would you like a job, Ralph?”

“What’s it pay?”

“Five hundred retainer against your regular daily rates plus all expenses. But you might have to do a little traveling.”

“When I was eighteen, I joined the navy to see the world. There’s plenty I ain’t seen yet and a lot of places I’d like to see again.”

We went back to the office and I wrote him an eight-hundred-dollar check. Five hundred was the retainer. Three hundred was for the trip to Miami.

I HAD TO be careful with Larry McDonald. For one thing, he was a good cop. He’d been a real detective while I’d only played one in my head. He’d sat across from some of the world’s most accomplished liars. Now I was going to sit across from him and feed him a plate of bullshit while trying to convince him it was caviar.

“What’s going on, Moe? You called in today and you’re not even back on the job yet.”

I kept reminding myself not to overexplain. “It couldn’t be helped.”

“So what are we doing here? What could Wit possibly do to give us shit? We haven’t done a fucking thing—”

“Whose idea was my reinstatement?”

Larry’s face went blank.

“Come on, Larry,” I prodded, not wanting to give him too much time to think. “Who came to you with it?”

“My chief.”

“And do you think your chief snatched this idea out of midair? Somebody with juice whispered in his ear.”

“I didn’t give it much thought, Moe. I was just happy for you.”

“I’m happy for me too, but Wit’s gonna fuck it up for all of us.” I appealed to Larry’s healthy sense of self-interest.

“How?”

“He thinks he has a line on something Brightman did as a kid that will ruin his political career. I was with him in Jersey yesterday checking it out. That was no coincidence today that someone mentioned me getting the bump to second grade. You’re too smart a man not to see the connection.”

Larry got down to business. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Wit got a lead about some bombshell shit Brightman and this guy Jeffrey Anderson did as kids. We went to Jersey yesterday to talk to this Anderson, but he’s moved out to California somewhere. Wit’s flying to California tomorrow to look for this guy, and I’m going with him. I gotta keep an eye on him. Can you clear a few days for me, postpone my reinstatement for a while?”

“Don’t worry about it, but to tell you the truth, Moe, it sounds like you’re talking outta your ass. What could this guy possibly have on Brightman?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.” I stood to leave.

“Don’t you want your drink?”

“No time. Gotta go home and pack. I have a long trip ahead of me.”

He didn’t know the half of it.