John Connolly - The Reapers

“Well, that’s why one of them ended up wearing a hammer instead of a hat. Look, Mr. Bruce-”

“I prefer ‘Special Agent Bruce.’”

Willie stared at Bruce impassively. There was a moment of strained silence between the two men, until Willie sighed theatrically and continued.

“Special Agent Bruce, I don’t understand what your problem is here. We didn’t get a chance to make these guys a cup of coffee so they could sit down and explain their motives to us. They came in, busted my nose, told me what they wanted, and you know the rest.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re heroes. There’s already a guy from the Post outside, waiting to take your picture. You’re going to be famous. Should be good for business.”

“Sure,” said Willie, a touch uneasily.

“You don’t sound too happy about it,” said Bruce.

“Who needs that kind of publicity?”

Bruce’s grin widened. “Exactly!” he said. “That’s just my point. Who needs it? Not you, and maybe not your partner in this operation.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? Who bailed you out when you were in trouble back in the day? Your ex-wife wanted you to sell the business as part of a divorce settlement, right? Things weren’t looking good for you and then, suddenly, poof! You got the money to pay her off without having to sell. Where’d the money come from?”

Special Agent Bruce seemed to know a lot about Willie’s business. Willie wasn’t sure that he approved of his tax dollars being spent in this way.

“A Good Samaritan,” he said.

“What was his name?”

“Came through an agency. I don’t recall any names.”

“Yeah, Last Hope Investments, which was in existence for about as long as a mayfly.”

“Long enough to help me out. That’s all that matters to me.”

“You ever pay back the loan?”

“I tried but, like you say, Last Hope don’t exist no more.”

“Hardly surprising, if they go around making loans and then not seeking payment on them. Curious name, too, don’t you think?”

“Not my problem. I declared the loan. I’m all straight.”

“Who owns this building?”

“Property company.”

“Leroy Frank Properties, Incorporated.”

“That’s it.”

“You pay rent to Leroy Frank?”

“Fifteen hundred a month.”

“Not much for a big place like this.”

“It’s enough.”

“You ever meet Leroy Frank?”

“You think if I worked in a Trump building I’d meet Donald?”

“You might do, if he was a friend of yours.”

“I don’t think Donald Trump is friends with many of his tenants. He’s the Donald, not-”

“-not Leroy Frank,” Bruce finished for him.

Willie shook his head, a simple man faced with someone who seemed intent upon deliberately misinterpreting everything that was said.

“I told you: I never met no Leroy Frank. I cover my rent, I run my business, I pay my taxes, and I never even got so much as a parking ticket in my life, so I’m all square with the law.”

“Well,” said Bruce, “you must be just about the honestest man between here and Jersey.”

“Maybe even farther than that,” said Willie. “I met people from Jersey.”

Bruce scowled.

“I’m from Jersey,” he said.

“Maybe you’re the exception,” said Willie.

Bruce looked momentarily confused, then decided to let that particular conversation slide.

“He’s hard to trace, this Leroy Frank,” he resumed. “Quite the paper trail around his companies. Oh, it’s all clean and aboveboard, don’t get me wrong, but he’s a mystery. Hard for a man to stay so enigmatic these days.”

Willie said nothing.

“You know, what with this threat of terrorism and all, we’ve been spending a lot more time looking into finances that don’t add up like they should,” said Bruce. “It’s easier than it used to be. We got more powers than before. Of course, if you’re innocent then you’ve got nothing to fear-”

“I hear Joe McCarthy used to say that,” said Willie, “but I think he was lying.”

Bruce realized that he wasn’t getting anywhere for the present. He took his considerable weight off the Olds, which seemed to groan with relief. His grin faded and his scowl returned. Willie figured it was only ever going to be a short vacation for that scowl at the best of times.

“Well, I guess I’ll be going, but we’ll be seeing each other again,” said Bruce. “You happen to meet the mysterious Leroy Frank, you tell him I said hi. Unfortunate that all of this should happen in one of his properties. Be a shame if someone suggested to the press that it might be worth looking into the ownership of this place. It could threaten his anonymity, force him out into the light.”

“I just pay my money into the bank,” said Willie. “The only question I ask is, ‘Can I get a receipt?’”

Special Agent Lewis emerged from the office. If anything, her expression looked more pinched than before, and she was practically shaking with frustration. Willie suppressed a smile. Arno did that to people. Trying to get answers from him when he didn’t want to give them was like trying to straighten a snake. Bruce picked up immediately on his partner’s unhappiness, but didn’t comment upon it.

“Like I said, we’ll be back,” he told Willie.

“We’ll be here,” said Willie.

As the two agents departed, Arno appeared beside him.

“Gee, that lady was tense,” he said. “I liked her, though. We had a nice talk.”

“About what?”

“Ethics.”

“Ethics?”

“Yeah, you know. Ethics. The rights and wrongs of things.”

Willie shook his head. “Go home,” he said. “You’re making my head hurt even more.”

He called Arno’s name just as the little man was preparing to disappear into the night. “Be careful what you say on the telephone,” he told him.

Arno looked puzzled. “All I ever say on the telephone is ‘It’s not ready yet,’” he said. “That, and, ‘It’s going to cost you extra.’ You think the FBI might be interested in that?”

Willie scowled. Everybody, it seemed, was a comedian. “Who knows what they’re interested in,” he said. “Just watch what you say. Don’t speak to any of those reporters outside. And show some respect, dammit. I pay your wages.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Arno as the door closed slowly behind him. “Me, I’m gonna buy a yacht with my money this week…”

Louis made the call just as soon as the bodies had been disposed of. It was a matter of priorities. He left his name with the answering service, thinking, as he did so, that the voice on the end of the line sounded very similar to that of the woman who answered all calls for Leroy Frank. Maybe they incubated them somewhere, like chickens.

His call was returned ten minutes later. “Mister De Angelis says he will be available at twelve twenty-six tomorrow, around seven,” the neutral female voice told him.

Louis thanked her, and said that he understood perfectly. As he hung up the phone, memories of previous meetings flooded back to him, and he almost smiled. De Angelis: of the angels. Now there was a misnomer.

Shortly after seven the next evening, Louis stood on the corner of Lexington and 84th. It was already dark. The sidewalks on this odd little stretch of the city’s thoroughfares were relatively quiet, for most of its businesses, the odd bar and restaurant excepted, were already closed. A damp mist had descended over Manhattan, presaging rain and lending an air of unreality to the vista, as though a photographic image had been placed over the cityscape. To the left, the vintage sign over Lascoff’s drugstore was still illuminated, and if one squinted, it was possible to imagine this stretch of Lexington as it might have looked more than half a century earlier.