Two Jakes (54 page)

Bimm
knew he could afford to sound supportive. Stephens owed him several thousand
dollars and didn’t know that Bimm had instructed his political friends on those
committees to deliberately make the Chamber president’s life miserable. In
fact, the sadistic mentoring committee had been his idea. Preston Stephens,
whose family on Staten Island went back seven generations, had to meet once a
week with board members who critiqued everything from how many phone calls he
made to the mileage he put on the Chamber’s leased car. It was humiliating to a
60-year-old man who had rescued the Chamber from near bankruptcy during his
eight-year tenure. But that was the idea: The more distracted the president
was, the less likely he could offer opposition to Bimm’s latest economic
development schemes. We’ll limit him to one-year contracts from now on, Bimm
decided. I can dump him if he gets too feisty.

***

The
game was in its second hour when the door to the hotel suite opened and a young
Hispanic woman wheeled in a tray of cold cuts and salads to supplement the
chips, dips, drinks, wings and Swedish meatballs set up around the bar. She was
young and nervous, with good reason. Bimm insisted that all room service be
done by female employees. He liked to see their reaction to the pornography on
the screen. As the girl uncovered the food, he fingered the remote to increase
the volume. The grunts and groans from the porno film caught her attention – as
intended – and her eyes widened.

“Put
the cart over by the television, honey” Bimm ordered. On the screen a woman was
being penetrated by two men and, not surprisingly, was yodeling loudly. “How
about making me a plate. A little of everything. And ask the fellows if they
want something.”

The
girl looked plaintively at Silman, who knew what the fat man was doing. It was
his regular modus operandi. An obese and perverted plastic surgeon. They must
have broken the mold after him, he thought. But the bastard wasn’t the one who
might be facing a harassment suit.

“Just
make Dr. Bimm a plate, Rosita,” Silman said quickly. “We can make our own
plates up.”

She
quickly threw some food on a plate and brought it over to the table. Bimm sent
her back for more potato salad with a pat on her rump. Finally, he let her
leave, giving her a dollar tip and another pat. He continued playing during the
entire incident and lost two miniscule pots, on purpose. Bimm knew he would get
the money back easily when he stopped his loose play and he and Porcini trapped
a sucker between them. Which they did within the half hour. The victim was
Brendan McCarthy, a boozy reporter who “covered” Borough Hall for
Staten
Island
, a slick monthly magazine secretly financed by the Borough
President.

McCarthy,
with a good “7” low had been caught between Bimm and his shill. He finally
folded after 15 raises by Bimm, who had an unbeatable “6” low, and Porcini, who
turned out to have only two pair. The pot topped out at $900, serious money for
a journalist already into Bimm for several thousand.

“You
didn’t belong in the fucking hand,” McCarthy whined to Porcini. “All you did
was build a pot for this whale.”

Bimm
thought it best to distract the irate loser.

“What
do you care about losing a few bucks? You’re gonna be the city editor of the
Register
soon, right? What are they waiting for over there? It’s been weeks since
Pearsall flipped out. You’d think they’d be happy to replace that
holier-than-thou pain in the ass with someone who knows his way around Borough
Hall.”

Somewhat
mollified by the suggestion he would get the job – everyone at the table knew
he had submitted his resume and considered him delusional – McCarthy
nevertheless felt that Bimm’s characterization of Pearsall was uncalled for. He
certainly didn’t want anyone else thinking he was as insensitive as the piece
of lard who had just taken him to the cleaners.

“I
don’t think the
Register
is going to rush into anything. They’re all
pretty broken up about what happened to Bob. And while I didn’t see eye to eye
with him on some things, he was a good editor. And a good man.”

Eye
to eye, my ass, Bimm thought. Pearsall thought you were a hack, which you are.
Beldon Popp and Jennifer Fish would never make you city editor. You are bought
and paid for, and not just at the poker table. But the other players had
squirmed in their seats at Bimm’s comments and he knew he had overplayed his
hand.

“Of
course, I liked Bob, too. What happened to his daughter was terrible. Worst
thing that can happen to a parent is to have a child predecease him.”

Bimm
believed nothing of the kind. He had been married once, years earlier, to a
freckled, red-headed woman from Breezy Point, the “Irish Riviera” on Long
Island. Her perky looks and insouciant demeanor had temporarily charmed him.
Their union produced a boy and a girl, both of whom had inherited some
recessive ugliness genes. They grew into short, dumpy, washed out adolescents
with stringy red hair that constantly reminded Bimm of their mother and his
idiocy. He filed for divorce while the kids were in grade school and before his
wife could lay claim on his soon-to-explode medical riches. He rarely saw his
children, begrudged them every cent of his court-ordered paternal support and
didn’t want anyone to outlive him, even them.

“I
hope they catch the bastard who murdered that poor girl,” he intoned gravely.

“They
may be getting close,” McCarthy said. “Something new has come up.”

That
got looks from everyone at the table. But nobody paid more attention to the
remark than Bimm, who managed to hide his surprise by relighting his odiferous
cigar.

“Don’t
tell me they finally got a DNA match,” said Michael Basilio, the superintendent
of schools for Staten Island. Everyone in the borough knew that the girl had
been raped and couldn’t understand why the cops couldn’t locate the killer,
like the C.S.I. teams did on TV.

“I
don’t know about DNA,” McCarthy said. “All I do know is that some private
investigator is nosing around. Apparently he’s got a lead.”

“Aw,
it’s probably bullshit,” Bimm said casually, feeling relieved. “Some private
dick who sold a bill of goods to the family. It’s a sin what some unscrupulous
people will do for a few bucks. Deal the cards.”

“Hold
your horses, Nathan. Not winning fast enough? I want to hear this.”

It
was Al Johnsen, who owned a large CPA firm and, other than Bimm, was the best
card player in the room. Bimm knew the man was a genius with numbers and had
recently dropped some hooded remarks about Bimm’s winning streak. It wouldn’t
be long before he figured out what was going on. Bimm had already decided to
wean him out of the game.

“I
don’t know if it’s bullshit,” McCarthy persisted. He wasn’t going to be
derailed. The attention he was getting was easing the pain of his last poker
hand. “I don’t think it’s the family. Bob’s out of the picture, and I don’t
know who else would be that interested in hiring this guy. He’s apparently a
big deal in the city. Well connected. I don’t know what he’s got. I overheard a
couple of the guys in Borough Hall talking and all they knew was that the guy
is convinced the murder wasn’t random.”

“Still
sounds like a scam,” Bimm said, trying to keep his tone even. “What’s this
super sleuth’s name?”

“Scarne.
Jake Scarne. Apparently he knows his way around the Island.”

“Never
heard of him,” Bimm said dismissively. “What about you, Moo Shu? You know
everyone in the city. On both sides of the law.”

Silman
ignored the jibe.

“Maybe.
Sounds familiar. Think he’s an ex-cop.”

“Big
deal. They all are. Burnt-out losers.”

“I
know him.”

They
all turned to a man fixing a sandwich at the buffet tray. His name was Manny
Manieri and he ran the largest car dealership on Staten Island.

“Jake
Scarne. He used to hang out in some of the bars on the North Shore. Nice guy.
We were pretty good friends. Bit of a wild man, but nowhere like the lunatics
he ran with. He’s real tight with Dudley Mack.”

Dudley
Fucking Mack, Bimm thought. He suddenly lost his appetite, a rare occurrence.

“They
went to college together,” Manieri continued. “Jake’s from out west somewhere
but used to stay on the Island a lot. I met him again a couple of years ago at
somebody’s wedding on the South Shore. Actually asked him if he’d like to do
some investigating for me. Remember when I had those cars vandalized and the
cops sat on their asses. He was polite, but said he never worked out here. If
he’s looking into the Pearsall thing, it must be serious. He’s a bulldog. And
he’s tight with the Police Commissioner.”

This
gets better and better, Bimm thought.

CHAPTER
16 – OUTSIDE HELP

Bimm
continued playing poker for a few minutes, but was so distracted he actually
lost a big hand, drawing a disbelieving look from Porcini, who nervously
thought that he was responsible. Finally, Bimm stood up.

“I
gotta take a dump. Deal me out.”

“Thanks
for sharing that,” Johnsen said. “Make sure you wash your hands.”

Bimm
laughed good-naturedly, and, farting for effect, walked into the bedroom,
closing the door. His smile evaporated. One of the reasons – other than his
natural greed – that he put up with the oafs he played card with was the
information he gleaned from them. He took out his cell phone and dialed a
number he rarely used, knowing he was in for a lecture for even calling.

“It’s
me.”

“For
God’s sake. I’m in the middle of a charity auction.”

Bimm
heard laughter and chatter in the background. An obviously annoyed female voice
said, “Why can’t you ever turn that damn thing off?” The wife, no doubt. The
bitch has an eight-carat diamond ring and flies to Palm Beach on a private jet
to get her pussy waxed – and still kvetches. Rumor is she’s yesterday’s news,
and her lawyers will soon be going over her pre-nup with a fine-toothed comb. A
lot of good that will do.

“Call
me Monday,” the man barked. “I’m bidding on a Richard Prince.”

Bimm,
who couldn’t tell a Prince from a Picasso, wanted to tell him to go fuck
himself. But that would be foolish.

“This
may be important. Sorry.”

“What’s
so important on Staten Island that it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

The
man had raised his voice when he said
Staten Island
, Bimm knew, so as to
be overheard by some of his fellow Manhattan moguls. He was probably winking at
them. Have to talk to the provinces, you know. Filled with rubes who buy their
machine-generated paintings of Bengal tigers and bald eagles at weekend Holiday
Inn ‘art’ shows. Bimm smiled, knowing his next remark would freeze the
supercilious grin on the other man’s face.

“The
solution to our local media problem is coming under new scrutiny.”

“Hold
on.” The man was apparently moving away from his table. Bimm heard the whining
woman call out. “Where are you going?” The man replied sharply, “Just keep
bidding until you get the damn thing!”

Bimm
heard a door click. Now there was no background noise. The man probably went
into another room.

“What
kind of scrutiny?”

The
voice was icy.

“Not
the local kind.”

There
was a lengthy silence as Bimm idly dug into his ear with a fat pinky, which he
then sniffed, making a face. Finally, the man said, “I’ll have a car pick you
up at 8 A.M. sharp.”

Bimm
smeared ear wax on a window drape and hung up.

***

The
Lincoln Town Car pulled up alongside a Rolls-Royce Phantom VI parked at the 34
^th
Street heliport in Manhattan. Bimm got out and walked over to the magnificent
silver-and-black saloon as its chauffeur moved to open a door for him. The
Phantom has two opposite-swinging rear doors on each side. Noting Bimm’s girth
with ill-concealed distaste, the driver, a rapier-thin Asian, opened both.
Bimm, whose eyes drifted to the automatic in a shoulder holster under the
chauffeur’s left arm, missed the look.

“Wait
outside, Cong Bao.” The deeply timbered voice from inside the Rolls had the
barest trace of an accent. “You can keep Karl company. But don’t smoke in the
limo! I’ll call you when I need you.”

Despite
its famously sturdy chassis, the Rolls settled slightly as Bimm sat in the car.
He could feel rivulets of sweat streaming down his sides from his damp armpits.
He wanted to mop his brow, but was afraid to show weakness. Maybe the son of a
bitch wouldn’t notice. Fat chance. He didn’t miss anything. There he was,
looking cool in his charcoal grey suit, sipping pomegranate juice from a
crystal tumbler. A small tray of croissants lay perched –and untouched – on a
side console, surrounded by little jars of marmalade and honey. The aroma of
high-grade coffee wafted from a covered silver carafe embedded in mahogany cup
holder. I’m starving, but the bastard won’t offer me anything, Bimm fumed. He
never does. I’m not an equal.

“I’m
surprised you employ someone who smokes,” Bimm said. “It doesn’t fit your reputation
for fastidiousness. And didn’t I read somewhere that you gave millions to the
Mayor’s anti-smoking crusade.”

“The
Mayor is an idiot. And you don’t tell a Vietnamese not to smoke. They come out
of the vagina with a cigarette in their mouth. Now, what do you have?”

So
much for small talk, Bimm thought, as he recounted the news from the poker
game. When he finished, the man looked out towards the East River and began
speaking.

“Do
you think it’s Lacuna?”

Bimm
shook his head. The Staten Island Mafia capo who handled the Pearsall contract
was a lot of things. Stupid wasn’t one of them.

“He
would keep his mouth shut. He has nothing to gain and everything to lose.
Especially after what happened to the girl. It’s his back yard. His protection
would dry up.”

“Then
it must be one of the men he used.”

“One
of them is dead, remember.”

“I
know that! The one that raped the girl and caused this whole mess. For which I
hold you responsible, Bimm. Perhaps there is a leak from the landfill, so to
speak.”

“Landfills,
plural. That’s too farfetched to be even possible.”

“Then
it’s the other man. Lacuna should have used his own men. I should have taken
care of this myself. I know people better suited for this kind of work.”

“Lacuna
was an obvious resource. He was on the ground, and has a vested interest in the
project. But the Mafia isn’t what it used to be. The younger generation doesn’t
go into the family business. They can make more money stealing legitimately on
Wall Street. Old timers like Lacuna have to farm out much their work. It’s like
the Roman Empire towards the end. Using mercenaries from the provinces to fill
out the ranks of the legions. Or Hitler’s SS enlisting non-Germans when they
had a billion Russians knocking on the door. Quality goes into the crapper. That’s
why he used outside talent.”

“Spare
me the history lesson. What about the other man?

“We
may be jumping to conclusions. It could be something else entirely.”

“We
can’t take the chance.”

“I
don’t know. He thought so much of his own security he shot his partner.”

The
man was silent for a moment, then turned to look at Bimm.

“This
private detective, Scarne, is well connected and has a reputation for getting
things done.”

“You
know him?”

“Not
personally. But we know some of the same people and his last big case was
notorious in my circle. His involvement was suppressed by his friends in the
media and the police. He won’t be easy to handle. It would have to look like an
accident, and even then there might be blowback. It might be better to just
make sure he can’t find anything out.”

Although
the Phantom’s air-conditioning was on full blast, its rear windows were open
and the man’s last words were almost drowned out by a helicopter landing
nearby. They closed the windows as the dust kicked up. The man waited until the
muted racket subsided as the pilot trimmed the rotors and cycled the engine
into neutral.

“Will
Lacuna give us the man’s name?”

Bimm
stared at him.

“I
know what you’re thinking. That’s crazy. He wouldn’t even tell me. Just said he
was a tough little Polack who knew his way around the Island. He won’t give him
up. It’s a line these guys don’t cross. Besides, he’ll know you are cleaning up
a trail, and he’s at the head of the trail. It would be suicide to even ask
him.”

“Leave
it to me. Just keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. There are not going to
be any more mistakes.” He pushed a button and the window slid down. “Cong Bao,
we’re done here.” He turned to Bimm as his driver, who had been smoking with
the Town Car driver under the FDR Drive, started walking back to the Rolls.
“I’ll be in touch when I get back.” With that, he opened the door the chauffeur
held for him and walked purposely toward the waiting helicopter.

Big
fucking deal, Bimm thought, watching the man’s back. I’m dismissed. He mopped
his brow and reached for the croissants. They were still warm. He put several
in his pockets.