Authors: Dan Fesperman
The Letter Writer (24 page)
“It's okay,” Gurfein said, reading his face. “Your secret is safe with us. Provided that ours is safe with you.”
So there it was, the stick behind the carrot. Keep nosing around, and your name will be mud in every precinct. And Cain knew where that led.
“You've given me a lot to think about. But right now I'm due back at the station house.”
No one answered, and no one budged, and for a moment he wondered if they planned to hold him in place until he gave in. Finally, after a few seconds of silence, Hogan nodded to Revis, who slid out of the booth without a word.
Cain stood, feeling a little shaky. “Gentlemen,” he said.
There were no answering farewells, no parting smiles. No one even nodded. He turned and walked out of the restaurant, feeling their eyes on his back all the way to the sidewalk.
This time Cain didn't calm down. The more he mulled over what had just happened, the angrier he got, because the bottom line was that Hogan and Gurfein wanted to bury everything, and they wanted his help in doing it. And if he refused, they'd rat him out to the likes of Mulhearn and Maloney. Unlessâ¦
Unless he beat them to the punch, by finishing his work in the 95 Room and turning over the goods to Valentine before they could derail his investigation. Then maybe he could secure the commissioner's backing in going forward with the case of the Germans, even if it led to the federal cover-up of a sabotage plot against the
Normandie.
Hogan and Gurfein had no idea how much progress he'd already made in digging out evidence of corruption in the 14th precinct, and when he returned to the squad room he set his sights on getting more.
First, he dutifully and quietly handled his paperwork, plus every other chore Mulhearn had dumped in his lap. Then, a little more than half an hour before the shift change, he went back downstairs to the 95 Room, where, true to further in-house gossip, Officers Steele and Rose had knocked off for the day well ahead of schedule.
Cain turned the key, slipped back inside, relocked the door, and switched on the light. He again got down to business. It turned out to be one of the most productive half hours of his day. Next time Linwood Archer called, Cain would have an earful for him.
IN THE PAST HOUR
I received a most alarming communication. My telephone rang, and upon answering I was hailed by a rough and taunting male voice, unfamiliar to me. The caller asked to speak to Alexander Dalitz.
“There is no such occupant at this address,” I replied.
“You sure, pal?”
“Beyond all doubt, sir.”
“Yeah? Well if you see him, let him know I'm looking for him.”
“Who is this?”
The man did not answer before disengaging.
I climbed to the rooftop of my building, and there, among the pigeons and the soot and the detritus of time, I scanned the streets below for anyone suspicious, anyone eyeing or approaching my doorway. I saw nothing out of the ordinary, but knew that, henceforth, and for the first time in many years, I could no longer consider this location to be either safe or secure. In some fundamental way, the new life I had chosen for myself so long ago was nearing its end. The question, then, is whether it will end in violence or, like the previous one, regeneration.
Although it is small consolation in light of such a jarring interlude, I do have progress to report on the matter of our investigation. Only this morning I was able to acquire new and interesting information concerning the four German laborers hired by Lutz Lorenz. Armed anew with their pseudonymsâHeinrich Heine, Friedrich Schiller, Wolfgang Goethe, and Thomas MannâI ascertained through reliable connections with the Longshoremen's Union that four gentlemen using those names obtained union cards last December with a local on the Hudson waterfront. Listed on those cards were their last known addresses, which have in turn led me to additional new information, some of it quite alarming.
Intending to pass along these findings to Mr. Cain as soon as possible, I telephoned him a few moments ago in order to arrange a rendezvous. I chose the place of our meeting with care, partly out of the belief that my home is no longer either safe or suitable. Instead, I selected a more public venue, where we will enjoy the anonymity of the crowd. I expected Mr. Cain to object, or at least to question me further with regard to motive. But he agreed without hesitation, and in his ready acquiescence I detected a state of perturbation as advanced as my own.
“Are you well?” I asked. “What has upset you?”
“Nothing,” he said, but I was not convinced. He then stated curtly that he would see me soon, and hung up.
Perhaps he was tired. I had telephoned at the end of his shift, and he may have been upset at the prospect of prolonging his workday. Then another thought struck me. Perhaps he, too, has been given reason to feel threatened, so much so that he did not feel free to express his true feelings while seated in his place of employment.
This thought disturbed me greatly, especially now that Mr. Cain's daughter has joined him in New York. It prompted me to revisit my vow from the previous morning, when I resolved to become a more watchful presence. It is obvious to me now that I cannot hope to accomplish this duty on my own. Yet, I do have an idea of who might be best positioned to help me: Beryl Blum, of course. Perhaps she can serve as my eyes and ears on certain occasions when I can be neither present nor in touch. And so, Fedya's protestations and objections notwithstanding, I decided to do all within my power to promote their liaison, amorous and otherwise. Partly, of course, for the sake of their happiness. But partly as well for their greater safety in each other's company.
So there we are, thenâtwo wary and perturbed men on their separate ways to the location I chose for our rendezvous: a bench at the north end of Tompkins Square Park, favored environ of rabble-rousers, holy men on soapboxes, and children at play, with enough motion and noise to cloak our every word and deed. I confess also to an ulterior motive in choosing this location. You will discern it soon enough.
I will not wear my usual ensemble of clothing, seeing as how it no longer seems to offer its previous protections. This is yet another way in which I have begun adapting to the new circumstances of my once tranquil life here on Rivington Street. So, off I go, flushed from cover like a startled quail, in the awareness that from here on out I had best keep taking steps forward if I am to outpace those who now pursue me.
CAIN ALMOST MISSED DANZIGER
on his first circuit through the upper end of the park. The man looked differentâclothes, hair, the works. Not younger, exactly, but more polished, and Cain wondered at the transformation.
“Nice coat,” he said, taking a seat beside him on the bench.
“Camel's hair,” Danziger said.
“Tan. New color for you.”
“Not really.”
Cain detected the smell of mothballs. Not new, then. It just hadn't been worn in a while. As if you'd need any coat at all on a day this warm and beautiful. But without a coat perhaps he wouldn't be Danziger.
“Combed your hair, too. And the wool hat's gone. It even looks like you used a razor. Sort of. What do you call that style of beard you're growing, now that you've shaved the rest?”
“A Van Dyke.”
Danziger stroked his newly smooth cheeks, as if to confirm it for himself. Cain noticed a small nick or two, marked with a styptic pencil.
“Usually I leave such duties to a barber,” Danziger said, as if to explain the imperfections.
“You sounded a little shaken when you called.”
“As did you.”
Cain nodded. Each man waited for the other to speak, which led to several seconds of silence.
“You first,” Cain said.
Danziger told him about the caller asking for Alexander Dalitz.
“I guess that explains the shave and the wardrobe.”
“And our meeting place. Although there is a lesson for you here as well.”
“A lesson?”
“It is staring at you from nearby.”
Cain looked around, but noticed only pigeons and children. A nanny pushed a baby carriage past a small marble fountain.
“I must be missing it.”
“We will proceed to that momentarily. Besides, I believe it is now your turn for explanations.”
Cain told Danziger about the meeting with Hogan. Danziger reacted at first with shock. Then he frowned and shook his head. “I understand why they would want to keep an eye on Lorenz. But his patriotic defense of those other disreputable scoundrels makes no sense at all.”
“Unless he's crooked.”
“Remember that I told you Lanza was under indictment? Well, Hogan is still pursuing the chargesâquite aggressively, I am told, possibly even with wiretaps in place. That would mean he knows all about any calls made by Haffenden to Lanza. Why, then, in speaking to you, would he cover for such people?”
“Could this all be for Luciano's benefit?”
“No. His prison sentence remains in full force. No motions of any sort have been filed on his behalf. Although, just as I heard at Longchamps, there
is
talk that he will soon be moved. But to Great Meadow prison, not Sing Sing.”
“It's closer to the city?”
“Yes, but not anywhere nearly as close as Sing Sing. Great Meadow is up by Albany. Any visitor would still have to stay overnight, so it is not as if Mr. Luciano got his entire wish. Yet, now our district attorney, our supposed beacon against the darkness of organized crime, suggests that you should leave these fine gentlemen in peace, and, in doing so, drop your present inquiries.”
“And with three murders still unsolved. While offering no plausible reason.”
Danziger shook his head.
“You said you've been busy?” Cain said.
“Quite. Many contacts. Many inquiries. Any single one of them might have triggered the phone call asking for Alexander Dalitz, but I do have progress to report. I have acquired new and interesting information concerning our four literary Germans.”
He told Cain about the union cards obtained under the fake names of Heine, Schiller, Goethe, and Mann, all of them on the same day in December, issued by a longshoremen's local on the Hudson.
“Bingo.”
“Yes. And from those cards I obtained their last known domiciles.”
Danziger told him the addresses for the two remaining GermansâGoethe's for Dieter Göllner, and Mann's for Gerhard Muntz. Cain wrote them down, while Danziger watched.
“May I borrow that notebook of yours for a moment?”
“Sure.”
“Your pencil as well.”
“Okay.”
Danziger crossed out the address for Dieter Göllner.
“He's moved?” Cain said.
“He is dead. Beaten to death in a waterfront bar two days ago, by three men who ran out and have not been seen since.”
Cain let that sink in, and frowned at the implications. “That makes Hogan's request to back off look even worse. Now it's four murders, which he probably knew by the time he was talking to me.”
“And, soon enough, five. Not that Gerhard Muntz has been foolish enough to remain at his old address. His landlord reports that he left a week ago, three days behind on his rent.”
“Days?”
“His place of residence was a flophouse, the Comet Hotel, on the Bowery. Thirty cents a night.”
“Why would Hogan look the other way? If you believe what Lorenz told us, these four krauts were in the middle of a sabotage plot, with some mob guys running the show. Hogan should want to round up every last one of them for interrogation and intelligence. Haffenden, too. Instead, it's like they're throwing these guys to the wolves, then calling it an act of patriotism when somebody hunts them down. Never mind that a young woman got killed along the way.”
“I do not know what to make of it, other than it seems to be making our lives more difficult and dangerous than they need to be.”
“Sounds like you'd prefer to drop it.”
Danziger turned toward him, scowling. “Absolutely not. Are you suggesting that course of action for yourself?”
“I hadn't been. Now I'm beginning to wonder. Cops up here, it seems like they've been going along to get along for ages. Not just the ones getting rich off bribes, or in some politician's pocket. I mean the everyday guys, like me. Every time I turn around it feels like I have to make another trade-off, just to keep going. And is that really all that different from what I used to do? Look at me. I came up here on a sellout to my father-in-law, after a failure under pressure. Maybe that's the way it'll always be.”
Danziger narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps. First, I think it is time for you to learn why I called you to this location. Indulge me for a second. Look in that direction once again, and tell me what you see.”
Cain obliged him. “Same as before. Kids and pigeons. Plus that raving lunatic of a preacher over there. Although on any given Sunday in Horton I could find you two or three who'd give him a run for his money.”
“What about statuary?”
“You mean that little slab of marble over there, with the curved top?”
“Yes. Tell me about it.”
“Well, there's a fountain in the front with some kind of carving. People's faces, it looks like, with an inscription.”
“Can you read the words?”
“Not from here.”
“Then, please.” He gestured with his hands. “Go and have a look, and report back to me.”
Cain, feeling this was getting rather strange, walked over. He expected to find a profound message or quotation, or perhaps the name of a famous New Yorker that would tie in to some sort of parable. Instead there was only a relief carving of two children in profile, gazing heavenward. Just beneath them was a marble lion's head, spitting water into a basin. On the side of the slab, which was barely more than a foot wide, was an inscription reading “They were Earth's purest children, young and fair.” That was all.
He went back to the bench and recited the words.
“Like something you'd see on a tombstone,” he added.
“It is a memorial,” Danziger said, “although I doubt that even one-tenth of the people in this park could tell you what it represents.”
“But you can.”
“Yes. And since you have expressed such a keen and abiding interest in my pastâthe real me, as you seem to regard itâthen here is your chance. You are looking at a relic of the event that ended my childhood, in the year 1904. The biggest loss of life this city has ever seen. More than one thousand people, all perishing on a single morning in June. Among them, Solomon and Anna Dalitz.”
“Your mom and dad?”
“On June fifteenth. The day I became an orphan.”
“A
thousand
people? What the hell? Did some big building go up in smoke?”
“A ship. The
General Slocum,
during a pleasure cruise. Death by fire and then by water, a spectacle more horrible than the
Normandie,
right out in the East River, while thousands of people watched from both banks. I survived only when someone on shore pulled me from the water with a rake, just as the currents were sweeping me away.”
“My God. And this monument is all that remains?”
“Dedicated to the children. There were so many that day, and women, too. Most of the fathers were working. Almost the entire congregation of St. Mark's Evangelical Churchâyou know them as Lutheransâwas on board.”
“Lutherans? But youâ”
“My father kept their books. That was his business, bookkeeping. And for St. Mark's he did such a good job of cleaning up the mess left behind by his gentile predecessor that the Reverend Haas, a truly fine man, asked my father if he would like to bring his whole family along.”
“No good deed goes unpunished.”
“Yes. The nature of fate. We were overjoyed to receive the invitation to such a festive event. A day on the water, with food, a brass band. The perfect family outing. I was required to bathe the night before. My mother spent hours getting dressed. A corset, a flannel petticoat, a skirt and a shirtwaistâeverything that would later become saturated with the waters of the East River and drag her to the bottom. Alas, that was the case with many women and girls. I wore knickerbockers and a jacket, my finest. My father, his suit and tie.
“We boarded on a beautiful summer morning. The band was already playing Christian hymns, and I was set free to roam the decks with two nickels in my pocketâone for a tongue sandwich, one for a slice of pie. It was the heart of Kleindeutschland, gathered on one happy ship.”
“Little Germany? But I thought that Yorkvilleâ?”
“Yorkville came later. In fact, if not for this terrible day, Yorkville might never have happened. Those brownshirt parades from a few years ago would have marched instead up Third Avenue, from Houston Street to Fourteenth.”
“You said there was a fire?”
Danziger nodded, gazing vacantly, his eyes off in some other time and place.
“It started near the engine room. Straw and gasoline, or some such combination. I am not so clear on details. They were in all the papers, but I've never had the stomach to read them. I remember only the thick black smoke, and then flames, rising from nowhere, sweeping the deck toward us like a wave. And the screams, of course. I was eating, and could not find my mother or father. I never saw them again.”
He paused, sagging noticeably before collecting himself.
“People began jumping overboard. Some ran for the lifejackets, but in fourteen years they had never been used, and the cork inside had turned to dust. The lifeboats had been repainted so many times without removal that they had become stuck to the sides of the boat.”
“My God.”
“Yes. We were quite helpless, all of us, and as the fire spread people rushed to the side of the deck nearest the shore. Of course, that caused the ship to list violently, throwing one and all against the rail. And when the rail gave way, I fell into the river, a long way down. And as I was fallingâand I am quite sure of thisâthat is when I heard my mother's voice, calling out my name. I landed in the water, sinking and then surfacing. I looked up for her on the lower deck above me, but all I could see was people burning, people jumping. There was a beautiful young woman with her hair on fire. All around me in the water, people were gasping for breath, trying to stay afloat. I saw men just ahead, standing in the shallows of North Brother Island, trying to pull people to safety. Then the current swept me under. A woman just behind me pulled me to the surface and pushed me forward. I grabbed for a rake, barely holding on, and was pulled ashore. The woman who saved me was swept away. I heard her screams and then saw her passing as she sank beneath the surface, another poor soul dragged to her death by her wet wardrobe. For days I heard those screams in my head, whenever it was quiet.”
Danziger went silent, his eyes misting. Cain remembered their trip to Ellis Island, and his description of the menacing Lady Liberty, raising her torch on high.
“An omen, you said. About the Statue of Liberty.”
“Yes.”
“No wonder you looked so shaky the other day.”
“It never departs you, that sense of foreboding. That day was the end of Kleindeutschland, its moment of doom. A thousand gone, and many who remained simply lost heart. People began to move away to other parts of the city. Many went to Yorkville, both gentile and Jew, although some Jews instead chose the Upper West Side, a division that grew wider over time. And now, through the correspondences of my clients, I see this same sort of disaster taking place on an even larger scale, in city after city of the Old World where I was born. Entire communities, disappearing in clouds of smoke.”
He looked at Cain, his eyes imploring.
“So you see? As their interpreter, as their archivist, I am the keeper of all that remains. I took on this roleâwriting and reading lettersâas an expediency, as a means to a humble income. But in these past few years I have come to see it as a trust, an obligation, to all those who are vanishing from our midst.”
Cain saw now that Danziger was telling this story for posterity. Not only for the sake of the people he served, but also for his own legacy, in case he should disappear.
“Don't worry,” Cain said. “I won't quit on you.”
“Simply agreeing to continue is not enough. You also must not waver. Do so, and I shall be lost. And all that I harbor within my house will be lost with me, the dead and the living alike.”