The Sixth Precinct is housed onWest Tenth Street betweenBleecker and Hudson, in the Village. Years before, when I did a tour of duty there, it was in an ornate structure farther west onCharles Street. That building has since been converted into co-op apartments, and named the Gendarme.
The new station house is an ugly modern building that no one will ever carve into apartments. I was there a little before noon on Tuesday and I walked past the front desk and straight to Eddie Koehler's office. I didn't have to ask, I knew where it was.
He looked up from a report he'd been reading, blinked at me. "Thing about that door," he said, "anybody could walk through it."
"You're looking good, Eddie."
"Well, you know. Clean living. Sit down, Matt."
I sat, and we talked a little. We went back a long ways, Eddie and I. When the small talk faded, he said, "You just happened to be in the neighborhood, right?"
"I just thought of you and figured you needed a new hat."
"In this weather?"
"Maybe a panama.Nice straw, keep the sun off."
"Maybe a pith helmet.But inthith neighborhood," he said, "Thomeof thegirlth would make dirtycrackth."
I had my notebook out. "A license number," I said. "I thought maybe you could check it for me."
"You mean call Motor Vehicles?"
"First check the hot-car sheet."
"What's it, a hit-and-run? Your client wants to know who hit him, maybe take quiet cash instead of press charges?"
"You've got a great imagination."
"You got a license number and I should check the hot cars before anything else? Shit. What's the number?"
I read it out to him. He jotted it down and pushed away from his desk. "Be a minute," he said.
While he was gone I looked at my ear drawings. Ears really do look different. The thing is you have to train yourself to notice them.
He wasn't gone long. He came back and dropped into his swivel chair. "Not on the sheet," he said.
"Could you check the registration with Motor Vehicles?"
"I could, but I don't have to. They don't always get on the sheet so quick. So I called in, and it's hot, all right, it'll be listed on the next sheet. It was phoned in last night, stolen late afternoon or early evening."
"It figured," I said.
" 'Seventy-three Mercury, right? Sedan, dark blue?"
"That's right."
"That what you wanted?"
"Where was it stolen from?"
"Somewhere inBrooklyn.Ocean Parkway, the high numbers, it must be pretty far out."
"Makes sense."
"It does?" he said. "Why?"
I shook my head. "It's nothing," I said. "I thought the car might be important, but if it's stolen it doesn't lead anywhere." I took out my wallet, drew out a twenty and a five, the traditional price of a hat in police parlance. I put the bills on his desk. He covered them with his hand but did not pick them up.
"Now I got a question," he said.
"Oh?"
"Why?"
"That's private," I said. "I'm working for someone, I can't-"
He was shaking his head. "Why spend twenty-five dollars on something youcoulda got for nothing over the telephone? Jesus Christ, Matt, how many years did you carry a shield that you don't remember how to get a listing out of the DMV? You call up, you identify yourself,you know the drill, don't you?"
"I thought it was hot."
"So you want to check hot cars first, you call somebody in the Department. You're a police officer on a stakeout, whatever you want to say, you just spotted a car you think might be hot, and could they check it for you? That saves you running down here and saves you the price of a hat on top of it."
"That's impersonating an officer," I said.
"Oh, really?"He patted the money. "This," he said, "is bribing an officer, you want to get technical. You pick a funny place to draw the line."
The conversation was making me uncomfortable. I had impersonated an officer less than twelve hours ago, getting Carolyn Cheatham's unlisted number from Information. I said, "Maybe I missed the sight of you, Eddie.How's that?"
"Maybe.Maybe your brain's getting rusty."
"That's possible."
"Maybe you should lay off the booze and rejoin the human race. Is that possible?"
I stood up."Always a pleasure, Eddie." He had more to say, but I didn't have to stay there and listen to it.
There was a church nearby, Saint Veronica's, a red-brick pile onChristopher Street near the river. A derelict had arrangedhimself on the steps, an empty bottle of Night Train still clutched in his hand. The thought came to me that Eddie had phoned ahead and had the man placed there, a grim example of what could lie in store for me. I didn't know whether to laugh or to shudder.
I climbed the steps and went inside. The church was cavernous and empty. I found a seat and closed my eyes for a minute. I thought about my two clients, Tommy and Skip, and the ineffectual work I was performing for each of them. Tommy didn't need my help and wasn't getting it. As for Skip, perhaps I'd helped make the exchange go smoothly, but I'd made mistakes. For God's sake, I should have had Billie and Bobby taking down license numbers, I shouldn't have left it for Billie to think of on his own.
I was almost glad the car had turned out to be stolen. So that Keegan's clue wouldn't lead anywhere and my lack of foresight would be less significant.
Stupid.Anyway, I'd posted them there, hadn't I? They wouldn't have seen the car, let alone got the number, if they'd been withKasabian on the other side of the block.
I went and put a dollar in the slot and lit a candle. A woman was kneeling a few yards to my left. When she rose to her full height I saw she was a transsexual. She stood two inches taller than I. Her features were a mix of Latin and Oriental, her shoulders and upper arms were muscular, and her breasts were the size of cantaloupes, straining thepolkadot sun halter.
"Well, hello," she said.
"Hello."
"Have you come to light a candle to Saint Veronica? Do you know anything about her?"
"No."
"Neither doI. But I prefer to think of her"- she arranged a strand of hair to fall across her forehead- "asSaintVeronicaLake."
THE N train took me to within a few blocks of the church atOvingtonand Eighteenth Avenue. A rather scattered woman in paint-spattered jeans and an army shirt pointed me to the pastor's office. There was no one at the desk, just a pudgy young man with an open freckled face. He had one foot on the arm of a chair and was tuning a guitar.
I asked where the pastor was.
"That's me," he said, straightening up. "How can I help you?"
I said I understood he'd had some minor vandalism in the basement the previous evening. He grinned at me. "Is that what it was? Someone seems to have shot up our light fixture. The damage won't amount to much. Would you like to see where it happened?"
We didn't have to use the stairs I'd gone down last night. We walked down an inside staircase and a hallway, entering the room through the curtained archway our wigged and bearded friends had used to make their departure. The room had been straightened since then, the chairs stacked, the tables folded. Daylight filtered in through the windows.
"That's the fixture, of course," he said, pointing. "There was glass on the floor but it's been swept up. I suppose you've seen the police report."
I didn't say anything, just looked around.
"You are with the police, aren't you?"
He wasn't probing. He simply wanted to be reassured. But something stopped me.Maybe the tail end of my conversation with Eddie Koehler.
"No," I said. "I'm not."
"Oh? Then your interest is-"
"I was here last night."
He looked at me, waiting for me to go on. He was, I thought, a very patient young man. You sensed that he wanted to hear what you had to say, and in your own good time. I suppose that quality would be a useful one for a minister.
I said, "I used to be a cop. I'm a private detective now."That was perhaps technically incorrect, but close enough to the truth. "I was here last night on behalf of a client, seeking to exchange money for some goods of the client's that were being held for ransom."
"I see."
"The other parties, the criminals who had stolen my client's goods in the first place, selected this location for the exchange. They were the ones who did the shooting."
"I see," he said again. "Was anyone… shot? The police looked for bloodstains. I don't know that all wounds bleed."
"No one was shot. There were only two shots fired and they both went into the ceiling."
He sighed. "That's a relief. Well, Mr. Uh-"
"Scudder.Matthew Scudder."
"And I'm NelsonFuhrmann. I guess we missed introducing ourselves earlier." He ran a hand over a freckled forehead. "I gather the police don't know about any of this."
"No, they don't."
"And you'd rather they didn't."
"It would certainly be simpler if they didn't."
He considered, nodded. "I doubt I'd have occasion to communicate it to them anyway," he said. "I don't suppose they'll come around again, do you? It's no major crime."
"Somebody might follow up. But don't be surprised if you never hear further."
"They'll file a report," he said, "and that will be that." He sighed again. "Well, Mr. Scudder, you must have had a reason to take the chance that I would mention your visit to the police. What is it you're hoping to find out?"
"I'd like to know who they were."
"The villains?"He laughed. "I don't know what else to call them. If I were a policeman I suppose I'd call them perpetrators."
"You could call them sinners."
"Ah, but we're all that, aren't we?" He smiled at me. "You don't know their identity?"
"No. And they wore disguises, wigs and false beards, so I don't even know what they looked like."
"I don't see how I could help you. You don't suppose they're connected with the church, do you?"
"I'm almost certain they're not. But they picked this place, ReverendFuhrmann, and-"
"Call me Nelson."
"- and it suggests a familiarity with the church, and with this room in particular. Did the cops find any evidence of forced entry?"
"I don't believe so, no."
"Mind if I look at the door?" I examined the lock of the door leading to the outside stairs. If it had been tampered with, I couldn't see it. I asked him what other doors led to the outside, and he took me around and we checked, and none of them bore the scars of illegal entry.
"The police said a door must have been left open," he said.
"That would be a logical guess if this were just a case of vandalism or malicious mischief. A couple of kids happen to find a door left unlocked, go inside, horse around a little. But this was planned and arranged. I don't think our sinners could count on the door being left open. Or is locking up a hit-or-miss business here?"
He shook his head. "No, we always lock up. We have to, even in a decent neighborhood like this one. Two doors were open when the police arrived last night, this one and the one in the rear. We certainly wouldn't have left both doors unlocked."
"If one was open, the other could be unlocked from inside without a key."
"Oh, of course.Still-"
"There must be a lot of keys in circulation, reverend. I'm sure a lot of community groups use the space."
"Oh, absolutely," he said. "We feelit's part of our function to make our space available when we don't require it for our own purposes. And the rent we collect for it is an important part of our income."
"So the basement is often in use at night."
"Oh, it certainly is. Let's see, AA meets in this room every Thursday night, and there's an Al-Anon group that uses the room on Tuesdays, they'll be here tonight, come to think of it. And Fridays, who's here Fridays? This space has been put to no end of uses in the few years I've been here. We had a little theater group doing their rehearsals, we have a monthly cub scout meeting when the whole pack assembles together, we have- well, you can see that there are a lot of different groups with access to the premises."
"But no one meets here on Monday nights."
"No. There was a women's consciousness-raising group that met here Mondays up until about three months ago, but I believe they decided to meet in one another's homes instead." He cocked his head. "You're suggesting that the, uh, sinners would have had to be in a position to know the space would be empty last night."
"I was thinking that."
"But they could have called and asked. Anyone could have called and posed as someone interested in the space, and checking on its availability."
"Did you get any calls like that?"
"Oh, we get them all the time," he said. "It's not something anyone here would bother to remember."
"WHY are youcomin ' around here all the time?" the woman wanted to know."Askin' everybody about Mickey Mouse."
"Who?"
She let out a laugh. "MiguelitoCruz.Miguelito means Little Michael, you know? Like Mickey. People call him Mickey Mouse. I do, anyway."
We were in a Puerto Rican bar onFourth Avenue, nestled between a shop that sold botanicals and one that rented formal wear. I'd gotten back on the N train after my visit to the Lutheran church inBensonhurst, intending to ride it back into the city, but instead I found myself rising abruptly atFifty-thirdStreet inSunsetPark and leaving the train there. I had nothing else to do with the day, no logical direction to take in Skip's behalf, and I thought I might as well put in some time justifying my fee from TommyTillary.
Besides, it was lunchtime, and a plate of black beans and rice sounded good to me.
It tasted as good as it sounded. I washed it down with a bottle of cold beer, then ordered flan for dessert and had a couple of cups of espresso. The Italians give you a thimble of the stuff; the Puerto Ricans pour you a full cup of it.
Then I barhopped, staying with beers and making them last, and now I'd met this woman who wanted to know why I was interested in Mickey Mouse. She was around thirty-five, with dark hair and eyes anda hardness to her face that matched the hardness in her voice. Her voice, scarred by cigarettes and booze and hot food, was the sort that wouldcut glass.
Her eyes were large and soft, and what showed of her body suggested that it would have a softness to match the eyes. She was wearing a lot of bright colors. Her hair was wrapped up in a hot-pinkscarf, her blouse was an electric blue, her hip-hugging slacks canary yellow, her high-heeled shoes Day-Glo orange. The blouse was unbuttoned far enough to reveal the swell of her full breasts. Her skin was like copper, but with a blush to it, as if lighted from within.
I said, "You know Mickey Mouse?"
"Sure I know him. I see him all the time in the cartoons. He is one funny mouse."
"I meanMiguelito Cruz. You know that Mickey Mouse?"
"You a cop?"
"No."
"You look likeone, you move like one, you ask questions like one."
"I used to be a cop."
"They kick you out forstealin '?" She laughed, showing a couple of gold teeth. "Takin' bribes?"
I shook my head. "Shooting kids," I said.
She laughed louder. "No way," she said. "They don't kick you out for that. They give you a promotion, make you the chief."
There was no island accent in her speech. She was aBrooklyn girl from the jump. I asked her again if she knew Cruz.
"Why?"
"Forget it."
"Huh?"
"Forget it," I said, and turned a shoulder to her and went back to my beer. I didn't figure she'd leave it alone. I watched out of the corner of my eye. She was drinking something colorful through a straw, and as I watched she sucked up the last of it.
"Hey," she said. "Buy me a drink?"
I looked at her. The dark eyes didn't waver. I motioned to the bartender, a sullen fat man who gazed on the world with a look of universal disapproval. He madeher whatever the hell she was drinking. He needed most of the bottles on the back bar to do it. He put it in front of her and looked at me, and I held my glass aloft to show I was all right.
"I know him pretty good," she said.
"Yeah?Does he ever smile?"
"I don't mean him, I mean Mickey Mouse."
"Uh-huh."
"Whattayamean, 'uh-huh'?He's a baby. When he grows up, then he can come see me.If he grows up."
"Tell me about him."
"What's to tell?" She sipped her drink. "He gets in troubleshowin ' everybody how he's so tough and so smart. But he's not so tough, you know, and he's not so smart either." Her mouth softened. "He is nice-lookin', though. Always the nice clothes, always the hair combed neat, always a fresh shave." Her hand reached to stroke my cheek. "Smooth, you know? And he's little, and he's cute, and you want to reach out and give him a hug, just wrap him up and take him home."
"But you never did?"
She laughed again. "Hey, man, I got all the troubles I need."
"You figure him for trouble?"
"If I ever took him home," she said, "he'd be all the timethinkin ', 'Now how am Igonna get this bitch to let me put her on the street?' "
"He's a pimp? I never heard that."
"If you'rethinkin ' about a pimp with the purple hat and theEldorado, forget it." She laughed. "That's what Mickey Rat wishes he was. One time he hits on this new girl, she's fresh up fromSanturce, from a village nearSanturce, you know? Very green, and she's notSeñorita Einstein to start with, you know? And he gets her to turn tricks for him, you know,workin 'outta her apartment,seein ' one or two guys a day, guys he finds and brings up to her."
" 'Hey, Joe, youwannafock myseestair?' "
"You do one lousy PR accent, man. But you got the idea. She works about two weeks, you know, and she gets sick of it, and she takes the plane back to the island. And that's the story of Mickey the pimp."
By then she needed another drink and I was ready for a beer myself. She had the bartender bring us a little bag of plantain chips and split the side seam so the chips spilled out on the bar between us. They tasted like a cross between potato chips and wood shavings.
Mickey Mouse's trouble, she told me, was how hard he worked trying to prove something. In high school he had proved his toughness by going intoManhattan with a couple of buddies, roaming the crooked streets of theWestVillage in search of homosexuals to beat up.
She said, "He was the bait, you know?Small and pretty. And then when they got the guy, he was the guy who went crazy, almost wanted to kill him. Guys who went with him, first time they said he had heart, but later they started to say he had no brains." She shook her head. "So I never took him home," she said. "He's cute, but cute disappears when you turn the lights out, you know? I don't think hewoulda done me much good." She extended a painted nail, touched my chin. "You don't want a man that's too cute, you know?"
It was an overture, and one I somehow knew I didn't want to follow up on. The realization brought a wave of sadness rolling in on me out of nowhere. I had nothing for this woman and she had nothing for me. I didn't even know her name; if we'd introduced ourselves I couldn't remember it. And I didn't think we had. The only names mentioned had beenMiguelito Cruz and Mickey Mouse.
I mentioned another, Angel Herrera's. She didn't want to talk about Herrera. He was nice, she said. He was not so cute and maybe not so smart, but maybe that was better. But she didn't want to talk about Herrera.
I told her I had to go. I put a bill on the bar and instructed the bartender to keep her glass full. She laughed, either mocking me or enjoying the humor of the situation, I don't know which. Her laughter sounded like someone pouring a sack of broken glass down a staircase. It followed me to the door and out.