A Black Sail Read online

  “What other evidence you got?”

  “There’s already more China White on the street. This is big. It’s why the homicide guys want in. Important case. Meanwhile, they want us to stay on the street busting pushers—who will sell whatever comes their way. Pushers don’t care who’s importing. They want the smack the addicts will buy. China White is the better shit.”

  Taylor got Phillips a second rye and left the narcotics cop at the bar. The one little beer on an empty stomach had already given him a buzz. He needed to get out of there before he spent the afternoon drinking and talking cop stories he wouldn’t remember later.

  He caught the subway uptown to Times Square and walked one block to the City News Bureau’s offices in the Paramount Building. He needed to manage expectations with Henry Novak. He’d write the feature on the harbor patrol. He also wanted to work on something his boss—and friend—wasn’t looking for on the eve of the Bicentennial. Taylor was covering a murder that could turn into a big drug story.

  Chapter 2

  No surprise, Novak was enthused as he could be about the feature.

  Wearing a dark gray suit, he stood in the doorway to his closet of an office running the City News Bureau’s editorial meeting. He’d called it to order about an hour after Taylor returned. Three of the four daytime staff of the wire service sat at desks jammed together in the main room of the company’s office on the 19th floor.

  Cramly, bony-faced, rail-thin to the point of looking unhealthy, and the de facto editor—though he also worked as the wire’s rewrite man—smoked one in the chain of cigars he would consume today. Templeton, round-faced and always smiling, had a cup of coffee on his desk that was probably half bourbon. There were two kinds of stories at City News. Bagged and Taylored. Bagged were those Templeton could write while half-in-the-bag drunk. The rest went to Taylor. Anywhere else, Templeton would have been fired. City News couldn’t afford to be picky. The fourth employee was Cramly’s nephew Morton, who facsimiled stories to client radio stations and newspapers and fetched coffee and supplies. He stood between the windows and a pair of shelves.

  “Can you write the feature today?” Novak said. “The radio stations are clamoring for advance copy on the Bicentennial.”

  “Easy enough. Boat ride around the harbor. We see water. We see docks. Everyone’s ready for the whole show to go off without a hitch.”

  “They’re not worried about anything?”

  “Pleasure boats tangling their anchor lines. Pleasure boats colliding.”

  “Okay. Give it lots of color. Views of the sea and skyline. Salt air. Cresting waves.”

  Me puking.

  “I picked up another story during the ride. Not something for the feature.” Cramly groaned the Taylor’s-got-another-story groan. “The boat’s diver pulled the body of a woman out of the water by the Brooklyn piers. White, young. There were plastic bags taped to her. The cops think maybe drugs.”

  “Christ, Taylor.” Cramly ground the stub of the cigar in a glass ashtray. “We send you out for the fluffiest puffiest piece on the harbor patrol, and you still come back with a murder. People want good news this weekend.”

  Templeton blinked and drank from his Styrofoam cup. He probably wasn’t in the same room as the rest of them. Morton tried to place a box of file folders on the highest shelf. The box crashed to the floor, sending folders sliding everywhere.

  “Sorry, sorry.” Morton, wiry where his uncle was skinny, scrambled to pick up his latest supply purchase.

  “We’re still City News,” Taylor said, “doing news.”

  “Hold on, hold on.” Novak, smiling like he always did, unruffled, made a let’s-calm-down motion with his hands. “We can have this both ways. The Westchester papers and the Newburgh Evening News will all take an NYC murder any day of the week. Twice on Sundays. Their readers love hearing the city’s in the shitter. Their publishers love it even more. Helps sell real estate ads. Do the harbor patrol feature. Then put some time into the murder. Any idea why drugs ended up on the body?”

  “Some heroin shipments get dropped there, to be retrieved later. But the woman and the drugs? This may be bigger. One narc says a Chinatown tong wants to take heroin distribution away from the Italian mob. They’re going to break the French connection, and this murder is their work.”

  “Nice, nice.” Novak’s enthusiasm continued unabated. “Movie titles are good. That could still be a story, long after the ships are gone. I’m going to call some of the publishers up north. Let them know. But …” Novak paused. His buts were always a worry. “You need to write that feature on all the ships of sail tomorrow. No matter what’s going on with the murder. We need detailed profiles of all sixteen tall ships. Also something summarizing the hundreds of smaller craft coming for the event. They leave Newport tomorrow afternoon and start arriving during the day Friday. Write it short for the stations. Longer for the newspapers.” Novak glanced at Templeton and looked meaningfully back at Taylor. Yeah, Taylor got it. This story was Taylored, not bagged, because of all those ship details—details Taylor couldn’t give a shit about, but details Templeton would never master. “During the festivities Saturday and Sunday, we’re doing upbeat stuff. Clients are going to want happy stories during the Bicentennial weekend. Unless something blows up, of course.” A quick rub of the hands at that. “After, you get back to cops and robbers.”

  “Working the weekend. Huge crowds. Boats going up and down the river. I’ll be the happiest reporter in all New York.”

  “Something else you’d rather be doing?”

  “Seeing All the President’s Men with Samantha before it leaves the theaters, for one.”

  Cramly’s laugh sounded like a cough. “Your kinda fantasy. Journalists as heroes.”

  “I’ve got better.” Novak smiled. “My dad’s letting me use his cabin cruiser. We’ll go out Saturday to visit the tall ships on Bicentennial eve. How’s five?”

  “On the water … at five?”

  “That’s what you do with a boat. Go on the water. Great for us. Access.”

  Taylor’s heart sunk down to his stomach, which he didn’t expect would cooperate on Saturday. “Doesn’t your dad want to use it?”

  “He rented this big old wooden yacht so he can host more clients. Saturday night we’ll ship-to-shore the story to you, Cramly, and you’ll send the facsimiles. On Sunday, Taylor, you can work from the land, covering the parade of ships and the big festival downtown. Again, Cramly takes care of editing and transmission.”

  “Saturday and Sunday.” Cramly looked stricken.

  “This is major for us. Two stations said long-term contracts are hanging on our coverage. One station manager promised to make introductions if our Bicentennial work impresses. Don’t forget how big this story is. The two-hundredth birthday of our country. If you’re writing about the ships, include a mention of what’s happening on land or the fireworks coming later. And get the rest of the country in too. This is happening everywhere. President Ford will give the keynote to a million people in Philly, where descendants of the revolutionaries will lay hands on the Liberty Bell and then ring it with a rubber mallet. People want to know they’re part of a giant, national celebration.”

  Novak knew how to play Cramly. More than anyone, the old man worried that City News would go out of business like the New York Messenger-Telegram had, taking his pension with it.

  Templeton laughed from somewhere in the Twilight Zone. Morton dropped the file folders he’d finished picking up.

  Taylor banged out the harbor ride-along story on his Olivetti manual, another gift from Novak’s father, who owned a small pharmaceutical company and had funded the creation of the wire service when Novak, Taylor, and the rest were thrown on the street by the closure of the New York Messenger-Telegram, whose demise Taylor still mourned. The paper had failed last fall at almost the same moment New York City itself was saved from financial disaster. Taylor and Novak had been friends since their first days as copy boys on the MT. At the pape
r, Novak chose the easy path, coasting along on the business desk. He didn’t find the job he loved until he started the wire service. Schmoozing publishers and station managers into buying City News was his true calling.

  Taylor and Novak remained friends after Novak became his boss (and savior), a tribute to a patience and self-control Taylor didn’t realize Novak had. Taylor still worried how far Novak would go to sign deals. Like this afternoon, when he valued the story of the woman’s murder because it would help papers sell real estate ads.

  Novak could be indecisive—taking one position, then another, then switching back to the original. Taylor needed to know he has his boss’ backing, always and all the time, when he was out on the streets working cops.

  After 40 minutes of writing, he handed Cramly his harbor-patrol feature. Taylor returned to his desk to grab his notebook and head to the 72nd Precinct in Brooklyn to see what he could dig up on the murder. He never called ahead. That made it too easy for them to say no. Before leaving, he walked the hallway to another office on the same floor.

  Even eight months later, the loss of the Messenger-Telegram hurt like the death of an old friend—the kind who was always in your life, who looked out for you. The paper’s collapse remained an open wound. Add to that hurt the fact Taylor hadn’t come up with a good police story in weeks. Every day that went by, he grew gloomier and gloomier. A big paper drew stories to it. No one knew what the City News Bureau was or that Taylor worked there.

  Was he being ridiculous? Or stupid? You couldn’t mourn a thing—a newspaper. Or maybe you shouldn’t, if you were sane. Yet Taylor did. There were days these past months his mood darkened to black despair. He’d spent 17 years at the paper. He’d built up sources all over New York and produced an impressive string of scoops. Now he’d disappeared from every editor’s radar. The Daily News and New York Post knew nothing of the stories he did. How could they? His pieces on the radio ran without credit, and no one in the city read the suburban papers that carried the reports. Taylor didn’t even spend a minute thinking about the New York Times. High school education. Copy boy promoted to reporter. A résumé filled with stories on crimes in the worst parts of town. Taylor couldn’t get on the Times’ radar standing in the middle of its newsroom.

  The gray cast of his mood had a hold on him as he entered the offices of Raymond & Associates, Investigators, at the other end of the hall. A beautiful auburn-haired woman sat at the reception desk, going over paperwork. She was intent on the sheets, which appeared to be accounting ledgers.

  He leaned over as if to look at the paperwork and kissed her instead, lightly on the lips. The kiss became more passionate as she joined in.

  “That was nice,” she said.

  Taylor smiled, despite his mood. Here was the good news in his life. He and Samantha Callahan were together.

  Samantha knew Taylor’s moods too well. “What’s up?”

  “I’m smiling.”

  “An island in a sea of grim.”

  “The usual.”

  “C’mon, we talked. You do the work you know how to do, you’ll get where you want. Won’t get there playing the mope.”

  Samantha had lost her job at pretty much the same time as Taylor—in fact, as a source on the last story he worked for the MT. She’d been an NYPD officer framed by the corrupt cop who’d killed her father, a police sergeant also involved in the conspiracy. Tainted by the whole affair, she’d left the force and joined this one-man detective agency, which thrived on busting shoplifters, cheating spouses, and employees skimming cash. She would have eventually worn a gold shield, were it not for her father. And the fact she was a woman in the NYPD.

  “I know.” He wasn’t sure he did. Best to move on. “Actually picked up a good one today. Woman murdered and thrown into the harbor with what may be drugs taped to her body.”

  “There’s a Taylor story.”

  “Yeah, could be. Could be big.”

  “Want help?”

  “You have a job.”

  “Lew’ll give me time. He signed another client because he’s got a woman to do stakeouts. Closed out three divorces this week.”

  “Homewrecker.”

  “Not me.” She stood and kissed him. “Two husbands and one wife wrecked their homes.”

  “I’m stopping by the Seven-Two. This part’s easy. I’ll let you know when I need help.”

  “See you at home. You can tell me why the drugs. Assume that’s what makes it big.”

  “Not the only thing.”

  Phillips wasn’t at the precinct house when Taylor got there. The desk sergeant said he was on his way back from Manhattan, which to Taylor meant he’d spent the rest of the afternoon drinking rye at Fraunces Tavern.

  That’s taking a serious stand against radicals.

  Soon after, surprisingly steady, Phillips made his way up the stairs to where Taylor sat next to his desk.

  “Fuck are you doing here?”

  “In the news business. We call it following up.”

  “Not going to get much. Word came down. We’re supposed to keep this as quiet as possible. The big bang Bicentennial’s coming, don’t cha know?”

  “How’d you hear about any word if you were at the tavern?”

  “Easy enough to call in. This case stays quiet until the sailboats leave.”

  Brian Feeney, the other narcotics detective from the argument at Harbor Charlie, joined Taylor and Phillips. He was red-haired, of medium height, and flabby. He ignored Taylor and stared hard at Phillips. “Enjoy the afternoon?”

  “Doing my patriotic duty.”

  “That’s nice. I’ve been doing my police duty. Who the fuck is this?” Feeney pointed at Taylor without looking.

  Phillips’ head swiveled to Taylor and back to the other detective, the exaggerated motion giving the first physical clue to his afternoon drinking session. He grunted and hiccupped. “Reporter I know. Works for a wire service.”

  Feeney’s pale face reddened. “The sergeant talked to you, right?” He appeared to be building up to an explosion. “They want this kept dead quiet until after the weekend. Quiet. Zero. Nothing.”

  Unless he did something, Taylor’s interview was going to end right here and now. “Look, I can’t break this story in four days. What am I going to get over the weekend? I might even be convinced it’s a good idea to sit on it a bit. If we have a deal.”

  Feeney stepped around the desk and leaned over Taylor. “Deal? You get me in the shit with my sergeant, my captain. The fucking mayor. The deal is I will fuck you up. Do you know how big this weekend is?”

  From long experience, Taylor understood what was going on. This was how one negotiated with the NYPD. “How about this? Keep this out of the other papers. I’ll take a little time to work it into a real story. You know the kind of time—it stretches into next week.”

  “Easy with the hard-ass,” Phillips said to his partner. “Taylor was on the damn boat. He saw the body. Doesn’t need us to write that up. He’s making a good offer.”

  It was also a good deal for Taylor. He didn’t much like to sit on news, but at the same time, he knew he couldn’t report a story on a war over citywide drug distribution in a day or two, not while taking care of all his damn Bicentennial assignments. This worked if he got the time he needed to report new information on the story. It wasn’t a lot of time, either. Once the tabloids heard about the murder, they’d have teams of police reporters chasing it.

  Feeney moved back to the other side of the desk and addressed Phillips. “We’re working this joint with homicide.” Deal done, his mood quickly switched from anger to something like triumph, presumably because of a partial victory in the territorial battle over a dead woman’s body. Taylor knew joint in today’s NYPD meant they’d have as little to do with each other as possible. “They need us because of the drug connection. The DEA wants in, and they work with us. Which is what I told those ass-wipes on the dock.”

  Phillips slapped his hand on the desk a little too enthusiast
ically. “Money talks and bullshit walks.”

  “There’s still a shitload of work to do. You plan on getting involved?”

  “Clocking out now, but I’ll be right on it tomorrow morning.”

  “Yeah, morning. That’s the part of the day before noon. Lucky for both of us I already got an ID on the body. Bridget Collucci of Dobbs Ferry.”

  “How the hell did you do that so fast?”

  “She was wearing an Our Lady of Lourdes High School ring. I call Lourdes in Poughkeepsie. Get this. The FBI is watching this guy Carl Collucci in Dobbs Ferry. I’m guessing some mobster. He reported his wife missing. Description included blue gingham dress and the ring. Feds must have picked up on that with a wiretap. Or the local cops told them. Because those geniuses called the school and asked if anyone had inquired about the ring. I called sometime after and the nun told me about Bridget and the ring and the fibbies. Weren’t for the nun, probably taken weeks, since the fibbies don’t tell us shit, and when they do, it’s shit. Husband’s coming to make the positive.”

  Taylor tapped his pen against the reporter’s notebook. “The mob doesn’t make missing persons reports.”

  “When it’s a soldier, they don’t. This was his wife. Wives and kids are supposed to be left alone. Their rules. Hubby gets worried about something he thinks has nothing to do with the family business and calls the Dobbs Ferry police. The feds hear the call.”

  “Do the gangs in Chinatown play by different rules?”

  “Why’re you asking?”

  “Something I heard.”

  Phillips looked at his shoes in the obvious way of a drunk trying not to look obvious.

  “I’m not throwing around fucking theories at this point.”

  “Is Collucci associated with the Fronti family?”

  “Are you listening? The FBI don’t tell us shit. Still looking into him.”