Duchaunak shook his head resignedly and glanced at his watch. He figured he would kill for a cigarette.
The Marcus crew was already at the restaurant by the time Freiberg and Cathy Hollander arrived. Freiberg’s people came in twos, separate cars, a few minutes apart. Neverthless, had anyone been watching the front of the building it would have seemed strange. Between eleven-forty a.m. and a few minutes past noon, a total of seventeen people arrived. It was too early for the lunchtime traffic and, besides, the Trattoria St Angelo was never that busy, even on a Friday night. But no-one was watching, and thus the event went unnoticed by anyone but those directly involved. Such a meeting was in some small way an historic event. A collaboration between Ben Marcus and Lenny Bernstein – men who’d been neither friends nor enemies for thirty or more years. The last time Marcus and Bernstein had spoken it had been about Cathy Hollander, a wager that had seen the woman traded between them, nothing more than a commodity. Thus there was a degree of tension present when she first saw Ben Marcus and Sol Neumann seated at a table at the far end of the basement room.
Beside Neumann sat Victor Klein, Henry Kossoff, Albert Reiff and Karl Merrett. Beside Marcus were Ray Dietz, Maurice Rydell and Lester McKee. Eight in all, eight familiar faces from such country clubs as Queensboro, Five Points, Green Haven and Attica.
The Bernstein crew were also graduate members of such select establishments: Joe Koenig, Edgecombe and Fulton; Charlie Beck, Altona, and back of them came Larry Benedict, who’d done time at Five Points, Leo Petri – also Altona and Fulton – and finally Ricky Wheland and Ron Dearing. With Walt Freiberg and Cathy Hollander they made up the Bernstein eight. Sixteen crew members, Ben Marcus himself as the prime co-ordinator, a position that should have been held jointly with Lenny Bernstein.
Marcus rose and came forward to greet Walt Freiberg. They shook hands. Marcus nodded politely at Cathy Hollander but didn’t speak. There was nothing but business here.
Neumann came behind Marcus and assisted in showing Freiberg and the others to their seats. Glasses and ashtrays were set ahead of each chair, alongside them notepads, pencils, a detailed map of Manhattan’s west side, south from Tribeca and all the way north to Chelsea.
The atmosphere in the room was awkward, but Freiberg and Ben Marcus sat at the head of their respective tables, and when Marcus rose to speak he seemed at ease. The Bernstein crew took this as a sanction from Freiberg that Marcus would lead the discussion.
‘On the one hand,’ Marcus started, ‘this is a difficult time, but I have always been a man to look towards the optimistic angle of any situation I am faced with.’ He glanced at Freiberg. ‘Despite whatever differences I may have had with Lenny Bernstein, there has never been a shortage of respect. We have had our common enemies, and we have had our common aspirations. It has been said that in order to have a challenge one must choose a worthy opponent, and let me be the first to say that Lenny Bernstein, if nothing else, has always been a worthy opponent. His absence here is evident, and if he should fail to recover from this recent and terrible situation that has befallen him, then I shall be the first one to grieve for him. Lenny Bernstein is a fighter, and I trust that he will come through this.’
Marcus paused. He reached for a glass of water and took a sip.
‘As you are all now aware, before this terrible accident Lenny and I had a meeting. We discussed the possibility of both our crews working together as a precursor to Lenny moving out of New York, retiring if you like, and the assumption of territorial control by myself. New York is not the place we remember. The city has lost its culture and its heritage. You look anyplace in New York you’ll find the blacks and the Spanish. They deal crack and such things. They whore their sisters out. Then we have the Eastern Europeans, speaking languages none of us can understand. Ed Koch was bad enough, Guiliani was a nightmare, and this guy Bloomberg? The truth is that I don’t know where the hell they got this guy from. Lenny felt his time to retire had come. That was the truth. I believed this was a good opportunity for all of us. Lenny came to me with his proposal, and though there were no specific details forwarded, we nevertheless both felt that such an agreement would work.’
Marcus turned towards his own crew. ‘We took a vote, and we decided unanimously that we would respect Lenny Bernstein’s proposal . . . and in discussion with Walt Freiberg here it has in fact been concluded that we will carry forward with this idea. That is the reason behind our meeting today.’
Marcus looked at Walt Freiberg. ‘Walt, is there anything you would like to say?’
Freiberg smiled, rose to his feet. ‘Ben here has given you the reason we’re here. He’s also had one of his own people, Victor Klein—’ Freiberg looked at Klein and nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Ben has had Victor work on some preliminary ideas for something that we are looking to initiate on Christmas Eve—’
‘Christmas Eve?’ Karl Merrett asked. ‘Jesus, Walt, that’s a week from now.’
‘A week, yes,’ Freiberg replied. ‘We’re not talking safecracking or bearer bonds, nothing complex . . . we’re talking a straightforward armed robbery . . . or, rather, robberies. We’re looking at four teams of four men, three mechanics and a driver, in and out, very limited internal co-operation required. It will be a number of armed offensives against selected targets, and from start to finish each one should take no more than thirty minutes.’
‘You say robberies,’ Charlie Beck asked. ‘How many are we talking here?’
Freiberg glanced at Marcus. Marcus nodded. ‘There will be four, each offensive co-ordinated to begin at the same time precisely. Four different locations, four different crews, a total haul expected to clear twelve or thirteen million dollars.’
‘With no internal co-operation, right?’ Henry Kossoff asked.
Marcus cleared his throat. ‘The internal co-operation, Henry, as is usually the case in such matters, will be the unwillingness of your average citizen to risk his life for someone else’s money. We have names of people within each site, and these people have whatever access codes we need. Like I said, it’s not going to be a complicated business.’
‘And the teams are going to stay within their own crews?’ Joe Koenig asked.
Marcus shook his head. ‘Two from each crew in each team. This is going to be a joint operation . . . split teams, split proceeds above and beyond the required amount for the purchase of Lenny’s territory and connections.’
‘We’re buying Lenny Bernstein’s territory out of the proceeds?’ Karl Merrett asked.
‘We are indeed. Seven and a half million dollars,’ Marcus replied.
‘Seems to me there’s some issues here,’ Lester McKee said. ‘Not to throw anyone a curve, but is it entirely necessary for us to pull four actions simultaneously to raise this money?’
Freiberg laughed. ‘If you have seven and a half million dollars Lester, then I think we’d all be interested to know what line of work you’re in.’
The gathered crews laughed. It seemed to ease the tension slightly.
Freiberg glanced at Marcus. Marcus nodded.
‘The reason we’re doing it this way is because of Lenny Bernstein,’ Freiberg said. ‘We looked at the possibility of doing some work with Mr Marcus . . . we discussed this idea and we were all taken with it. Yes, of course, there could be some other way to raise seven and a half million dollars, but why the hell write a check when you can use someone else’s credit?’
Once again there was a smattering of laughter.
‘It is what it is,’ Freiberg said. ‘We make this thing work then seven and a half million goes to Lenny, the rest is divided between you guys. Everyone wins on this thing. We get enough to go our own ways and do whatever the hell we want to do, and you people end up with most of Manhattan to play with.’
‘We’re here,’ Marcus said, ‘to look at the ideas Victor has put together. Anyone has a problem with this they can speak with their own people once this meeting is done and replacements can be worked out. I’m going to have
some words with Walter here, and Victor is going to bring up some pictures and maps and tell you what he’s been working on.’
Victor Klein rose and moved to the front of the room. He had Sol Neumann help him drag an A-board to the edge of the table, upon which was an enlarged version of the map that sat ahead of every chair.
‘Some of you Bernstein guys know me,’ Klein said. ‘I did some time at Attica and Green Haven . . . know Walt from Attica, Charlie Beck here from the Haven . . . and Cathy I know too. Some of you others may have heard of me. Anyways, what we have here is an outline for four sites I’ve been working over. East Coast Mercantile and Savings on West Twelfth,’ – he pointed to a spot on the map – ‘American Investment and Loan on Bethune and Greenwich. Next we have New York Providence on West Ninth and Washington. Finally, Associated Union Finance on West Broadway . . .’
Marcus took Walt Freiberg by the arm and steered him away from the table. They walked to the back of the room together.
‘There’s going to be some things I need to do Walter,’ Ben Marcus started.
‘Things?’
‘I need to address a couple of issues . . . kind of delicate to speak about before the whole crew. People know people. People have a drink and say things out of turn, not because they mean to, but because it comes into their minds and they don’t have a hold on their tongues, right?’
Freiberg nodded.
‘So, like I say, there’s a couple of details I’m going to want to iron out in the process of putting this thing together.’
‘How many exactly?’ Freiberg asked.
‘Two right now, perhaps three.’
‘People I know?’
Marcus smiled. ‘Who don’t we know Walt . . . tell me who don’t we know?’
‘You going to give me some names?’
‘I’m going to give you Levin and Hoy.’
Freiberg shook his head. ‘And maybe I’m going to want to do a little housecleaning myself before we move out, so if we’re going to clean up our details then there has to be a little give and take, right?’
Marcus nodded. ‘Right, sure there does. Do me the courtesy of letting me know if it’s someone on my payroll directly, would you?’
‘Of course Ben, of course.’
Marcus reached out a hand and they shook.
‘Good,’ Marcus said. ‘That’s good.’
‘So we go back and see what your man Klein has put together?’
‘Of course,’ Ben Marcus said.
And the two men made their way back to the table.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It was ten after two.
Harper stood at the end of Carmine Street. He felt transparent, insubstantial. He felt like the child he’d once been, but with something missing. His innocence? His fundamental belief in the goodness of people? His intuition, his trust in humanity, his vision for the future, his dreams? He closed his eyes for a moment. So many things were missing. And where had they gone? He’d been unaware of their absence until now. Why was it always at the point where nothing could be done that one realized some action was needed?
He started walking, mouthing the house numbers to himself, his lips moving silently like a child learning to read.
Someone sees me they’re going to call the cops, he thought to himself, and then he imagined what he would do if he were witness to his passage. Hometown boy made good, back to visit the folks, back to show them how leaving had been the reason for his success.
Without realizing it, he had reached Evelyn’s house, the place of his introduction to the world. He stood there for some time. He tried to remember what his mother had looked like but, as with so many times before, he struggled to find even a vague resemblance. He could recall vividly how Evelyn had looked thirty years before, even Garrett with his ruddy face, his penetrative eyes, but his own mother . . .?
Harper looked to his left down the street. He looked up at the house. He wondered if Evelyn was inside watching him.
He went up the steps, raised his hand to the knocker. His heart thumped in his chest.
Five, six minutes later he resigned himself to the fact that she was not home. He had knocked a dozen times, stood patiently waiting for the slightest sound from within, even leaned down and looked through the keyhole. There was nothing.
From his pocket he took the brown paper bag, unwrapped it, withdrew the book. He opened the front cover and turned to the title page. From his inside jacket pocket he took a pen.
For Evelyn, he wrote, his hand unsteady as he did so. Thank you for everything. Much love, John.
He closed the book. He leaned once more and pushed it through the letter flap. He heard it land on the hallway floor within.
He stood there for a few moments more, then turned and went down the steps to the sidewalk. He walked to the junction of Bedford, crossed over onto Seventh and headed north-east towards St Vincent’s. He became aware after a little while that everything looked different. At first he believed New York had changed, but it had not. His absence had been not only temporary, but irrelevant. Evelyn was right: once you were born here it was inside you. No matter how far you walked, no matter the direction, you took the city with you, and being part of itself it would always draw you back. Like mercury.
By the time he reached Sheridan Square it had begun snowing. It was the eighteenth of December, a week until Christmas.
Later, much later.
Cathy Hollander stood at the window of her apartment on East Fourth. Through the front window she could see the side of the Russian Orthodox Cathedral. She found it ironic that she was surrounded by religious buildings – six churches within as many blocks. Ironic, not because she was without any personal religious beliefs, but because her life had taken such a seemingly contradictory direction. But then wasn’t religion merely a set of ideas or beliefs? If that was the case then she was perhaps the most religious person she knew. She had some very definite ideas, and back of those some very specific beliefs. She believed that Edward Bernstein would die, and for this she felt some sense of loss. Regardless of his life, regardless of all that he had done, she understood an aspect of his character that appeared unknown to the world. In the months since she’d met him he’d spoken of his son – a son unaware of his existence – on many, many occasions. The depth of regret had been evident in Bernstein’s expression each time he’d spoken of John Michael Harper. Such bitter irony. In the past few days John Harper had discovered that he did indeed have a father, and the father – the one who had longed to speak with his son – was unaware of Harper’s presence. Was that not the cruellest trick to be played by God?
And Harper himself? Cathy believed that he would die as well. Why? Because he was there. No other reason. John Harper had walked himself right into the middle of something he could never hope to understand. He would be used, played, maneuvered, and then – perhaps in the very moment he truly understood what was happening – he would probably be murdered. Such was the way of the world it seemed. Certainly the world that she herself was part of; a world off its axis and spinning ever faster into darkness.
She sighed. She shook her head. She turned away from the window, away from the impressive facade of the Russian Orthodox Cathedral, and from a bottle on the mantel she refilled her glass. She walked through to the small kitchen and sat at the table. She looked around the walls, at the few pictures tacked to the front of the refrigerator, a dying plant in a wickerwork pot near the sink, a trash bin that contained nothing more than several weeks’ worth of empty cigarette packets. This was her life. For now at least. Nothing more nor less than this. She wondered what her own mother and father would say if they were still alive. She closed her eyes, imagined them standing in the doorway looking at her, felt the tension within; the threat of tears behind her eyelids. She opened her eyes. She raised the glass to her lips, swallowed the inch and a half of whisky, set the glass on the table and rose.
From the bedroom she took her coat, stood for a moment looking down at th
e unmade bed, and tried to remember the last time she’d slept in it. She could not. Seemed that each day folded seamlessly into the next, and there were no divisions in between. She stepped back, turned, crossed the front room and opened the apartment door. Once outside she locked it securely, not because there was any great necessity for security, but merely out of habit. Had someone broken in they would have believed no-one lived there, or that someone had left several months before and didn’t plan to return. The refrigerator was empty, as were the drawers, the cupboards; nothing more than a single cardboard box beneath the window, containing a handful of tee-shirts, some underwear, a clean blouse, an unworn pair of shoes. Such articles, such characterless and insignificant articles, were representative of Cathy Hollander’s life. She took the stairs down, and as she walked away from the few things that represented herself she understood that this was the person she had become, and having become this person she could never be herself again.
Cathy Hollander.
‘. . . is not her real name.’
‘Did you follow me here or what? Did you follow me here to tell me whatever you’re telling me?’
Duchaunak smiled. ‘I didn’t follow you, no.’
‘I came yesterday. You were here. I come today—’
‘And here I am again.’ Duchaunak raised his right hand and massaged the back of his neck.
Harper frowned. He stood for a moment looking down the corridor over the detective’s shoulder. Ten minutes was all he could take; ten minutes standing and watching the old man through the glass. Then he’d turned away and left, intending to go get something to eat, and found Duchaunak in the corridor. Like the man had followed him, perhaps waited outside for him to arrive, and then come right on in to piss him off.