The Old Turk's Load (9 page)

She didn’t want any part of this meeting because she knew he was going to talk to her about Kevin, whom she didn’t want to talk about because, although she’d seen through his egotism and phony romanticism, she was still getting her mind around the nearly unbearable fact that he’d used her. She wasn’t ready to talk about it yet, at least not to Julie.

He eyed her as she slid into the booth, and she beamed at him—innocent as a dewy morning.“We’ve been missing you around the office, Glo.”

“I’ve been trying to avoid everyone.”
“Tired of my lectures?”
This had to be about Kevin. Or did it? “As tired as ever. But

it’s Daddy, really. Every time I see him these days, he tears into me.” “You know he loves you.”
“He’s got a funny way of showing it.”
“He’s been under a lot of pressure.”
“Me, too.”
Roth had always paid close attention to her and, thanks to

enough carefully gathered intelligence, he had a pretty good idea of what was going on. In the course of her disillusionment with Gallagher and the
foco,
she’d become Irene Kornecki’s full-time legal aide, using her smarts and manipulative ability to gather facts bearing on the most difficult cases. Now she was beginning to understand that Irene was vastly more effective than Gallagher’s empty talk or any of the violent schemes of the Motherfuckers. More important, though he had no idea of the specifics of the matter, Roth sensed that Irene had become a certain kind of figure in her life—how could he put it?—a person she enjoyed beyond any question of use or gain. He knew this was a precious sort of relationship, one Gloria had rarely experienced.

He reckoned that her feelings for Irene had gotten mixed up with her anger at Gallagher, and the resulting emotional mess had spilled onto her father, whose self-absorption and dictatorial ways always made him an easy target. It didn’t help that, in his burnedout state, he’d abdicated his parental duties along with just about everything else.The Newark windfall presented a perfect way to act out against her father while winning Irene’s approval. Roth could sense she was determined to get her hands on it before Mundi could turn it to his own purposes.

She looked at her old friend gazing into his coffee cup and braced herself for the Kevin lecture.
But he surprised her. Roth told her about the heroin straight up—where it was, how it had been acquired, and how much it was worth.Then he laid down a lot of backstory she’d never heard before about Weehawken Mills, the utter uselessness of Murchison and Kraft, her father’s increasing dysfunctionality, and the tremendous hit they’d taken after the Newark riots. Daddy had always wanted her to run the company. Now Roth was telling her that it was probably too late.There was nothing left to take charge of except a shell corporation and a lot of debt.
The only sane thing to do was to offer the “assets” of Mundi Enterprises to the bad guys in Newark, who would use them to legitimize the enormous amounts of cash their business generated. The return of the heroin would be the conversation starter, the peace offering.
“I want to take the initiative,” Roth told her. “Get to them with the whole idea before they bang our doors down.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“I know you’ve been talking to Seamster. I know how much time you’ve been spending with your lawyer friend. I know you want that stuff and I’m pretty sure I know why you want it. And I have to tell you, I can almost agree with you. It would be a wonderful thing to put that filthy shit to some good use in this world.”
Gloria gaped at him.
“But there are complicating factors,” he added.
“Aren’t there always?”
“Not like this. In the first place, your father doesn’t intend to listen to me and give the drugs back to the Newark boys. He wants to sell them himself. Take the money and run.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sugar, I’ve been around him so long, I can read his mind.”
“So he’s going to run off with the dope and leave you to deal with a pack of pissed-off mobsters?”
“That’s not necessarily a huge problem. The really bad part is that he’ll never get away with it. He thinks he’s still in his prime, but he’s too old, too slow. They’ll find him and kill him. He doesn’t stand a chance.”
The waitress rattled past with a tray of empties. Roth asked for the bill.
“There’s more, Glo, and this is the hard part.” He turned to her earnestly. “I can’t work for him anymore. Not with where his head is at.”
“What would you do if you weren’t working for Daddy?”
“I don’t know. You, your father, the family . . . you’ve been my life for a long time. All I know is that right now I need to keep him from getting himself killed. Then I’ll figure the rest out. That’s why I’m asking you not to do anything that’ll . . . complicate the situation. I mean with the heroin.You’ve got to give me some room here.”
She grasped what he’d done and seethed. By coming clean with her, he was putting a moral roadblock in her way. A little more sophisticated, but not that much different than when she was little. “I didn’t know any of this.”
“It’s okay, Glo. It’ll work out fine. I just need your help.”
“Of course, of course.”
They were silent for a while, like chess players over the board. He was relieved she was listening, that she hadn’t copped an attitude. She, despite her frustration at being headed off once again, was pleased he’d cut her some slack about Gallagher, that he seemed to understand about Irene and the cause. Each felt they were in the presence of a worthy adversary, and satisfied to have moved the game this far. The old Turk’s load had them both.
She rose and gave him a peck on the forehead. She really did love him. She just wished he’d get the hell out of her way. Roth blushed with shy pleasure, like one of Snow White’s dwarves. He adored her, knew she was almost ready to come into her own. She was so damned good at seeing people, at intuiting their weaknesses and needs. She was just a little too into herself, hadn’t been knocked around by the world enough. That would come, if only he could convince her to play along this one last time.
He watched her through the window, smiling, as she headed toward the subway. Harry Jarkey watched her, too, from across the street. He folded his paper and followed her down.

ll it took to be reborn into a new world was for the Mailman to realize he was as good as dead in the old. Then he was free to take advantage of the opportunity that had been in front of him all along but that he hadn’t been able to see until his rebirth.

The new grand scheme had two parts.
The first was in the basement of the Historical Society. At the end of a long worktable were two paintings he’d wrapped and boxed.They were supposed to have been picked up on Thursday, but the restoration people had had to cancel and, because the museum was closed on Mondays, they would not return until Tuesday. So there they sat—
Gloucester Harbor, Evening
and
Brace’s Rock
—two oils by Fitz Hugh Lane.
The Mailman knew all about Lane because the Society had a whole room devoted to him: a nineteenth-century American luminist painter who’d lived and worked in Gloucester. A recent article in the local paper had called him “America’s first native marine painter of any importance.” In the early twentieth century his work began coming out of local attics. Now his paintings were bringing up to six figures at fancy New York auctions.
For years
Gloucester Harbor
had hung over the main desk at the public library across the street.Then someone realized its potential value.The library trustees had a high-quality reproduction installed in the old frame and sent the original over to the Historical Society for safekeeping. A pinched old aristocrat who’d been one of the founders of the Society had earlier donated
Brace’s Rock,
a little jewel of a luminist masterpiece. Now the two pictures were keeping each other company.
Recently a state grant had been approved to have both cleaned and reframed.That meant they were out of their frames, which made it perfect. Even with a layer of foam they’d fit neatly into a suitcase. In the normal course of things, paintings not on exhibition were stored in the vault, but that wouldn’t have mattered. The director himself had lost the keys to the vault years before, and now it was always unlocked.
The second part of the scheme was down in New York, a guy he’d known early on in his postal career, who’d lived for a while on the top floor of his apartment house on Portugee Hill. He was the black sheep of a family made wealthy by a string of auto dealerships. He’d started off in drugs, but seemed to prefer art and antiques, which were in no short supply in Massachusetts in the fifties and early sixties. He’d learned the trade under a smooth old swamp Yankee, and boasted that he and his mentor had been in every house on Cape Ann, omitting the fact that half of those entries had been uninvited. After burning through the North Shore he’d headed for New York. Supposedly he’d gotten back into drugs, but the chances were good that he’d still know what to do with a few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of art.

The Mailman went back upstairs and left a note informing the staff that he had an afternoon doctor’s appointment. He walked past generous three-story white and yellow wooden frame houses, and down the hill to the tumble of old brick and stone bars, brothels, marine supply stores, and sail lofts that lined Water Street, to the offices of CIA.

Continental Insurance Agency was a waterfront joke.The acronym was, anyway, since the putative insurance agency was a cover for illegal activities ranging from short lobsters to bales of marijuana, shipments of cocaine or heroin, and weaponry for the IRA. Nothing else about them, however, was risible. CIA had once been on the Mailman’s route and, though he hadn’t been in the building for years, his familiarity with the layout gave him a sufficient comfort level that he could dispense friendly nods to the roomful of thick-browed Sicilians smoking and playing pinochle, and walk unchallenged up the stairs to the air-conditioned office where the occasional COD or Adult Signature Required had been delivered.

Mr. Reardon rose from behind his desk, only half surprised to see the Mailman.The slouched form was instantly recognizable, even if the face was now obscured by a dark beard. He thought, reflexively, that there might be a package for him, then remembered what he’d heard of the Mailman’s story—the cancer, the drugs. Poor miserable junkie. The guy was here to tap him.

“Merster Eardon.”
The sounds the Mailman made grated in his ears. “Come on in. Siddown.”He’d give him $50—once—Reardon

That feeling shot past the Mailman, stoned on his scheme, as high as he’d ever been. It was better than smack, better than being in love. If he was going to be dead anyway, he might as well do this thing.

Reardon, who’d been preparing to dispense a handout and some tough love, was confused, could not parse the burp-talk.
The Mailman pulled out his pad, printed,
I need to find Lloyd Chamberlain,
and pushed it across the desk.
Reardon nodded, relieved. Chamberlain was one of the rats the lice lived on.The Mailman wanted in on some kind of low-level drug deal. Well, that would be easy enough, and save him $50 to boot. He consulted his books, wrote a phone number and an address on the pad, and handed it back, eyeing the Mailman coldly.
“Don’t come back here,” Reardon said.
“Doan worry,” the Mailman burped.

fter three days of standing in the shadows, of being one with the Fairlane, of extended bladder management, of disciplined, grinding surveillance, Jarkey was getting a good sense of her routine. That gave him a better opportunity to pick his spots so he could be sure the lighting was right—always a critical factor when using a telephoto lens. Kelly wanted lots of photos. He said pictures always made his clients feel they were getting their money’s worth.

Jarkey snapped away—Gloria leaving her pad in the Village, Gloria in the Lower East Side at Gallagher’s place. Gloria up at Morningside Heights heading to an office in the front of a firstfloor apartment, to visit a looker whose name turned out to be Irene Kornecki.Those visits happened in the afternoon. She’d leave Gallagher’s with a briefcase or an armful of folders, spend a few hours up on 116th, then go home to Bank Street empty-handed. Jarkey used the backward directory to get the phone number for the address, called it, and heard a woman’s voice say, “Irene Kornecki’s office.”

Jarkey suspected she might be an MD in on a drug ring being run by Gallagher as a sting for the Feds. He told the voice that he’d like an appointment. The lady asked him for a brief description of the problem. He told the lady he had a pain in his lower back and was informed that he’d reached a legal office, not a doctor. That changed his suspicion about the drug ring.

A little asking around got him the information that Kornecki was a Columbia Law grad on a short list of lawyers to whom civil rights demonstrators were referred. That meant dozens of minor beefs, hence the folders. When, on the afternoon of the fourth day, Kornecki got out of a cab in front of Gallagher’s, the loop was closed.

In all, it’d been an excellent run.
Jarkey picked up the last of the photos from the lab, put them in with his notes, then went over to Fifty-Third, collected Kelly, and drove him uptown and down, to Kornecki’s, Gallagher’s, and Gloria’s, taking him through their various movements. Particulars were important to the detective.
Once he was sure Kelly had all the locations down pat, he laid out the narrative that accompanied the images. Gloria and her boyfriend were working for the Feds, dishing them info about demonstrators and other revolutionary types under the cover of doing legal work for the movement with this Kornecki person.
Kelly nodded slowly, in a way that mimicked deep thought. Of course there was no thinking going on, but Jarkey understood that Kelly’s act was a demonstration of respect for all his hard work. “I like it, Jark. Not what I expected, but I like it. It hangs together, doesn’t it?”
“Given the facts, I don’t see a more plausible story.”
“It’s gonna blow the old man’s mind, that’s for sure. If I tell him.”
“Kelly, for crissakes, you’re getting
paid
to tell him.”
“I’m not getting paid to blow the cover of a couple of federal agents.”
“Well, it’s your call.” By this time Jarkey was double-parked in front of Sammy’s.
“Join me for dinner?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve got some other stuff to wrap up.”
Though he was fond of Norbert, the scene at Sammy’s was too lushed out for his tastes, and he knew that Kelly’s “dinner” would involve a dozen whiskeys. He drove back to Bank Street, parked the car in its usual spot, then walked over to a Greek diner on Hudson for a burger and more coffee.
He was feeling good about the job and about himself.One more day of surveillance, just to put the lid on it, then the case would be done. Once Gloria’s old man found out what she was up to, he’d back off. It was such a neat package that Kelly might even find himself in a bonus situation. They’d get paid and nobody would get hurt.
It started to rain while Jarkey ate. Umbrellas came out. He put his
Daily News
over his head and walked fast back to Kelly’s car. As he approached it he saw someone leaning against the front fender. A woman. Hooker, but maybe not. He didn’t see anyone suspicious among the random passersby, but that didn’t make him any less concerned. He thought about going back for another coffee, waiting until she moved along. Then he realized, to his horror, that she was making eye contact. He drifted to the far edge of the sidewalk, hiding under his newspaper.
“Hey! Don’t forget your car.”
His head jerked around involuntarily and he looked at the woman. It was Gloria. She’d made him. His shoulders slumped. He stopped and squinted at her through his glasses.
“You talking to me?” He’d fucked it up. The whole deal was ruined now. She’d run to her father and a week of work would go down the drain.
She pushed herself off the fender and faced him, calm and erect, tan raincoat cinched tight around the waist, hair tied back, red scarf.“Aren’t you the gentleman who’s been following us around this week?”
The way she phrased it made him feel foolish. Who followed people around, anyway? Losers like Kelly, that was who. “Lady, I’m just a working man.”
It was worse now that he could see her face. Composed, unafraid. “Sitting in that car all day? I mean, really . . .” Moving toward him. “Don’t worry. I didn’t tell.”
She was making fun of him. He glared at her, shamed and indignant. “Tell who?”
She cocked her head. “Give me a break.”
She was actually quite pretty. Very relaxed, a hint of mirth about her, as if the whole thing were some kind of joke. He realized belatedly that Gallagher and his pals could materialize at any moment and make a mess of him. But that did not happen. This was more than a confrontation. Something else was going on. He took a chance at an explanation and blurted, “I’m just the guy that got hired by the guy . . .”
It wasn’t coming out right but she got it. She chuckled, surprisingly deep, up from the chest. “Give me a minute with that one.”
He was smiling now, despite himself. She was head-tripping him. But it felt better than being beaten up. “What do you want?”
“A little information, that’s all.”
“I’m having trouble with the ‘that’s all’ part.”
“Fair enough.”She turned to the passenger door and motioned him to the driver’s side. “Let’s get out of the rain. Then you can tell me whom you’re working for for.” Making fun of his deer-in-theheadlights admission.
He got in the car and thought for a second about just driving off, leaving Gloria at the curb. But what would that get him? He reached across the seat and unlocked her door. Gloria slid in and turned toward him, giving him a glimpse of trim ankles, tight black leotards curving up under the coat.
“If you don’t, I’ll rat you out. I’ll tell my father about you sitting in your big black car, and you’ll look like a dope.”
“Well, he was the one who hired us, so I don’t know how far you’ll get with that.”
It came out meaner than he’d intended, but she didn’t flinch. “My father, huh?”
“He said he was worried about you.”
“That’s rich. There’s only one person he worries about these days, and it’s not me. Anyway, how much fun do you think it is, feeling like someone’s watching you all the time?”
How long had she been on to him? Jarkey turned and blinked at her. A smile began in her eyes and moved to her mouth— mischievous, conspiratorial.
Jarkey wasn’t having any. “I know what the deal is, Gloria.”
“What’s the deal?”
“About what you and Gallagher are doing to those poor dopes who think they’re going to start a revolution.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Come off it.The photos are sitting in Kelly’s office right now. The negatives are somewhere else.”
“Photos of what?”
“Photos of your boyfriend walking out of the downtown field office of the FBI. Photos of you talking to him an hour later.”
Her face went blank, then white. At that moment he saw that her features were quite delicate—exquisite, actually, in a way that belied her glib toughness. Then they bunched themselves into the deepest scowl. She said, “Shit,” once, softly, and turned from him, toward the passenger door.
That was when Jarkey fell for her.