Robert Knightly - The cold room

I wanted to get out the door, right then and there, to begin my search for Clyde Kelly, but I still had a few details to arrange. I went to my locker first, for the spare shirt and trousers I kept for emergencies, then into the washroom where I stripped to the waist and scrubbed myself with paper towels before combing my hair. When I was done, I headed directly for Drew Millard’s office.

Millard was at his desk when I came in, sitting behind a semicircle of 8x10 photographs. The snapshot quality photos were of his wife and his six children. They were all, he’d once told me, that got him through the day.

‘I found him, loo,’ I announced. ‘I found the asshole who killed that Jane Doe last month.’

Feigning a humility that in no way mirrored my inner feelings, I went on to explain that there was nothing miraculous about the break I’d finally caught. It was simply a matter of burning a little shoe leather, of putting the vic’s likeness before the community until somebody dropped a dime. Now I had a suspect and an excuse to detain him while I contacted the witness.

Millard disagreed on only one point, the charge against Barsakov. In New York, possession of less than twenty-five grams of marijuana is a mere violation, punishable by no more than a fine. I wanted to charge Barsakov with smoking marijuana in a public place, a misdemeanor, because I needed an excuse to hold him while I looked for Clyde Kelly.

Maybe, Millard pointed out when I finished my pitch, the door to Domestic Solutions was unlocked, and maybe Barsakov was smoking the joint when I walked in. He wasn’t doubting my word. But the narrow definition of public space in the penal code did not include place of business.

‘Bottom line,’ he finally said, ‘we can put him in the system, but the judge’ll toss the case when it comes up for arraignment tomorrow morning. Assuming you don’t find your witness by then.’

‘Tomorrow morning will be fine. And you could do me one other favor.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Find someone to fingerprint the suspect. I want to make sure he isn’t operating under an alias.’

‘No problem.’

I went from Millard’s office to Bobby Bandelone’s cubicle, there to request a second favor. Procedure required that I show Clyde Kelly a photo array that included Barsakov before I put the suspect in a line-up. I needed someone to snap Barsakov’s photo, and the photos of five other white men who looked reasonably like him, with the precinct’s Polaroid.

Bandelone put up only a token resistance when I asked him to perform this little service. Maybe it was something in my eyes, something he recognized. Bandelone was a very good detective. Or maybe he was a bit afraid of my reputation as an IAB snitch. Or maybe he just thought it better to stay on Crazy Harry’s good side. I didn’t much care. I was already focused on Clyde Kelly.

The Karyn Porter-Mannberg Senior Residence on Wythe Avenue was typical of others scattered through the five boroughs. Four stories high, the building spread across three lots and was virtually without architectural detail. Red brick, green window frames, white sills beneath the windows, absolutely regular, absolutely functional. But whatever Porter-Mannberg lacked in style, it was clean and solid. The hot water would be hot, the toilets would flush, heat would be forthcoming in the winter. For the elderly poor, like Clyde Kelly, it was the difference between a tolerable decline and the absolute hell of a men’s shelter.

The white-tile lobby I entered was just large enough to hold the mailboxes and a small desk. A security guard sat behind the desk. Tall and thin, he wore a blue uniform with a nametag over the left breast identifying him as OFFICER ROBERTSON. A thick leather belt around his waist held a canister of mace, a pair of handcuffs and a folding knife.

‘I’m looking for Clyde Kelly.’ I displayed my shield for the customary three seconds. ‘Is he upstairs?’

‘Nope. Went out about one o’clock and ain’t come back since.’

‘Will he return for dinner?’

‘Mostly, he does.’

I glanced at my watch. It was almost six o’clock. ‘What time is dinner served?’

Robertson smiled. ‘Well, it ain’t exactly served, but you can get a hot meal between six and seven. After that, it’s peanut butter and jelly. But you ain’t gotta worry. Clyde always comes back in time for the curfew at ten o’clock. Sleepin’ in the street makes him nervous.’

With little choice in the matter, I settled down to wait.

A few minutes before seven, a short black man hustled through the door. I locked eyes with the guard who nodded at the new arrival. He wore a camouflage T-shirt over a pair of cargo pants and he caught an attitude when I stopped him, despite the gold shield I held in my hand.

‘Ain’t got time for no bullshit,’ he declared. ‘Ah’m gonna miss my dinner.’

‘This’ll only take a second.’ I stepped between him and the stairs. ‘I just need a little help here. I’m looking for Clyde Kelly.’

Officer Robertson spoke up. ‘Ain’t nothin’ bad, Percy. Jus’ speak to the detective.’

Percy tossed Robertson a hard look that spoke of grievances past, grievances unresolved. ‘Last time I took notice,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t in your army and I don’t got to take your orders.’

‘That’s right,’ I echoed, ‘this is between you and me.’ I added a smile to my comment before offering the man a deal. ‘By the way, I’m guaranteeing your dinner. You don’t get fed upstairs, the Chinese take-out’s on me.’

Percy huffed twice, in an effort, no doubt, to show me that he was a hard sell. Then he said, ‘I jus’ come from Clyde. We was under the bridge, hangin’ out.’

‘Is he on his way back to the residence?’

‘Naw, he went to the festival, watch ’em tote that statue. Clyde’s a Catholic.’

‘What festival?’

He flared up, his shoulders rising as though I’d deliberately provoked him. ‘You know, where the wops carry that statue down the street. I can’t pronounce that name they call it.’

Robertson supplied the missing information, his voice dripping contempt for Percy’s ignorance. ‘The Giglio. It’s called the Giglio.’

His pronunciation of the word — JEEL-yo — finally kicked my brain into gear. Some weeks before, a long memo from the Community Affairs Officer had circulated through the Nine-Two, a kind of reminder. I’d read the memo from beginning to end, intrigued by the details.

Every year, according to the memo, one of the many Catholic churches in Williamsburg throws a festival to honor an Italian bishop whose name I couldn’t recall. The highlight of each day is the ‘dance’ of the Giglio. This may not seem like such a big deal, but the Giglio includes, among its elements, a seventy-foot tower crowned with a statue of the saint and a wooden platform large enough to hold a brass band, a priest from the parish, the capo in charge, and a few local celebrities. Beneath the platform, more than a hundred of the strongest and most virile men in the neighborhood crouch, their shoulders pressed to aluminium crossbars, awaiting a signal from the capo. They raise the four-ton Giglio when that signal comes, then carry it a short distance before setting it down. This process is repeated a number of times.

I’d put the memo to one side after reading it. From a policing standpoint, the issues were about crowd control and petty crime. They had nothing to do with Detective Harry Corbin.

‘You know where this festival takes place?’ I asked.

‘Up the Northside, on Havemeyer Street. But if you fixin’ on locatin’ Clyde, you can just put that shit away. Them guineas, they pack ’em in like sardines when they dance the statue. You can’t hardly move.’