Ed Dee - The Con Man's Daughter

On West Nineteenth, Eddie cut down the street and ducked into the hallway. He scaled the narrow steps two at a time. At the top of the steps, he let his pulse quiet down as he listened at both doors. Nothing. He waited calmly, hearing the sounds from the street, the clatter of the ice-cream business below. Then he knocked hard on Zina's door. He listened for movement. One more knock, then he used the key.

Zina's apartment was the polar opposite of Freddie's sparse abode. New furniture filled her dark living room, making it claustrophobic. Underfoot, plush carpeting, pillows strewn about the floor. Gauzy veils hung from lamps. Shelves held more candles than St. Pat's. Dark fabric draped the walls, along with what looked like strips of palm, but wider than the leaves passed out on the Sunday before Easter. The room reminded him of a harem scene from Arabian Nights .

What he was looking for was an address book or notes. As far as he knew, Zina hadn't been back since they'd arrested Freddie. Any memo or scribbled notation would have been written prior to her having been warned. The living room was an easy search. Not a piece of furniture had a drawer. He moved pillows around, peeked behind the wall hangings, under cushions. Two minutes and done.

In the kitchen, a terra-cotta Mexican tile floor held the weight of new chrome appliances, a gourmet stove, and a small center island with a grill and sink. Pots and pans hung from hooks on a form that circled above the island. Next to the wall phone, he found a calendar with notations. He copied all verbatim: "2:30 he appointment; S's b-day; SI noon;? Celltech." He recorded everything as it was written for March, April, and May.

Kitchens are an underrated source of information, Eddie thought. He remembered an organized-crime case he'd worked before he came to Coney Island. They'd used binoculars from outside a window and found a phone number written on a message board. The number turned out to be that of a Genovese capo. That number led to others, then pictures. It was a case their squad called the "Big Lie." They put twenty-five organized-crime figures on the stand. They all denied consorting with known criminals-one another-because it was a violation of probation. Despite undeniable proof, they all denied it, because the capo couldn't afford to have his probation revoked. Per terms of the deal, they all pled to perjury and did minor time. Except the capo, who walked.

Zina's kitchen drawer contained loose change, fast-food coupons, appliance warranties, old watches, new batteries, and a flashlight. Jammed in the back of the drawer was a file box that held unpaid current bills. He pulled her Visa bill, noting the account number and all of last month's charges. He copied down all her recent longdistance telephone calls with date, time, and duration. The only other bill was from Celltech Labs in Lewes, Delaware. He remembered the Celltech notation on Zina's calendar and made a note to check it. Six minutes and done.

An unmade canopy bed dominated the bedroom. A leopard-skin bedspread sprawled halfway across the floor. Eddie checked the nightstand: two pairs of drugstore reading glasses, a dozen pens, hand lotion, a small cache of clippers, tweezers, nail files, and a book of love poems. He hadn't thought she was the grooming or the reading type. Under the bed was an open box, in which were the sex toys he'd expected to find in the nightstand: vibrators, lubricants, and assorted gadgets, both strap-on and handheld. While down on his stomach, pushing the toy box back, he felt the plywood floor buckle slightly. He froze as the air in the room changed.

Eddie turned his face to look. The floor creaked again.

A guttural shriek pierced the room; then a metal bat glanced off his face and slammed against the floor. He yanked his arm out from under the bed and tried to push away. The second swing caught him square on the left elbow, the next across his legs as he rolled to get away. Another blow on his sciatic right hip. On his back, he rolled to his left and brought his knees to his chest. As she stepped forward and cocked to swing again, he kicked forward, springing out with both feet, using his full length. His right foot caught her on the thigh and drove her into the wall. She bounced off, keeping her balance, but Eddie was already up, reaching for the aluminum softball bat. He snatched it out of her hands. Cat-quick, she squatted to the floor and came up with a black revolver.

"Bastard," she said, pushing the gun at his chest with both hands. "Drop the bat."

She kept the familiar black gun pointed at him as she backed away. He felt his empty holster. The gun must have fallen out during batting practice.

"Zina," he said. "All I want-"

"Is your precious daughter, you fuck. Your precious fucking daughter. I am so sick of it. Don't say another word."

Zina wore black jeans and a white T-shirt with a Key West logo. Her black hair hung straight to her shoulder blades. Bangs covered her forehead down to her eyebrows. She was olive-skinned and large-nosed, with a complexion more heavily pockmarked than was evident in the booking photo. But her body could stop a regiment-muscled, lithe, and shapely. Eddie knew hers was the face in the sketches.

"Is Kate okay?" he asked. "Just tell me that."

"Put the fucking bat down."

"We can work this out, Zina," he said, putting the bat on the bed, hands up. Mr. Full Cooperation. "Just tell me how she is."

"Don't waste your breath, Dunne. Just take your fucking shirt off."

"It doesn't have to be this way."

"Just take your fucking shirt off. Let me see that flabby old body."

Eddie unbuttoned his shirt. He knew she was looking to see if he was wired. He threw the shirt on the bed in front of her to see if she'd flinch. She didn't. Too focused, or too crazy.

"We can both win here, Zina."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You got some line of shit. I know all about it."

"What do you know?"

"The pants, too. Take the pants off."

"Where's my daughter, Zina?"

"You don't even know how funny that is, you manipulating fuck. Scumbags like you don't deserve children."

"Tell me what you want from me," he said.

"All of it."

"Money? You're talking money?"

"You think this is about money?"

"Money can solve it," he said.

"Pants off. Didn't you hear me, you stupid fuck?"

"You can have everything I own," he said, hopping on one leg while he pulled his pants off, but turning as he did so, trying to shift gradually to her right side.

"Got a fast million, fast Eddie?"

"A million? I can do a million."

"How about three million?"

"I can get three."

"Stop moving," she said, pointing the gun at his crotch. "You move any closer and I blow that off."

"Let's go get the money," he said.

"When I'm ready, asshole."

Eddie held his pants by the cuffs, the belt end down. She stepped back quickly, not sure what he was getting ready to do.

"You're not stupid, Zina. We can have a business arrangement. You take the money; I take Kate. All cash, nothing marked. You go your way; I go mine. Not another word about it. Pure business."

"Just cops all over it."

"No cops. I won't go to the cops. I want her back, Zina. I'm not stupid enough to bring those Keystone Kops with me."

"Give me a break."

"No cops, I swear. Anywhere you want to meet. Name the spot. Just me and the money."

"I'm getting outta here, now. Don't try to follow me. I see you follow me, we'll fuck her up."

'Talk to me," he said. "Make me understand it."

"You can't understand," she said. "Guys like you are incapable. You think it's all so easy. Women are so fucking easy."

"Right. I've been an asshole about women all my life. You can start getting even with me now, Zina."

"You think women can't outsmart you or hurt you. I can do both."