Jungle Of Steel And Stone

Chapter Six

Veil searched the streets around Columbia University, then headed into Morningside Park. Fifteen minutes later he found Picker Crabbe. The tall, gaunt man was seated on a park bench near West 120th Street, casually leafing through the latest issue of Hustler while he waited for customers. The man glanced up and saw Veil approaching. He flung the magazine to one side, jumped up, and started running down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Veil easily caught up with him, grabbed him by the arm, and spun him around.

"What the hell's the matter with you, Picker? This is the second time you've run away when you saw me."

"You're a crazy man," Crabbe said, wincing and raising his arms in front of his face as if to ward off a blow. It was just past ten in the morning, but the man's pupils were already dilated from the effects of cocaine.

Veil laughed as he released Picker Crabbe's thin arm. "If you ran every time you saw a crazy man in New York, you'd die of exhaustion before noon."

Crabbe sniffed, then pushed a strand of greasy gray-brown hair away from his eyes. He looked as if he wanted to run, but he stayed where he was. "You beat up on me pretty good."

"That was a year and a half ago."

"It was the kind of beating a man don't forget. You thought about what you were doing to me. Man, I ain't never been beat on like that."

"I don't see any lasting damage."

"Damage ain't the point, man. It hurt."

"It was supposed to hurt, and you were supposed to remember it the next time you were tempted to get into the child pornography and prostitution game. One of the kids you were pimping for had been kidnapped three months before, beat on, and drugged."

"I didn't do no kidnapping, and I didn't do none of that other stuff. I was just working for a piece of the action."

"I know. The man who did do the kidnapping is dead. You are out of that business now, aren't you?"

"Yes!"

"Good. Maybe you deserved to die, Picker. At the time I did give some thought to killing you. I didn't, so I figure you owe me something."

"What do you want?"

"Information. What were you doing parked on Sixty-ninth last night? I know you were supposed to be watching the art gallery, so give me the condensed version of the story."

Crabbe blinked slowly. "What art gallery?"

Veil sighed. "Picker, I just had a talk with those two jerks you got to tail the woman. Incidentally, they asked me to tell you that they resign."

"Oh, Jesus."

"So let's cut through the bullshit, okay? What were you doing there?"

"You're right. I was supposed to keep an eye on the place. There were other guys too. It was my bad luck to have you come along on my shift."

"Why were you supposed to watch the place?"

"To make sure that idol wasn't stolen. If it was, to try to

stop the guy; if I couldn't, to get a good look at who it was doing the stealing."

"Somehow I find that funny, Picker. You're telling me a thief was sent out to make certain the statue wasn't stolen by another thief?"

"It's the truth."

"Who hired you?"

"I can't tell you that, man."

"Now, Picker . . ."

To Veil's astonishment, tears welled in Crabbe's eyes, then picked up grime like mascara as they rolled down his cheeks. "I'm being straight with you, man," Crabbe said in a near whimper. "I don't mind telling you most of what I know, because I don't know that much. But I can't give you that name. I know you can bust me up, and God knows I don't want you to, but I can't give you the name. He's as crazy as you are, man; you're two sides of the same coin— except that you'll hurt me for this but you won't kill me. This guy'll hurt me worse than you did, and then he'll kill me. For sure. He likes it."

"How would he know you told me?"

"I ain't takin' no chances, man. I don't want to be tortured, and I don't want to die."

Veil looked at the trembling man before him, saw the tears in his eyes and the defeated sag of his shoulders. Suddenly he was disgusted with the terror in the world and ashamed of that part of it he had, with whatever justification, helped nurture. Picker Crabbe made him feel profoundly sad. There were too many Picker Crabbes in the world, he thought; victims who victimized, producing victims who victimized.

"Forget it, Picker," Veil said quietly. "I don't want the name of the man who put you on the job. But tell me this: If your man is so interested in the statue, why didn't he just have you steal it?"

"I'm not sure. He may have been afraid there was a police stakeout."

"So you and the others were put in place just to make certain that the police did their job?"

"I'm just guessing. He moved so fast, nobody could have stopped him."

"Why do these people want the statue?"

"I don't know."

"The two men you sent out told me you were going to give them a grand each if they brought you back the idol. Is that true?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have the money?"

"I could've got it."

"From the man whose name you won't give me?"

"Him or others. It was a street contract. The word was out that the statue was worth five grand to certain people." Crabbe paused, put a dirty index finger beside his nose. "I'd heard about the contract, but I knew those other two hadn't. I figured I had nothing to lose by promising those two guys a thousand each to follow the girl, then grab the idol from that guy if she found him. I'd still clear three grand."

"All right, then there's a general street contract out on the statue; anyone who brings it in and hands it over to certain people can collect the reward. Was it your idea to follow the woman?"

"Nah. The same guy who put me on the street to watch the gallery gave me the woman's address and suggested that I keep an eye on her."

Veil sat in the cool shadows at the rear of the church sanctuary throughout the afternoon. At four-thirty, a door to the left of the altar opened and a priest stepped through. The man was around six feet, Veil's height, and in his mid- to late fifties. His hair was thick and black, with a few pronounced streaks of gray. A solid man with broad shoulders, he walked with a severe limp that caused his body to roll from side to side as he moved to the center of the altar rail, kissed his purple vestment, then knelt and prayed for a few minutes. Finally he rose and entered the confessional to the far left. Veil looked around, determined that he was alone, then walked quickly to the confessional, went in, and sat down on the narrow wooden bench inside.

"I've come to talk about sin, Father," Veil said softly as a small door opened in the partition separating the two men.

There was a long pause, then, "Veil?" The priest's voice was hoarse and gravelly, as if something had been broken in his throat.

"Yes."

There was another equally long pause. When the priest finally spoke, there was a note of dry humor in his voice. "Am I to assume that you've found your way to God?"

"No, Father. I'm afraid I'll have to seek salvation in other ways."

"There are no other ways."

"For now I'll settle for having found my way to you."

"What do you want with me, Veil?"

"I need information that you may have, Father."

"Veil, this is a confessional."

"I'm aware of that, Father, and I don't mean to be disrespectful—but this is Little Italy, and I don't want to risk having anyone see you talking to me. I've attracted quite a following since yesterday, and I haven't quite figured out who's watching whom."

"God protects me, Veil."

"I need to get plugged in on some family business, Father."

"It isn't proper for you to come to me with such a request, Veil. I can't help you."

"I think you can. This isn't a matter anyone would have spoken to you about in the confessional. No disrespect meant here, either, Father—you happen to be one of the most truly religious and good men I know, but you also happen to be the closest thing to a 'house priest' the mob has."

There was a sudden, palpable increase in tension inside the confessional. "It is because I am not judgmental."

"It's because three generations of your family have been Cosa Nostra; you're the only male who didn't go into the business—everyone around you did. As far as being judgmental is concerned, I don't recall that I was too judgmental when you came to me for help in finding out where your mistress had taken your illegitimate son; you couldn't go to anyone else. I was the one who negotiated what you might call a reconciliation agreement. Now I'm asking for your help."

The priest heaved a deep sigh. "What are you looking for, Veil?"

"Somebody else's god. You've heard about the idol they call the Nal-toon?"

"Yes."

"What have you heard?"

"I read the newspapers, listen to the news reports."

"What else do you hear?"

"Notwithstanding the great favor you did for me, Veil, I don't think it's right for you to come to me on a fishing expedition."

"This is a bit more than a fishing expedition, Father. The Mafia wants the idol, don't they?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why?"

"No."

'"Father . . . ?"

"It's the truth, Veil. The fact that it's wanted by the capos is common knowledge on the street; indeed, there's a bounty for anyone who brings the idol in and hands it over to any of the top people in the five families. However, the reason for their wanting it is a carefully guarded secret."

"They could be worried about the possibility that it wouldn't be turned in if people knew why they wanted it."

"Perhaps. I don't care to speculate."

"You mentioned five families. What happened to the sixth?"

There was a prolonged silence, and Veil could sense the conflict and indecision in the other man on the opposite side of the partition. "Vito Ricci is dead," the priest said at last. "His operations are being absorbed by the other families, along with those people who are deemed worthy. The Ricci family no longer exists."

Veil suppressed a whistle. "That's some bit of news."

"It's no news at all yet. The police and the FBI know that Vito is missing, of course, but that is all they know. It hasn't made the papers. Nobody will ever find his body, and the authorities will eventually just naturally assume he is dead."

"Execution?"

"Yes. It was Vito who was responsible for trying to squeeze the idol through that smuggling pipeline. Apparently he wanted it for personal reasons. It was an insane act, Veil, and it was not even properly executed at this end. If things had been properly planned, the idol never would have ended up on an auction block, and it certainly wouldn't have surfaced in some art gallery on the East Side in the same week that the first article appeared in The Times. The whole thing was an unmitigated disaster, and Vito paid for his mistake with his life." The priest paused, added dryly, "He must have been getting senile."

"Maybe. Is there a contract out on the K'ung?"

"The what?"

"The black who stole back the idol. Are there specific orders to kill him?"

"No, but I don't suppose that will prevent his death. The easiest way to obtain the idol, of course, is to kill the man carrying it."

"If they find him."

From the darkness on the other side of the filigreed partition came a hoarse chuckle laced with sadness. "Find him? How long can a bushman who's lived all his life in the desert hide in New York City?"

"He's doing pretty well so far, isn't he?"

"I believe he's dead, Veil. I am sorry if this is so, but I believe it's just a matter of finding his corpse and taking the idol from beside it."

"Could be."

"What was done against him and his tribe is very sad."

"Yeah. What do you think will happen to the idol if the police find him first?"

"Oh, I think it's safe to assume that the idol will eventually find its way into the hands of the capos."

"Why, Father? Is it because Carl Nagle is in charge of the police investigation?"

The question brought a sharp intake of breath; the partition vibrated, as if the priest had moved suddenly and inadvertently brushed against it. "What do you know about Carl Nagle?"

"Virtually nothing, except that he comes on pretty cranky. Within hours after the black ran off with the idol, someone gave a two-bit hood by the name of Picker Crabbe the name and address of the woman who'd brought the black to the gallery. The short time span makes me think that it was either Nagle or his partner—or both—who supplied the information. I'm thinking that detectives Nagle and Vahanian may be on the mob payroll. What do you think, Father?"

Veil waited almost a full minute, but the only sound from the other side of the partition was hoarse breathing. Finally it was Veil who spoke. "Thank you, Father," he said evenly. "I hadn't come to you before this, and I won't come again. I consider any debt there might have been between us paid."

Veil stepped out of the confessional booth, ducked through the heavy curtain, and walked in the cool, oddly comforting gloom of the sanctuary toward a side exit.

"Veil, please wait."

Veil turned and was alarmed to see the priest out of the booth and rolling toward him. Veil quickly glanced around but was engulfed in the priest's arms before he had a chance to see whether or not they were being observed. The priest kissed Veil on both cheeks, then hobbled back a step. His gray eyes gleamed in the semidarkness.

"I have not asked you why you want this information because I know it is for a good cause," the priest said in his broken voice. "You may not believe in God, Veil Kendry, but you are nonetheless a man of God. God's existence does not depend upon your belief in Him, nor does He exact faith in return for His mercy, benevolence, and protection. You are a strange man, and there are strange— often conflicting—stories told about you. But there is no doubt in my mind that you walk with God, and God watches over and works through you. No doubt at all.

"My debt is not paid. As far as you are concerned, my debt will never be paid. You may come to me anytime someone is in need of help and you feel that information I can supply may be useful."

"Thank you, Father."

"I can never repay you for what you did with my . . . woman and my son. God forgive me for saying so, but not' even He could fill the hole left in my life when they were gone. For many years I have prayed to resolve this conflict. Sometimes I have—literally—prayed until my knees bled. But it seems I am all too human, too much of the flesh. The conflict cannot be resolved, and so I am reduced to prayers for the salvation of my soul despite the continual breaking of my solemn vows."

"You don't have to tell me these things, Father."

"Those were things I wanted to tell you. But there is also something I must tell you. It is Carl Nagle whom you must watch out for; I cannot stress this point strongly enough. Vahanian knows nothing, and he would be in great danger if Nagle even suspected that he did. Nagle is more than just one more crooked cop on the take, Veil. He's an enforcer. And he is quite mad. I've heard it said—often— that he enjoys inflicting physical pain. I don't know. Certainly he has no feelings that you and I would be familiar with. I have never known, or heard of, anyone so able to instill pure terror into anyone he chooses to intimidate. The measure of this is the fact that he is an Honors cop, one of the most decorated in the department. He is so successful in solving cases precisely because he can terrorize information out of anyone. He could have been promoted many times, but, of course, he cannot leave the streets because that is where he earns by far the greatest part of his income, for the Mafia. And, of course, he is at home there."

"Nobody's ever blown the whistle on this guy?"

"Three times his victims have tried. You must remember that the families have strong connections in the police department."

"Nobody, and no organization, has that much control over the police in this city; I know too many decent, honest cops at all levels of command."

"Nevertheless, Carl Nagle has always been exonerated. His three accusers ended up . . . broken. Word gets around. He is an unbelievably dangerous man, Veil, totally ruthless, without scruples or mercy. He is probably the man who was sent to kill Vito Ricci. He is truly a monster, and it is said that only those who have seen his true face can know just how terrible he is."

"To tell you the truth, Father, I didn't much care for his everyday face. I'll keep an eye out for him."

"There's more. I hear that the responsibility for finding the idol has been given to Nagle personally by the family heads. In fact, influence was brought to bear inside the police department to have Nagle transferred from his own precinct to the East Side after the idol turned up in the gallery; the families hoped that merely being in his jurisdiction would deter petty thieves. The fact is that Nagle has been skating on thin ice for some time, and so he's under particular pressure to see that the capos get the idol."

"Why has he been skating on thin ice?"

"Detective Nagle has always had a difficult time keeping his pecker in his pants. It seems he has a penchant for raping and sodomizing young women unfortunate enough to fall into his orbit—hookers, junkies, sometimes teenage runaways."

"Oh, Jesus."

"Yes—oh, Jesus. Anyway, even his outside employers have been finding Nagle a bit difficult to stomach lately. As you know, it's not easy to survive the disapproval of these people. Nagle knows that. He won't be raping any kids for a while, but he knows that he needs to get the idol for the capos in order to get back into their good graces. He's under pressure, which means that his low flash point is going to be even lower while he hunts for the bushman and the idol. Since you appear to be involving yourself in this matter, I wanted you to know the nature of one of your enemies. Carl Nagle is perhaps the cruelest and most dangerous man you've ever met."

"Well, those are two titles he'll have to earn," Veil said as he embraced the priest. "Thank you again, Father. You've been a great help."

"Go with God, Veil."

Twenty years before, in jungle ooze and rot, Veil had learned from the Viet Cong and Pathet Lao how to wait. And so he waited; for almost two weeks he waited, but there was no word of the missing K'ung warrior-prince or of the idol he carried. It was, Veil thought, as if Toby's god had somehow moved them both through time and space and returned them to the Kalahari. Which, of course, Veil knew had not happened.

He began to have the odd but persistent feeling that he knew something important, but he could not determine what it was.

In his quest to do what he could to save the K'ung's life and see the idol returned to its rightful owners, Veil viewed himself as a kind of lone guerrilla, without any natural constituency. To Toby, should Veil find him, he would be nothing but a hostile ghost, something to run a spear through. Also, he was certain that Reyna Alexander did not trust him completely. He did not return to Central Park, reasoning that if Reyna could not find Toby, he could not, either—and would not know what to do with the K'ung if he did.

The feeling that he knew something important persisted.

During the first week he'd called Reyna frequently but had found her gone at odd hours; when finally he had reached her, she had sounded sleepy—as though she were catching up on sleep whenever she could. Twice he had waited outside the missionary college, then tried to follow her when she had come out. Each time he had lost her; as good as he was at trailing and tracking, Reyna was better. Obviously wary, she started off each time in a different direction; then, in what had seemed a wink of an eye, she had vanished—into a crowd or store or around a corner. It had occurred to Veil that Reyna had found Toby and was hiding and ministering to him—but he had rejected the idea. If she had found the K'ung, Veil reasoned, she eventually would have convinced him to allow her to take him to a hospital, a police station, or perhaps even a foreign consulate to ask for asylum.

Veil concluded that Reyna was still searching for Toby— in Central Park, perhaps, but also beyond. She knew something.

They both knew the same thing, Veil thought. The crucial difference was that Reyna realized exactly what it was she knew.

The attention of the media had begun to flag in the second week, and there was only an occasional news update—using file footage—on the tribe itself, which was being kept informed of events by the two Wesley missionaries and had paused in its self-inflicted moral and physical genocide to await the outcome of Toby's strange odyssey.

In Southern California, a Church of the Black Messiah had been formed; emissaries from the mother church were en route to New York in order to consecrate Victor's gallery as holy ground.

Toby emerged from his cover on a Friday night, close to midnight. Veil had been painting at his easel since dawn, working on a new series of canvases, monitoring—as always—the news on both radio and cable television. When the bulletin was announced, Veil turned off the radio and concentrated on the CNN coverage. He tried to call Reyna, but she was not home.

After an hour of watching live coverage, interspersed with reporters' speculations on where Toby had been hiding and where he was heading, Veil cleaned his brushes, washed up, and prepared to go out. Then he thought better of it. First, he knew he was exhausted; second, he saw no point in going to Central Park to join the crowd that was already there—police, reporters, and, undoubtedly, Carl Nagle. There was simply nothing he could do. Also, he strongly suspected that wherever Reyna Alexander was, she was not in Central Park.

Veil downed a stiff drink, then went to bed in order to rest his body and search his mind for the important thing that he knew.