Pete Hamill - Brooklyn Noir

“Geez,” Mintz said, trying not to hyperventilate. “You want me to say I’m the one who found him?”

“Now that I think about it,” DeGraw said, “there might be a lot of footprints down there, how you gonna step into all the ones that are mine?”

“Exactly.”

“And second, I already got his blood on my shoes, in my pants, and who knows where else. When somebody tells a detective how I threatened Willy on Labor Day, I’m an instant suspect. And when they test this uniform for Willy’s blood, I am screwed.”

“But I can still vouch for ya, Frank,” Mintz said. “We were together all night.”

“Which makes you a secondary suspect.”

“Well, then fuck it, the only thing I can do is read you your rights,” Mintz said, whooping as he removed handcuffs from their belt holster. “You are under arrest.”

“Just cut it out, all right?” DeGraw said as Mintz laughed. “You know, I hate it when you enjoy my predicaments.”

“Somebody’s gotta lighten this mood, Frank, ’cuz lemme tell ya, this mood sucks.”

DeGraw leaned back on the wall and eyed the bloody hand on the sidewalk, taking out cigarettes. He put one in his mouth, gave Mintz one, then lit them both.

“Awright, face it, yer screwed anyway,” Mintz said, fighting for control. “They gonna find out what you said to Wild Willy on Labor Day, so ya gotta figure goin’ in they’re gonna take a good hard look at you, at least as a formality. Holy shit, yer fucked.”

“Do me a favor and stop laughin’, ya prick.”

“Just nerves, Frank. You know I get this way. Don’t be mad at me.”

“It makes me frickin’ nuts, so stop it, okay? What am I gonna do here?”

“What do you mean, do?” Mintz said. “We gotta call this in.”

“I don’t know, is that true?”

Mintz contemplated his meaning for a second. “Whoa, whoa, wait a minute…”

DeGraw said, “Where are we?”

Mintz didn’t understand the question. “Red Hook.”

“Red Hook waterfront,” DeGraw said, like he was leading an idiot. “And what are those? Those things right over there, and all over here?”

“Metal drums.”

“Some rusted, with holes in ’em. And over there we got cinderblocks.”

“Oh no,” Mintz said. “Oh God, no, no, no.”

“Why not?”

“But, but, but, but…”

“But give me one reason.”

“How ’bout it’s against the LAW goddamnit!” Mintz said.

“We are cops,” DeGraw replied. “We’re on the right side of the law, my friend.”

“But you’re not guilty,” Mintz whined. “What would you be coverin’ up for?”

“Bear with me,” DeGraw said. “It’s clear this blood is fresh, and we’ve been together all night. So if I get jammed up for this, you do too, right? So, since you got a stake here, I say the freakin’ Mafia dumps so many bodies out there in the Buttermilk you can practically walk across to Governor’s Island — and don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about. So let’s just pick up the pieces of Wild Willy, stuff ’em all in a barrel with cinderblocks, walk it out to the pier head there — and finish the frickin’ job.”

“Jesus,” Mintz said, gulping air and whooping again. DeGraw was speaking in earnest, but kept his tone even.

“What would be left to find? Blood? It’s gonna rain the rest of the night and tomorrow too. Guaran teed there’s no blood to notice between these two warehouses when the sun comes up. Then it’s a missing-person case at most and chances are it never goes beyond that.”

“Interesting theory,” Mintz said. “You willin’ to stake your career on that?”

“I’m willin’ to stake my freedom on that, and nobody would hate jail more than me, Louie. And we might as well face another fact while we’re at it — this thing ain’t no coincidence It’s aimed right at me.”

“Oh sure, like the world revolves around you,” Mintz said. “How ya figure?”

“The wallet. They wanted this guy found and identified.” Mintz began to pace back and forth while DeGraw held up the warehouse with his back and thought out loud. “I think chances are excellent that somebody, maybe some twisted individual right in Gravesend, who maybe witnessed me threaten this guy with murder and mutilation…”

“Not necessarily in that order,” Mintz said.

“And maybe that sick individual has one huge case of the hots for Sandy, which could be the key here…”

“She is pretty hot, if you don’t mind me sayin’, Frank.”

DeGraw went on, “And maybe he got in his mind that if he conks this Willy guy on the head, cuts him up and puts him exactly where he knew I’d be tonight, he can run with the opportunity I myself inadvertently provided on friggin’ Labor Day.”

“Wait, you’re sayin’ all this happens because the guy wants a shot at Sandy?”

“Smart move, ain’t it? With means, motive, and opportunity, the heat is right on me. I could go away for a long time off this or maybe even end up on Death Row.”

“I apologize for puttin’ it this way,” Mintz said, “but you yourself said many times in the past coupla years that a guy ain’t gotta murder nobody to get in Sandy’s pants. You call that woman a slut all the time. So who better than you would know that all it takes is a coupla seven-and-sevens and you’re in like Flynn.”

“I divorced her, didn’t I? How do you know she drinks seven-and-sevens?”

“You told me once, a long time ago. Anyway, so okay, so who needs to commit a murder and pin it on you to get a piece of yer ex-wife?”

New emotions began creasing DeGraw’s face. “’Tween you an’ me — my son don’t even look like me. I hate to say it. It kills me. But I can’t shake this feeling.”

“Stop it, stop it right now,” Mintz said. “The kid looks just like you and that’s that. If not exactly, then close enough. So put it all right outa yer head.”

DeGraw reined in his feelings and pushed on, “All right, I’ll give you another motive, Louie. We been doin’ too good a job around here, breakin’ up Wild Willy’s gravy train. Face it, they might even like Wild Willy, but if his corpse means they can get back to the way they were haulin’ hot shit outa here, Willy is dead. Or maybe they’re pissed off for some unrelated reason and want Willy out of the picture. So off of that alone, partner, maybe some enterprising mob wanna-be sees a chance to take Willy out and pin it on the very cops screwed things up on the waterfront, so he takes a shot.”

“Much as I hate to admit it,” Mintz said, “that one makes a certain sense. With both Willy and us gone, things go back to normal… But can we really do this?”

“Come on, partner,” DeGraw said, taking another pair of surgical gloves from Mintz’s pocket. “Nobody here. All we do is introduce what’s left of Mr. Wild Willy to the depths of the East River, where the little fishies will enjoy eating Italian once again. Then we’re home free: no murder, no suspects, no change on the Red Hook waterfront.”

“God help me,” Mintz answered, closing his eyes and trying to force a swallow through a dry throat, “but I just can’t do this. It’s too risky.”

Deflated, DeGraw slumped back against the building. “Okay, man. I understand.”

“Look, Frank, I’m sorry, but I just…”

“It’s okay, partner. I’ll handle it… how I handle it. Why don’t you just call it in.”

Mintz lifted the radio and hesitated, fingering the broadcast key without activating the call. “Wait a minute, what am I thinking? We have to do this.”

“No we don’t,” DeGraw said. “I’ll handle it.”