The Old Turk's Load Page 11

  “Same basic plan, except that I figure a way to get the drugs over to Kelly’s without the Mob guys noticing. Then I call DiNoto instead of the Feds. I’ll tell him he put the fear in us. I’ll tell him we got the word in Newark that it was Kelly who’d found the stuff during the riots, and all we’d wanted to do was sell the information. I won’t even tell them to toss his office. That’ll be the first place they go.”

  “You think they’ll buy a story like that?”

  “What choice do they have? The fact that they left you guys standing means they don’t know for sure we’re holding it. If they find it on Kelly, we’ll look a lot better than we do now.”

  Gloria sat quietly, taking it all in.

  Roth watched her watching and wondered what she saw.“First thing to do is get that stuff planted on our stooge. I’ll take care of that. Boss, you need to go the airport right now. Buy a new ticket, then go sit with the customs people, whatever. I doubt even DiNoto’s goons would try anything in a public place crawling with cops. Anyway, it’ll be obvious you don’t have the stuff. You’re probably as safe there as you’d be anywhere.”

  “Except here.”

  “Well, I guess you could retire to long-term care. Hang out with Murchison.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Gloria, you want to go with him?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Too dangerous.” Mundi patted her knee. “You don’t need to be a part of this, honey.”

  Gloria flushed with relief. Her plans for that evening did not include sitting at JFK with her father. “Daddy, are you sure you’re going to be all right by yourself ?”

  “Of course I am. All I’ve got to do is get on a plane.”

  Gloria said, “Okay. Take good care of yourself.” But she hesitated, did not leave.

  Roth phoned Mossman and sent him over to the Tishman Building, telling him to clean out the safe at Mundi Enterprises, then wait there until Curtis arrived.

  Next he called Curtis, the lobby guard. “Curtis, what time do you get off ?

  “Matthews usually comes in around eleven forty-five.”

  “For the twelve-to-eight shift, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Fine. Soon as he gets there, scoot up to Mr. Mundi’s office. Mossman’ll be waiting for you. He’ll have something to give you.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “Ten kilos of uncut heroin.”

  “Far out.”

  “They’re in baggies. Put some in your lunch pail and stuff the rest in your drawers. Then walk over to Fiftieth. I’ll be waiting on the corner of Madison in a tan Olds.”

  “A tan Olds.”

  “There’ll be a couple of grand waiting there with me.”

  “A thousand a block. Righteous.”

  Curtis was dark black and weighed two-eighty, an impressive package in his rent-a-cop uniform—and packing heat besides. Roth was certain he’d pass through the midnight streets unmolested; the Mob boys, intent on Mossman, would ignore him after his shift in the lobby was done. Curtis was from Newark, just like Smoot. Roth had gotten him the lobby job, and now he used what he knew about the man to frame the proposition appropriately. No bullshit, high risk, high reward, immediate gratification.

  There was nothing to do then but walk Mundi out to the street and put him in a cab. He smiled up at his daughter as she helped him into the backseat.

  “Things are going to be different now, sweetie.”

  “Better, maybe.”

  “Better. Yes.”

  Jarkey’s Gril

  H

  arry Jarkey, meanwhile, was sitting in the apartment behind the legal office on 116th Street trying to recover from having just gotten his brains fucked out by Irene Kornecki. But he never fully got them back. Not that night, anyway.

  After leaving the hospital they’d gone for the cup of coffee, and Jarkey, responding to Irene’s out-front energy, wound up telling her about his newspaper career and then, amazingly, about the Julie Christie look-alike and his emotional recovery under Kelly’s protection. She’d listened patiently, in a nonjudgmental way, said “Wow” a couple of times. She then explained to him how she and Gloria had met and what they were trying to accomplish relative to the inevitable changes that were about to occur in this country, and how it was just as important to have people working from inside the system as it was to have people attacking it from the outside. He’d nodded, wondering at her unusual sexiness. And of course she’d been receiving all this telepathically, so she simply smiled and said, “Let’s go to my place.”

  To which Jarkey had replied, “Good idea.”

  Now she was in her robe and he was in his shorts, and she was suggesting that a man with his skills could be a great help. It didn’t have to be anything full-time, just a well-placed article every now and then. There might even be the occasional scoop. After all, she did deal with some high-profile cases. Jarkey was wondering if they’d get another one in that evening when Gloria called, asked for him, and told him to meet her back at the hospital.

  It didn’t even occur to him to ask why.

  She spotted the black Fairlane before Jarkey saw her and she waved her arms semaphore style until he recognized her and pulled over. She slid in beside him, fresh and excited.

  “How’d it go with your father?”

  “He’s okay, but you’d better call your boss and tell him to get out of town. Daddy and Roth are setting him up to take a fall.”

  “Kelly?”

  “Roth is going to plant the stuff in Kelly’s office tonight, then sic the Mafia goons on him. If they find him, they’ll kill him.”

  Jarkey stared at her, speechless, severely conflicted. His former lust-object had apparently been complicit in contriving the murder of his friend and protector.

  Gloria read him perfectly. She extended his stunned silence and returned his questioning look with a look of her own—frank, eager, brimming with promise. She squeezed his hand.“Your friend will be safe, Harry. We’re going to get that stash.”

  They drove down to Sammy’s, Kelly’s most likely hangout, but Kelly was gone. Norbert said he thought the detective had been headed downtown. He handed Jarkey the house phone.

  “Lloyd, put Kelly on. I need to talk to him.” Even Jarkey had Lloyd’s number.

  “He left a few hours ago. Where are you? We got a sort of situation here.”

  “Sammy’s.”

  “Well, he’ll probably be back eventually.”

  “Eventually won’t do.”

  Like all good reporters, Jarkey had a gift for names and contact information. Without a thought he dialed Pepsi’s number. Pepsi was a short, dark, vivacious whore of uncertain origin with whom Kelly maintained a “relationship” that baffled everyone who knew them both.

  “Yah. Hoo sees?”

  “Pepsi. It’s Harry. I need to find Kelly.”

  “Haree! How you?”

  “Fine. Fine. Kelly’s not there, is he?”

  “Ah, Kellee. Dot sweet cookumber. You know he got Clareesa out on bail?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Oh, lass week maybee.”

  “I need to talk to him. Do you know where he is?”

  “Sure! He at Samee’s. So how you doeen? You got a gril yet?”

  Jarkey got off as gracefully as he could and gave Gloria a shrug. “I guess we could try his office.”

  The Plague of Smiling Fishermen

  H

  aving polished off half a dozen cherries and the grilled bluefish special at Sammy’s, Kelly ambled back to his office, his head full of images of the Mailman’s ravaged face and blasted hopes. He poured himself a shorty and sat in his chair, drowsy. Then he lost touch with the waking edge of himself and a dream filled him. He was waiting for smugglers who worked on a fishing boat in a seaport town. He had a room upstairs in a tenement by the harbor and when he went down on the street he bumped into a burly, bearded fisherman in a checkered shirt. It was cold. He could see the other man’s breat
h. He wondered if this might be the smuggler and looked up into his face, all bright red cheeks and nose, and the merriest eyes, gay slits under bushy brows, enjoying the joke of an enormous secret. Who cared about smuggling? This was better. The late-afternoon winter sun made the brick buildings burn orange. Kelly walked around the corner and saw another man approaching. Strangely, this man was identical to the first. Same clothes, red cheeks, laughing crinkles. Then, riding that wave of coincidence, two more, walking together step for step. By the time he got to Main Street there was a steady stream on the sidewalk, all identical fishermen. Kelly looked across the street and it was the same. Legions of merry fishermen, burly and silent and twinkling. Waves of them replicating in doorways and around corners, up from cracks in the sidewalk, out of one another. A plague of smiling fishermen crowding out the rest of the world. That was their joke. He tried to turn off the street, into a store, but when he opened the door a river of them gushed out and pushed him back to the curb. He could smell the wet wool of their shirts; see the condensed breath glistening like jewels in their red beards. They pushed up close against him, smiling. His arms were pinned. It was difficult to breathe. They were crushing him.

  He woke with a start, in his chair, under the lamp, glass in hand. Then he heard the noise that woke him. A key in the door to his office.

  Jarkey rushed in followed by, of all people, Gloria Mundi. Still punchy from the dream, Kelly rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “Gad, sir. What is the meaning of this?”

  “Kelly, this is serious.”

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “Better sit back down. It’s going to take some explaining.” Gloria broke in. “Harry, we’ve got to get out of here!” “On second thought, come with us.”

  Back in the Fairlane they explained the whole thing in stereo,

  Jarkey from the driver’s seat, Gloria in back. Gloria intended to scare him out of town.

  Kelly didn’t care for what they had to say. Being lied to was one thing; getting set up to be murdered by enraged Mafia hit men was downright abusive. He sat in silence for a long time, trying to figure out where it’d all gone wrong and how to make it right.

  Suddenly he leaned over to Gloria in the backseat.“Your father had a very hard time talking to me about your mother’s role in this.”

  “My mother?”

  “Don’t play cute with me, Sweetheart. I know what’s going down here.”

  Gloria stared at the detective, shocked, as if he’d just slapped her.This man was a complete idiot. He’d do very well for what they had in mind.

  Kelly turned to Jarkey. “Get her home. I’m going to need the car for a while.”

  “I’ll bet you’re going to need it. What’ll it be? Mexico or Canada?” Jarkey imagined Kelly doing just what he would have done. Driving night and day. To someplace very far from Newark, New Jersey.

  Kelly shot him a look. “You’re thinking small, Jark. That’d be playing right into their hand.”

  His friend was up to something, but Jarkey didn’t want any part of it. A vision of 116th Street was already tugging at him.

  “Okay. I don’t need to tell you to be careful.”

  “Thanks, Harry. Be careful your own self. I’ll give you a call later, see how you’re doing.”

  Right, thought Jarkey. A call asking me where the car keys are.

  Smoot’s Doom

  K

  elly stopped by Sammy’s and drank two shots of Wilson’s, bang, bang, standing at the bar, working out his plan.Then he marched out the side door and headed up the street to the All Nite Deli where he bought a large black coffee and went to the liquor store across the street for a half-pint of Wilson’s. He proceeded to the pay phone on the corner and called Lloyd.

  “We got a problem here, Kelly. The Mailman won’t take the paintings home.”

  “That’s perfect. Tell him not to worry. I’ve got a proposition for him that’s going to make everything okay.”

  “You’re not hearing me. It’s really bad. He won’t talk. He won’t get off my couch.What do I do with him when Helen comes home?”

  “Just keep him there. Do whatever you have to do. I’ve got a deal going down tonight that’ll put everything right.”

  “I’ll try.”

  It had turned into a pleasant enough evening. Kelly took his coffee and hooch over to Lexington Avenue and stationed himself in a doorway kitty-corner from his building.

  The Mob had him in their sights already, or soon would, which meant he’d be a dead man unless he could bring some resolution to the situation. No point dragging Mundi in front of the Newark boss to make him confess. He’d kill the both of them on the spot.

  He knew he was right about Agnes Day, but that didn’t matter for the moment. It wasn’t about her. It wasn’t about Gloria either, or Gallagher.The whole thing had been a con from the start. Mundi’d set him up. Hired him so that he’d have someone to dump the heroin on if the Mob got too close. Now the situation was already beyond redemption. He’d have to do the Vietcong thing—disappear into the jungle and commence guerrilla action. It was regrettable. It’d be messy.

  One thing for sure—none of those bastards would ever see that smack again.

  Presently, a tan Olds pulled up to the front door of his building. Out stepped a burly bald guy with a small suitcase. Kelly recognized him from Mundi’s office. He put the case down and fiddled with the lock on the lobby door almost like he was trying to get the right key. In less than two minutes, Kelly noted admiringly, the door was open. Before long he was out again, into the Olds, and gone.

  Kelly figured he had a little margin, but he didn’t want to waste any time. As soon as the car was around the corner he sprinted across the street and let himself in, heart hammering on the seemingly endless elevator ride up to his office.

  The suitcase was on top of a filing cabinet, not even hidden. Kelly set it on the desk and flipped it open.

  There sat Smoot’s doom—wafting tendrils past Kelly, to Roth, Jarkey, Gloria, Lloyd, Mundi, Mr. D., and the Mailman. Not because

  THE OLD TURK’S LOAD 143

  it had selected these people or because they wanted it so badly, but simply because of the construction of things. There were no people, no junkies or detectives, just whorls of energy forming and re-forming. And there was no time, no endgame, just gravity sluices between the whorls. No motives, only geometry. And the old Turk’s load was not ten plastic sacks of diacetyl morphine sitting in a suitcase, but itself a tendril, tied back through endless iterations to the Promise with the first men who grew and harvested it.

  Mekonion, so called by the ancients, locked since Neolithic times in its proprietary arrangement with humans, to whom it offered knowledge of heaven in exchange for its own continuance. Hippocrates called it opos.To Galen it was Opium thebaicum. Godly purplish flowers in their sacred dance with old men in rippling fields, consuming light, making divine juice. Papaver somniferum.

  The Promise held until the British got strung out on tea and sent most of their free cash to China in exchange for that invigorating herb. Enter Clive, himself a junkie, and India, where they grew the most lustrous poppies, which the Brits refined and started sending to China in increasing quantities, knowing that once tried, the stuff would create its own demand—“junk,” as William Burroughs observed, being the ideal product. One thousand chests of opium in 1767; four thousand by 1790; thirty thousand by the time the first Opium War ripped China open to the West, with missionaries helping to push it in exchange for a chance to spread the Gospel. By the 1870s a third of that nation was addicted and Britain had settled the massive trade deficit caused by its own insatiable craving for Chinese tea. Then a Brit discovered C17H17NO(C2H3O2)2. A German gave the stuff its Heroic appellation—thinking it might be good for curing morphine addiction and—you know the rest. Kelly snapped the suitcase shut and went down to Lloyd’s. Roth called Mr. D. and ratted Kelly out.

  Irene Kornecki let Harry Jarkey back in.

>   Kevin Gallagher told Agent Spaulding that Gloria’s father

  was holding the stash.

  Lloyd and the Mailman did another line.

  Mundi’s Revenge

  M

  undi headed for the airport. Hauling his bulk into the cab made his wrist hurt again, so he took a couple more pills. There were certainly difficulties to be overcome, but in saying good-bye to Gloria he’d felt, for the first time in a long time, the glow of accomplishment.They’d arrived at an essential understanding. Soon DiNoto would be off his back and the highly annoying Kelly would be dead. He hadn’t figured out precisely how he’d punish Gallagher, but he reckoned Gloria would be happy to help him there. And Roth, with some careful supervision, would dispose of what was left of Mundi Enterprises. (Kraft and Murchison could go to hell.) So no finders keepers, but he’d make do. He’d sell the house in Westchester and add the proceeds to his Swiss account. Spend a little time on the Costa del Sol, just like he and Agnes used to do. He still had a few Spanish connections.Talk to Franco’s people about local business opportunities.

  The problem hadn’t been that he was getting old—though that was manifestly the case—it was that he’d gotten tired, bored, stale. As the cab sped toward JFK, the image came to him of driving, falling asleep at the wheel for an instant, and being wakened by the noise of the tires on the road’s shoulder. He’d gotten control just in time. He was still in the game. He was riding a terrific adrenaline buzz.

  As the driver was dropping him off, and he was fishing with his good hand for a twenty, a car screeched to a stop immediately behind them. The commotion attracted his attention. He saw two men get out and approach him. Mundi recognized them as the two who’d destroyed his office that afternoon. He realized they were there to kill him and, with that realization, his heart seized up. God’s hand descended into the plane of our daily lives, squeezed his chest, and pulled him back with it into the firmament. A blue jolt shot up Mundi’s spine into his brain and he went down on the curb, still clutching the twenty.