A Black Sail Page 6

  Lucco nodded his head. The man sitting next to Taylor grabbed his arm, forced it into a hammerlock and made him stand.

  Lucco stepped closer. Taylor always figured the stronger the cologne, the cheaper it was. If Lucco’s cost anything, he’d been ripped off.

  “Mr. Collucci is so beset with grief, he’s willing to tolerate almost any intrusion to learn what happened.” Lucco’s breath made Taylor rethink his dislike of the cologne.

  “I can understand that. A lot of people want to know exactly how and why his wife was murdered the way she was.”

  “Easy. Some sicko did it.”

  “I’m thinking it was a bit more organized. If you get my drift.”

  He did. Lucco hit Taylor in the gut. Air rushed across Taylor’s teeth. He bent over. It hurt, but at least he could still breathe. The other thug forced him to stand back up.

  The stationmaster or ticket seller or whoever worked in the Dobbs Ferry station stuck his head out the top half of the door. “Is everything okay?”

  “Our friend’s a little sick,” said Lucco.

  “I’ll call an ambulance.” The man disappeared to make the call. Taylor thanked the god of small towns that people didn’t like any sort of trouble in Mayberry.

  Lucco leaned in again and lowered his voice. “You’re going to need an ambulance if you don’t listen. You stay away from Mr. Collucci. You stay away from his office. You stay out of Dobbs Ferry.”

  “Is that all you want?” It came out as a grunt. Lucco smiled. “Then stop acting like thugs. That makes this smell more like a story. We can wrap things up real quickly. Give me proof Collucci isn’t involved in activities that would get his wife targeted. Activities like warring over who gets to supply heroin in New York.”

  Lucco jabbed Taylor in the right side. Again, the other thug held him up as he sagged. Even through the pain, Taylor wanted to get a look at the second guy in case they crossed paths again. He couldn’t.

  The man in the station poked his head out again. “I’ve called the ambulance.” The big siren on top of the firehouse blared like an air raid was imminent. “And the village police.”

  Lucco turned as if to advance, and the railroad man pulled his head back in, slammed the top of the Dutch door and locked it. Flashing lights whirled up on Main Street and came down the hill.

  Taylor’s train rumbled toward the station from the north.

  At what must have been a signal from Lucco, the other man dropped Taylor to the concrete.

  Lucco bent over Taylor, giving him one last whiff of bad breath and cheap cologne. “You stay away from everyone. Or we come back for you.”

  The two walked away. Taylor’s right side was going to be sore for a few days—Samantha would help tape him up—but he’d been beat up a lot worse by bad guys. And some good guys. He stood. He was most definitely getting on that train. If the ambulance picked him up, he’d lose time being questioned by the local cops.

  Lucco and his pal—Taylor still hadn’t seen his face—strolled past the station. Lucco gave the finger to the man inside who’d helped Taylor.

  There was one more thing worth knowing. “How about the O’Malleys? Okay to interview them?”

  Lucco turned, looking ready to come back, but the train was already braking and the ambulance had rounded the bend into the station plaza with a police car behind.

  “What’s with the ambulance?” asked the conductor.

  Taylor climbed aboard trying not to look like he needed help. “No idea. Must be something in the parking lot.”

  He sat on a blue wicker seat in a car that must have carried passengers before the war.

  Debbie Pour had to have tipped Lucco off that Taylor was in town. How else would he know? Lookouts at the station? Taylor would have noticed. Mayberry was a small place. If she was in with the thug, what did that say about Collucci’s legal practice? They both could be working for Collucci. Problem was, he had mostly guesses, and they were multiplying daily, while facts were as rare as a clean subway train. Pour did tell him Collucci had worked for a year at Yonkers Carting, the garbage company his father ran. He needed to follow up on that.

  How am I ever going to check any of this out when I’ve been ordered to get out of Dodge? Check that. Mayberry.

  Chapter 7

  Taylor sat straight-backed, his body not touching the subway seat. He stretched to ease the pain from Lucco’s blows. Only helped a little. His side hurt with a pounding ache, and the three aspirins he’d taken at the office hadn’t helped.

  Too much was going on and all at the same time. He had the worrying tickle at the back of his brain he was going to miss something because he couldn’t keep track of everything.

  At the moment, he was stalled in a mad rush to get to the Empire State Building, site of a reported $500,000 jewel heist an hour ago, right in the middle of the afternoon. Pretty much the definition of broad daylight. Cramly had heard a call on the police radio. After confirming with a source that something big was up, Taylor had headed straight for the subway.

  Now, he was kicking himself for not running all the way to the Empire State at 34th Street and Fifth Avenue. The subway ride was one stop, 42nd to 34th Streets, but the damn train had halted in the tunnel somewhere along its short run. They’d already sat for ten torturous minutes. The windows were open, the fans were going, and the air in the car was hot and thick, a soupy presence.

  A drop of sweat plopped onto the wire copy he held in his lap, followed by another. He’d grabbed the story as he ran from the office. Three bombs detonated in Boston in the early hours. Too. Much. Happening. What did it mean for security for Op Sail? Cramly had Templeton—Templeton, God help us—calling the cops and Coast Guard to ask. Did radical terror trump a drug war?

  In his effort to advance the Bridget Collucci story, he’d taken a couple of punches. That must mean he was asking the wrong people the right questions. What exactly was he on to, though? The Dobbs Ferry field trip hadn’t made things clear. Certainly hadn’t given him anything to write about. He needed hard facts supporting the allegation Carl Collucci’s role as a mobster got Bridget killed. The weekend filled him with gray gloom and a dread of rocking boats. How much work could he possibly do on the story while chasing sailing ships around New York Harbor? He might be able to squeeze in some real reporting tomorrow before getting on the boat with Novak at five. Then that would be it until Monday.

  The rest of today was already lost. He had to cover the jewel heist. After that he’d get out to Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn where a ship would …. Damn, which ship? He fumbled in his pocket for the Times map he’d marked up. The Kruzenshtern. Where the Kruzenshtern would be anchored.

  The Soviets had sent two ships for the Bicentennial. Did that mean things were finally turning around for New York? For the whole world?

  Hard to say yes when bombs were going off in Boston. The wire story gave him the cold facts of a terrifying attack. Separate explosions ripped through an airplane, an armory parking lot, and a courthouse. He forced himself to concentrate on the wire copy in the glow of the emergency lights and the stifling heat. After midnight, one blast went off in a National Guard Armory lot, destroying two military trucks. The second bomb was the most spectacular, tearing through a four-engine Eastern Airlines turboprop sitting on the runway. The fuel tank went up after the bomb, destroying the plane. No one was injured because a caller minutes earlier warned people to clear the terminal. The final blast came at 2:45 a.m. and took out the probation department of the Essex County Court House. Boston had had it bad this year. Marxists blew up another courthouse back in April. Twenty-two were injured. One guy lost a leg.

  The subway train jerked forward.

  According to the FBI, the bombings appeared to be tied to a Black Panther splinter group. A caller had made a threat against the tall ships, some of which would be in Boston next weekend.

  What do I do? Get Novak to send me to Boston? No. The story’s here.

  About 500 feet later, the brakes sq
uealed as the train arrived at the end of a two-minute trip that had taken fifteen. They’d been sitting right outside the 34th Street Station.

  He shoved the teleprinter copy in his blazer pocket and dashed through the subway door. Up on the street, he ran east across the long block from Sixth to Fifth Avenues, damning the subway for the lost time. While it was true he usually didn’t care about the news everyone else was chasing, he could still get excited about a big breaking-crime story—when it was all and only about being first. He sucked in stinking, humid air almost as hot and thick as that trapped underground. Exhaust and gutter garbage. Sweat soaked through his undershirt and his short-sleeved dress shirt. Samantha gave him shit for wearing undershirts in the summer. They were supposed to take care of the sweat. Wasn’t working today.

  Police cars were parked at all angles in front of the Empire State Building. Inside the cooler lobby, a dozen detectives were moving around with decided purpose, in part because the commander of Manhattan South led the investigation. A New York Post reporter jogged in behind Taylor. The Times and Daily News were already there—two or three apiece.

  Taylor needed to move fast.

  As if in answer, out of the elevator came Jim Salvatore, a patrolman recently promoted to detective. He carried a carton out the door to one of the unmarked cars, a boxy Chrysler unmarked in name only. Taylor had done Salvatore little favors—tips on small-time dealers—when the man was in uniform. Taylor let the detective put the box in the trunk and sidled over.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Deputy chief’s having a press conference in thirty.”

  “I know. I’m covering it. Tight deadline. Just give me something. The deputy will get his due.”

  Salvatore looked around. “All right. On background.”

  “From a police source.”

  “Five gunmen in suits walked into Empire Diamond’s offices on the sixty-sixth floor at just after two. They tied everyone with handcuffs and ropes. Got away with six hundred thou in diamonds, other jewels, and cash. The number’s an estimate.”

  “Injuries?”

  “One woman fainted. That’s it. The robbers—they looked like businessmen with briefcases—rode the elevator down and disappeared.” He gestured at the crowds of people walking past, many not even stopping to check out the police activity. They saw too much every day to assume this crime was special.

  “Six hundred thousand dollar heist on the eve of the Bicentennial. What happened to bright shiny New York?”

  “Bright shiny New York never happened. You hear about Boston?”

  “Yeah, read it off the wire.” He handed the copy to Salvatore. “You guys on heightened alert?”

  “We were already. This is New York. My personal opinion. The safest place will be on the water. It’s here on land that’s dangerous. Got to get back before someone notices.”

  Taylor ran to a payphone a half block away. He didn’t want anyone to hear him dictate the first take of the story to Cramly. To Salvatore’s information, he added his own estimate of the detectives present and a description of the activity in front of the building and in the lobby.

  He flipped through his notebook once to check the facts. “That’s it. Will any of the stations break in for this?”

  “WRRN will if they like it. I’ll call them.”

  “Call the others too. Least they should lead their hourlies with it. I’ll phone in a second take for the papers after the press conference.”

  “You’ve a message here. Sidney at the Plaza. What sort of hotel story are you on?”

  “It’s not hotels.”

  He dialed Sidney Greene at 1 Police Plaza.

  “Tests came back on the packs on the dead woman. Heroin. Cut to twenty percent. Street stuff. This wasn’t an import-grade package.”

  “Sourced from?”

  “Lab guy said likely Afghanistan. That’s as much as I got. He was gettin’ curious about my curiosity. He very forcefully said nothing about this is to get out until after Monday.” Sidney paused in his whispering to giggle. “Would rain on everyone’s parade. Oh, and she was shot twice.”

  “In the right eye?”

  “Both shots. Someone wanted to make sure.”

  “That’ll do. Thanks.”

  “Let me know when you’re going to stir things up. I like to watch.”

  Sidney, you’re one weird guy.

  The drugs weren’t import grade. What did that mean? The tong could have acquired brown heroin on the street. Maybe the Chinatown gang robbed the mob’s pushers. Or hit one of the Fronti family’s stash houses to get the powder. Be a nice way to double the blow in an attack on the family. Still, seemed overly complicated for a murder plot, even one meant to send a message.

  He was forced to quit speculating and rush back for the press conference. No surprise, the inventory of stolen gems and cash would continue and the $600,000 figure could go up. The police had been called after an Empire Diamond employee returned from an errand and found the reception area empty. The firm’s owner and seven employees were discovered bound on the floor of an interior room. Most of what was stolen was taken from an open safe next to the president’s office. The raid lasted all of fifteen minutes.

  “It was a very professional job,” said the deputy chief.

  Exactly what press conferences are for. The obvious.

  Taylor wrote the complete story in his notebook, checking his notes as he went, and phoned in the second take.

  He walked from the Bay Ridge–95th Street subway stop toward the Brooklyn shoreline in the Fort Hamilton neighborhood. With each step, his ribs reminded him of the fun Lucco had had with him that morning. As he got closer, it was like he was coming up on an impromptu fair. Folks had set themselves up on the grass separating the streets of Fort Hamilton from the Belt Parkway, which curved around Brooklyn on the waterfront. A breeze cooled Taylor for the first time today. The sky had gone from overcast to blue with shreds of cloud. Small groups strolled on the grass. One family had an old-fashioned card table, chairs, kerosene lamp, and a picnic basket. He made notes as he walked. He’d interview the family later, but first he wanted to get closer to the water, where the big knots of people were.

  The Kruzenshtern, sails pulled up and tied, masts tall as trees, rode at anchor off the shore. The huge hull—this was the biggest sailing ship Taylor had ever seen—was painted black with a white stripe and black squares inside the stripe. Taylor knew these were meant to represent gun ports, though as a teaching ship, they were only decorative. For all his cynicism, he wished now that he’d seen the Kruzenshtern riding into New York Harbor with all that white canvas unfurled to catch the wind. Soviet sailors were at the rail of their ship, and others, tiny men, clambered up the lines toward the yards. Brooklynites waved. The Soviets didn’t wave back. Probably be punished if they got friendly. The Gulag and Siberia and all that. Would any of them set foot ashore during the Bicentennial visit? He’d read in one of the papers that negotiations were still going on over where to dock the two Soviet ships of sail. Security was a concern. It had taken all sorts of diplomacy to get them to participate in Operation Sail. Now Taylor could see the effort had been worthwhile. She was beautiful. Could he possibly get out onto her or one of the others without throwing up? He’d find out tomorrow.

  Taylor raised his hand to block the view of the Belt Parkway so he saw grass, water, and ship. Is this what New York Harbor once looked like? It was hard to imagine because to his right rose the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, connecting Brooklyn and Staten Island. That massive feat of engineering he couldn’t hide from sight. The sun was setting, silhouetting the masts against the darkening sky. The bridge’s chain of lights leapt across the water, seemingly put there as a backdrop for the Soviet tall ship visiting Brooklyn.

  A man who gave his name as Ronnie Catalano sat with his family at the card table. He popped the top on a can of Piels. “We’re staying for the night. Starting our Fourth of July weekend right here, watching this beautiful boat.
Why not? The crowds are going to get crazier and crazier. This may be the best view we get.”

  “Any of them wave to you yet?”

  “They haven’t been friendly so far. It’s a party. I’m sure they’ll warm up. This is Brooklyn.”

  “Aren’t they our enemy?” asked a black-haired girl of ten or eleven.

  “Not this weekend. No one’s our enemy. A big parade of beautiful ships from everywhere and food and fireworks.”

  That was the kicker quote Taylor needed for the story. He found a bench and sat watching the Kruzenshtern for a half hour. The shipped rocked easy on the waves. He marveled how canvas catching wind could drive along such a big thing. Was a sailor waving? Another?

  For the second time today, he wrote up a story in his notebook. Novak had ordered Cramly to wait for Taylor to file.

  When he needed a quote for the middle of the piece—the Catalanos were going at the end—he got up and talked to an older couple. The man turned out to be a Navy vet. He gave Taylor more than he needed. The ship had been German before the war. Hauled Chilean nitrate and Australian grain for the Flying P line. Taylor managed to get away after ten minutes.

  As much as he’d like to keep watching the Kruzenshtern and torture Cramly in the bargain, it had been a long day. He called.

  “That’s actually pretty good,” said Cramly.

  Taylor didn’t say I know, but he knew. “Thanks.” He’d worked hard on the writing, surprising himself as he sought to get the descriptions just right.

  “You wove it all together well. Like you cared.”

  “Love the sarcasm. What I care about is getting dinner.”

  Yet he stood another couple of minutes taking in the sailing ship, which floated like some mirage out of time right next to hard, dangerous, dirty New York City. Was the city cleaner and safer back when ships like that crowded the harbor? Probably not. The past might have even been worse.

  Square-masted ships from days of yore might not signal a better future, but they made for a better Friday night.