Feelers (10 page)

Grapes! I cannot emphasize enough their importance when entertaining. Say what you want, but grapes—white or red—are dead sexy. Something about their smoothness, the way people put them on their tongue. I need not elaborate. Who was it that asked her man to peel her a grape? And Cleopatra, on her
barge—they fed her grapes almost constantly, and they tell me she was a hottie of the ancient world. So I think we all understand about grapes.

I made a nice plate of the grapes next to the cheeses and would splay the crackers later. No sense letting them go stale.

I changed the sheets to my best ones, the ones I never use myself, the ones with a tropical bamboo pattern. Then I showered and shaved and plucked my ears and trimmed the nose hairs. Perhaps this is too much detail, but you get the idea. I was preening.

OK, so she was coming over to clean shelves, yes? So how was I to dress for this shelf-cleaning date? Casual, to be sure, but a T-shirt, like a sandwich or pizza, sends the wrong message. A clean white shirt and button-fly jeans would do the trick. The white showed off my dark complexion. And the button fly is like grapes. I do not think we need any further explanation on that.

You see, women are such sensual creatures, so sensitive, every little thing can influence their mood, good or bad. As I have demonstrated, they work on many levels at once. To keep them happy and focused, you have to keep all their senses pleasantly occupied. Taste, sight, texture . . . grapes, button fly, lack of ointments, new flowery wastebasket . . . I needed sound. Some gentle Latin jazz would be perfect. Something like salsa or merengue music is like oysters—it tips your mitt, makes them wary. No, the best music for this is bossa nova or rumba. These songs have the subtle bongo beat of fucking, but sort of hidden. Yet unmistakable if you’re thinking about fucking at all.

Holy Mother of God! I almost forgot smell. Very important. It has been my experience that they can smell things men can’t. Like dogs, they can pick up many subtleties in the air. You have one pair of stinky socks in your hamper, one chicken bone in the
garbage, one insignificant fart all the way across the room, and the woman is turning her nose one way and the other, asking:
Do you smell that?

Scented candles. They are pleasing to look at and mask the smell of any stinky sock that may have secreted itself under the bed. One in the bathroom is wise.

I clapped my hands. All was in readiness.

My cell phone rang. I recognized the number and smiled.

“Querida!”

“Can I take a rain check?”

“But . . . what about the . . . the shelves? I cannot leave all my possessions on the floor.”

“Just one more day? I had a really long day. I just wanna go home and soak in a hot tub.”

Soaking in a hot tub
. More than once I have cursed the man who invented bathtubs. Men must constantly compete with a mass of hot water and Calgon bath beads.

Women are delightfully unpredictable, yes? Sometimes.

I collapsed onto the couch, a balloon deflated.

“What ever your heart desires,
corazón
.” I was wondering if I could freeze the grapes.

“Promise you won’t put the things back?”

“I promise.”

“What will you do to night?”

“I was thinking of washing the shower curtain.”

“What?”

“Just kidding,
querida
. I guess I will go down to Oscar’s and catch up with what’s going on in the business.”

“Morty?”

“Yes,
encantadora
.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“Yes?”

“I have a cute little thong and high heels.”

I suddenly found myself standing, the balloon fully inflated.

“Tomorrow, yes?”

“
Yes
.”

QUEENS IS WHAT I LIKE
to think of as New York City’s third borough, after Manhattan and Brooklyn. Just as Swedes and Norwegians both live on vast white glaciers, each borough thinks their patch of snow is better than the one across the fjord. That said, I must tell you that all the boroughs defer to Manhattan as the boss. To do otherwise would make you look like an idiot. You will not find the Empire State Building on Flatbush Avenue. You will not find the Stock Exchange in Flushing. You will not find Times Square in Hunts Point. You will not find Central Park across the Verrazano Bridge.

The pecking order of the others is of course a matter of major dispute. Well, except when it comes to Staten Island. I think it is safe to assume that the Bronx, Queens, and Brooklyn all acknowledge that Staten Island is at the bottom of the totem pole, starting with its southern, isolated geography. Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx suspect it is only a matter of time before Staten Island secedes from the city and settles into its proper legacy: part of New Jersey. Perhaps they could rename it East Bayonne.

So the three each think they are better than the others, though I think the Bronx has a pretty tough case to make. Yes, they have
their precious zoo, but let us face facts: The South Bronx is a pretty formidable stumbling block on their walk of fame. I would stroll naked down Brooklyn’s Utica Avenue in Crown Heights before I’d stop for gas on Melrose Avenue in the Bronx.

I think Brooklyn and Queens agree on this point, so that leaves just the two of us to argue who is second to Manhattan. Obviously, I believe my native Brooklyn to be far superior to Queens. As with Staten Island, Brooklynites secretly believe Queens will one day secede to Long Island. Or should. For the most part, they are indistinguishable. Bedroom communities, strip malls, and so on. No character, no what they call moxie.

Queens’s sole claim to superiority—as far as I can see—is that each of its neighborhoods has a postal address as a town like anywhere else in Long Island. There is Rosedale, a neighborhood in Queens, which has a postal address of Rosedale, New York, plus zip. In Brooklyn, the neighborhoods are not part of the address; we just live in Brooklyn, New York. This is why people in Queens take an attitude with us. Can you imagine?

This is also why I can be sure Charlie Binder, as he sat in his car across from Oscar’s Grille, was disdainful of my neighborhood. He was from “Rosedale, New York,” as was his partner Stevie when they worked this neighborhood on the NYPD years ago. Stevie used to call my neighborhood “Brooklyn’s Armpit” because geographically it sits under the arm formed by the Rockaways. Then again, it is my impression that police generally have some level of disdain for the neighborhood they work in. How could they not? People don’t call the cops to come over for Aunt Bee’s apple pie, to crank the ice cream machine or strum a guitar on the porch. They call the cops to their home because their husband has bashed them over the head with a bottle and
locked them in the bathroom with a pit bull. Day after day cops are subjected to the worst a neighborhood has to offer.

Charlie didn’t know it, but he had been one step ahead of Danny all day, mainly because he had a car and Danny was walking or taking public transportation. He got to Mary’s and Clara’s before Danny. In truth, if Charlie had started a little later in the day he would have run right into his man.

So why had Charlie come to this neighborhood, anyway? What made him think to find Danny here?

Certainly, it is reasonable to expect that when a man gets out of prison he will return to his home, and Danny’s registered next of kin was his sister. Which is why he drove to 901 East 109th Street first off. Again, had Charlie stopped for a bialy and coffee, he might have saved the life of the asshole who lived there.

But there was another reason Charlie was fixated on my neighborhood. As you may have guessed, he and his partner Stevie were detectives who worked on the armored car holdup. They were the ones who never found the money. And it was Stevie who was mortally injured in the shoot-out on Coney Island’s boardwalk.

You might imagine Charlie held a grudge. He did not. Danny did not blow a fist-sized hole in Stevie’s abdomen. Joey, the one who helped hide the money, shot Stevie. As Joey lay there bleeding and moaning on the beach, Charlie walked up and shot him in the head. Sure, there were other cops there. To them this was justified. You shoot a cop and justice is often swifter than usual.

Surprisingly, Stevie’s death had little to do with the search for Danny. Charlie just wanted the fucking money. Not to solve any case, either. Charlie was retired. He more or less considered this
his nest egg, his ship pulling into port, which would hopefully go a long way toward pulling his sailboat out of dry dock. The boat was more expensive than supporting a Park Avenue mistress.

In order to locate the stolen money, Charlie and Stevie had tried tracking the gang’s movements since they made the boost. Yes, the cops knew the bunch of them went directly to their shabby hideout at the end of Flatlands Avenue, but a police search revealed that the money was not at the hideout. The crooks must have stashed it.

Danny was questioned thoroughly after his capture, and though he denied knowing anything about where the money had gone, the police were certain he knew. How were they certain? Look, cops not only see a neighborhood at its worst, they also listen to people lie all day. First thing out of a perp’s mouth is “Wasn’t me.” When of course it was him. After years and years of this, the better cops become attuned to what is and isn’t a lie purely through observation, and these better cops they make detectives.

So they knew he was lying. Had Danny personally been one of those who hid the money?

They tracked the gang’s movements as best they could from the day of the robbery, and it turned out that the only one who could be tracked to anywhere other than Coney Island or locally in Flatlands was Danny. He had taken cash out of his bank’s ATM not far from Oscar’s—the gang knew better than to spend any of the money they had stolen so soon—and they knew his sister and uncle lived nearby. He could have been visiting them, or he could have come to familiar ground to hide the money.

The inside man, the armored car driver, was questioned, of course, but the police never made the connection between where
he lived and the gang lived, much less Uncle Cuddy. I can only guess they were so intent on cracking Danny that they never thought they needed another suspect, and since the gang tried to burn the truck, they probably could not imagine that it was an inside job.

Charlie was convinced Danny knew where the five million was and that the stash was somewhere nearby. Maybe Danny buried it in the cemetery, maybe in the park, maybe in his sister’s or uncle’s backyard. Charlie had already established that the sister had moved and the uncle recently passed away. When he went to the sister’s old address, the door was open, the torn screen door locked, and there was no answer. He would try back there again the next day. Once Danny knew the uncle was dead, and if the money were somewhere in the yard or on the grounds or stashed in the attic, he would go to the real estate agency on the sign out front to gain access.

Five million in twenties: Charlie knew that took up a lot of space. You would need to dig a large hole to bury that in, and chances were that after all this time there might be a depression where this hole was. He walked the entire park searching the ground for clues. He walked the edges of the cemetery, where there were no graves. Nothing.

The more he thought about it, the more Charlie felt they would not have dug a hole—too much work, and worries about people seeing the disturbed ground.

He backtracked to the uncle’s place later in the day and tried the door—it was open, and the doorjamb was broken. Someone had forced their way in. Danny? He strolled each floor, tapping on walls, and climbed through the hatch into the attic and crept into the dank basement. Nothing.

Of course, the place had been cleaned out recently. Was it possible the movers or cleaners found it? Outside chance. If they had, everybody would know about it.

So Charlie spent the balance of the day canvassing the commercial strip, focusing on cheap restaurants and bars and hotels. The bump and thump over by the highway seemed like the kind of flop where Danny would stay, but the girl at the desk said she had not seen him. On his way home, Charlie planned to stop back there and check with the night clerk—maybe he’d seen Danny.

It is pretty common knowledge that an ex-con will almost always go to see family, or go back to a familiar neighborhood, as soon as they get out. What they should do is go on vacation somewhere, but most have little money. Danny’s sister and the uncle were the only identifiable links in his old stomping ground.

Charlie climbed out of his black SUV, bleeped the lock, and headed for the crummy bar across the street.

MARY WAS WORKING LATE, LOST
in the morass of her own lousy bookkeeping. That is the only explanation for why she was there so late.

The only explanation for why she was there when Danny tapped on the glass door.

I am sure she could not recognize him at that distance and probably yelled for him to go away. He kept knocking, and she came over and saw it was Tom Roberts, the man who looked at the house on Vanderhoosen. She probably thought he must be interested in the house.

Mary unlocked the door and let him in.

I could play gypsy on this one, Father, but Mary was my friend. This one I will leave to your imagination, not mine.

I ENTERED THE DARK CONFINES
of Oscar’s and did not beat about the bush. After cordially nodding to those at the bar, I went and sat down across from Pete the Prick at his table. His seat was in the corner, with his back to the wall. The Balkan Boys were nowhere to be seen.

You know of Pete’s character, but not of his looks. He was shorter than me, with a sharp nose and sharper hazel eyes, and a dark waxy complexion that was scarred from acne. You could see a series of white scars on his scalp, as he keeps his dark hair cut to within an inch of his scalp. One presumes these scars come from fights, perhaps someone smashing a beer bottle on his head, I do not know. I will say this for Pete: He had very nice teeth, and he showed them often, though rarely in what one would call a smile. This was a tightly wound man, always clenched. You could see the muscles in his jaw flexing, his hands in fists, his brow squeezing his eye sockets. When I looked closely at him, I really did feel sorry for him, as he is obviously not a happy man. My guess would be that nothing is ever enough for Pete, and that he feels constantly threatened and must do what he can to feel in control or on top.