Speak of the Devil

26

SISTER MARY RYAN WAS SURPRISED TO SEE ME. SHE WAS IN HER STREET clothes again, and I wondered if she ever donned the penguin suit.

She cracked, “I don’t suppose you’re here to give us our million dollars back.”

“I would if I could, but I can’t.”

I had been told by the nun who answered the door to wait in the front hallway. Sister Mary showed me into the Great Room. I sat in the chair where Gary Harvey had sat while we were grilling him. From across the room, Jesus looked down at me wearily.

The sister offered me tea and I accepted. By a seemingly invisible signal, the young nun appeared, and Sister Mary put in the order for a pot of tea. I gave the nun a simple smile and she blushed.

“Natividad cannot stop talking about what took place here the other night,” Sister Mary said after the nun had left the room. “With every telling, the details get more and more exciting. The guns get bigger and bigger. She is especially glowing about your Irish friend.”

“Jigs. Yes. Women do glow.”

Sister Mary made a delicate tent of her fingers. “Sister Anne and I have been talking. We would like to contact Mr. Harvey. In the confusion of the other evening, we feel we didn’t tend terribly well to him. I believe very strongly in fate, Mr. Malone. I feel that fate led Mr. Harvey to Good Shepherd.”

“A cold-blooded killer is what led Mr. Harvey to Good Shepherd.”

“The Lord utilizes His agents.”

“No offense, Sister, but the Lord has lost control of that particular agent.”

Sister Natividad floated into the room with a tray and all the tea goodies. She set the tray down on the table in front of Sister Mary. She said, “You must let it sleep.”

“Steep, Natividad.”

The nun’s blush was even richer than the last. She stole a glance at me as she left the room.

“How old is she?” I asked.

“Natividad is twenty.”

“That seems young.”

“It is.” She smiled. “The older we get, the younger it becomes.”

“I mean to be a nun. I guess I don’t really know at what age a person can become a nun.”

“Technically speaking, there are no restrictions. Of course, with a person who is not yet a legal adult, there has to be complete agreement from the parents or from the legal guardian. In Natividad’s case, she became a nun in the Philippines when she was seventeen. Earlier this year, her family moved to America, and she wanted to remain near them.”

“I was under the impression that when you signed on, you became part of God’s family. So to speak.”

“That’s true. But it doesn’t mean you forsake your secular family. We’re still very much in the world, Mr. Malone. As you can see, many of us don’t wear habits anymore. Not to deny tradition, by any means, but we’re not relics, after all. At least we hope we’re not. We’re attempting to bridge the more traditional aspects of who and what we are with the fact of our being in the modern world. God is in my heart. He is not in my clothes.”

She had just started to lift the teapot and had to set it down swiftly as she burst into laughter. “Oh, my. Well, I surely didn’t mean it to sound that way!” She laughed again, then reached once more for the teapot. She shot me a look. “I think the tea has had time to sleep, don’t you?”

THE NAME ANGEL RAMOS MEANT NOTHING TO SISTER MARY RYAN. I showed her the picture. She studied it thoughtfully. “He’s a criminal,” she said. “That’s what these numbers mean. He’s been arrested.”

“That’s right.”

“What did he do?”

“As far as what they’ve nabbed him for? Robbery, assault, theft.”

She looked up from the picture. “And what he hasn’t been ‘nabbed’ for?”

“I believe he’s the person behind the Thanksgiving Day shootings and the bombing. I also think he’s kidnapped the deputy mayor. The package that Gary Harvey brought by. It contained… Someone cut off two of the deputy mayor’s fingers. I think the man in that picture did it.”

The nun paled. “Oh, my.”

“There’s an ultimatum: ten million dollars in exchange for Mr. Byron’s freedom. Everything’s pointing to Angel Ramos.”

Sister Mary glanced back at the photo. “He looks menacing.”

“That’s a good way of putting it.”

“He must be in torment.”

“Maybe so. But what’s more important right now is that we stop him before he can put anyone else in torment.”

She set the picture faceup on the table, next to the tea tray, then changed her mind and turned it over. “We’ll do anything we can, Mr. Malone. But I don’t honestly know what that is. Besides to pray, of course.”

“We’ll take that. But what we really need is to locate Ramos. The piece that isn’t fitting in is why it is that Ramos went through the whole song and dance Saturday with having us drop the money at the Cloisters, then calling you in. At the end of it all, we still had the money. If it was all just to deliver the package and let us know that he had Philip Byron… it doesn’t make any sense. The convent is nowhere near Ramos’s territory. But there has to be some sort of connection. There has to be a link.”

“I can’t imagine what it could be,” Sister Mary said.

“How many nuns are in residence here?” I asked.

“Normally? Fifteen.”

“Why ‘normally’? You don’t have fifteen at the moment?”

“We had a loss recently.” She had picked up her teacup, but she didn’t take a sip. She looked past the cup, off into space. “You probably heard of it. Unfortunately, the papers played it up. More and more, that seems to be what they do.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, just last month. Near the end of October.”

“You don’t mean the Sister Suicide?”

Sister Mary lowered her teacup into her palm. “You might understand, we’re not exactly fond of that term. It’s terribly dehumanizing.”

We were referring to a story that the papers had made hay with for nearly a week, just before Halloween. A nun in full habit had been found by a morning jogger in a wooded section of Prospect Park. She had apparently slit both her wrists. A suicide note had been left next to the body. As Sister Mary said, the papers had jumped all over it. Sister Suicide. I recalled the photo that had accompanied the story. It was taken when the woman was in her early twenties, before she joined the sisterhood. She was pretty, and that helped give the story legs for a few extra days. Attractive young nuns slitting their wrists in a public place aren’t your everyday news story. The coverage had been typically sensational and morbid. I had to admit, it had hooked me a little.

Sister Mary Ryan said, “Margaret was a terribly troubled young woman. Of course, guilt is a useless emotion, but we’re only human. It’s there. All of us at the convent feel it. We can’t help but contemplate that we failed Margaret. Her difficulties were known to us. From the moment she arrived at Good Shepherd, it was a struggle for her. She had already suffered considerable tragedy.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I said.

“No, no. It’s fine. It helps, actually. It’s been especially hard on Natividad. Being so young. Until Natividad arrived, Sister Margaret had been our youngest. She was only thirty-three when she died. Natividad latched on to her immediately. I’d say she looked at Margaret as an older sister. We encouraged the friendship. For both their sakes, actually. Margaret… She had a drinking problem.”

My reaction must have showed.

“You’re surprised by the idea of a nun having a drinking problem?”

“I guess I am.”

“I always find it surprising that people are surprised. It’s what I was just saying. We’re human. We’re not saints.” She gave a coy smile. “At least not yet. We’re not without our problems, Mr. Malone. We’re mortal, and we suffer mortal failings. We do have a focus and a path and a calling and the assistance of our faith, and those are all wonderful securities. But we’re flesh, and not without sin. And I’m not going to pretend that Sister Margaret always made life at Good Shepherd particularly easy. She didn’t. She represented a formidable challenge. But in many ways, I think that might have been the gift she brought to us, at great cost to herself. Her difficulties challenged us to show the true depths of our compassion. Alcoholism is such a wretched disease. In the end, I suppose it took hold of Sister Margaret more forcefully than we did. Along with all her sadness and all her troubles.”

She lowered her head. An image of my mother rose in my mind. Two images, really. In the one, she was flashing her seductively appealing smart-aleck smile and raising her glass in a ribald toast. Shirley Malone, life of the party. In the other… well, let’s just say the party had gone on a bit too long. A gem without luster. I shook the images from my head and picked up the photograph of Angel Ramos. I waited until Sister Mary looked back up before I spoke. “I’m sorry, Sister.”

“I guess I shouldn’t let myself ramble so.”

“Can I ask you to show this to the rest of the sisters? As soon as possible? If any of them have even an inkling that they’ve seen this man before, or have any information about him, I need to know immediately.”

She leaned forward and took the photograph from me. She studied it a moment. “I know you’re going to find this man, Mr. Malone. I have faith.”

That made one of us.

I GOT MY FIRST RESPONSE TO MY AMIGO WILLY CARDS AS I HEADED down the West Side Highway. It was a male voice. No discernible accent.

“You put these cards out?”

“Yep,” I said.

“You think you’re funny. Well, fuck you.”

He hung up. I punched in *69, but the caller’s number was blocked. Probably a pay phone. Since I already had the phone out, I punched in the code for Margo. She answered on the first ring. “Hello, sailor.”

Caller ID. It still creeps me out.

“What’s new, pussycat?” I said.

“I should be asking you. Where are you?”

“Streaking past Riverside Church, on a bearing heading south.”

“Any exit plans? Like maybe Seventy-second Street?”

“Afraid I can’t. Not right now.”

I gave her a brief rundown on my day. I left out the part about Tommy Carroll’s cancer. An irritating voice in my head said, Need-to-know basis. When I was finished, Margo asked, “Where does that leave you?”

“I’m going back out to Fort Pete.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“You want company?”

“No. You stay put.”

“What do you think you can accomplish in Fort Petersen, besides getting yourself in trouble?”

It was a good question, and I didn’t have a good answer. “If Angel Ramos is holding Philip Byron out there someplace, I want to at least be in the ballpark.”

“I’m not hearing an action plan here.”

“I’ll bob, I’ll weave.”

“Oh, great.”

In front of me, a red sports car bobbed and weaved. It also swerved into my lane, nearly clipping my bumper. I hit the brakes and leaned on my horn. The driver shot a hairy arm out the window to show me his finger, but I wasn’t impressed. I squeezed on the gas, running my bumper right up to his, close enough to kiss it. Apparently, I also muttered my innermost thoughts.

“What’d you just call me?” Margo asked.

“Nothing. Sorry.” The sports car swerved back to its original lane. I swerved right with it.

“My last boyfriend never talked to me like that,” Margo said.

“Neither does this one. A guy just cut me off.”

“I’m going to cut you off.”

As if on cue, our connection began to break up. The sports car did a little fake to the left, then roared on ahead. Margo was burbling on the phone and I almost lost her, but we got clear as I passed the railroad yards.

“What were you saying?”

“I was saying please come over tonight. I don’t care how late it is.”

“Or early?”

“Either way. This is where my fantasies of you holding down a nice job as a shoe salesman start to kick in.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Listen,” I said, “how was your pop star today, anyway?”

“Are you trying to change the subject?”

“I am.”

“My pop star had an ego the size of the Plaza hotel.”

“Is that where you interviewed him?”

“Yes.”

“But if his ego was the size of the Plaza hotel, and you were interviewing him in-”

“Hey. I don’t want the last thing I hear from you to be a stupid joke.”

“It’s not the last thing,” I said.

“But it was going to be a stupid joke, right?”

“That’s in the ear of the beholder.”

“Tell me you love me, then hang up.”

“I love you,” I said.

There was a pause. “Really?”

I hung up.

FORT PETERSEN AT NIGHT LOOKED PRETTY MUCH LIKE FORT PETERSEN during the day, except darker, and most of the shops had been replaced by iron gates. A couple of teenagers darted in front of my car in the middle of the block. One of them turned in my direction and made a pistol with his fingers. I held my fire.

The Ninety-fifth precinct house was a block off Culver. I pulled into one of the slots reserved for the local crime fighters and went inside. The old guy at the front desk studied my PI license as if it were an unusually well-written piece of pornography. If he had moved it any closer to his nose, he might have accidentally licked it.

“Who’s your duty officer?” I asked when he finally handed my wallet back to me.

“Captain Kersauson.”

“I’d like to see him.”

The old guy picked up his phone. “What should I tell him it’s about?”

“You shouldn’t tell him it’s about anything. I’ll do that.”

He paused a moment, eyeing me, then dialed a number. “Captain? It’s Ross. There’s a gentleman out here wants to see you.” He cupped the mouthpiece and gave me a wink. “You see how I called you a gentleman? Even though you’re uppity?” He went back to the phone. “No, Captain, he didn’t. He’s a private investigator from Manhattan.” He listened, then cupped the phone again. “The captain wants to know if you’re Dick Tracy.”

“I should have such a jaw.”

Back to the phone. “No, Captain, he’s not. But he looks harmless enough to me… Uh-huh. Okay.” He hung up the phone. “Captain Kersauson will see you now. Through that door, take a left, then twenty feet, take a right.”

“Sorry about the uppity.”

He waved me on. I twisted the doorknob and walked right into the door. The old guy chuckled under his breath as he pushed the buzzer.

Kersauson was waiting at his office door. He had a large head decorated with a marine cut. He could have stood to drop about thirty pounds, but I didn’t plan to veer our conversation into the realm of personal upkeep. He was in his shirtsleeves and wearing his shoulder holster and gun, as if he were ready for a siege. I handed him my card. He barely gave it a glance. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for prostitutes.”

“Is that so? What do you think this is, tourist information?”

“I’m working a job,” I said.

This time he gave my card a harder look. “Hell of a job. You getting paid for this?”

“I’m trying to track down Angel Ramos.”

The problem with a good poker face is that it sometimes gives away the very fact that you’re trying not to give anything away. The captain gave me an absurdly neutral stare for a good five or six seconds before he said, “Who?”

“Angel Ramos. He runs an ice-cream shop over on Viceroy Street. Gives it away to the kids for free. Coaches Little League in the summers. Tutors math in his spare time. I believe he’s also president of the Rotary Club. No. Wait. I’m sorry. Angel Ramos? He pimps, pushes drugs, runs guns, beats up people and steals things. My mistake. Ever heard of him?”

I was glad the old guy out front wasn’t here to see me getting uppity all over again. His boss didn’t look too happy to see it, either. “What’s this about?”

“It’s about I need to find Angel Ramos. I understand he dabbles heavily in the flesh trade, among his other hobbies. I thought I might start by asking the girls on the street. Some girls like to talk, if you handle them right.”

“What do you want with Ramos?”

“That’s confidential information, Captain.”

He replanted his feet. “We don’t have a prostitution problem in Fort Pete, Mr. Malone.”

“There are hookers five blocks from the White House, Captain. I’m not smearing your precinct, it’s part of the landscape. I just want to know where the girls are.” I took my card from him and jotted a phone number on the back of it. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s Police Commissioner Carroll’s home phone number. I’m on special assignment. Call him. He’ll tell you whether to chat with me or throw me out on my can.”

“Wait here.”

I waited. Three minutes later, he came back.

I asked, “Did you reach him?”

“I got him.”

“What did he say?”

“He said to tell you where the whores are.”

“Okay, Captain. I’m all ears.”

CAPTAIN KERSAUSON CERTAINLY KNEW HIS PRECINCT. NOT EIGHT blocks south of the police station stood the large brick building that Victor Ramos had mentioned. Like he said, it took up the entire block. Its black silhouette made it look as if a piece of the sky had been carved away. A sign out front said: THE NIAGARA COMPANY. It was an industrial concern that took in and laundered towels and sheets and linen tablecloths, from hotels and restaurants in Brooklyn and Queens and from across the river in Manhattan. At the far end of the block was a half-acre parking area separated from the street by a metal fence that stood about twelve feet high. Several dozen vans with the Niagara logo were parked in the lot. According to Captain Kersauson, it was a little bit like a shell game, trying to guess which of the vans was serving as port of call at any one time for the local prostitutes and their customers. Technically speaking, the fenced-in parking area was locked up tight, as were the vans. There was even an unarmed guard posted on the north end of the lot, in a little shack about the size of a drive-through photo place. According to Kersauson, the local flesh peddlers paid the guard not to look south.

I drove slowly down Brockton Street, along the fenced-in parking area, and pulled over to the curb at the end of the block and turned off my headlights. Across the street were several abandoned buildings with boarded-up fronts, interspersed with darkened brownstones. Scanning the block for signs of life, I didn’t even see the woman approaching the car from the passenger side. At the tap-tap of her fingernails against the window, I started for my gun. I found the window switch instead and lowered the passenger window partway. She was a young black woman. Her hair was long and paper-flat, glistening in the minimal ambient light.

“You looking for a date?”

“I might be,” I said.

“Might be shit. You out of gas or you looking for a date? What’s your name?”

“My name’s Fritz.”

“Right. My name’s Brittany. It’s cold out here, Fritz. Why don’t you let me in?”

“Door’s open.”

She tugged on the handle and let herself in. She brought with her a slight scent of cinnamon. She was wearing a tight denim blouse and a short red skirt. Not exactly winter wear. She ran her hands up and down her skinny arms. “It’s cold,” she said, giving a dramatic shudder.

“You ought to be wearing a coat,” I said.

She turned a sneer to me. I’m sure it was supposed to be a smile. “Coat don’t show me off,” she said. “You want to look?” Before I could say no, she tugged at her blouse the way Clark Kent tugs at his shirt when he’s about to go save the world. She flashed her breasts, then as swiftly covered them up again. “That’s your free sample. You want to go someplace warm and see some more?”

“Have you got any friends?” I asked.

She made a face. “You don’t want me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She gave me a queer look. “What? You want two girls?” Then she laughed, showing me a cracked tooth. “You got the stuff for two girls?”

“I’ve got the money,” I said.

“We ain’t talked money yet.”

“How much for three?”

“Brittany” fell against the door as if she’d been shot. Her body shook with laughter. “Three? God damn, you’re an animal. What you gonna do with three girls? Don’t you go telling me you’re Mr. Super Stud.”

“I like an audience,” I said.

“I get it. That’s cool. We got a special kinky rate. Three hundred dollars.”

“Fifty.”

“Fifty?”

“One hundred.”

“For three girls?”

“It’s a cold night, Brittany. I don’t exactly see the cars lining up.”

“One-fifty.”

“Okay.”

“Show me the money.”

I pulled a wad of cash from my pocket.

She seemed satisfied. “Okay. I’m getting out of the car. Drive around the corner. Halfway down’s a streetlight that’s out. There’s a Dumpster. Stop there.”

She got out of the car and crossed into one of the boarded-up buildings. I followed her instructions. A part of me wanted to just step on the gas and keep going. I was making this up as I went along. My thinking was that I probably had only one crack at trying to get information; why not gather together as many potential informants as I could? I hadn’t been waiting two minutes at the broken streetlight when the passenger door opened and a lithe black man slipped into the car, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Give me the money.”

I asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m the man with the girls.”

“I don’t see any girls.”

“I got ’em.”

“You’ve got three of them?”

“You’re a hungry motherfucker, aren’t you?”

I asked, “Is Donna one of the girls?”

“What are you talking about, Donna?”

“Donna Bia. I was told Donna Bia is worth three of anyone else. You say you’re the man, so I thought I’d ask.”

“I ain’t got no fucking Donna for you, punk. This ain’t fucking pick-and-choose. You want these three or you want to get the hell gone? Two hundred dollars.”

“Brittany said one-fifty.”

“Well, fuck Brittany. It’s called inflation. Two hundred.” I gave him the money. He stuffed it into his pocket. “Flash your lights.”

I did. A few seconds later, I could make out three figures crossing the street. One of them pulled back a piece of the fence and let the others inside, then followed. They moved to one of the vans, opened the back door and disappeared inside.

“Showtime,” said the man next to me. “What you do is you don’t leave a mark on them, you got that? You hurt my girls, I hurt you. That’s the only rule. Otherwise, enjoy.”

He left the car and slid into the shadows. I removed my shoulder holster and gun and stashed them under the seat. I figured I might have to withstand a caress or two to help set the mood, and nothing tanks a mood like a snub-nose.38.

I got out of the car and found the place where the fence was unattached. I curled the fence back and slipped into the lot. I reached the van and jerked down on the rear door handle, pulling the door open.

The women were arrayed on bags of linen, like a trio of farmer’s daughters in a hayloft. They were still dressed, which I was glad to see, though there seemed to be a heated contest as to which could hike her skirt up the highest. By an amazing coincidence, all three had forgotten to put on their panties when they’d gotten dressed that morning. Brittany spoke first. “We got us a party. Girls, meet Fritz.”

One was wearing a platinum wig. The other reminded me of Mama Cass Elliott. I climbed into the van and pulled the door closed. Only the slightest light came through the front window. I sensed movement, and hands began poking and prodding me. “Whoa, whoa. Hold on.”

The hands withdrew. Brittany’s voice sounded. “There a problem?”

“I want the lights,” I said.

“Lights? Oh, right. The man wants an audience.”

I crawled over several soft bags and at least one bony thigh and stretched into the front seat, slapping around on the panel until I found the light knob. I twisted it and the overhead came on. I turned back around and leaned against a pile of the duffel bags. Six dull eyes settled on me.

“Whatever split you get from your middleman, you’ve already earned it,” I said to them. “I’m not really in a frisky mood tonight, girls, thank you all just the same.” My announcement received no reaction. The one calling herself Brittany rubbed her index finger listlessly along her front teeth as if brushing them. I went on, “I’ve got three hundred dollars in my pocket. I’d like some information. If any of you can help me out, it’s a hundred dollars. And you don’t have to share it with whatever-his-name-is.”

“Lenny,” Platinum Wig said.

Mama Cass snapped, “Shut up!”

“I’m trying to get ahold of either Donna Bia or Angel Ramos,” I said. “If neither of these names means anything to any of you, we’re through here.”

Platinum Wig spoke up. “What you want with them?”

“That’s between me and them, but I’ll tell you this: if I don’t find them first, the police will. And it would be better if I do.”

“You a cop? Shit. He’s a cop.”

“I’m not a cop. I just need to find Angel or Donna. Money in the bank, girls. Who’s going to help me?”

The three looked at me as if they had each been struck dumb. Then Mama Cass reached into a small purse and extracted a cell phone. It was already flipped open. She held it delicately between two fingers.

I asked, “What’s that?”

Brittany answered, “That’s Lenny.”

The rear doors of the van flew open. Indeed, it was Lenny. He was holding a cell phone in one hand and something I couldn’t make out in the other. He flipped the phone closed and tossed it into the van. With a similar move of the other hand, a switchblade knife appeared.

“Out.”

The three women scrambled out of the van and took off running, or in Mama Cass’s case, galloping. Lenny gestured with the knife. “You, too.”

“I’m pretty comfortable where I am,” I said.

“You’re pretty fucked is what you are. Get out.”

I came down slowly off the duffel bags. I slipped sideways, and when I did, my hand ran quickly into and back out of my pocket. Lenny missed the move. He gestured again with the knife. “You tried to fuck me over. You give me the rest of that money, or I’m going to fucking cut it out of you.” He backed away slightly to give me just enough room to get out of the van. As I did, he brought the knife up and shook it in my face. “Let’s have it.”

So I gave it to him. I would have preferred a downward swing; you get the full fulcrum effect that way. But I had to swing upward. I landed the blackjack just under the pimp’s wrist. The knife fell instantly. My arm continued its upward swing, to a point just past my head. Lenny started to make a noise, but the sound never made it past his lips. I brought my arm back down, snapping my wrist sharply. Betty bounced off the pimp’s skull with the telltale crack. He lost his legs and dropped… like a sack of linen.

Love that Betty.