Brainquake Read online

  The first lieutenant: “Menkin confirmed.”

  “Bring me up on Jorjo.”

  “The bribe didn’t work. Buenos Aires has him in investigative custody.”

  “Goddam it.”

  “Jorjo’s a sphinx.”

  “Under fire a sphinx will name names. Have Jorjo hit immediately.”

  “They have him tucked away pretty securely.”

  “His mistress?”

  “Tucked away.”

  “What have we got?”

  “I have a friend there who could round up a fire team.”

  “Do it.” Back to the second lieutenant: “What about the turnover?”

  “Status quo, sir.”

  “Luxembourg and Australia?”

  “They’ve agreed to join the pack.”

  “How many is that?”

  “Eight.”

  “Good. Michael, what’s going on with Citra?”

  “She’s being executed Friday.”

  “Get our liaison to buy her freedom. Give him a million.”

  “He’s being executed with her.”

  “Goddam it! She’s the best distributor in Malaya.”

  “She was.”

  “What about Russia?”

  “The ban on farms growing poppies shot opium prices sky high.”

  “Addicts’ll pay the difference. Take advantage of the revolt of the ruble. And, oh yes, on the baseball scandal? Kill any bastard selling drugs to ballplayers. I love that game. Don’t fuck around with baseball. Ever.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Citra. Break her out. Understand? I don’t care how, but you break her out before Friday and find her a spot in Burma. Or in Thailand. How’s McCall doing?”

  “Still hooked on his own heroin.”

  “Send his ashes to some anti-smoking organization. What about that Fed mole in Chicago?”

  The first lieutenant: “Turned out to be Arnie Campbell.”

  The second lieutenant choked on his drink.

  “Drown him,” Hampshire said.

  The second lieutenant: “He’s my wife’s cousin!”

  “I know,” Hampshire said.

  “She won’t like him swallowing half of Lake Michigan.”

  “Neither will he. What progress on Jose Alvarado?”

  The first again, worry lines deepening: “The Left’s kidnapping candidates, the Right’s assassinating them. Jose doesn’t know what side to run for.”

  Hampshire said, “Scratch him. That country’s too complicated. It’ll be another Panama or Nicaragua. Is Lopez still hiding?”

  “Manhunt for him’s the biggest ever in the country. I recommend we drop him.”

  “On the contrary,” Hampshire said. “Back the guerrillas, back the far right, back the death squads, back the government forces, back the rival narcotics gangs. Keep the war going…and Lopez’ll keep operating cocaine on the move while they blow each other up.”

  Hampshire headed for the door.

  “Oh—I had a drink with Randolph Railey last night before he went back to Philadelphia,” he said. The reaction to the name was palpable. The other four men were all ears. “In a few days, Railey’s buyouts will be announced as going bankrupt. National Trust took a beating. His two investments in banks are having heart attacks. He’s been spending his own personal funds to keep up his payrolls. His back’s against the wall and I’ve got a clutch on his balls. He’s busted. So I made a deal with him last night.

  “Beginning this week, a bagman will deliver ten million to Railey every week on the nose for two years. Total of a billion. For that we’ll own him, down to the last stitch in his Fruit of the Looms. Everything he’s got. Just let Orlando try to stop us then.”

  The third of the lieutenants, the youngest, was the only one who said anything.

  “But sir, he’s under investigation. The Senate Committee will strip Railey bare-ass in public.”

  “Not when it’s packed with our own men,” Hampshire said.

  “It won’t work, sir. God knows I want it to work, but it won’t work. It can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know who’s the whip of the committee investigating Railey’s corporate structure?”

  “Dan Witherspoon.”

  “Exactly! And Witherspoon’s even more untouchable than Orlando. He’ll peel off layer after layer of those corporate shells until he reaches us. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve known Witherspoon for ten years.”

  “You know who’s known him twenty? Randolph Railey. And unless you had your cock in his mouth last night, I think Railey knows him just a little bit better than you. Gentlemen,” Hampshire said, “we are adjourned.”

  17

  “Like to…like to talk to you.”

  Paul held out the cellophane-wrapped rose.

  Michelle stared. It was the taxi driver. The one who’d been delivering the flowers. The one who’d saved her baby’s life. She stepped aside and let him in.

  He entered somewhat nervously, she thought. She shut the door, carefully pulled off the cellophane, and still holding the rose, she opened the small blue envelope stapled to the cellophane, took out the blue card and read the poem.

  Like the sponge of a bulrush,

  tipped with a dying flower,

  Ivory Face brought life to cattail brown,

  Ivory Face didn’t let it down.

  “It’s beautiful…don’t understand it, but it’s…” She saw no reaction in his face and quickly added, “Lots of poems I like I don’t understand.” Still no reaction. “Can’t you tell me anything about the person who wrote it?”

  “…I did.”

  “You?”

  He nodded.

  The silence that followed didn’t seem to make him uneasy at all, even when it dragged on. Michelle wasn’t exactly sure how she felt, but uneasy was definitely part of it. Was he telling the truth? If he did write the poems…if he was her anonymous admirer… But who was he? How did he even know her, to start coming by in the first place? “Did you know my husband? Frankie?”

  He shook his head.

  He couldn’t be the one who wrote it. This man? He couldn’t be.

  “What’s a bulrush?” Michelle tested him.

  “Sponge.”

  “Sponge?”

  He nodded.

  “What type of sponge?”

  “Swamp.”

  She looked back down at the card.

  “Ivory Face?”

  “You.”

  She turned away, set the card down. Felt rather than saw him still standing there beside her. “Would you like some coffee?” she said quietly.

  When she didn’t get a response, she looked back and saw him nodding.

  She put the pot on, then placed the rose in the vase, alongside the others. She saw him looking at the baby in the crib.

  “Thank you. For…”

  Paul nodded.

  She brought the pot to the table and poured two cups.

  “Please, sit down.”

  Paul did.

  She sat across from him. He kept his eyes on her very steadily. She couldn’t read what was behind his eyes, but she made herself meet them.

  “How do you know me?” Michelle sipped her coffee.

  “The park.”

  “You saw me in the park? You mean the other day?”

  “Two months ago.”

  “And just decided to, what…follow me home?”

  “Didn’t want to never see you again.”

  “Why didn’t you just say something? In the park?”

  Paul looked down, shrugged. His expression never changed, but something in his eyes looked embarrassed, even ashamed.

  “You can’t talk well? There’s something wrong with your voice?”

  Another shrug, a small nod.

  “It’s okay—it’s okay,” Michelle said. “You didn’t do anything bad, it’s just…the whole thing’s a little strange.”

  Sandpaper on stone: “Sorry.”

&nbs
p; “No, no, it’s…it’s okay.”

  She pushed the other coffee cup toward him. Eventually he picked it up, took a tiny sip, set it down.

  He looked like a brute, the worst sort of man, and with that expressionless face he could easily be one. But—

  If he’d meant to hurt her, he could have. Instead, he’d saved her son’s life. Given her half a flower shop’s worth of roses. Written a book’s worth of poems. Clearly his intentions were something closer to the opposite.

  Which in her prior life would’ve meant exactly nothing to her. But that was another life. Before Frankie got killed and her baby almost blown up, before she found herself alone, with the eyes of the police on her. Beggars can’t be choosers, and the attentions even of a man like this, if he wanted to help, were nothing to take lightly. There was so much she needed. And he seemed to want to provide.

  And he was capable. When near-tragedy struck, it was incredible the way he knew what to do, and how fast he did it, to save her baby from choking to death. How very fast.

  “You want to know me even though they call me a gun widow?”

  Paul nodded.

  “A gun widow means a gangster’s widow. That doesn’t bother you?”

  Paul shook his head.

  He was not bad-looking, she thought, if in a totally forgettable way. There was no other way she could describe him. Except for his eyes. There was something in his eyes that was sadly beautiful. She wondered if it was always there, or only now, while he was here with her.

  And that thing in his eyes—it wasn’t lust. Attraction certainly; she knew she was beautiful, was used to the looks men got around her, could distinguish among them. Most men gave her a defensive feeling. She sensed with animal instinct when a man looked at her and wanted to lay her. This man’s look said he wanted something different. It was like he wanted to protect her.

  “Were you there when the bomb went off? Is that where you got those bruises?”

  He nodded, then shot to his feet when a knock came at the door.

  So fast.

  He raised one finger, dropped his other hand into the deep pocket of his coat.

  Then a voice, a woman’s, said, “NYPD. You there, Mrs. Troy?”

  She walked to the door and opened it.

  Lieutenant Zara was standing there.

  18

  “We left your carriage under the stairway, Mrs. Troy.” Zara’s eyes swept to Paul, then back to Michelle. “Forensics decided to hang onto the monkey and the music box.”

  “Burn them.”

  “I don’t blame you. Still don’t want our protection?”

  “If that psycho sees cops around me, he’ll think I do have the money.”

  “He’ll phone again. What’ll you tell him?”

  “The truth.”

  “He won’t buy it.”

  “Then I’ll tell him in person.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “You know I am.”

  “Aren’t you afraid to face him?”

  “Terrified…but if I run, he’ll find me. If I don’t run, maybe he’ll believe me.”

  Zara turned to Paul. “You one of Frankie’s friends?”

  “He certainly is not!”

  “You’re Paul Page?” Zara said.

  Paul nodded.

  “How long’ve you known Michelle?”

  Michelle blurted, “How do you know his name?”

  “On his hack license. I saw him get out of his taxi and come in here carrying a rose.”

  “Anything criminal about that?” Michelle snapped.

  “Same sort that was taped to your carriage hood.”

  “So?”

  Zara turned to Paul again. “How long’ve you known Mrs. Troy, Mr. Page?”

  “Couple days.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “Why are you cross-examining him?” Michelle’s voice rose.

  “How did you meet her?”

  “Delivering flowers.”

  “Who sent the flowers?”

  “Me.”

  “Why?”

  “Friendship.”

  Zara eyed him. “How close is this friendship?” she said.

  “Not like you’re thinking,” Michelle said. “He saved my baby’s life. My baby couldn’t breathe; his face turned blue. Mr. Page gave him mouth-to-mouth.”

  Zara returned her gaze to Michelle. “I found one of Frankie’s friends, Mrs. Troy. He’s in prison. For fifty bucks and a carton of cigarettes, he gave me a rundown on your husband. He was a two-bit hoodlum, a pusher. A real sweetheart, pushed crack to kids.”

  “Now you’re beginning to understand why I ran out on him.”

  “I am.”

  “And the Black Psycho?”

  “The distributor he owed money to was black. Haven’t gotten any confirmation on the street name. But it’s a lead. A small one.”

  “I know it’s hard. You’ve got so little to go on. I hope you don’t throw in the towel on the case…”

  “I never throw in the towel.” Zara turned back to Paul. “I remember your name now. Officer O’Hanlon mentioned it. Said you were the closest witness to the shooting.”

  “Big old cop?”

  “Not young.” She stirred her memory, came up with a detail from the report. “Do you really live down by that old graveyard, in one of those abandoned shacks?”

  “Not abandoned.”

  “Where did you learn resuscitation?”

  “Taxi driver. You have to know.”

  She looked from one of them to the other. “Mrs. Troy can use a friend,” she said. “Just be careful, both of you. And Mrs. Troy… call me if you change your mind.” With that, Zara walked out.

  Michelle got up, paced twice around the room. Zara’s presence still hung there, like she was still watching them. “I’m going to take the baby to the park,” Michelle said.

  “Now?”

  “Why not? He hasn’t had his walk in days.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  “Oh, Paul…thank you…but you must have places you need to be…”

  “Can I walk with you?”

  “Of course.”

  For the first time, she saw a spark in his eyes. Then they went blank again, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d seen it. Somewhere in him there was emotion, the capacity for joy. She felt quite good that she had broken the barrier, and surprised that she felt good about it. Who was he? A stranger, practically. But also her self-styled guardian angel. And who was she to turn that down? Yes, there was something wrong with him; clearly there was. But whatever was wrong with him, it had to be some kind of harmless defect. Some kind of delay in his thinking. Certainly not in his acting. And what did she need most right now, a man who would think or one who would act?

  These thoughts overlapped each other as she prepared her baby for the carriage ride.

  * * *

  They pushed the baby carriage in Central Park, but Michelle kept away from the path she’d been on the day of the gunshot and the bomb. She had taped the newest red rose to the hood.

  “Why did you call me Ivory Face?”

  “You have one.”

  “Ivory is hard.”

  “Ivory is beautiful.”

  The baby began to cry. They sat on a bench. From the blue bag in the carriage pocket, Michelle pulled out a box. Paul watched her change the baby’s diaper. She placed the old diaper in a bag, dropped it in a trash can and was rejoining Paul on the bench when two men approached, stopped, stared at them. One looked older, one younger, both with black hair and long jaws, dark features. Paul was reminded of the two pirates. Brothers, the Boss had told him.

  Michelle ignored their staring at her.

  “Aren’t you…?” one of them said.

  “No.” She glared at them, and after a time the two men left.

  “They recognized me.”

  Paul took out a folded page of the Daily News from his wallet. He’d slid it in beside his money, his driver’s lice
nse and the slot for his pencil. She saw a photo of herself in the ambulance, taken through the open rear doors. She couldn’t recognize herself, the picture was so grainy.

  “Would you recognize me from that picture?”

  Paul shook his head.

  Michelle read the caption, pointed at two words the writer had chosen to describe Frankie. “Did you read that?”

  Paul nodded.

  “Wife of mafia figure Frankie Troy. You heard what Lieutenant Zara called him. A two-bit hoodlum. She should know.

  Would you still want to be my friend if he had been a mafia figure?”

  Paul nodded.

  “You know why I married him?”

  “Baby.”

  “You read it in the paper.”

  Paul nodded.

  “You read a lot?”

  “Every day.”

  “Habit you picked up in school?”

  “Never went to school.”

  “Who taught you to read?”

  “Parents.”

  “And to write?”

  Paul nodded. “And to talk.”

  “Are they alive?”

  Paul shook his head.

  “You live alone?”

  Paul nodded.

  “Any friends?”

  Paul shook his head.

  “You like living alone?”

  Paul thought about that for a moment, then nodded, and then said, “When I saw you…”

  She waited.

  “Had different feeling.”

  “About living alone?”

  Paul shook his head.

  “What kind of different feeling, Paul?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what kind of different feeling you had?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Did you ever have that different kind of feeling before?”

  Paul shook his head.

  Michelle smiled. “Maybe it was love at first sight.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You think you love me?” Then, before he could answer: “Never mind, Paul. Forget I asked that. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Hungry?”

  The question came from left field and she smiled.

  “Starving.” She laughed. “Right now I would kill for a steak.”

  “Cold chicken?”

  “I love cold chicken.”

  She caught that spark again in his eyes. The spark lasted about three seconds. She was making progress.

  “Got some at my place.”