True Confessions (14 page)

Howard Terkel stood at the Biltmore bar and ordered a Scotch
mist. He pushed a bowl of peanuts toward Tom Spellacy,

“You’re not having lunch with Jack, then?” Howard Terkel said.

“No,” Tom Spellacy said.

“He’s at the first table inside the door.”

“Swell.”

“I check out who’s having lunch in here every day. You never know when you might pick up something useful.”

“I never thought of that, Howard.”

“Part of my job,” Howard Terkel said. “I said hello to him, Jack, when he came in.”

Tom Spellacy ate a peanut.

“He said hi right back. He doesn’t high-hat you, Jack, is what I like about him. I know Jack Amsterdam twenty years, he always says hello when you see him. Or hi.” Howard Terkel sipped his Scotch mist. “What’re you doing here, then?”

“Having a beer.”

“You don’t see many cops here,” Howard Terkel said. “Unless they’re on the pad.”

“It’s nice to know that, Howard. I’ll watch out.”

Howard Terkel scooped a handful of peanuts and dropped them into his mouth. “I know why you’re here, Tom.”

“Why’s that, Howard?”

“You want to know how I got that autopsy report. I’m not going to tell you, Tom. It’s a freedom-of-the-press type thing.”

“Shit, I know how you got that report, Howard.”

“You do?”

“A little hard-nosed reporting.”

“Fucking right.”

Plus twenty dollars spread around the coroner’s office, Tom Spellacy was sure. He could’ve bought the body for another ten, the way things were run at the morgue. The morgue had a system and even Woodrow Wong couldn’t change it. A deputy medical examiner had told him Howard had the report. A piece of information that cost five dollars. It was probably the same ME who had sold the report to Howard in the first place. Maybe Howard had stiffed him. Maybe it was just free enterprise. Anyway, Fuqua was furious. Tom Spellacy wondered how a man could spend twenty years in the police department and still talk about the Mystery Clue. You’re good at sneaking a priest out of a whorehouse, Fuqua had said. What you’re shitty at is Mystery Clues.

“Fuqua wants to throw your ass in jail.”

“He wants to be chief, too. Although the way he’s running this investigation, they should put him the corner of First and Temple, blowing a whistle.”

“Personally, Howard, I don’t give a fuck, you having that report. But there’s a couple of things Fuqua’d rather you didn’t print. It’d make my life easier.”

“I don’t know if I can do that, Tom.”

Tom Spellacy leaned toward him and whispered, “It’s the Mystery Clue.”

Howard Terkel rubbed his stomach thoughtfully. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell you, Howard, unless you promise not to print it.”

“That’s a big order, Tom.” Howard Terkel considered the proposal. “I don’t print this, what’ll you do for me? I went to a lot of trouble getting this. If I’m in the shit with Fuqua, I want something for it.”

I’ve got him, Tom Spellacy thought. “An exclusive with the killer when we catch him.”

“Fuqua’s already promised that to Benny Carmody at the
Times,”
Howard Terkel said.

And to Manny Jacobs at the
Examiner
and to Lou Gore at the
News
, Tom Spellacy thought. That dumb bastard didn’t know you didn’t pass out exclusives unless you got something in return. He wondered what to offer now.

“Georgie Goldberg’s going to the gas chamber next week,” Tom Spellacy said. “You want to be a witness?”

“Old news.”

“Your case. The Hot-Plate Slayer.” Georgie Goldberg had electrocuted his wife by dropping a hot plate into her bathtub. Howard Terkel had named him The Hot-Plate Slayer.

“I don’t know, Tom.”

“First Jew in the state of California ever to go to the gas chamber,” Tom Spellacy said.

Howard Terkel hesitated.

“I’ll talk to the warden,” Tom Spellacy said quickly. “Maybe he can wear a yarmulke when he goes in, Georgie.” He thought, And I’ll get the warden to put a propeller on it, too, if that’s what he wants, Howard.

“That’s a cute angle, Tom.”

“A big story on Fairfax Avenue,” Tom Spellacy said. He made an imaginary headline in the air. “HEBES WEEP AS HOTPLATE SLAYER TAKES GAS.” Oh, shit, he thought, what if Howard’s one. He rephrased the headline. “JEWISH PEOPLE WEEP AS HOTPLATE SLAYER GOES TO GAS CHAMBER.”

“Sensational,” Howard Terkel said.

“I’m on?”

“You’re on.”

“It’s the tattoo.”

“Jesus, I thought that was it.” Howard Terkel chortled and pulled a copy of the autopsy report from his inside jacket pocket. “It’s right here,” he said, turning the pages. “ ‘Rose tattooed right quadrant of genital area.’” He tapped the report on Tom Spellacy’s chest. “I put one over on you, Tom. There’s no way I could get ‘genital area’ into the paper, no way.”

“You could try ‘dark triangle,’ Howard.”

“Shit, Tom, they wouldn’t even let me use
mom venerisT

He finished his beer at the bar after Howard Terkel left. It would be a swell lunch with Jack Amsterdam at the first table inside the door. Des should like that. Maybe they’ll build a convent.

The headwaiter ignored him. He seated John Dever, the CPA, and Tommy Brady, the bandleader. Tom Spellacy unbuttoned his jacket. He let the headwaiter catch a glimpse of his shoulder holster.

“Do you have a reservation?” the headwaiter said finally.

“Monsignor Spellacy’s table.”

“I was under the impression that Monsignor Spellacy was lunching with Mr. Amsterdam.”

“You made a mistake, fuckhead.”

Like a rubber hose on the back of a chair. A small bow, a tight smile and the headwaiter showed him to a table. In the back, next to the kitchen. He bet that Des was usually first table inside the door. Jack Amsterdam didn’t look up as he passed. He wondered if Jack even recognized him. They had never met. Brenda had conducted the business. Otherwise Jack was just an old photograph clipped to a rap sheet, a face at ringside at the fights. You read the newspapers, you’d think the only thing Jack ever did besides building hospitals was putting his money into Mexican featherweights. If a fighter’s name was Jose, Angel or Jesus, you could bet he belonged to Jack Amsterdam. Except that Jack would always give him a name like “... the two-fisted featherweight champion of the Yucatan Peninsula.” Mexican jockeys were another pastime of Jack’s. If Manuel or Julio was up, you’d look at the odds and bet the other way, you had any brains at all.

You’ve got to hand it to him, Tom Spellacy thought. Jack runs a nice operation. He had East LA in his pocket. The ginneys left him alone was the main reason. East LA was tough to crack, you were a ginney. You had to be a Mexican. Which Jack was on his mother’s side. And think like a Jew. Which Jack was on his father’s side. He had picked East LA clean. The only thing he had ever been busted for was smuggling illegals. To a gringo judge, smuggling illegals was a humanitarian act. Supplying cheap labor, he called it. It was nothing you went to the joint for. Especially when Brenda was copping the judge’s own joint twice a week. Brenda had told him that. That was how she first got tied up with Jack. Case dismissed. And the beginning of a beautiful friendship between Jack and Brenda. Brenda said Jack took a hundred grand a month out of East LA. Part of which went to keep things cooled down. The police department wasn’t crazy to know what a bunch of wetbacks were doing anyway, so as long as Jack kept things quiet, the cops stayed out of his hair. For a price. It was just another business expense for Jack.

Like I used to be, Tom Spellacy thought.

For a moment he did not recognize Des when he spotted him at the headwaiter’s stand. That goddamn soldier suit. It always irritated Tom Spellacy to see Des in uniform. Not that he had been crazy to go back into the navy. He had an essential job, the draft board had said. He wondered if they meant being a bagman in Wilshire Vice. Maybe Jack fixed that, too.

Des stopped at Jack’s table. Jack stood up. A two-handed handshake. Jack didn’t look well, Tom Spellacy noticed. His dark complexion was ashen and his suit didn’t seem to fit. Something to check on. Des waved at John Dever, the CPA, and Tommy Brady, the bandleader. Working the room, Tom Spellacy thought. The Parachuting Padre.

He remembered being surprised when Des told him the Parachuting Padre story.

“You were born under a lucky star, Des.”

“That’s what His Eminence said when I told him.”

“I wouldn’t make it a habit, telling that story.”

“I won’t.”

“And Des . . .”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

The Cardinal and me, Tom Spellacy mused. A strange parlay. A strange family. He tried to imagine telling Des a similar story. Besides those he told him in confession. About the reason he shot Lenny Lewis, say. Not because Lenny stuck him up. Because Lenny stuck him up when he was getting his glass blown. He would’ve let Lenny go, he wasn’t getting his glass blown. Better to let Lenny get away with the eleven hundred than face all those questions. It was just that he didn’t want to get stuck up when his thing was in someone’s face. So he let Lenny have it. He didn’t think he could tell that story to Des. There were not many things that made him feel guilty. Lenny Lewis hanging himself in Q was one, though. It would be hard to explain to Des.

Desmond Spellacy took his hand. A one-hand handshake. He wondered if Des would try and get the table moved. No. Des was too smart. Never embarrass the policeman.

“Rob Roy, straight up, twist,” Desmond Spellacy said to the waiter. “Drink, Tommy?”

“Schlitz.” He noticed that Jack Amsterdam was staring at them from across the room. He started to add, “Straight up, no twist,” but held up.

“And we’ll order.” Desmond Spellacy gazed at the menu. He already knew what he was going to have. The usual. Chicken salad, no dark meat, melba toast, tea with lemon. He wondered why it was always so difficult to start a conversation with Tommy, why it was necessary to bury his head in the menu.

“The usual, Monsignor?” the waiter said.

Desmond Spellacy nodded. There was a slight smile on Tommy’s face. The usual. That had brought the smile. Advantage Tommy. Better not bring up Mary Margaret’s letter yet.

Tom Spellacy ordered a club sandwich. “What’s on your mind, Des?” he said after handing the menu to the waiter. “Don’t tell me. You want to know if there’s any atheists in the foxholes.”

“Actually I don’t.”

“You really believe that shit?”

Desmond Spellacy said nothing.

“No, Des, I’m interested.”

He’s laying down the ground rules, Desmond Spellacy thought. It was ever thus. “Not really. The nuns believe it, though, and the sisters tell it to the little ones . . .”

“And they’re the future of Holy Mother the Church.”

“Something like that.”

“It’s not exactly what Cardinal Spellman had in mind, I think.”

“I guess not,’ Desmond Spellacy said. He folded his hands, as if in prayer, on the table. “His Eminence said to tell you he was grateful.”

“How did he know it was me?”

“He’s not a fool, Tommy.”

Tom Spellacy shrugged. “I hear you’re going to be made a bishop.”

Desmond Spellacy gazed evenly at his brother. Tommy’s capacity to intuit the top secret no longer surprised him. “You’ve been having drinks with the Cardinal, then.”

“Mai tais, his place,” Tom said. He noticed there were no denials. “He likes all that fruit shit when he boozes.”

Desmond Spellacy smiled, but said nothing.

He’s not going to get drawn into that one, Tom Spellacy thought. Smart as a whip, Des. Always calculating the odds. Even as a kid, Des had this flair for numbers. Give him any set of numbers and he could multiply them in his head. Thirty-nine times a hundred twenty-seven. Quick as Jack Flash, Des would be back with the answer: four thousand nine hundred fifty-three. It was a way to make a little extra money back in Boyle Heights. Des winning bets on his multiplication, Tom remembered, me threatening to break a few arms if the bets weren’t paid off. A free ride on the merry-go-round, that was the stake.

“Ninety-six times forty-three, Des,” Tom said.

The sardonic smile at the corners of the mouth. Thirty-eight years old and not a line on Des’s face. It was women who put lines on the face, Tom thought. He wondered if a monsignor ever got a hard-on. Check that. What he wondered was how a monsignor confessed it.

“Four thousand one hundred twenty-eight,” Des said.

“You haven’t lost the knack.”

“Except I do it in millions now, Tommy. Dollars.”

“Doesn’t give you much time to save souls.”

“I didn’t know you were interested,” Des said. “In souls, I mean.” Again the smile. “Actually I save souls every day between 9:15 and 9:45. Unless I’m giving a speech for His Eminence at the Grand Knights of Columbus communion breakfast.”

The waiter brought lunch and the drinks. So that’s the usual, Tom Spellacy thought, looking at the stringy chicken salad. Des must be keeping in shape for his golf game. It was funny, Des being a golfer. Not many golfers came out of Boyle Heights. His first putter he had stolen when he was caddying. He was always putting rocks, Des. And playing the municipal courses after dark. It was Gene Sarazen he wanted to be. Not Gene Tunney.