“Police,” a bored voice announced as if he’d repeated the word so many times it hurt. “Just everybody relax and no one else’ll spring a leak.”
Larry Feld popped up like an unwanted pimple and began explaining to the cops that his client was licensed to carry a handgun in New York City and that he would have no statement this evening. Cheech ran like a loyal dog to its fallen master, cradling the old man’s lifeless head in his polyester lap. I could see MacClough’s face from where I stood and he placed a vertical finger across his scabbed and swollen lips. I understood. Sirens became the world’s dominant sound. I was glad to hear them because my ex-finger was starting to hurt like hell.
“Klein! God, you look like shit,” Detective Mickelson critiqued, holstering his.38. “I got concerned when you didn’t show to claim your jacket.”
“A little outta your jurisdiction,” I noted, my muscles contracting from pain. “Who plugged the don?”
“One of the city boys. Like you said, I’m out of my jurisdiction.”
“I’ll have to thank him for saving my ass,” I leaned against Buddha belly to stop myself from falling. “How’d’ya know where to find me?”
“Let’s just say I’ve been reading the same book as you, only I was a few pages behind. Now let’s get a doctor to look at that finger,” the Suffolk cop deflected.
“No!” I pulled away. “How’d ya know to show up here, now, just when you did?”
His eyes scanned the building until they were focused directly on the back of Larry Feld’s head. And when Mickelson was certain I’d taken note of his stare, he said: “Phone tip. Anonymous, of course.”
“Of course,” I seconded.
So the tip had come from Larry Feld. I could never confront him about it, because he would never confess to it. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t see the self-interest in what he’d done. I don’t know. Maybe it was the phone conversation we’d had earlier. I hadn’t pressured him directly, but rather talked about the old block and the de facto friends we knew and how they’d all disappeared. I talked about his joyless parents and how I’d always known he was as much a victim of Auschwitz as they. I reminded him of the Irish kids kicking our Jewish asses on the way home from synagogue on Saturday mornings. I’d like to think I appealed to whatever humanity there was in Larry Feld, but I would never really know.
All of us refused to make anything but the vaguest of statements that evening. The doctors insulated both Johnny and me from any curious law enforcement officials and the press. Dante Gandolfo had previously, through his lawyer, made it clear that he wouldn’t be speaking to anyone until after his father’s funeral. And Cheech, the old school soldier that he was, refused to give the cops his name let alone a statement.
Before they loaded us into the ambulance, I had a few parting words with Detective Mickelson.
“You know that book we’re both reading. .” I drifted.
“Yeah.”
“Can you give me a few days before you discuss it with anyone else?”
“You know I can’t guarantee that,” he stated calmly, “but there are a few parts of the book I don’t see as being of general interest.”
“What parts might those be?”
“I think we both know the answer to that. Don’t we, Detective Bosco?” he shook his head disapprovingly. “If people are interested in those parts of the story, they can read the book for themselves. Good night, Mr. Klein. Your jacket will be waiting for you in my office.” He slammed the ambulance door shut.
MacClough had used some of his old cop charm and connections to insure we were alone in the back of the sick wagon. I guess we had some important things to talk about. But as we pulled away from the gates of Fort Gandolfo, Johnny seemed to be out of it. I looked out of the ambulance back window and noticed that we were just passing the late Paul Palermo’s estate. This was a different view from the one I’d seen in my earlier approach, yet even from here I could make out the circle of painted plaster Marys. I couldn’t help but ponder what the significance of these statues was. Maybe, I thought, they were like Don Roberto’s mahogany bar; something for a powerful man to stare at and wonder why. They certainly made me wonder.
“Dylan,” MacClough’s strained voice broke the trance.
“You’re up.” I had a gift for the self-evident.
“Yeah, I noticed that, too.”
“How do you feel?” I knelt down next to him.
“About as good as the tip of your fuckin’ finger. How do you think I feel?”
“Stupid question. Listen, we got to get some stuff straightened out before we get to the hospital. I think I know where-”
“I don’t wanna know, Klein. I don’t wanna know where she is and I don’t want anyone else to know. I’m sure she’s had enough hurt in her life. She doesn’t need to catch any more. The curse died with Azrael. Let it stay that way. Just make sure she gets the hundred grand.”
I thought of a thousand reasonable things to say against the course MacClough had chosen, but said none of them. This part was his business and somewhere in the pulp of my bone marrow, I even understood.
“It’s Gandolfo’s money.”
“Nevermind about him,” Johnny assured me. “He won’t ask for it back.”
“Listen,” I shifted gears, “if you want me to protect Azrael’s daughter, I need you to do something for me. You gotta get Kate Barnum in to see me tomorrow before I talk to the cops.”
His puffed and bruised face puzzled at the request, but all he said was that he could probably manage it. Apparently, injured detectives, even retired ones, pulled a lot of weight.
“Here,” he yanked his hand free from under the restraining straps and dropped something onto my right palm. It was a white gold and diamond confection. I counted twenty-four stones aligned like stars in the shape of a heart. Each gem rested in the petrified fingers of white gold hands. “Make sure she gets this, too.” And having finally let go of the heart, Johnny Blue closed his eyes to sleep.
Prepayment
The trauma unit orthopedist visited my bedside and rambled on about the median nerve, radialis indicis, abductors, phalanges and occupational therapy. When pressed for a translation, he said I’d lost the top of my left index finger and there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do about it. He went on to say that there’d been considerable damage to the traumatized area and that I should consider myself fortunate that he didn’t need to remove more tissue. After witnessing Vinny’s metamorphosis from bodyguard to shark chum, I found the doctor’s little pep talk about good fortune anticlimactic. When I mentioned that my former finger really didn’t hurt much, he assured me it wouldn’t last. How comforting.
The rest of me wasn’t in much better shape than my finger. Thanks to Cheech’s fondness for my kidneys, I’d been pissing more blood than urine. My left shoulder was mildly separated and my nearly healed ribs were sore again. There was a bump on my head big enough to be sculpted into the likeness of a dead president and I had a headache twice that size. I tried not thinking about how MacClough might be feeling. I didn’t have the stomach for it.
Kate Barnum walked in as if gravity could no longer hold her down. And who could blame her. This was resurrection day, her own little Easter. I’d once said that she’d never be considered good looking. Today I was wrong. There was order to the tangle of her hair and the makeup was miraculously right. An unclasped, black leather trenchcoat replaced the usual dirty down jacket. A fiery silk blouse covered her breasts. Pleated, gray flannel pants played off beautifully against the heat of her shirt. Her boots and belt were a match for the coat. I wasn’t missing her frayed sweaters, cut sweatshirts or blue jeans just now. My hospital room smelled like a tannery next door to a perfume shop.