The Old Turk's Load Page 8

  The new grand scheme had two parts.

  The first was in the basement of the Historical Society. At the end of a long worktable were two paintings he’d wrapped and boxed.They were supposed to have been picked up on Thursday, but the restoration people had had to cancel and, because the museum was closed on Mondays, they would not return until Tuesday. So there they sat—Gloucester Harbor, Evening and Brace’s Rock—two oils by Fitz Hugh Lane.

  The Mailman knew all about Lane because the Society had a whole room devoted to him: a nineteenth-century American luminist painter who’d lived and worked in Gloucester. A recent article in the local paper had called him “America’s first native marine painter of any importance.” In the early twentieth century his work began coming out of local attics. Now his paintings were bringing up to six figures at fancy New York auctions.

  For years Gloucester Harbor had hung over the main desk at the public library across the street.Then someone realized its potential value.The library trustees had a high-quality reproduction installed in the old frame and sent the original over to the Historical Society for safekeeping. A pinched old aristocrat who’d been one of the founders of the Society had earlier donated Brace’s Rock, a little jewel of a luminist masterpiece. Now the two pictures were keeping each other company.

  Recently a state grant had been approved to have both cleaned and reframed.That meant they were out of their frames, which made it perfect. Even with a layer of foam they’d fit neatly into a suitcase. In the normal course of things, paintings not on exhibition were stored in the vault, but that wouldn’t have mattered. The director himself had lost the keys to the vault years before, and now it was always unlocked.

  The second part of the scheme was down in New York, a guy he’d known early on in his postal career, who’d lived for a while on the top floor of his apartment house on Portugee Hill. He was the black sheep of a family made wealthy by a string of auto dealerships. He’d started off in drugs, but seemed to prefer art and antiques, which were in no short supply in Massachusetts in the fifties and early sixties. He’d learned the trade under a smooth old swamp Yankee, and boasted that he and his mentor had been in every house on Cape Ann, omitting the fact that half of those entries had been uninvited. After burning through the North Shore he’d headed for New York. Supposedly he’d gotten back into drugs, but the chances were good that he’d still know what to do with a few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of art.

  THE OLD TURK’S LOAD 91

  The Mailman went back upstairs and left a note informing the staff that he had an afternoon doctor’s appointment. He walked past generous three-story white and yellow wooden frame houses, and down the hill to the tumble of old brick and stone bars, brothels, marine supply stores, and sail lofts that lined Water Street, to the offices of CIA.

  Continental Insurance Agency was a waterfront joke.The acronym was, anyway, since the putative insurance agency was a cover for illegal activities ranging from short lobsters to bales of marijuana, shipments of cocaine or heroin, and weaponry for the IRA. Nothing else about them, however, was risible. CIA had once been on the Mailman’s route and, though he hadn’t been in the building for years, his familiarity with the layout gave him a sufficient comfort level that he could dispense friendly nods to the roomful of thick-browed Sicilians smoking and playing pinochle, and walk unchallenged up the stairs to the air-conditioned office where the occasional COD or Adult Signature Required had been delivered.

  Mr. Reardon rose from behind his desk, only half surprised to see the Mailman.The slouched form was instantly recognizable, even if the face was now obscured by a dark beard. He thought, reflexively, that there might be a package for him, then remembered what he’d heard of the Mailman’s story—the cancer, the drugs. Poor miserable junkie. The guy was here to tap him.

  “Merster Eardon.”

  The sounds the Mailman made grated in his ears. “Come on in. Siddown.”He’d give him $50—once—Reardon

  decided, and that would be the end for him at CIA. The thought of junkies felt like lice in his clothes.

  That feeling shot past the Mailman, stoned on his scheme, as high as he’d ever been. It was better than smack, better than being in love. If he was going to be dead anyway, he might as well do this thing.

  “I nee to fie Lloy Samberlan.”

  Reardon, who’d been preparing to dispense a handout and some tough love, was confused, could not parse the burp-talk.

  The Mailman pulled out his pad, printed, I need to find Lloyd Chamberlain, and pushed it across the desk.

  Reardon nodded, relieved. Chamberlain was one of the rats the lice lived on.The Mailman wanted in on some kind of low-level drug deal. Well, that would be easy enough, and save him $50 to boot. He consulted his books, wrote a phone number and an address on the pad, and handed it back, eyeing the Mailman coldly.

  “Don’t come back here,” Reardon said.

  “Doan worry,” the Mailman burped.

  Standing in the Shadows

  A

  fter three days of standing in the shadows, of being one with the Fairlane, of extended bladder management, of disciplined, grinding surveillance, Jarkey was getting a good sense of her routine. That gave him a better opportunity to pick his spots so he could be sure the lighting was right—always a critical factor when using a telephoto lens. Kelly wanted lots of photos. He said pictures always made his clients feel they were getting their money’s worth.

  Jarkey snapped away—Gloria leaving her pad in the Village, Gloria in the Lower East Side at Gallagher’s place. Gloria up at Morningside Heights heading to an office in the front of a firstfloor apartment, to visit a looker whose name turned out to be Irene Kornecki.Those visits happened in the afternoon. She’d leave Gallagher’s with a briefcase or an armful of folders, spend a few hours up on 116th, then go home to Bank Street empty-handed. Jarkey used the backward directory to get the phone number for the address, called it, and heard a woman’s voice say, “Irene Kornecki’s office.”

  Jarkey suspected she might be an MD in on a drug ring being run by Gallagher as a sting for the Feds. He told the voice that he’d like an appointment. The lady asked him for a brief description of the problem. He told the lady he had a pain in his lower back and was informed that he’d reached a legal office, not a doctor. That changed his suspicion about the drug ring.

  A little asking around got him the information that Kornecki was a Columbia Law grad on a short list of lawyers to whom civil rights demonstrators were referred. That meant dozens of minor beefs, hence the folders. When, on the afternoon of the fourth day, Kornecki got out of a cab in front of Gallagher’s, the loop was closed.

  In all, it’d been an excellent run.

  Jarkey picked up the last of the photos from the lab, put them in with his notes, then went over to Fifty-Third, collected Kelly, and drove him uptown and down, to Kornecki’s, Gallagher’s, and Gloria’s, taking him through their various movements. Particulars were important to the detective.

  Once he was sure Kelly had all the locations down pat, he laid out the narrative that accompanied the images. Gloria and her boyfriend were working for the Feds, dishing them info about demonstrators and other revolutionary types under the cover of doing legal work for the movement with this Kornecki person.

  Kelly nodded slowly, in a way that mimicked deep thought. Of course there was no thinking going on, but Jarkey understood that Kelly’s act was a demonstration of respect for all his hard work. “I like it, Jark. Not what I expected, but I like it. It hangs together, doesn’t it?”

  “Given the facts, I don’t see a more plausible story.”

  “It’s gonna blow the old man’s mind, that’s for sure. If I tell him.”

  “Kelly, for crissakes, you’re getting paid to tell him.”

  “I’m not getting paid to blow the cover of a couple of federal agents.”

  “Well, it’s your call.” By this time Jarkey was double-parked in front of Sammy’s.

  “Join
me for dinner?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve got some other stuff to wrap up.”

  Though he was fond of Norbert, the scene at Sammy’s was too lushed out for his tastes, and he knew that Kelly’s “dinner” would involve a dozen whiskeys. He drove back to Bank Street, parked the car in its usual spot, then walked over to a Greek diner on Hudson for a burger and more coffee.

  He was feeling good about the job and about himself.One more day of surveillance, just to put the lid on it, then the case would be done. Once Gloria’s old man found out what she was up to, he’d back off. It was such a neat package that Kelly might even find himself in a bonus situation. They’d get paid and nobody would get hurt.

  It started to rain while Jarkey ate. Umbrellas came out. He put his Daily News over his head and walked fast back to Kelly’s car. As he approached it he saw someone leaning against the front fender. A woman. Hooker, but maybe not. He didn’t see anyone suspicious among the random passersby, but that didn’t make him any less concerned. He thought about going back for another coffee, waiting until she moved along. Then he realized, to his horror, that she was making eye contact. He drifted to the far edge of the sidewalk, hiding under his newspaper.

  “Hey! Don’t forget your car.”

  His head jerked around involuntarily and he looked at the woman. It was Gloria. She’d made him. His shoulders slumped. He stopped and squinted at her through his glasses.

  “You talking to me?” He’d fucked it up. The whole deal was ruined now. She’d run to her father and a week of work would go down the drain.

  She pushed herself off the fender and faced him, calm and erect, tan raincoat cinched tight around the waist, hair tied back, red scarf.“Aren’t you the gentleman who’s been following us around this week?”

  The way she phrased it made him feel foolish. Who followed people around, anyway? Losers like Kelly, that was who. “Lady, I’m just a working man.”

  It was worse now that he could see her face. Composed, unafraid. “Sitting in that car all day? I mean, really . . .” Moving toward him. “Don’t worry. I didn’t tell.”

  She was making fun of him. He glared at her, shamed and indignant. “Tell who?”

  She cocked her head. “Give me a break.”

  She was actually quite pretty. Very relaxed, a hint of mirth about her, as if the whole thing were some kind of joke. He realized belatedly that Gallagher and his pals could materialize at any moment and make a mess of him. But that did not happen. This was more than a confrontation. Something else was going on. He took a chance at an explanation and blurted, “I’m just the guy that got hired by the guy . . .”

  It wasn’t coming out right but she got it. She chuckled, surprisingly deep, up from the chest. “Give me a minute with that one.”

  He was smiling now, despite himself. She was head-tripping him. But it felt better than being beaten up. “What do you want?”

  “A little information, that’s all.”

  “I’m having trouble with the ‘that’s all’ part.”

  “Fair enough.”She turned to the passenger door and motioned him to the driver’s side. “Let’s get out of the rain. Then you can tell me whom you’re working for for.” Making fun of his deer-in-theheadlights admission.

  He got in the car and thought for a second about just driving off, leaving Gloria at the curb. But what would that get him? He reached across the seat and unlocked her door. Gloria slid in and turned toward him, giving him a glimpse of trim ankles, tight black leotards curving up under the coat.

  “If you don’t, I’ll rat you out. I’ll tell my father about you sitting in your big black car, and you’ll look like a dope.”

  “Well, he was the one who hired us, so I don’t know how far you’ll get with that.”

  It came out meaner than he’d intended, but she didn’t flinch. “My father, huh?”

  “He said he was worried about you.”

  “That’s rich. There’s only one person he worries about these days, and it’s not me. Anyway, how much fun do you think it is, feeling like someone’s watching you all the time?”

  How long had she been on to him? Jarkey turned and blinked at her. A smile began in her eyes and moved to her mouth— mischievous, conspiratorial.

  Jarkey wasn’t having any. “I know what the deal is, Gloria.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “About what you and Gallagher are doing to those poor dopes who think they’re going to start a revolution.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Come off it.The photos are sitting in Kelly’s office right now. The negatives are somewhere else.”

  “Photos of what?”

  “Photos of your boyfriend walking out of the downtown field office of the FBI. Photos of you talking to him an hour later.”

  Her face went blank, then white. At that moment he saw that her features were quite delicate—exquisite, actually, in a way that belied her glib toughness. Then they bunched themselves into the deepest scowl. She said, “Shit,” once, softly, and turned from him, toward the passenger door.

  That was when Jarkey fell for her.

  An American Place

  K

  elly spent a few hours in his office assembling the information he’d gathered, which consisted of the photographs Jarkey had taken, each one with the date and time printed in a white rectangle at the bottom, to correspond with his field notes.The man was brilliant. As he sifted through them Kelly thought back on what he’d seen of Gloria at Lloyd’s party. It was hard to imagine a rich girl like her working as a stoolie for the FBI. Harder still to imagine why she’d do such a thing. Whatever the reasons, it was a risky place for her to be. Her father would not be happy to hear about it. But he was going to hear it anyway, and soon. Kelly dialed Mundi’s office and made an appointment for late afternoon. Then he took a long, hot shower.

  Kelly’s office, with its efficiency unit adjoining, was in a venerable building on the corner of Fifty-Third and Madison. The place had formerly been occupied by a shady business type who, after a wrangle with the IRS, was forced by bankruptcy to vacate. Mr. Hurst, the landlord, then cut Kelly a deal on the remainder of the lease. The truth was, Hurst owed him. He’d hired the detective when he’d begun to suspect his soon-to-be third wife of serious gold-digging. Kelly ( Jarkey, actually) had uncovered a forgotten husband to whom, it seemed, she was still married. Hence the break on the office.

  As he buttoned his shirt, Kelly thought about Mr. Hurst and his encyclopedic knowledge of Manhattan real estate, how he must’ve known Richard Mundi back in the old days. He might even have something to add to Sandy’s sad narrative and the stark facts contained in the clippings Jarkey had gathered. He picked up the phone.

  Fortunately Mr. Hurst was just about to step out for his daily constitutional when Kelly called. They met on the corner of Fifth and Seventy-Sixth, and hiked together up to the Met where, with no one but yawning guards to overhear them, they discussed Richard Mundi.

  Mundi, Hurst recalled, had married Agnes Day at the beginning of his career.There’d been a society wedding, quite a do. She’d had some kind of show business connection, and the papers made a fuss about it all. But he’d never seen her perform.Then some scandal, but, unfortunately, Hurst wasn’t exactly certain what it involved. She died young, he knew that much. Mundi himself had been a comer when he’d first arrived on the scene, brash but appealing. A solid man to drive a deal with. Of the daughter, Gloria, he knew nothing.

  They were back on the street by this time, and the older man watched with something approaching awe as Kelly inhaled a hot dog, a Yoo-hoo, and two non-filter Kools. Then they shook hands and parted company, Hurst to a meeting with his accountant, and Kelly—though his friend had told him nothing he didn’t already know—deeper into the misguided certainty that Agnes Day Mundi’s untoward death was the key to the entire case.

  The Voice on the Other End

  T

  he phone was ringing, ringing. Mor
e to stop it than anything else, Chamberlain grabbed it, held it to his ear. The voice on the line was ghastly, doomed. At the raw end of a binge, Lloyd didn’t feel much better himself.

  “Lloy. Lloy, is dat eeeh-yeww?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Lloy. Z’mee. D Mayomann. Member mee?”

  “Jesus God.” Survival instinct took over. Lloyd humored the

  voice, cajoled it, terrified. He knew who it was. Hung up.

  Took barbiturates, tried to sleep, got sick, knowing he’d dreamed it, knowing he hadn’t.Tried to masturbate, couldn’t. Drank fluids, suddenly ravenous, thirsty. Drank more, ate, felt sick, got sick, slept for a few seconds.

  Woke to an electric jolt of terror.Picked up the phone and dialed. “Kelly, it’s Lloyd.”

  “Lloyd. What’s going on?”

  “He called me, Kelly. He fucking called me up an hour ago.

  He told me who he was, and I knew it was him. I mean I knew he was this guy I used to know back in Massachusetts. But it wasn’t.” “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “It was him, Kelly.”

  “Who, Lloyd?”

  “The guy I told you about last week. The guy they fucking

  put the brain into.”

  “Oh, him.”

  “He got my phone number, Kelly. Nobody has my phone number, you dig? He must have gotten it from the computers.” Lloyd could hear Kelly thinking. He knew what those thoughts must be. He didn’t care, though. He was too scared. “I need your help, man. He says he’s coming here.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. Just a few hours. Says he’s got something he fucking wants to show me.”

  “Well, maybe he does.”

  “Kelly, I need a place to stay for a while. Can you help me?”

  “You got any downers over there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Take them. And a bunch of vitamins and hot soup. Hot soup is good. I’ve got one appointment uptown, then I’ll be over. I’ll talk to him for you. You won’t even have to be in the room. He probably won’t show up anyway.”