They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

Long Sleeves

The cab fare back to Sound Hill was roughly equivalent to one quarter of the advance to my first book. God knows, I wrote the damned thing in less time than it took to get home. I stopped by the Scupper to pass on a few instructions from MacClough to his brother Billy and to wash the day down with a pint. One pint turned into two and two into three. Billy gave me a lift after I helped him close the place.

Procrastination time was over once I’d showered and shaved. I went to my writing desk and dug out Larry Feld’s business card. I flipped the card over to where he’d written down his home number. I punched in the numbers and half prayed to get his answering machine.

Larry Feld was sort of a lawyer from the dark side of the force. Stated politely, Larry was an attorney who represented outcasts, societal pariahs, and miscreants. In fact, he was a Mafia lawyer who defended the occasional serial rapist or pedophile. But Larry Feld was also a guy who’d grown up on my block, a guy who used to invite me over for Passover seder. He had gotten me my first jobs as an investigator and always made sure to feed me enough work to pay the bills. Problem with Larry Feld was, he never did anything out of the goodness of his heart. It was a toss-up as to whether he just didn’t understand goodness or had no heart. The jury was still out. What Larry did understand was the system and what he did have was connections. He was not unlike my brother Jeffrey in those respects. If you needed information, he could get it. The bill, however, was almost always too steep.

“What is it?” He was home.

“It’s Dylan, Larry.”

“Sorry about your dad.”

“How the fuck did you-”

“One hears things. I sent a basket,” he said. “Your dad always hated my guts. At least he wasn’t a phony about it and he treated my folks with respect.”

Feld’s parents had survived Auschwitz, but not at all intact. His father was a morose little man who wore long sleeves on dog days to hide as many scars as he could. His mother painted their windows black. For cruel children and their cruder parents, the Felds were easy targets for every joke and whisper.

“Thanks,” I said. “He did hate you.”

“Enough sweet talk, Dylan. You only call me when you want something.”

“Hernandez and Fazio. Hernandez is an NYPD case that could go back maybe twenty, thirty years. John MacClough had some involvement in it. Fazio is a dectective up in Castle-on-Hudson. Used to be NYPD.”

“Hernandez I’ve got to look into. If Fazio’s first name is Nick, I can give you something now.”

“Nick’s the name,” I confirmed.

“Most decorated detective to ever work Internal Affairs. Retired, detective first grad. He’s got a great rep. Even the guys he brought down respect him. Works in Castle-on-Hudson to prove to the world he’s real cop, not just another cheese eater.”

“See if Fazio and MacClough intersect at Hernandez.”

“Shit!” he hissed. “You don’t need me. You need a road map.”

“I need you, Larry. Trust me.”

“You’re the only the person I know who could say that and get away with it. Give me two days.”

When Larry clicked off the line, I began dialing my father’s number. Old habits are harder to bury than the dead.