Rough Justice Page 11

  “This Mikki Snow, you have no idea where she went?”

  “Uh uh. One morning, I come down, she’s gone.”

  “One morning when?”

  “Wednesday. Same day you …”

  “Killed Thad Reich, yeah. And when did you see her last?”

  “Every day before that. She was in the back office and that’s where the stairs to the cellar is. I had to go by her all the time to get down to the boiler room or the compactor room or whatever.”

  “So you saw her Tuesday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you said?”

  “Just hello. How you doin’? Shit like that. Last time I really had the chance to talk to her was …” Hat in hand, he scratched his head, looked up at the ceiling. “Well, I guess the day before that we chatted a little. She wanted to know if I ever heard of some guy.”

  “What guy? You remember his name?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. What was it? Howard. Howard something …”

  I let a lungful of smoke out in a small stream. I was almost afraid to ask. “Baumgarten?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Howard Baumgarten.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The city comptroller.”

  15

  The dark came down slowly, the way it does in spring. The air turned a rich blue, shade by shade. I rode a cab uptown, up Park, through the dusk. I watched as the budding branches of the sidewalk trees sank back into silhouette. I watched the skyline lights to the north rise slowly out of the background of the evening.

  It was hard to sit there, to sit still, with my mind working it over. Howard Baumgarten. The city comptroller. The man who won Cooper House its approval from a bought-off board. It might be nothing. It probably was. A shelter like Cooper House would have to have some city grants, connections with other institutions, other agencies. Baumgarten’s office was sure to have a hand in it. Mikki Snow was probably just filling out some form or other or making a phone call when she spoke to Sam Scar.

  It was probably nothing, but it was everything I had. Everything but the whispers running on and on in my head. So I couldn’t let it go, couldn’t stop working it as the cab headed northward. My one connection with Thad Reich’s life. The Board of Estimate story I’d picked up for Stertz. I kept turning it over and over, looking for a way in.

  The cab moved quickly in the light Saturday traffic. The massive front of Grand Central came closer, its chiseled Mercury spread his arms at me from above. I glanced up through the windshield to the west, toward the Star. It would be quiet there now unless a jet had crashed on the Garden or something. Ray Marshall, the weekend guy, would be at the desk. That meant there would be wastepaper basketball contests and a box of Dunkin Donuts by the coffeemaker. There’d be a lot of wire copy to rewrite and blotter stories to track down. Maybe, once the Saturday-night drinking started, there’d be a decent murder or two. If not, Ray would turn up the sound on one of the TV monitors and let fly with a running commentary on the latest episode of the latest cop show. Once I wandered in there and caught them all dancing to some FM rock. Maybe they’d be doing that tonight.

  For a second or two, I thought of telling the cabbie to go on to Forty-second. Maybe I could drop in, I thought. Read the wires. Find out the latest from upstairs. Then I thought of the way they’d look at me, the things they’d say when I came in. By then, anyway, the cab was heading around the terminal.

  And I started going at it again. Howard Baumgarten. The Board of Estimate. Mikki Snow—where was she? Somehow, I would have to try to track her down.

  When I got out of the cab in front of my building, I stood on the sidewalk a second. I looked up at the windows of my apartment. They reflected the neon of the street back to me. I thought of spending the night in there. With the TV and the cracks on the wall, the red stain of light from the Triplex. A frozen dinner. The Scotch bottle. I swallowed hard and headed inside.

  I rode up the elevator. Slogged down the hall. I reached out with my key to unlock my apartment door.

  Then I stopped. I stared at the door. My free hand drifted up to my throat. I felt the fading mark of the wire.

  I reached out again, turned the lock slowly. Turned the knob slowly. Pushed the door in, standing back. I edged closer to the opening, reached around the jamb. Flicked up the light switch. Kicked the door in with my foot. There was no one in the room in front of me. But I stepped in quickly, looked quickly to either side. Checked behind the door. Peered into the kitchenette. No one.

  “You jackass,” I said aloud.

  I kicked the door shut behind me.

  I yanked my tie open as I went to the kitchenette. I collected some ice in a glass. Collared the Scotch bottle. Headed for my desk.

  I dropped into my chair. Dashed out a shot of liquor. I was aching for it again. Wound tight inside. Eager to feel its heat break the hold of the day.

  I set the bottle down on the desk. Tossed my cigarette pack beside it. Leaned back and threw my feet up next to both. I sipped the Scotch and felt it burn its way into me. I watched the red glow of the Triplex on the face of the night. I watched my own reflection staring at me.

  And I heard footsteps at my back.

  They started in the bedroom. They came slowly, calmly out through the bedroom door. I didn’t turn. I kept looking in the window. The footsteps stopped directly behind me.

  I stuck a cigarette between my teeth. I lit it. “You better have a gun,” I said.

  I heard a laugh. “Sure, I got a gun. Every cop’s got a gun.”

  I tilted my head to one side.

  “Aw shit,” I said.

  Next to my reflection now, I saw the wavering image of Tom Watts.

  I shook my head, disgusted. “I thought your weapon of choice was a dump truck.”

  He laughed again. I could hear his lip curl. He took a few more steps around the room, looking it over.

  I smoked my cigarette, drank my drink. Maybe if I ignored him, he’d go away.

  “Shitty little place you’ve got here, Wells.”

  “We can’t all shake down hookers, Tommy. Some of us just get by.”

  “A big-shot journalist like you oughta be able to strangle young men in a penthouse, I’d think.”

  “You’re just spoiled by years of the pad.” I blew smoke at the window. “Hey, by the way, you wouldn’t happen to have a search warrant on you, would you?”

  “Gee, I had one here a minute ago.” He tapped the pockets of his trenchcoat. Then shrugged, smiled. “What’s a few civil liberties between friends?”

  “Nothing. But we’re not friends. Get out.” I pulled my feet off the desk. I swiveled around in the chair. “And try not to leave a trail of slime.”

  He grinned. I saw his teeth. He shook a finger at me. “Now, I don’t want to have to break your arms, John.”

  “I don’t want to have to call my lawyer.”

  “I met your lawyer, I don’t blame you.” He snorted. His green eyes caught the light, and the handsome face went wicked. He stuck a cigarette in it. As he lifted the match to it, his coat opened. He did have a gun, at that. He waved the match out. “Look, Wells,” he said. “We oughta talk.”

  “You talk. I’m drinking.”

  “Sure. Fine. I’ll talk.” He ran a thumb over his lip. Thought it over. He looked a little reluctant to get started. As if this wasn’t as much fun as, say, handcuffing a guy to a desk leg and then grinding a heel into his mouth. Finally, though, he nodded and said: “Okay. The way I see it, your position is this: upside down in shit to your ankles. I’m in a fair way to have you indicted for murder two and, frankly, nothing would make me a happier guy. But I’m not like you, John. I can’t think about revenge all the time.”

  “Well,” I said modestly, “I don’t have to worry about greed and corruption.”

  He shook his head, tapped an ash off onto my floor. Stared down at it. “The thing is: I might be willing to save the taxpayers some money—your trial, your bread and board, that sort of thin
g—if you thought you could find it in your heart to shut your fucking face up about E.J. McMahon.”

  He stopped, let it hang there. Gazed at me with his green eyes, gauging my reaction.

  I let him sweat, took a drag. Then I smiled at him. He smiled at me. I wagged my head. He wagged his. I chuckled. He chuckled back.

  I said: “Good. That’s good.”

  “You like that?”

  “Yeah. I do. It’s sharp.”

  “Hey. Happy to amuse.”

  “The commissioner can shut me up long enough for you to bust me. But if you bust me, I’ll bring in E.J. as a defense. Might even prove it.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “But it’s a possibility.”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “Right. Right.” I laughed some more. He laughed some more, too.

  “No one’s listening to you, Wells,” he said pleasantly. “Why waste your time? Why waste the ink?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “There you go.”

  “It’s, like, a complex.”

  “Doctors can do a lot for those nowadays.”

  “I mean, sometimes—sometimes I lie awake at night, and I think about some guy, you know, out in the boroughs. Working some shop somewhere, pulling twenty grand, thirty grand. Couple of kids, thinking about college. And paying a big hunk of every dime he makes to the City of New York. And then,” I went on, “I think about you. Selling that badge he bought you to the same bunch of scumbags who bleed his union and sell his kids dope and murder each other on his streets. I’m serious, Tommy. I lie awake.”

  “That’s not good, John. A man needs his sleep.”

  “I mean, let me ask you something: Did you ever arrest anyone? Just out of curiosity.”

  Watts was still smiling, but the smile had frozen. It looked sharp, feral. His eyes gleamed. “You know,” he said, “I’m really beginning to worry about you.”

  “That’s sweet. I’m touched.”

  “I mean it. I really am. A man who kills a respected citizen is in a precarious position.”

  I drank. I watched him over the rim of the glass.

  “Pretty soon, you’re going to be wanted for murder,” he said. “A dangerous business. You could be blown away resisting arrest. Or you could get depressed and hang yourself in a holding cell. Or Rikers …” He pursed his lips, shook his head. “Ooh, that bad, bad Rikers. I hate to think what might happen to you there if one of your fellow inmates took a dislike to you. Life, in such situations, can be a harsh and uncertain thing. I worry about you, John. Sincerely.”

  He looked at me hard. I set my drink down on the desk behind me. I stood up, my cigarette clenched in my teeth. I sent his look back at him through the smoke.

  “Kill the McMahon story,” he said.

  “Your badge is mine, Tommy. You’re mine.” It did not sound like my voice.

  For a minute, Watts didn’t react. He kept standing there, looking at me, as if I hadn’t spoken. Then he dropped his cigarette on my floor. Right on the spot where Thad Reich died. He crushed it under his heel.

  “That’s one thing I can count on with you, Wells,” he said. “You’re a real idiot. Sort of restores my faith in journalism.” He started for the door. But he paused with his hand on the knob. “Remember I gave you this chance, though. It’s a last chance. Your time is just about up.”

  “If you had something, you’d use it,” I said.

  His eyes flashed angrily at that. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe I don’t have anything yet. But it’s lined up, Wells.”

  “Sure it is.”

  He yanked the door open. “It’s lined up and ready. A witness. Someone who can connect you to Reich. Someone who can supply your motive.” He smiled. “I’ll be back. So—sweep the floor, would you?”

  He slammed the door shut behind him. I was free to start drinking in earnest.

  16

  The next time I opened my eyes, it was another day. Sunday, I think. I was lying on top of my bed. The bed was still made. I was still dressed. It’s the fastest way to start your morning.

  I rolled over, tried to sit up. The motion made the room swirl. I lay back down. I stared at the ceiling. Slowly, the swirling stopped.

  I did better on the second try. I actually had myself on the edge of the bed. I stumbled to the bathroom, clutching my stomach. Then out into the living room, clutching my head.

  I managed to make myself a mug of coffee. I stuck a frozen waffle in the oven and sat at the kitchenette counter, drinking. I stared at the spot on the floor where Tom Watts’s cigarette lay. Soon, I smelled char and got the waffle out. I sat at the counter and stared at the cigarette. I munched on the waffle. I drained the mug. The waffle and coffee rolled around in my stomach. I had a smoke. It sat in my lungs.

  I passed the time that way till nearly ten. Then I fell over to my desk chair, dropped into it. Plucked up the receiver and dialed the paper.

  “City room.”

  “Ray. This is Wells.”

  “Wells! Sorry to hear your career is finished and your life is ruined.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What else is new?”

  “I’m looking for Howard Baumgarten’s home number. You got it lying around someplace?”

  “Yeah, it’s probably in the computer.”

  “Well, can you open the computer and take it out in some recognizable form, because …”

  “Here it is. You want his I’m-a-good-citizen number in the city or the place in Westchester where he lives?”

  “Gimme Westchester.”

  He read it off to me.

  “Give me his address, too.”

  “He won’t talk to you from there, you know. He won’t admit it exists. I once called him and he pretended to be a machine.”

  “It’s a step up from a cog.”

  “Right.”

  There was a pause. I rubbed my eyes. “So how’s the weather in there?”

  “Cold, my friend, with a chance of suspension by tomorrow. They were upstairs Friday afternoon chewing you over but good. Bush all but called you a murderer. ‘This squalid little killing,’ he called it. So the new girl—Walsh—she’s in there like Joe Louis. Bim. Bam. She’s telling him: I’m in charge of the city-room operations and if you wanted someone you could push around, you hired the wrong woman, this and that, blah, blah, blah.”

  “To Bush?”

  “Yeah.”

  I laughed. “To Bush?”

  Ray giggled wildly. “Not bad for her first week. And Sandier is saying, ‘I think if we take another look at this …’ And Hodgekiss is going, ‘Now, Emma. Now, Emma.’ And finally …”

  “Wait a minute. Where do you get this stuff?”

  “I got a source up in Accounting.”

  “Who, her? You lucky son of a bitch.”

  “Good ears, too.”

  “Damn. So what happened?”

  “Well, Bush said he’d take another look at the thing, but from the way it sounded, he just wanted to get Walsh out of there so he could dump you without the noise. He may not get a chance like this again.”

  “Especially if they hang me.”

  “Right.”

  “Thanks, Ray.”

  “’Bye.”

  I hung up. Went into the bathroom. Washed up, showered. Stood over the toilet, feeling sick, trying not to puke. I went back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed again. I took long, even breaths, hoping to get steady, hoping I would get by.

  I was weary of it by now, of feeling sick, of drinking. Weary of the badgering of voices. Weary of the guilt. Man, but I wished Thad Reich was alive again. In fact, I sat there wishing it for several moments. He went on being dead.

  I gave up. Went back to the desk. Back to the phone. I dialed Baumgarten. His wife answered. I tried to sound friendly.

  “Mrs. Baumgarten?”

  “Yes?”

  “Hi. Is Howard there?”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Thi
s is Mikki Snow.”

  “Just a moment.”

  I waited, smoking. Looked out the window. The sky had cleared. It was a light, crystal blue. Small clouds were blowing across it. The quiet of a spring Sunday drifted up to me.

  “Listen, Miss Snow.” It was the deep, curt, gravelly voice of the city’s comptroller. “If you have business to conduct with me, you’ll have to do it in my office.” I waited, to see if he’d go on. “Hello?”

  “This is John Wells, Howard.”

  There was a pause. “You son of a bitch. Where are you calling from?”

  “My voting address.”

  “You have the wrong number.”

  “I want to know about Mikki Snow.”

  “Damn it!” He breathed fiercely a moment. Then: “Meet me downtown in an hour and a half.”

  I pulled my ear away from the slam of the phone.

  I spent the next ninety minutes or so at the Greek diner with coffee and the Sunday papers. A melee at a rock concert had the front page. There was nothing new on the Thad Reich story. Both the Star and the News kept the investigation close to the front. If the Times ran something, I couldn’t find it.

  Around noon, I took the subway down to Brooklyn Bridge. I came out into the silence of Sunday at City Hall Park. The place was deserted. Only a beggar or two shuffled through the common across the street. All around, the monumental marble buildings rose, and hardly a car went by them. Hardly a person passed. The breeze whipped through the colonnades, under the pediments and arches, up and down the sweeping stairs. The air smelled of honeysuckle.

  I walked the few steps to the Municipal Building. An impressive old skyscraper, a massive arcade on the street, then a long winged tower up to columned spires against the sky. “Civic Fame” stands at the very top of it. I’ve never known her to go in.

  Neither did I. As I walked under the arcade, heading toward the doors, a long black limousine pulled up to the curb behind me. I turned, waited, in shadow, flanked by enormous pillars, overhung by the vaulted ceiling. The rear door of the car swung open. Howard Baumgarten stepped out.

  He was a big, burly man, a head taller than me and broad across. He seemed to stretch the limits of his tailored gray suit. He was bald and sharp-featured and deep-eyed like an eagle. He had a cigar clenched in his teeth.