Concourse, p.15
Concourse, page 15
part #2 of Bill Smith & Lydia Chin Series
“One more thing. How are the payments made?”
He looked at me in disbelief. “You write a check, with your name all over it.”
“No, I mean where? How? Directly to the Cobras?”
“Are you shitting me? I wouldn’t go near those guys. Some guy, I meet him at a greasy spoon.”
“How’d you know how to do it?”
“He called me. Said he heard I needed protection.”
“What’s his name?”
“Don’t know.”
“What’s he look like?”
Burcynski shrugged again.
Our eyes met, held each other steadily.
“Okay.” I moved a mountain of cigar butts around in the ashtray to make a place to stub out my cigarette. “Thanks.”
“Yeah,” Burcynski grunted. His cigar glowed a superior, contented red.
The woman behind the desk smiled conspiratorially and winked. I smiled back and left, ignoring the heartbreaking pleas from the air-freshener I was abandoning.
TWENTY-THREE
I went to see Andy Hill.
The Courthouse building held the Bronx County offices. I’d been there a few times over the years, in the old paneled courtrooms, the dim and dusty records rooms in the basement. Once I’d been hauled in and chewed out by a baby-faced A.D.A. in a government-green office, but nothing came of that.
I climbed the long ceremonial steps to the bronze doors figured with eagles and hourglasses. Inside, the lobby’s marble shone and the ceiling arched high.
The upper floors, though, had been renovated, in line with a new, diminished concept of public service that saw civic grandeur as a lower virtue than serviceability. Vinyl tile covered terrazzo floors; plastic lighting grids hid high coffered ceilings. Openings had been punched in limestone walls and wheezy air conditioners stuck through them. Formica replaced teak in elevator cabs. Looming over the neighborhood, the Bronx County Courthouse represented government to the governed with limestone columns and copper friezes, marble statues and vast granite staircases. Inside it looked like any cheaply made public building in any tired city in America.
At the Borough President’s suite—a formerly high-ceilinged, marble-paved area on the third floor—the receptionist asked my name and business. She was a black woman of my own age with a beauty-parlor hairdo and no smile at all.
“Is Mr. Hill expecting you?”
Interesting question, I thought. “I just took a chance that he’d be free.”
“Mr. Hill is rarely free.” She seemed to be controlling her temper with an effort, as though she’d explained all this to me before. “He keeps a very busy schedule.”
“I’m sure that’s true. But maybe you could ask him if he’ll see me, since I came all the way here?”
She didn’t ask me all the way from where, which was just as well. She waved me to a seat beneath photographs of former Borough Presidents and watched, stone-faced, until I sat. She spoke into her multigadget telephone; then, covering the mouthpiece, she said, “Mr. Hill is asking if he knows you.”
“Tell him we met yesterday morning. I used to work for Arthur Chaiken.”
She told him. And he, apparently, told her to show me in. She pointed down a corridor beyond the heavy-traffic carpet, to the private offices. “Third door on the right.”
Behind the third door on the right were high windows and a nice cream-and-tan paint job. There were plaques lauding Andy Hill’s sense of civic duty, photos of him deploying it in the company of public and community figures, including, I noticed, one with Arthur Chaiken at a ribbon-cutting. A laminated Bronx map hung above a glass-fronted bookcase full of law books and phone books. As befits a Community Liaison, a massive Rolodex squatted on the corner of Andy Hill’s desk and Andy Hill, when I walked in, was on the phone.
Smiling, he motioned me to a chair, made a deprecating face at the receiver. He mouthed “Be right with you” silently and with perfect clarity. Maybe he practiced in front of a mirror.
As I sat, he spoke into the phone. “No, I don’t think so. Well, I haven’t heard that, Mr. Molina. But I’ll look into it, just to make sure. No, that’s what I’m here for.”
His voice, contradicting the face he’d made, exuded concern over a constituent’s problems, and the dauntless ability to solve them. Don’t worry, things are under control, the BP’s man is on the case. I found myself wondering whether this was a real phone conversation or page 168 of Power: How to Get It, How to Use It. Probably the real thing; if it were for my benefit, it wouldn’t be “Mr. Molina” but “Mr. Mayor.”
Hill said, “Good-bye, Mr. Molina,” grinned at me, punched the intercom button. “Betty, wait a couple of days, then send Molina a we’ve-investigated-your-complaint-and—no, wait, that’s what we sent him last time. Send the one about we’re looking into it, appreciate your concern, citizens like you, blah blah blah. Thanks.”
He hung up, came energetically around the desk, as though he’d been hoping for a break in his routine and here I was. “Mr. Smith! How are you? I’m sorry I went blank on your name before.”
“That’s okay.” I stood to shake his hand. “People go blank on me all the time.”
His navy suit was as fine as the charcoal one he’d worn yesterday, and his red-silk tie picked up the discreet red monogram on his shirt cuff. His pale eyes were frank and smiling as he said, “Look, I don’t have much time. It’s crazy around here today. But a friend of Arthur’s …” He left the sentence unfinished. Guys like us, we know what it means to be a friend of Arthur’s. “Did he send you?”
“Mr. Chaiken? No, this was my idea.” I could have gone on, but I thought I’d toss the ball back to him and see how he played it.
He nodded, as though that was one of the standard serves. “Well, of course I’m glad you came by, but I really have nothing for you. I’m sorry.”
Bad play, Smith, I told myself. Now you’re confused. “Nothing for me?”
“Well, I told Arthur, I use investigators around here once in a blue moon, but I don’t need anyone right at the moment. I could get you an intro at the Bronx D.A.’s office, if that would help.” He looked pleased with the thought and reached for his Rolodex.
“Oh.” And probably to that nice baby-faced A.D.A., too. “Thanks, but I didn’t come here looking for a job, Mr. Hill.”
“Andy. Everybody calls me Andy. Then I don’t understand. Arthur said you’d been laid off and might need work—”
“My firm’s been taken off the Bronx Home job. But that’s not why I’m here. I’ve actually just come to ask you a few questions.”
“To ask me questions? What kind of questions?” Glancing at his watch, he went back around and sat at his desk. He leaned forward, threaded his fingers, his eyes still guileless and eager. If he had had to throw me out just when the questions got interesting, his posture said, it would be with regret, and it would only be his hectic schedule that was to blame.
“Well, I’m not sure,” I began. “Your name keeps popping up in the strangest places.”
He laughed. “So do I. It’s part of my job.” He could have gone on then, too, but he tossed the ball back to me. It seemed we had the same instincts.
“Do you play handball?” I asked.
“Handball? As a matter of fact I do. Why?”
“Just wondered. It’s my game.”
“I do play. I play squash, too, with Arthur sometimes. But I prefer handball. I like as little as possible between the game and myself.”
We did have the same instincts.
“Maybe we could get together for a game sometime,” he said. “But that’s not why you came?”
“No. Is it all right if I smoke?” Time out.
“Oh, sure.” He grinned, pushed a heavy marble ashtray my way. “As long as you’re not insulted if I open a window.” No score. He opened the window. Crisp autumn air ruffled the papers on his desk.
“I was over by Gun Hill Road today,” I said, shaking out the match. “To talk to Abe Burcynski.”
“Burcynski?” His brow furrowed, but it was a feint. “Triple-A Trucking?”
“Yes.”
“How’s his driver doing? Vega?” One-nothing, Hill.
“Still in a coma. He’s why I went. What happened to him?”
“If you went to talk about him, you must know.” Two-nothing.
I took in smoke, nodded. “He was making a night delivery to the Bronx Home. The Cobras said night wasn’t in the contract and wanted to renegotiate. That’s what I heard, anyway.”
“That’s what I heard, too.”
“Burcynski says he called you and you said you’d look into it.”
He gave me a shamefaced smile, gestured at the phone. “I say that to a lot of people.”
“Well, someone got in touch with Burcynski and straightened him out. He makes his payments now and everyone’s happy.”
“Really? You know,” he mused, “sometimes I think it’s too bad we can’t focus the energy and enterprise of some of these go-getters into more productive channels.”
Three-zip.
Change your strategy, Smith. Try a straight-on offense. “What do you get out of it?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Cobras must appreciate the reference.”
“The Cobras? What, you think I—” Hill’s fair skin flushed crimson. “You can’t be serious. If the BP ever smelled a hint of a suggestion of an idea that I might be associated with someone who could even spell ‘Cobras,’ I’d be out on my ear. And I resent the insinuation, by the way. You’re trying—” He stopped. The color faded from his face. He leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Well. Arthur told me you could be abrasive.”
I smiled too. “Yeah. I can. Sorry.” Three-one, and we were smiling at each other.
“Listen,” I said. “There’s something else, and probably the implications are even more insulting.”
“Go ahead,” he grinned. “I’ll try to control myself. But first you have to tell me what this is about. Is someone investigating me? Is this politics?”
“No, not politics.” I told him what I was working on, but not whom I was working for. I wasn’t sure why; but something in my gut was telling me to keep Bobby out of this.
Hill frowned thoughtfully when I was through. “That’s what you said yesterday morning: that these killings might be something else, not what they looked like. You didn’t say you were investigating.”
“No.”
He waited a beat or two, but I didn’t add anything. No score, again.
“And why come to me? You still haven’t explained that. Unless—” his face lit up “—you think I did it? God, I’ve been called a lot of things, but this is a new one.”
I’d played opponents like this before. Sometimes they really had no strategy, just a straightforward game, all power and speed and punch. They were surprisingly effective, if they knew their own weaknesses, their vulnerable spots.
But sometimes the openness and lack of guile was the strategy: let your opponent think you have no game to dope out, while you watch his. Then come at him suddenly, tripping him into all the mistakes of temperament, false expectation, and bad habit you’ve discovered him capable of.
Usually—but not always—I could beat guys like that.
I answered Hill. “Can you tell me why you own property all over the Bronx, and why Helping Hands always buys its properties from you?”
His eyes widened, just a little. Three-two. Then he gave me a rueful smile. “Arthur was right. You are good.” Time out. He stood, walked to the window, where the tar roofs of smaller buildings soaked up the October sun, as though they could store it against the cold, dark time to come. “How did you find out about that? And why did you even look?”
“I looked because I’m looking at everything and everybody connected with the Bronx Home. I found out because I looked.” And because I have a very, very clever partner, whose name is going to stay out of this conversation too, I thought.
Hill continued to stare out the window; then, abruptly, he turned, came back to his desk and sat. Play resumes.
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in throwing you out of my office?”
“You could do that. Of course, I might wonder why. I might get so curious I’d have to ask Arthur why you’d do a thing like that. Or I could ask the BP what he knows about real estate.” Three-all, and I had two balls in play.
He went after the foul one. “You haven’t talked to Arthur yet?”
“Is there a reason why I should?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Hill said easily. “He’d just tell you the same things I will.”
Uh-huh, I thought. “What things are those?”
He tapped his fingers on the desk a time or two, then spoke. “It’s important for you to know that nothing I’ve done is illegal.”
Important to you, maybe. I didn’t answer.
He sighed. “Arthur and I have an arrangement. It works for both of us.”
“He’s making money on the side too?” I frowned.
“Just listen, will you?” Out-of-bounds. No score. “We consult on sites for his programs. It’s part of my job, helping businesses locate in the Bronx. You know, the Bronx Renaissance?”
“What’s that?”
“Government facilities are located in the borough as seeds to attract other development. I help smooth the way for the other development.”
“Like Helping Hands?”
Hill pursed his fleshy lips. “Arthur identifies a need, a program the foundation will sponsor. Together we look at likely sites. In fact, that’s how I got started. There can be community opposition, as you might imagine. Misguided, but it’s there.”
“How you got started buying properties?”
“Yes. While he’s getting his financing together, I buy the property he’s going to want. Nobody worries about anything being sold to something called R&G Properties—all my holding companies have meaningless names like that. Then when Helping Hands is ready, I sell to them. They don’t have to approach local property owners, which is usually what sets off the brouhaha. We have a system down by now, Arthur and I. We can go to closing in a matter of days.”
“So this is community service? Philanthropy?”
“I’m not pretending that. I make a profit on each sale. Usually small, under five figures. Why shouldn’t I? It’s real estate. It’s legal.”
“It’s money Helping Hands could use for something else.”
“No.” He shook his head. “The foundation doesn’t supply its own capital budget, only about half its annual operating costs. The rest, and the capital funds, come from grants.”
“Oh. So it’s money New York State could use for something else.”
“Right. To pay all the lawyers and public relations people it would take to help Arthur acquire the sites he buys from me.” Four–three, but a cheap point.
“And the sites nearby?”
“Which sites?”
“In a lot of cases you own property very near the Helping Hands buildings.”
“Oh,” he said. “Sometimes it isn’t clear to Arthur at the beginning which of a number of properties he wants. I buy the likely ones.”
“And you just sit on the ones he doesn’t buy from you?”
Hill grinned. “You know someone who wants them?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. I’m hoping someday someone might. Bronx real estate is an investment that can only appreciate. Meanwhile, most of them are occupied. Rents just about offset expenses.”
“And the profit you make on the ones Helping Hands buys takes the sting out?”
“That too. Listen, Smith, this is actually kind of fun, but I’ve got a lot on my plate today. Did you get what you came for?”
“I don’t know what I came for, and I don’t know what I got. Can I ask you one more thing?”
“If it’s quick.”
“What is it Triple-A delivers over there at night?”
“I don’t know what it was, but I believe they’ve stopped.”
“Not according to Burcynski.”
Aha. A slight movement of the eyebrows, a brief hesitation. Four–all. “No? Well, I’m not sure about that. But I’ll look into it.”
I laughed. For a moment he seemed uncertain why. Then he grinned. “No, I really will. Look, I’m sorry, but I really have to get back to work. Come back any time you want to accuse me of something. It’s been a pleasure.”
Hill rose with a smile, shook my hand, showed me to the door.
Game called on account of darkness.
TWENTY-FOUR
I couldn’t think of a thing to do next except have lunch. So I headed for that, crossing the street to the deli where I’d run into Arthur Chaiken and Andy Hill the morning before.
The sky over the Bronx was startlingly blue. The afternoon sun glowed the honey color you see on groomed lawns and stately homes in calendar photographs. Here, it picked out elaborate details of brickwork and stone, glazed terra cotta, ornate cornice lines; but it shone equally upon peeling paint, vacant windows, doors twisted on their hinges, and the graffiti that lapped at street walls like breakers from a rising sea.
It was after two, and the deli was half empty. Up front, a rumpled attorney waved his fork at a thin black woman. An untouched cup of coffee sat before her; he was demolishing a corned-beef platter. Other lawyers were scattered around, most of them tired-looking middle-aged men. The few younger men and women wore the suits and power ties of people on the move. A.D.A.’s, they were, with ambitions: maybe to rise in politics; or maybe to pick up a prosecutor’s mental habits, then open criminal defense practices, where, after a number of years, they would get to be tired-looking and middle-aged.
I ordered a cup of coffee and a pastrami sandwich. The coffee was to help me think. What I really wanted was a beer, to help me not think, to spread that optimistic warmth through my brain that said everything would work out one way or another.
What the hell to do now? Talk to more people, hear more half-truths. Wait for that moment, that break: the lie you catch someone in, the story that doesn’t match, the offhand word that couldn’t possibly be true. That’s how cases are broken; but you don’t get that unless you do the dogging, the footwork, the going over and over and over the same barren ground.
