A Black Sail Read online

  The barrel of what was most probably the silver .38 Taylor had seen earlier tonight pressed harder into his neck as the younger O’Malley hissed, “You’re going to shut up and leave. I didn’t get to hurt anyone tonight. Dad had all the fun.”

  “Maybe I should have some more fun.” Liam O’Malley lifted the ancient weapon. “Seems to me one person who can do damage to my daughter’s memory is a journalist.”

  The stick came down fast.

  Taylor yanked his right hand off the table in time. His bottle exploded. Beer splashed all over his shirt and sport coat. Shards of glass plopped in his lap.

  “That’s enough.” Samantha wrenched the stick from the father’s hand and pointed her snub-nosed revolver at the son’s face. She rose from the chair. The father and son had made the usual mistake. They’d figured Samantha was a girl—a harmless girl. “Put your weapon on the floor and kick it into the corner.” The younger man looked at this father. “Do. It. Now. This piece is licensed and I’m an ex-cop. Self-defense will be an easy make.”

  The son complied.

  “Mr. O’Malley, I’ll leave your shillelagh next to the bar and you can head off to Tipperary in the morning.”

  Taylor stood and wiped off beer and bits of glass. “I understand getting angry over your daughter’s death. I understand blaming someone with criminal connections. I don’t understand denying it afterwards. Doesn’t make sense. When things don’t make sense, and I get threatened, I know there’s a story. I’m going to get this story.”

  “You’re messing with dangerous people.”

  “Collucci or you? Or both?”

  O’Malley offered a mean, crooked smile and filled the whiskey glass.

  Taylor moved back to the bar with Samantha, who checked the rest of the room to make sure friends of the family weren’t planning to get involved. Who knew who had a weapon in Mulligan’s? She set the stick against the bar, and they hustled out, their eyes on the crowd the whole time. Once outside, Samantha broke left and ran down an alley to the back of the building. She waited for him to catch up.

  “Don’t know if they’ll follow or keep drinking.” She slid the gun into the holster at her side. “I hope, keep drinking. Did you have to threaten him as we were leaving?”

  “He threatened me first. You never know what you’ll learn when people get agitated.”

  “You’ll learn they want to hit you in the head with an old Irish stick.”

  They walked behind buildings for a ways, then used another alley to get back to Roosevelt Avenue and make for the Flushing-Main Street elevated stop.

  On the platform, Samantha stared at him, tense, maybe heading toward anger. “It’s amazing you’re still alive.”

  “Killing reporters is a bad business. All the other reporters get interested in the story, no matter what it is.”

  “So you’ve told me.” She shook her head. “You’re not at the Messenger-Telegram anymore. Do enough people know about the City News Bureau to care?”

  She didn’t mean it to be cruel. She was worried about him. He didn’t have an answer. Or maybe he did and didn’t want to think about it too hard. He’d gotten the juiced-up jolt that came from skirting the edge of a story. That would keep away depressing thoughts about his career for a couple hours at least.

  Jersey Stein ordered beef chow fun as soon as Taylor and Samantha sat. He’d been waiting at a table in the back of Lin’s Garden on Bayard Street. Taylor ordered the same. Had to. The piping hot mixture of rice noodles and meat and sauce and grease at Lin’s Garden was the best in the city. This was a thing you knew. Samantha asked for shrimp with black bean sauce, which was pretty good too. The restaurant was one of four in Chinatown open round the clock, serving lunch and dinner, the late eaters and the early-morning drunks and beginning all over again. In fact, the four eateries were a mecca for those New York drinkers who started on Thursday night and whirled their way through the weekend. More than once, Taylor had been through four or five bars in one night and met others from those spots when he got to Lin’s somewhere after four in the morning.

  Taylor sipped from the small teacup. “ ‘Paranoia Blues.’ ”

  “Probably the right state of mind these days,” Stein said.

  “Maybe. I mean the song. Paul Simon. Sings about the chow fun here.”

  “You always were a font of knowledge.” Stein’s clear hazel eyes looked back at Taylor from above prominent cheekbones. He wore a seersucker suit. “Tell me what you think you know.”

  Taylor started with the harbor launch ride and went through it all, pausing only when the waiter came to deliver food. Taylor continued his story as Stein intently ate his chow fun and smiled, something he rarely did. Samantha ate too, though she seemed to be off somewhere else, probably because she’d heard the whole story enough times already. After he’d finished talking, he picked up his chopsticks and ate his own food. The broad flat noodles, the seasoning and the beef together, all steaming hot, combined to produce a flavor that put all other noodles to shame. No wonder he was disappointed every time he ordered chow fun anywhere else.

  Stein set his chopsticks down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “What a mess. FBI. DEA. The good old NYPD trying to keep a murder under wraps rather than worrying about who did it. Two sets of gangsters. Who knows, maybe more. This ‘import license.’ Never heard the term before. You believe there’s a fight over an import license for heroin in New York?”

  “That’s what one narcotics detective called it. He thinks the Leung tong is making a play.”

  “They play nasty when they do.”

  Concerned, Samantha looked at Taylor and across to Stein. “How are they more dangerous than any other gangsters?”

  “Play by their own rules and don’t bother to tell anyone else what those rules are,” Stein said. “The Italian mob doesn’t like the press, but they pretty much leave newspaper people alone, I guess figuring violence only draws more press. Tong members don’t know from the press or care. Probably can’t read English. They’ll kill you for asking questions.”

  Samantha’s intense blue eyes settled once more on Taylor. “Do you understand? Going in and interviewing tong members is a bad idea.”

  “I get it. Wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Don’t start thinking of places to start.”

  “Okay, okay.” Taylor resorted to sipping his tea. “Why were you so anxious to meet?”

  “Listen to Samantha. She’s a smart woman. Me, I’ve been hearing bits and pieces of what you described, but couldn’t get the full story. Sounds like a bureaucratic clusterfuck of pretty immense proportions. Nobody is talking to anyone else. ’Course, can’t ever get anything out of the FBI. The Brooklyn cops were sitting on something—the Collucci case it turns out. I can’t tell what the DEA knows. If that weren’t enough, everyone in town with a badge is all wound up for security duties this weekend. You couldn’t have been more right about ‘Paranoia Blues.’ I wanted to hear from you if some of the pieces of different stories I’d gotten wind of were true. You confirmed it. Some of it, at least.”

  “You wanted to confirm systems normal, all fucked up. Confirmed. What do I get?”

  “I got nothing on Collucci, and I’m not going to get anything. That’s over in Brooklyn. Your heroin theory … first I’ve heard it.”

  “We both know most of the heroin in New York is brought in via Marseilles by the Fronti family.”

  Stein nodded. “An easy yes. You saw The French Connection, right? That’s the deal. The French connection is the route for Afghani smack. Still coming in. Pushers and addicts still getting busted. The big boys in the Fronti organization still doing business. With one minor change. There’s less police corruption, courtesy of the Knapp Commission and the new police commissioners since. Fewer cops involved in the street game. Hasn’t done anything to change the lives of addicts.”

  “So it’s possible the Leung tong wants the New York market for the powder coming out of the Golden Triangle?” />
  “Anything’s possible. But it’s not something I’ve heard.”

  “Can you ask around?”

  Stein scratched his temple. “I don’t even know why I like you. Reporters are always bad for my business. Still, ya gave me what you got. I’ll ask.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “My advice. Don’t get hung up on one sexy conspiracy theory. Classic investigator’s mistake. Looks can deceive. Maybe this murder is supposed to be too obvious.”

  “What do you mean?” Samantha asked.

  “When something points one way, like this woman’s body does, sometimes the answer is in another direction.”

  “I hear you,” Taylor said. “But I don’t have any other directions right now. One other favor. Can you check out the woman’s father? Liam O’Malley.” He wrote the street address on a napkin and passed it over. “Any criminal activity, organized crime?”

  “This sounds like fishing.”

  “You got friends in the Brooklyn DA’s office?”

  “My ex-partner from my NYPD days is an investigator over there.”

  “The cops, if they’re lucky, will sit on the murder until Wednesday. When the story of Bridget Collucci’s killing gets out, all hell is going to break loose. You do me this favor, I might be able to help your buddy get ahead on it.”

  Stein laughed. “You crack me up. Always thinking you’re doing our job for us. One story has nothing to do with justice. That happens in a courtroom.”

  “You need facts, like I do.” Taylor picked up the grease-stained check as the waiter set it down.

  Stein wagged an index finger his way. “Here’s a fact. I don’t know where this mess is heading, but if even a part of it is on the up—the mob, tongs, FBI, DEA—it’ll flatten you dead if it runs you over. You be careful. That’s paperwork I don’t need.” He pocketed the napkin. “I’ll see if O’Malley raises any flags.”

  Chapter 6

  When Taylor pushed open the glass door to the offices of Carl Collucci, Attorney at Law, he heard a jingling sound. The little bell hanging above the door, an odd touch for a lawyer, would have made more sense at the Dobbs Ferry Five & Dime down the street. The blonde behind the reception desk looked up as she spoke on the phone. Her face had been turned clownish by too much makeup. She had big breasts stretching a flimsy blouse. Taylor quickly averted his eyes from her chest. She smirked. She knew.

  Taylor sat in the chair in front of her. He’d hoped Collucci wouldn’t be in. In fact, he’d hoped for this—someone else in the office to interview.

  The phone call went on a couple minutes longer. Something about a shopping trip. She hung up. “I’m sorry. We’re not seeing new people. I’m here to field calls from current clients.”

  “I know.” Taylor took out his notebook. “Death in the family. I’m doing a story.”

  The blonde lit a long Eve menthol 120, exhaled a cloud and looked through it at Taylor. “Such a terrible tragedy. He was so in love with her. I don’t know how he’s ever going to get back to work.”

  “I’m doing a profile.” Among other things.

  “I didn’t get what newspaper you’re from.”

  “Taylor from the City News Bureau.”

  “Debbie Pour. Never heard of it.”

  What else is new?

  “We’re a wire service …” he paused.

  A song finished playing: the transistor radio on her desk. The DJ came on, Top 40 AM enthusiasm making his voice cartoonish, “That was Van McCoy doin’ ‘The Hustle,’ your number six song here on hits-for-you WNAC—”

  “My stories run on that station,” Taylor pointed at the radio, “and others.”

  “You’re on the radio?” Her pencil-thin eyebrows jumped. Another drag on the Eve, which looked like it could take a good half hour to smoke.

  “I write the stories. They read them. Like the one I’m working on. A story on the life the Colluccis had together. It’ll run on that station and a bunch of others.”

  “It is my favorite on the radio. Don’t know how I can help, though.”

  “What kind of work does the firm do?”

  “Real estate, mainly. I’d say a closing every week or two. People are racing to get out of the city. That cesspool. Our clients are very nice. I should know. Worked for a big firm in Manhattan. Assholes, the clients. And the lawyers. Bigger assholes. Pardon my French.”

  “Only real estate?”

  “Some wills. The same people as buy the houses. They get a mortgage and decide they need to plan ahead.”

  “Tell me more about the clients.”

  “Bit of a mix. You got your blue-collar types—don’t get me wrong, my people worked their way up—buying Capes and other starters. Then there’s the executives going for the bigger places. They’re usually nice too. Well, not the wives, sometimes. I shouldn’t say it, but I think I threaten some of those lady housewives.”

  “How long has Mr. Collucci had the practice?”

  “Two years. Before that, he worked a year at Yonkers Carting. The garbage company. His father ran it.”

  Mrs. O’Malley had mentioned that company, but not that Collucci’s father was involved. Taylor put the detail in his notebook as a lead worth following. That aside, Carl Collucci’s business sounded as straight up as he’d described it last night. The man could easily set up shop in Mayberry. How was he going to justify the morning train trip on a day he shouldn’t be spending any time on this?

  “You’ve heard how Bridget Collucci died?”

  Pour squeezed her eyes closed as if he’d taken a swing at her. “Terrible. Who would do such a thing?”

  “That’s the big question. I’m starting to think her murder’s connected to organized crime. Any of Collucci’s clients have criminal connections? Appear to be connected?”

  “No, of course not. Where would you get such an idea? Some maniac attacked her.”

  “This maniac dumped her where drugs are usually dropped off. She had six packages taped to her body. I’m guessing those packages weren’t filled with flour. She could have been killed to get at Collucci. That is, if he’s involved with the mob.”

  “He’s a good person. A good attorney.”

  Taylor stood to leave. He considered what Pour had said about the clients’ wives. He considered her curves—the ones he could see. “Did you and Mrs. Collucci get along?”

  “Oh sure. Nice. Bit of a homebody.”

  “Did you make her jealous?”

  “No.” She almost laughed the word. “Carl’s a good guy, but I like mine bigger and beefier.” The phone rang. “I need to get this. So many condolence calls. Questions about the funeral service.”

  Taylor crossed busy Route 9 to Cedar Street, which connected with Main a block west. He meandered along Dobbs Ferry’s primary commercial thoroughfare. The 10:08 a.m. train back to the city was twenty minutes away and the walk to the station took less than ten. The beauty parlor was full, with seven or eight women under those helmet-like driers. Taylor was pretty certain they still hadn’t let their hair down in Westchester County.

  He stopped at the Five & Dime, pushed open the door and smiled to hear the bell. The aroma of frying food—in Taylor’s mind, grilled cheese, though he couldn’t see what was cooking—drifted from the lunch counter. An old man turned on a red-topped stool and gave Taylor the up and down. A cup of coffee sat in front of him. The length of counter reminded Taylor of his maternal grandfather’s coffee shop, The Odysseus—the Oddity to regulars—on Madison. He hadn’t been by in at least a week, a long absence for him. The work. His dad in the hospital. Getting quick meals near the Brooklyn apartment. All that had kept him away. He owed Grandpop a visit. Maybe tonight, after he did the story on the tall ships arriving.

  Taylor exited the store. Two firemen in front of their redbrick Mayberry RFD firehouse followed Taylor down the hill with their eyes. The garage doors were painted bright white.

  The acrid, petroleum stink of a fresh pothole patch caught at the back of his throat.
Waves of heat rose from the black asphalt circle three feet from the sidewalk.

  He walked across the intersection with Chestnut Street. All the cross streets in the little downtown where named after trees, further heightening Taylor’s sense he wouldn’t ever need to go all the way to North Carolina to visit something like Andy Griffith’s hometown. No, it existed 30 minutes north of NYC on the Hudson Line.

  At the end of the walk, he took a seat on a bench at the station. He pulled out the New York Times and read a story on North Vietnam and South Vietnam officially reuniting today after more than two decades of war. Hanoi would be declared the capital. It was all over. The fighting. The shouting. Even the caring. Billy had gone and lost his life for a country that didn’t exist and a cause no one could even define at this point.

  He flipped the paper to its package of stories on the Bicentennial. The entire Weekend section was dedicated to covering the various events. Thank Christ I didn’t have to write all this. He’d already read the page one news story on the fleet of tall and small ships departing Newport yesterday. Had a nice picture of three square riggers looking like giants surrounded by tiny pleasure craft. Even the Goodyear Blimp had gotten in on the action. He turned to a page in Weekend headlined “How to Follow the Fleet” with three different maps. So many ships and harbors and yacht clubs. He couldn’t keep them straight, and he’d written about them. He tore the page out and stuck it in his pocket, blessing the hundreds employed by the Times for their help.

  Someone sat to his right, and a shadow threw itself over the next Times article—about the ethnic celebration set for Lower Manhattan on the Fourth. The shadow belonged to Lucco, who stood in front of Taylor. His face was bruised purple and orange by the blows he’d received from O’Malley.

  Taylor closed the paper. “The PR consultant. I’ve got some questions for you.”

  “That’s the problem. You’re asking the wrong people the wrong questions.”

  “Did you get a call from Barbara Pour just now? Because that might answer one of mine. How straight is Collucci’s business?”