Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

The fatality count had bumped up to nine, which seemed to be where it was going to level off. This was a scale-down from ten, when it was determined after speaking with witnesses that one of the apparent victims had actually suffered a fatal heart attack just minutes before the bullets had started flying.

The oldest victim was a fifty-three-year-old math teacher from Rumson, New Jersey. The youngest was fourteen, the girl with the alto sax. Ezra Fisher’s mother had fallen somewhere in the middle. Twenty-seven. From Fort Lee, just over the George Washington Bridge. Single. No other children besides Ezra. When I heard this, the first thing that came to mind was the boy’s white balloon floating off by itself, higher and higher over the ruined parade.

We like to push bruises. I don’t know why that is.

There were several eyewitnesses who claimed to have seen a second gunman. A man running along Central Park West with a gun. The police vigorously denied these reports.

MARGO’S FATHER WAS SITTING OUT FRONT WHEN WE ARRIVED. THE house where Margo grew up was built in the mid-fifties. It is a compact little place with a cement porch overlooking a small front yard that has flat rocks where you’d expect grass. The grass is out back, where there’s also a picnic table, a birdbath and, in season, a modest vegetable garden. The house is two stories high, with an attic and a basement. It looks pretty much like all the others on the block except for its one novel feature, a long narrow ramp that runs at a shallow angle from the cement porch out over the flat rocks, ending right at the sidewalk. The ramp is wood-very solid-with two-inch-high strips running across it every two feet, sort of like the rungs of a ladder. The ramp allows Margo’s father to wheel his chair from the porch to the sidewalk. The strips help him keep the trip from getting out of hand.

Charlie Burke waved his cigar at us from the porch. “Happy Hanukkah, you two lovebirds.”

“Shalom to you, too, Charlie,” I said as I stepped onto the porch. I carried a shopping bag with Margo’s cabbage casserole.

Charlie stuck the cigar between his teeth and gave me his hard grip. “You’re as ugly as ever,” he said.

“You, too.”

Margo landed her hands gently on her father’s shoulders and went in for a soft kiss on his rough cheek. “Happy Thanksgiving, Daddy.”

“Well, we’ve had better ones, haven’t we?”

Margo straightened and her father studied her face. “That whole mess was close to your apartment, honey.”

“I phoned Mom.”

“I know you did. You’re a good girl.” He looked up at me. “They say the guy worked for a messenger service.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“That’s sort of like working for the post office. What kind of nut does something like that?”

“The worst kind,” I said.

“But they got him. Only good news of the day.”

Margo took the shopping bag from me. “I’m going inside.” She looked from her father to me and back to her father. “Save the world, men.”

She disappeared into the house. I could hear the high falsetto of her mother’s lavish greetings. I lowered myself lightly on the wrought-iron railing. Charlie was working up a blue haze with his cigar.

“It’s not over, Charlie,” I said.

He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Oh?”

“The guy they took down. Diaz. He was a stooge. Or a partner. Something. Whatever he was, he wasn’t the person behind the shooting. He was behind the gun. But he was following orders.”

“Keep going.”

“Diaz was executed. At least that’s how it’s smelling to me. The police had him in custody with a shoulder wound. Nothing life-threatening.”

“The TV says he took one to the head. DOA at St. Luke’s.”

“Maybe so. But he wasn’t shot until after he was in custody. The police cruiser that took him to St. Luke’s took a detour first, to the Municipal Building.”

Charlie had a beanbag ashtray in his lap. He tapped the end of his cigar into it, snuffing it out. “You get a better news station than I do, Fritz. I missed all that.”

“The version you got goes down easier.”

Charlie frowned. “What’s this about? Where’d you get all this?”

I gave him the story. He listened without interrupting. When I was finished, he stared down at his dead cigar.

“That need-to-know crap is crap,” he said. “You just tell those bastards you need to know and that’s that.”

“I know it’s crap, Charlie. But you’ve got to imagine the vibe at City Hall. It was so thick in there you couldn’t cut it with a knife. Everybody was keeping their cards very close. Nobody was about to tell me any more than they figured they had to.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got leverage. You’ve got a story they don’t want you telling.”

“I know that. And that’s my key back in the door once things have cooled off a little. They leaned on me and I let them. For now.”

Charlie was looking past me out toward the street. He used to do this back when we shared an office. As he put it, he did his best thinking out the window. I remained perched on the railing and waited. With little effort, I could transform the spiky gray-haired fellow in the wheelchair into the less grizzled version-the guy who used to be mistaken sometimes for Gene Hackman-leaning back in his worn red leather desk chair, looking out the window for invisible pieces of puzzles to fall magically together.

He snapped from his reverie. “A cop was killed out at the parade.”

I nodded.

“Cops don’t like cop killers.”

I nodded again.

“So they took this Diaz character out. Pure and simple. No trial. This was the police commissioner putting the gag on you.”

“Him and the mayor.”

Charlie scoffed. “Screw the mayor. I don’t give a damn about him. He’s just a pretty face. It was Carroll, wasn’t it? Let me guess. He pulled your father on you, didn’t he? Of course he did. Commissioner Scott, blah blah blah. Loyalty to the old man’s memory. He told you to be a team player, right? They’re like a goddamn little mafia over there. You know how I feel about Thomas Carroll.”

“I’ve gotten your drift over the years.”

“So I’m right, aren’t I? He put his big arm around you and walked you over to the thin blue line.”

“I think you’re taking it a little far, Charlie. But okay. I didn’t go running out the door into the arms of the first reporter I saw. That’s not my style, in any case. Especially when I don’t have enough of the story myself. If you taught me anything, it was not to go off half-cocked.”

He chuckled. “If I taught you anything.”

“Carroll’s ass is in a sling over this Bad Apple affair. He didn’t come right out and say it, but it’s no secret. Call me a sentimental old fool, but I cut him some slack.”

“I’ll just call you a fool.”

“They’re all ready with a copycat story if something else happens soon,” I said. “Except we both know that will crumble pretty quickly. Leavitt’s all freaked out that his girlfriend might be a target again. That’s why Carroll sold my services to the mayor. You should have heard him, Charlie. I got a real silver-plated recommendation.”

“I hope you’re charging your premium rate.”

“That’s something else you taught me. Sliding scale.”

“You slid this one up, I hope.”

“I’ll be able to cover the rent.”

Charlie took hold of the wheels of his chair and gently rocked himself forward and backward. Aside from staring out the window, Charlie also used to be a pacer. You could make out the shiny trail he’d left on the wood floor of the office. Now he was reduced to this tiny ticktocking of his wheelchair. The movement was slight, but the coiled energy in his arms was heartbreaking to see. The man wanted out of that chair.