The Old Turk's Load Page 10

  But Spaulding had an answer for that. In the course of working his way into the antiwar movement Gallagher amassed a series of trespassing and disturbing-the-peace charges. Then in New York, with the Motherfuckers and the radical SDS wing who wanted to “Bring the War Home,” he landed a breaking-and-entering beef. Next there was an arrest in a Vietnam protest, which produced a Times photo of him in handcuffs, between two burly cops. Spaulding let him know that if he walked on the FBI now, he’d be a fugitive. A man with a record and half a dozen charges outstanding. The escrow account, already up to seven grand, would disappear.

  Talk about short hairs. The part that made Gallagher perversely think of his dad was how this exercise of absolute power was so small-time. Maybe there really were bomb-throwing revolutionaries out there, but Spaulding could never have penetrated their ranks because they were too smart. Instead, he was going after idealistic college kids, hoping to goad them into some desperate action that the FBI could thwart at the last minute, all in service of proving that bomb-throwing radicals existed and thus putting Spaulding’s people in line for more funding. It was a pathetic, sick joke, with Gallagher trapped in the middle of it.

  Except that now, thanks to Gloria and her old man’s lucky find, he had another card to play.

  Bank Street

  I

  n her Bank Street apartment, Gloria and Harry were smoking a quick joint and listening to Revolver, which they agreed was more innovative than the long-awaited Sergeant Pepper.They intended to find Roth and let him know about Gallagher and the FBI.

  “Do you think I could just tell him on the phone? I mean, we’ve got to call him anyway and find out if he’s even there.” She gave it her kittenish best. Let this guy think he was in the driver’s seat.

  Jarkey sat across from her, feeling the reefer hit, uncertain in that stoned way, willing enough to be in her company, and seriously happy to have his every muscle and nerve telling him that he was back in the game, a sexual being once again, rather than a wounded animal. Finally he’d emerged from the shadow of his miserable ex. He watched Gloria blow a strand of hair from her face with exhaled smoke and concentrated on keeping the situation in the moment, hardly daring to hope what might come next. He told her, “You definitely need to talk to him in person. There could be a lot of questions. Maybe you should try to get your father in on it, too. ”

  “It’s just so hard to talk to Daddy. I know he’ll freak. Julie will explain it rationally.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. Roth’ll keep it clean. Figure out what to do.”

  “Exactly. Then Daddy can blow his top at me.”

  “What’s his problem, anyway? It’s not like you joined a motorcycle gang.”

  “I might as well have. Daddy thought I’d get my law degree and run the company.”

  “Umm, Kelly told me about that. And . . . ?”

  “I always thought I would, too. I just changed, I guess.”

  “Changed?”

  “Okay. Not changed. I turned out to be somebody neither of us was expecting.”

  “Who was that?”

  Jarkey wasn’t a handsome man. His looks might have been “interesting” in the best possible light. But he had one great ability with women. He knew how to listen. Gloria, starting slowly, spun it out for him—the early happy nuclear family, her mother’s deterioration. The chaos that followed her death. Daddy’s loss, and the strange sense of guilt he carried.The bond she’d formed with him in those early teenage years.Then,inexplicable to them both,her equally intense rejection of him. His increasing disapproval. His distance.

  “So that’s where it’s at. I couldn’t even tell you how I feel about him now. There’s just so much history in the way.”

  Gloria never said the word remorse, but Harry thought he could hear that feeling in her voice, as if they were having a second, unspoken conversation. She really was quite beautiful. The doorbell rang.

  Jarkey, yanked from his erotic reverie, hit the ceiling, then slumped back on the couch, paradise in shards around him.Whoever this was, the shape of the evening would now change, along with the outcome he was so ardently trying not to hope for.

  Kelly and the Night Visitor

  K

  elly had picked up Lloyd’s paranoia. He could hear the visitor clumping up the stairs to the apartment and could not fight off visions of a Frankenstein creature—big scar, spikes and wires coming out of the head. His fingers trembled as he unbolted the door, and the visitor’s black beard and drug-worn face did not set him at ease. The gargling noises that came out of the man’s mouth made Kelly jump, despite himself.

  He peered from inside the still-chained door, .38 at the ready, and shuddered as the other man leaned his head back and pointed to the long scar that ran up his throat and terminated in a black hole beneath his chin. Lloyd had been right! No, he hadn’t. “Droat cancer,” the guy rasped. “Droat cancer. Gan’t dalk.” Kelly undid the chain and let him in, pistol squarely on him, frisked him, found him clean except for a half-empty bottle of pills, pointed him and his shabby suitcase to the couch.

  Beyond delivering the medical report, the visitor would not state his business, indicating he’d talk only to Lloyd.With that horrible non-voice, taciturnity was inevitable. The man seemed glum, tired, sunk down inside himself, but utterly resolute. Kelly didn’t doubt he’d sit there till the cows came home, suitcase between his knees.

  Then, to Kelly’s surprise, Lloyd emerged from the bedroom. Apparently he was sufficiently rested, hydrated, or sedated that his neurons had resumed firing along their accustomed circuits. The vision of the brain-in-the-jar had faded, for the time being, to its alternate status as a tortured imagining. Lloyd gave the man a thorough, cautious look, nodded, and sat down across from him. He turned on the floor lamp beside his chair, which only seemed to enhance the murk that pervaded the room.The rain had stopped and now it was getting dark. Grayish brown light was leaking in the big front window.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  The Mailman threw his head back, gestured, and burped his way through the throat cancer story one more time.

  “How’d you find me?”

  “Eardon. CIA.”

  “How’s Schultzie?”

  “Okay.”

  Kelly put his gun away.

  As Lloyd grilled his visitor about Gloucester and old times, the interrogation became a reminiscence.The Mailman had his pad and pencil out, scribbling answers to Lloyd’s inquiries about various people, where they were, what they were doing. Then the big question again. The Mailman looked at Kelly and shook his head.

  “It’s okay. This guy’s a friend of mine.”

  Kelly gave a reassuring smile. “I’m his bodyguard.”

  The suitcase stood there like the fourth person in the room. The Mailman didn’t say anything.

  THE OLD TURK’S LOAD 123

  Lloyd got an idea. He went into the kitchen and came back with a little silver box. “You guys want to do a couple of lines?”

  The Mailman gummed his. Kelly demurred. Lloyd fetched a bottle of rye and a greasy tumbler. Kelly eyed it. Then, after Lloyd had done his own toot, the Mailman said, “Zomeding do choe you,” and opened his suitcase and propped the two paintings on the couch beside him.

  Even to Kelly, uncranked, they glowed like gorgeous Technicolor movies.

  “Vitz Euww Lane.”

  “Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”Lloyd was kneeling in front of the couch, face right up against them.“Where did these come from?”

  It was easier to understand him now, as he unrolled the narrative of his retirement, the cancer, the part-time job. Kelly flashed on the pill bottle, made him for an addict. The poor guy had never had a chance.

  Lloyd was having a different reaction. He beheld the paintings for a long time, then sat back in his chair, exhaled. “You know who John Wilmerding is?”

  Head shake on the no axis.

  “He’s the expert on Fitz Hugh Lane. Wrote the book a few years ago.
Catalogued every Lane painting and drawing in existence. If these came from Harrison Crowe and the Gloucester library, they’re in Wilmerding’s book.They’re known. No gallery will touch them. No auctioneer. Not in this country, anyway.”

  The Mailman wasn’t getting it. Wasn’t wanting to get it.

  “They’re too good,” Kelly interpreted gently. “Too famous. They’d be impossible to fence.”

  The Mailman burped his disbelief.

  “Plus which, you’ve already taken them across state lines. So it’s a federal beef now. Even if I could find a buyer, it’d be pennies on the dollar. Too much risk for the return.”

  “Lloyd’s right,” said Kelly again, as gently as he could.

  “But you could still get out clean on this if you got in your car right now and put them back where they came from.”

  Kelly consulted his watch. “What is it, Friday? You got all weekend to fix this, pal.”

  The Mailman looked like somebody had shot him.

  Irene’s Type

  G

  loria opened her door and let in a jangling rush of street noise, followed by Irene Kornecki, all leggy and pert. She introduced herself to Jarkey, sat down, and helped him finish the joint. While they smoked, Gloria enlisted Harry’s help in telling the Gallagher story—including his role, which, Jarkey was happy to see, elicited an approving eyebrow arch from Irene.

  “Anyway, we’re headed uptown to let Daddy know about Kevin. Though it’ll probably be Julie who does the talking. I think I need to stay clear of Papa Bear for a while.”

  “That rotten son of a bitch.”

  “Daddy?”

  “Kevin! We’ve got to tell Juan and Leo what’s going on. The

  Feds’ll be desperate to hang something on them. I don’t even think Juan’s legal. And poor Lloyd’s a drug bust waiting to happen.”

  Jarkey noted that, while her face was not as beguiling as Gloria’s, it gave off a certain boyish sexiness.

  “Leo can get hold of Juan.” She picked up the phone and dialed his number. They could hear the tinny sound of it ringing and ringing on the other end of the line.

  “Try Lloyd,” suggested Irene. Contrary to what Lloyd had told Kelly, everyone had his number.

  More unanswered rings.

  “If you don’t mind my butting in, those guys aren’t the only ones with exposure in this. You both should think about getting your stories together, maybe disappear until you do. Suppose Gallagher and the Feds use your friend’s immigration status to turn him? They tell him what to say in return for immunity, then use his testimony to trump up a conspiracy rap on the rest of you.” It was a credible effort for a besotted man, who understood that if he wanted to keep up with these women, he’d better do more than ogle them.

  “Really, aside from demonstrations and marches, the only thing we ever did was steer cases to Irene,” Gloria protested. “All that violent stuff was Kevin’s bullshit. And now we know where that was coming from. Nobody ever actually bought into it.”

  Irene nodded, musing. “Gloria . . .” It came out almost impish, like she was putting her pal on. “Have you seen The Endless Summer yet?”

  “Yeah.” Looking puzzled, but just for an instant.

  “Well, maybe he’s right. Maybe you ought to take a vacation.” The marijuana helped Jarkey see that Irene, too, had something very attractive going on with her eyes—round, calm hazel pools— something she’d doubtless learned from Gloria’s dancing slits. Some kind of coded jive they could do with their faces. It seemed, just for an instant, that Gloria was telling Irene, Nice guy, but not my type, and Irene was responding, I don’t mind giving him a tumble. It was all so swift and instinctive that none of them could be sure it had actually transpired.

  THE OLD TURK’S LOAD 127

  The telephone rang. The three of them jumped.

  Gloria picked it up and said, “Yes,” and a second more tentative yes. Then she turned away, saying, “No . . . Oh, shit . . . Yes. I’ll be right there.” She hung up, staring at them.

  “Gloria?”

  “Three Mob guys destroyed Daddy’s office.They hurt him and Seamster. Daddy’s in the hospital with a broken arm.”

  Fear seeped into the apartment and thickened the air in the room.

  Irene said, “This is bad.”

  “I’ve got to see him.”

  The light suddenly seemed very yellow. The three of them, stoned, played hot potato with the feelings they were experiencing. If the Mob was involved, everyone was at risk. They freaked.

  Gloria bolted for her bedroom. Harry and Irene could hear her in there, closet door slamming, suitcase snapping, drawers sliding. They each wanted to say something but could not. Then Irene tossed the roach into the ashtray and got up to leave.

  Jarkey said, “Wait. I’ll drive you. Both.”

  Irene nodded, sat back down.

  Gloria appeared empty-handed. “I changed my mind. No suitcase.”

  Jarkey got them into the car, and, incredibly, without being assaulted by Mafia hit men. They drove in silence to the hospital on the Upper East Side.

  When they got there Jarkey offered to wait. Gloria told him to go ahead and drive Irene home. “I might be awhile with my father and Julie. There’s no point dragging you into this.”

  Jarkey nodded, wished her luck.

  Irene took Gloria’s place in the passenger’s seat. “I guess you know where I live?”

  “I guess.”

  “Want to get a cup of coffee first?”

  “Sure.”

  Better, Yes

  T

  he long wait at the hospital calmed Gloria down, gave her time to feel her power returning. Finally she saw her father tottering down the brightly lit hallway. His left arm sported a fresh plaster cast that ended in a pink claw and a plastic bag of meds. Julius Roth had a gentle grip on the other arm. Richard Mundi looked alarmingly frail. She’d imagined the difficulty of telling a pompous, bullying father that, thanks to her, the FBI knew about the heroin he was holding. This was worse. He looked so bad, she wondered whether the news might not kill him.

  As his daughter approached, Mundi saw the worry on her face and stood straighter, then smiled. At this moment of crisis there was no one he wanted to see more than her.

  Gloria felt his love. She could almost hear him telling her, Go ahead and do what you need to do. I’d do the same if I were you. He was receding. She was coming on. That was the natural order of things. His benediction.

  “Daddy! Julie told me what happened.It must have been awful.” “Hurt like hell.” He realized, to his delight, that the storm wrought by the Street Brothers had cleared the air.All the small-time shit between his daughter and him had fallen away. He loved her, that was all.

  He gave her a hug with his good arm and she gave him the air kiss she always did, then pushed away.“Daddy, we’ve got to talk. There’s more to this than you know.”

  It was late.The hospital coffee shop was closed, but at least the visitors’ lounge was empty. Roth got bad coffee from the machine and Gloria told them about Gallagher. How he’d come in and hijacked everything she and Irene had been trying to establish. How she’d gone along at first, deluded. How she’d told Gallagher what she knew about the Newark find, then realized her mistake. How Kelly’s man had found out Gallagher was working for the Feds.

  “You were right, Daddy. You were right about Kevin. I understand why you hired that detective.”

  Richard Mundi winced, then was soothed by the thought of Kelly’s imminent death. “Fat lot of good being right is doing me.”

  “Daddy, this is serious.”

  “You’re telling me, sweetie.”

  Gloria was happy to have energized him. Roth understood it was just the painkillers kicking in. “The sooner we get that stuff back to them, the better for everyone,” he said. “We’ve got hours, not days.”

  “It’s already too late, Julie.”

  “Boss—”

  “Calm down. I’m not talking
about selling the stuff. Though I admit, I did have someone lined up in Chicago.”

  Roth grunted, shot Gloria a look.

  “Then I was headed for Spain. Right out of O’Hare on a 707. But not after this.” He wagged his cast at them. It wasn’t every day you got your wrist snapped by a mushroom.“DiNoto’s not going to give us an inch. And now fucking Gallagher’s got the Feds in on the deal. Even if I get away clean, you’ll be caught up in it. We’ve got to get rid of that shit. I mean we’ve got to get ourselves way clear of it.”

  “The Hudson River,” said Roth.

  Mundi shook his head.

  “The detective,”said Gloria, just as her father was having that same thought.

  He beamed at her. “Yes, Kelly.”

  “Funny thing is, I’m pretty sure his sidekick is hanging out with Irene. Right at this moment. Why don’t I call him? We’ll give him the stuff and tell him to take it to Kelly.”

  “Then we’ll call the Feds and tell them Kelly’s got the drugs.”

  Roth’s turn for the nugatory head shake.

  “Problem, Julie?”

  “Problem? The problem is being dead or in jail. I don’t have a problem with transferring that problem to the detective. The real problem is that DiNoto’s boys are watching everything we do.That’s exactly why they rousted you, boss.To scare you into something like this. We send our guy out of the office with a suitcase and they’re on him as soon as he hits the street. Then they find us and kill us.” He paused. “I see that as a problem.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Why don’t we just call the Feds?”

  “There’s a reason they call possession ‘possession.’”

  Mundi and his daughter attempted to discuss the problem further. Then they realized Roth was working on something. They waited to see what he would say. Gloria thought she could guess. Mundi recalled the shabby treatment he’d recently accorded his right-hand man and was searching his limited emotional vocabulary for a proper expression of regret when Roth spoke up.