Robert Crais - Lullaby Town

At nine-forty-two that morning Roland George called. I took it in the living room. Pike picked up in the kitchen. Roland George said, "The Jag you saw is registered to a Jamaican named Urethro Mubata. Came up here in 1981. Fourteen arrests, two convictions, assault, armed robbery, like that. He's mostly in the dope business."

"Not exactly a good-will ambassador."

"Uh-uh. He did eight months at Rikers for possession with intent and another fourteen at Sing Sing for attempted murder. When he was at Ossining, he did cell time with a man named Jesus Santiago, another Jamaican. Santiago served out, but Mubata's on parole."

"Santiago in for pimping?"

"That's it. Sorta curious how this guy Mubata got the forty grand for a new Jaguar when his employment of record is being a busboy at Arturo's Tapas Stand in Jackson Heights."

Pike said, "What about Sealy and the cop?"

"Sealy is a hype, registered in the methadone program at St. Vincent's. He's a nobody with a string of minor busts, mostly hijack and street boosting, run a little policy, steal a few stereos, that kind of thing."

"Is he part of DeLuca's crew?"

"It's not in the files, but it's possible. The guy's a drop of pus, but he's a known associate. Hard to figure, though. Hype like this, Charlie DeLuca shouldn't be having anything to do with him."

Pike said, "He shouldn't be having anything to do with a police officer, either."

"Yeah." Something hard came into Roland's voice. "The officer in question is employed by Kennedy Airport Security. He is not undercover."

"Okay."

I hung up. Joe Pike came into the living room from the kitchen and said, "I make it for a hijacking setup. Something coming into Kennedy."

"It sounds right, but why's Charlie sneaking around? He gets a tip that something worth stealing is coming in, he uses the Jamaicans to pull the heist, then they split the take with him. Big deal. Why does he want to keep it from Sal?"

"Because he doesn't want to split the money."

I thought about it some more and shook my head. "It's not a world breaker. Charlie shows a little initiative, he makes a few extra bucks. What's Daddy going to do?"

Pike said, "There's the hype."

I nodded. The hype didn't figure. You want to keep secrets, you don't do business with a hype. "Maybe Charlie doesn't have a choice. Maybe, whatever he's doing, he can't do it without the hype."

Pike grunted. "Makes you wonder what he's got going, that he can't do it without a hype."

I said, "Yes, it does. Maybe we should ask the hype and find out."

"What if the hype won't cooperate?"

"He'll cooperate. Everyone knows that a hype can't keep secrets. They have low self-esteem."

We put on our coats and our guns and made the drive into Manhattan in less than fifty minutes.

We parked by a subway entrance near 92nd Street and Central Park West, then walked two blocks to an eight-story gray-stone building with painted windows and a lot of crummy shops on the ground floor and a fire escape.

Pike said, "Third floor in the back. Three-F."

We entered the lobby of the apartment building between a place that sold discount clothing and a place that sold donuts. The lobby had a white and black linoleum floor, circa 1952, probably the last year it had been waxed, and someone had scotch-taped a little handwritten sign that said out of service to the elevator. Someone else had urinated on the floor. You watch Miami Vice or Wiseguy , the criminals always live in palatial apartments and drive Ferraris. So much for verisimilitude.

We walked up the two flights, then down a dingy hall past a stack of newspapers four feet tall, Pike leading. An empty plastic Cup-A-Soup was lying on its side atop the newspapers. Three-F was the third apartment on the left side of the hall. When Pike got to the door, he stood there a moment, head cocked to the side, and then he shook his head. "Not home."

"How do you know?"

Shrug. "Knock and see."

I knocked, then knocked again. Nothing.

Pike spread his hands.

I said, "Why don't we be sure?"

Pike shook his head, giving me bored.

There was only one lock and it was cheap. I let us into a studio apartment that was just as attractive as the rest of the building. Bags of fast-food wrappers and potato-chip empties in the kitchenette, stacks of the New York Post and the National Enquirer along the walls, paper cups packed with dead cigarettes by a throw-pillow couch, and the sour smell of body odor and wet matches, Nice. No Richard Francis Sealy, though. Maybe Pike could see through walls.

We went back down to the mail drop in the lobby. Most of the little mailbox doors had been jimmied – junkies looking for checks – and most of the boxes were empty. The top box had a little plastic sticker on it that said: Sal Cohen, 2A, mgr .

We went back up to the second floor and found 2-A.

I knocked hard on the door three times. Somebody threw a series of bolts and then Sal Cohen scowled out at us from behind what looked like eight security chains. He was little and dark, and he had a Sunbeam steam iron in his right hand. He said, The fuck you're knocking so loud?"

New York, New York. The attitude capital of the universe.

I said, "Richard Sealy in three-F, he's a pal of ours. He was supposed to meet us here and he's not around."

"So what?" Mr. Helpful.

"We're movie producers. We're going to produce a movie and we want him to be the star. We thought you might know when he'd be around so we could get him in on this."

Sal Cohen blinked at me and then he blinked at Joe Pike. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Sal smirked. "What bull. I know cops when I see'm."

Pike walked away down the hall.

I stepped closer to the door, lowered my voice, and tried to look furtive. I have never in my life met a cop who looked furtive, but there you go. "Okay," I said, "we're on the cops. We need your help in locating Richard Sealy so that we might topple the organized crime structure in our city."

He said, "You find him, you get me the eight months' back rent the little bag of shit owes."

"You got any idea when he'll be around?"

"No."

"You know where he works?"

"That lazy sonofabitch, work? If he worked, he wouldn't be eight months back on the rent. None of these lazy bastards work."

"You know where he spends his time?"

"Look down at Dillard's. He's always down there, shooting pool and trying to buy dope, else he's running around with those crazy Gamboza bastards."

"Gamboza bastards?" Pike came back and stood next to me.

Sal nodded and squinted out at us. "Yeah."

"As in the Gamboza family?"

"Yeah." More squinting.

I said, "Richard Sealy hangs out with the DeLuca family."

Sal laughed, and it came out like a series of sharp hacks. "Hey, you just fall off the lamebrain truck, or what? I run this building thirty-five years. Those fucking Gamboza bastards grew up right over there on Wilmont Street and so did Richie Sealy. They useta throw rocks at the niggers and steal their money, the little bastards, Richie Sealy and Nick and Tommy Gamboza and that nut case Vincent Ricci. Jesus Christ, the DeLucas." More of the hacking laugh. "Richie's about as close to being a Gamboza as you can be without the blood. Why else you think I gotta put up with a junkie eight months back on his rent? I heave him out, those bastards would cut out my heart and fry it in a pan."

I said, "But how does he fit in with the DeLucas?"

Sal squinted at me past the security chains like I was a new release from Bellevue. "He don't. Nobody around here got anything to do with the fucking DeLucas. The Upper West Side is owned lock, stock, and short hairs by the Gamboza family. DeLucas got lower Manhattan. This look like lower Manhattan to you?"