Herbert Lieberman - City of the Dead

“And he doesn’t know who they are?”

“Never seen ’em before in his life. Don’t even know their names. All he knows is they offered him twenty-five dollars to go up to Grand Central, pick up a bag, take it out to Queens.”

“And he did it? No questions asked?”

“If you saw the guy,” Haggard growls almost pleadingly, “you’d know right away he’s not the kind to ask questions. They gave him ten down; the rest was supposed to be on delivery. He needed the bread. He was on the take. Believe me, Paul—the guy knows nothing. He’s too stupid.”

Konig sits hunched over his desk, a toppling pile of letters before him. There is a throbbing pain at his temples and he struggles to suppress his rage.

“So he was just a set-up?” Konig mutters through clenched teeth.

“’Fraid so. Just using him to test us.”

“And they made monkeys out of you.”

“Right—we blew it. That goddamned stupid battery,” Haggard fumes. “All my fault. Should’ve known enough to have a backup car. And this poor kid, DeSoto—stuck out there like that. Had no choice. Hadda blow his cover. Either that or risk losing the money or the guy.”

“Should’ve just sat there, goddamnit,” Konig shouts, his fist pummeling the desk so that papers and pencils fly askew. “Why the hell couldn’t he just sit there? If Meacham’s people were there, they wouldn’t have let that bag sit all by itself on that bench for too long.”

“I know, I know.” Haggard’s voice is full of self-reproach. “The kid was green, inexperienced. I know.”

“Arid you entrust my daughter’s life to some klutz rookie—”

“He’s not a rookie, Paul. He’s—”

“Oh, Christ.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Jesus—will you quit saying that? Your sorrow’s not going to help her any. What do we do now?”

The silence at the other end is devastating. An admission of defeat. Finally Haggard summons the courage to speak. “I don’t know what we do now. Frankly, I’ve run out of leads. I’ve got nothing to go on. Zero. Goose eggs. I spoke to the Bureau today. They don’t have a helluva lot more. They’re still working from the bomb angle. They believe they can tie a number of so-called political bombings in the Northeast to Meacham and some of the people he served time with in Danbury.”

“How does that help us?”

“They’re trying to track down every one of these guys in the hope that they’ll know where Meacham is. I’ve identified one from this area. Fellow by the name of Klejewski, whose last place of residence, incidentally, was that bomb factory up in The Bronx. Even ran down his old lady out here in Astoria. I’m sure this guy’s in contact with Meacham. Couple of bombings in this area recently indicate they’re together again and working. If I could lay my hands on him, I’d find Meacham. I’d beat it out of him.”

“But the point is,” Konig snarls, his manner ugly, full of repudiation, “you can’t find him, can you? You can’t find anything. And the goddamned Bureau can’t find anything either. A handful of fleabag revolutionaries making monkeys of you all.”

“Paul—”

“You’re a fool. You’re all fools.”

“Paul, wait—”

“Forget it.”

“Listen to me, Paul. Listen—”

“Forget it, I said. Stay out of it now. I did it your way and it’s a botch. Now I take over. I’d rather make my own mistakes than yours. The next time will be my way—that is, if we’re lucky enough to have a next time.”

“Paul, listen to me. Wait a minute—listen—”

But Konig has already hung up. In a cold sweat he sits now in the dusky shadows of his office, a pain like an ax blade buried in his sternum, constricting his chest.

For a long while Konig sits there slumped over his desk, rubbing the pain in his chest, flailing himself with ghastly imaginings of what Meacham and his friends were at that moment doing to Lolly as repayment for the ludicrous episode in the park. He would certainly take it out on her now. Make her pay for her father’s treachery.

At any moment now he expects the phone to ring, to pick it up and hear one of those long, ghastly shrieks, then the obscene little snigger in the background. That would be Meacham’s idea of paying him back—the anguish and terror of his child. It was all his own fault too. He was responsible for her agony. Had he not mentioned anything to Haggard, had he simply delivered the money, done what they asked, she might be home now, sitting there with him that very moment.

Then indeed the phone does ring. He freezes there, unable to reach for it. It rings several times more while he stares at it with a mad fixity, waiting for Carver to pick it up. Then he realizes that it’s past five and she’s gone for the day, and he springs for it.

“Is that you?” comes a familiar voice from the other end.

“Yes. Maury?”

“Figured I’d find you in.” The Deputy Mayor’s voice is halting, stilted, even mildly self-deprecating. He seems oddly embarrassed as he flounders around with the kind of casual chitchat that is not his stock in trade. Then suddenly, out of the blue, he says, “The Mayor would like to see you tomorrow, Paul.”

“Oh?” Konig replies, listless, uncaring. “What time?”

“Any time that’s convenient for you.”

That in itself, Konig knows, is ominous. He has known the Mayor long enough to know that he doesn’t see people at their own convenience in order to pin medals on them.

“Anything special on his mind?” he asks bleakly.

There’s a pause and he can hear Benjamin squirming at the other end. “You haven’t heard anything up there, have you?”

“About what?”

“Something to the effect that a Daily News reporter got ahold of one of the prison guards at the Tombs?”

“No, I haven’t. What about it?”

“You haven’t heard anything.,about that?” Benjamin asks again.

“I just said I haven’t.” Konig slumps a bit lower in his seat and waits.

“Well”—a long, weary sigh issues from the Deputy Mayor—“I suppose it was inevitable. All this business about the body-snatching racket. And then your pal Carslin whooping it up over the Robinson matter. I guess it was inevitable.”

“What’s inevitable?” Konig gnashes his teeth. “What’s all this about the Daily News? ”

“One of their investigative reporters—”

“Yes—”

“—got ahold of one of the prison guards at the Tombs—”

“I know—you’ve said all that.”

“Well, this guard made a full statement that he’d been witness to the beating of Linnel Robinson. According to this guy, when he came on the scene one guard was already in the cell with Robinson. What he was doing in there I don’t know. There’s a specific rule, strictly enforced, that under no circumstances does a guard ever enter a prisoner’s cell all by himself. If you ask me, this fellow went in there to settle a few old scores with Robinson, then found he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Three more guards rushed in with blackjacks—”

“This is all in the guard’s statement?” Konig interrupts.

“Yes. The first guard then held Robinson while the other three proceeded to beat the hell out of him. According to this fellow who spoke to the News, after that beating Robinson crawled’ out of his cell on all fours, bleeding from the face and head. He asked to see a doctor but they refused him. Instead they handcuffed him and tossed him back into solitary confinement where he was found two days later hanging from the bars of a cell window.”

“So?” Konig says, the shadows of his office deepening all around him.

“Blaylock has already suspended three guards,” the Deputy Mayor continues. “A fourth has left for reasons of ‘health.’”