Brainquake Read online

Paul thought about the man, the stranger, who had been put into a canvas bag and driven off. The word jealous came to mind, but this time only the word. He felt nothing. He knew what the word meant. He felt nothing.

  There must be a reason that the stranger bothered him.

  Why must everything have a reason?

  Why was Ivory Face important to him? Every morning for two months when she pushed the carriage past him, she looked at him but he knew that she really didn’t see him. She looked right through him as if he weren’t there. He didn’t exist to her. Like other people, she saw him but didn’t see him.

  When he was a child, a toddler, one of his teachers had called him a cipher, the word taunting him. Later, when he had learned to read, he looked up the word and it meant zero…nothing.

  He remembered the first time he overheard his parents talking about him. He was about three years old. He could hear and see, but he was mute. They had tried to make a sound come from his throat. They couldn’t. They couldn’t even get a rasp out of him. When he slipped in the bathtub, hurt his finger, he cried tears but made no sound. His parents were worried he’d remain silent all his life. They would never put him in an institution where he’d be with children like him…but they were frightened for him, frightened about what kind of life he would have.

  * * *

  His thoughts went back to Ivory Face.

  Why was he interested in her?

  Why must everything have a reason?

  Since seeing her for the first time, he’d had her face before him each time he closed his eyes. She was beautiful, but it was more than that. Or less than that. It wasn’t about beauty. The look in her eyes: haunted. Hunted. Like there was something waiting for her, just over her shoulder or past the next corner, waiting for her and her baby. Something was causing her pain, was causing her fear. She was maybe twenty years old, twenty-one, but her eyes were so much older. He remembered his mother’s eyes, at the end. If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain…

  Paul saw someone running at him. Not a photographer this time, a woman. She had broken through the barricade, slipped past the policeman, and was heading for the carriage, $10 Bible held high. One of the cops went to intercept her, keep her away from the scene, and she veered to the side, barreling into Paul shoulder-first. The impact drove him back, and he lost his balance. Then the cop was on her, wrestling her away. Seeing her struggle in the policeman’s grip, a man on the other side of the barricade ducked under, shouting, waving a fist in the air. Others in the crowd took up the shout. Paul, on his ass in the dirt, looked up at the faces, previously tense, now angry. He thought: They’d better do something soon.

  3

  Ivory Face twisted sideways on the cot of the waiting ambulance, balanced her flyweight on a fragile elbow, pressed her delicately chiseled face against the window and watched cops keeping the crowd away from her.

  Sitting beside her was Helen Zara.

  “Feel well enough to answer questions now?”

  Ivory Face slightly turned her head, distorting her face.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Frankie Troy.”

  “Police record?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Father of the baby?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s Frankie’s real name?”

  “That’s the name I married. I’m his widow. Michelle Troy. What about my baby?”

  “Can’t be moved till specialists get here.”

  “I’ve got to change his diapers, feed him. They can do their work without my baby.”

  “They can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “The gun’s under your baby.”

  Michelle’s eyes turned glassy. Zara knew it was time to get the doctor back but she pulled out a silver flask, unscrewed the top, poured bourbon down Michelle’s throat, and waited until air gurgled through Michelle’s lips. Zara closed the flask.

  “I’m all right, Lieutenant. Ask your questions.”

  “Who taught your baby to pull the monkey’s tail when the music stopped playing?”

  “Frankie.”

  “How many times did he walk the carriage with you?”

  “Only once.”

  “Was he on your left or right?”

  “On my right.”

  “The whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who installed the monkey and the music box?”

  “Frankie.”

  “Anyone help him?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see him install it?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “You mean that in two days he taught the baby to pull the monkey’s tail to start the music?”

  “My baby’s smart.”

  “Where did he install it?”

  “Under the stairway on the ground floor.”

  “Is that where you always keep the carriage?”

  “Yes. We live in a walkup, fourth floor. My baby sleeps in a crib.”

  “The other tenants know the carriage was kept under the stairway?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who else knew?”

  “The superintendent.”

  “Who else?”

  “Frankie.”

  “How long’ve you lived there?”

  “Eight months.”

  “How did Frankie get along with the tenants?”

  “He didn’t know any of them. He barged in a couple days ago, found out where we lived.”

  “You were hiding from Frankie?”

  “Damn right I was.”

  “Who told him where you lived?”

  “Who cares? He used the monkey and music box to try to win me back.”

  “Did he threaten you if you didn’t take him back?”

  “He just begged and cried.”

  “When did you run out on him?”

  “A year ago.”

  “Short marriage.”

  “Not short enough.”

  “Did he ever beat you?”

  “No.”

  “Try to get you to push dope?”

  “No.”

  “Ever pimp for you?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you leave him?”

  “People leave people.”

  “Why did you?”

  “People don’t like people.”

  “Why did you marry him?”

  “I got pregnant.”

  “Are your parents alive?”

  “No.”

  “No family?”

  “Only the baby.”

  “Where did you marry Frankie?”

  “On a boat.”

  “Where?”

  “Crossing the Hudson.”

  “What boat?”

  “Small.”

  “Rental?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the name of the boat?”

  “No name.”

  “Catholic marriage?”

  “Justice of the Peace.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Don’t know. Everyone was drunk.”

  “Were you?”

  “All of us.”

  “Who else?”

  “Guy who handled the boat. Willie something…”

  “Has anyone threatened you recently?”

  “Why me?”

  “You could’ve been on Frankie’s right, where the gun was pointed.”

  Remembering: “Oh, my God! I was! I was on his right! When we headed out. Then this woman dropped a bag of oranges. Frankie helped her pick them up.”

  “Why didn’t he step back on your left side where he had been?”

  “I moved to fix the blanket.”

  “So, has anyone threatened you?”

  “You asked me.”

  “You didn’t answer it.”

  “…A man phoned last night.”

  “What time?”

  “About seven.
Frankie was out. The man said Frankie owed him ten thousand dollars and Frankie’d be sorry if he didn’t pay before eleven o’clock.”

  “Deadline was eleven o’clock last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What name did he give you?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “No.”

  “A man phoned and threatened your husband and you didn’t ask the man his name?”

  “That’s Frankie’s problem.”

  “You told Frankie about the threat?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He laughed. He knew the screwball. He said forget it.”

  “Did Frankie tell you the man’s name?”

  “Just called him a…black psycho.”

  “I mean his name.”

  “Frankie said that’s what he called him—Black Psycho.”

  “Did Frankie tell you where this ‘Black Psycho’ lived?”

  “That was Frankie’s problem.”

  “Did the man sound drunk? High?”

  “No.”

  “How old?”

  “Hard to tell.”

  “Accent?”

  “No.”

  “Profanity?”

  “No.”

  “Stutter?”

  “No.”

  “Cough?”

  “No.”

  “Did he talk fast?”

  “No.”

  “Slow?”

  “Normal.”

  “Who were Frankie’s black friends?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Any friends of Frankie been in a mental ward?”

  “I never met his friends.”

  “Why not?”

  “Wouldn’t like them.”

  “Because they’re into narcotics?”

  “Wouldn’t like them.”

  “How long did you know Frankie before you married him?”

  “One week.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “I got out of the subway. It was raining. He had an umbrella and walked me to where I lived.”

  “Where did you live then?”

  “504 West 176th Street.”

  “How did Frankie make a dollar?”

  “I never asked.”

  “Did you move in with Frankie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Saint Charles Hotel, West 96th Street.”

  “Did you work when you met him?”

  “Cashier. French rotisserie restaurant. 137th and Broadway.”

  “Still work there?”

  “No. I’m at the Rex Western Grill on…”

  “I know it. What daycare do you leave the baby with when you go to work?”

  “Daycare? Can’t afford daycare.”

  “Who looks after your baby when you work?”

  “I do.”

  “At Rex Grill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s the carriage kept?”

  “A storeroom off the kitchen. The owner, his wife and the help all chip in. They all love my baby.”

  “Did Frankie give you the ten thousand?”

  “You kidding?”

  “It wasn’t on his body.”

  “That’s Frankie’s problem.”

  “It’s your problem now.”

  “Are you crazy? I have nothing to do with him or his money.”

  “It was a business bullet, Mrs. Troy. You get hit, Frankie pays. Frankie’s hit, you pay.”

  Through the window Zara saw the Bomb Squad van pass. She stood up, bending over to clear the low roof of the ambulance. She spoke very quietly. “Mrs. Troy, they’re going to check the carriage. The man who planted the gun could’ve planted some kind of a booby trap too. To do the maximum damage, and cover his tracks.”

  “Booby trap?”

  “Your baby will be okay, Mrs. Troy. We’ll see to it. And we can give you protection for the day, maybe the week. But we can’t protect you forever. One day you’ll be right back where you are now. There’s no guarantee we’ll find the man who did this. And if we don’t, even a year from now, he’ll look you up and he’ll be very mad. Raise that money.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Pay him or your baby’ll die a baby.”

  4

  Camera crews on the roofs of three network trucks were ready when Zara climbed out of the ambulance, strode past a whiteclad doctor sneaking a smoke, then marched through the opening made by cops keeping the press and the crowd back.

  Shoulder-mounted cameras weighed heavily on operators keeping their balance by their assistants’ grips on their hips. News photographers and a platoon of reporters fell in behind the Pied Piper of the NYPD without firing a single question.

  They knew Zara’s trademark. When ready, she’d make only one statement. To some of the print buzzards, Zara was arrogant, to others she was eccentric, but to all she was news. And professionalism, brevity, honesty. But most of all news.

  Zara knew how they saw her and embraced it. Journalists had made her a tabloid figure, a star, rather than the working cop she was. So be it. If it helped bring killers in, she’d tolerate the headlines, the photos in the Post and the News, the insinuations from some in the department that she sought the attention out. She didn’t. A case was a case. A pro hit man or a domestic killer were the same to her. They killed. They must be put out of circulation.

  She didn’t believe in redemption when it came to taking a human life. To her that was breaking the law of life, not the law written somewhere on a piece of paper. She didn’t believe in the why of murder, in any medical or psychological explanations for it. The hell with why. What, where, when, who. You kill, you’re caught, the door slams behind you. You can spend the rest of your life in a cage, or you can do the decent thing and kill yourself. That was fine. She never begrudged a killer a second killing, as long as the second victim was himself. And if he needed to be helped along a little, she didn’t mind that either. She had a dozen shootings to her name, every one of them righteous.

  Of course it made her a target, too. For wanted fugitives, for criminals who hated that there was a cop they couldn’t buy, couldn’t finagle, couldn’t blackmail. This was her city, and she walked its streets, didn’t hide behind bulletproof glass or an office posting, strode with balls, but was always alert. Even now, tailed by the press, anyone masquerading as a cop or a reporter could open up the back of her skull with a bullet. She didn’t let it bother her. Fear came with the badge. No one forced her. It was her choice.

  She lived alone in a small East Harlem apartment in the heavily populated Spanish area that once was inhabited almost entirely by blacks. She slept on the ground floor with unbarred window always unlocked. In the summer, she left it open, let in some air. She breakfasted round the corner, hating to make coffee. She hated to cook. She’d grab a sandwich for lunch, but dined like a queen at Dinty’s Chop House.

  Her clothes cost a heavy dollar. Immaculate, she always smelled good.

  A born bloodhound, though she had lost the scent of many fugitives too. Which is why she’d given Michelle Troy the advice she had, as much as it pained her to do it. Paying a murderer disgusted her, but it wasn’t the widow’s job to fight one. That was the police’s job, and until they did it Mrs. Troy had to do what she had to do, to keep herself and her baby alive. Meanwhile, Zara would work the case, do her damnedest to nail the killer. She’d nailed 77 to date, killed twelve of them. It wasn’t an art. It wasn’t a science either. It was shoe leather and sweat, and sometimes luck, though you could help luck along. She was helped by informers. Some stoolies informed for vengeance. Pros were paid. She preferred pros.

  Majority of them were ex-cons. Without a canary, she was in trouble. It was ball-breaking enough to find the spoor of a killer in New York City. Almost impossible without a tip. Every homicide cop had a roster of informers. She had one of the best. She never paid them grudgingly. They had their way of earn
ing a living, she had hers. In murder, every Judas was an angel. She had always wondered what would have happened at Little Big Horn if there had been a stoolie in the Sioux. Probably Custer would have been made president.

  She was approaching the police-blocked dirt path leading to the carriage. The press knew that in a moment they would lose her. This was their last chance to get a statement. So they dashed past her and walked backwards facing her, quickening their pace so she wouldn’t steamroll over them before she vanished behind the final cop barrier.

  She stopped. The cameras focused on Zara’s black eyes under groomed black hair, not kinky at all at the moment since just two days earlier she’d had it hot-pressed straight. Face black marble. Heavy breasts covered but not hidden by buttoned, custom-tailored gray jacket. Holster bulge invisible. Handcuffs invisible. Shirt white. Tie black. Long, lean legs striding under matching gray skirt. Black shoes with spike heels that had doubled as a weapon in the hands of the 34-year-old, six-foot-three-inch legend that give the New York Police Department such élan. She lived up to the reporters’ expectations and made her one statement:

  “Here’s what we know. There’s been a murder. When the baby in that carriage pulled the tail of the toy monkey, it triggered a loaded gun concealed between the baby’s feet. Frankie Troy was shot dead. His widow, Michelle, is waiting in the ambulance for her baby. There is reason to believe there may be a bomb under the baby. Our job is to get the baby out safely and you’re going to help us do it by staying the hell away. Come within three feet of that carriage and I’ve given instructions to shoot. I’m dead serious.” No one doubted it.

  She turned to go. Jaediker of the Daily News shouted:

  “Any suspects, Lieutenant?”

  “A threat was called in, by an unidentified male who may go by the street name ‘Black Psycho.’ ”

  “Black…?”

  “Psycho, that’s right, Mr. Jaediker. They come in all colors, even mine. Now move back.”

  The media and the cops parted for her as she strode forward, as single-minded as a torpedo. She saw the men in the crowd watching her, and knew there was something in their eyes other than respect. Sometimes it was lust, sometimes fear. Sometimes anger. Sometimes…

  Zara imagined what it had been like for her ancestor Jero Zara, the first nigra cop assigned to protect Andrew Johnson in New York. Jero Zara was killed by a bullet intended for Johnson, who became President when Lincoln was assassinated. She imagined her grandfather, Tom Zara, the first nigger to command the pioneering Vice Squad in the Force. Tom Zara was shot in the back by the pioneering Murder, Inc.