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The car dropped me at Degraw and Bond. As I neared Hoyt I could see that Smith Street was blocked off by cop cars. I slid out of my damp overcoat and took off my hat, which was soaked through with sweat around the band. I kept my head down and my hat behind my back. They might be looking for a big guy in a fedora.

  I walked to my place and tromped heavily up the stairs. My legs felt like they were full of sand.

  In the vestibule I was reminded of the phone call I’d made first thing that morning.

  My front door looked like a bank vault. That’s a slight exaggeration, but the wood door frame now had brushed steel reinforcements at the hinges and locks. Yeah, that’s locks. There were now two, the old one and a new one in a fancy brushed steel plate. That meshed with more brushed steel in the doorjamb where the dead bolt latched. So my front door, which previously was all wood and delicately Victorian, was now part Frankenstein. Let the werewolf do his worst, he wouldn’t get past this monster.

  However, it hadn’t kept werewolf Gustav from tucking another love note under the door. He must have been there recently, after they installed the door, maybe even while I was chasing that punk. It said yvetteon the front, just like before.

  I found the key, which was also made of gleaming brushed steel and had four edges, not just one. I slid it in the lock and felt five bolts unclick and snap out of the latch. There was a clean mechanical ka-chunk with the turn of the key. A reassuring ka-chunk.

  I tossed the second love letter on top of the one from the day before and closed the door behind me. The inside of the door wasn’t quite as ironclad; I guess it didn’t need to be. There was a bill on the bar for five hundred, even. Not sure where I’d come up with that money, but needless to say the pink monkey had dibs.

  I stripped out of my clothes and took a shower, one that used up everything the hot water heater had.

  Still in my towel, I fell heavily on my bed and groaned.

  The squares in the tin ceiling had a complicated but repetitive pattern that was soothing to stare at, almost therapeutic. My feet hurt. I hoped I didn’t get blisters.

  Would have been nice to catch that punk.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  My Heart, Yvette:

  I do not know if this oaf has given you my first letter. It is best if he has. Yet I know you must feel my essence no matter where you are. Surely you know I am here, I am searching. Will you not reveal yourself? Will you not emerge as the sun on the ocean, a radiant blossom of beauty for which there is no compare? It is tedious here in Brooklyn, watching, waiting, following, trying to compel this oaf to lead me to you. He is an idiot, and his apartment smells. His small brain cannot understand the zevasta warnings that in our country are so well known to eons of traditions. How you could be with such a man is incomprehensible. Wherever you are, do not delay, delicate flower of the dewy meadow.

  The cats are fine, but I now understand why the oaf’s apartment smells.

  Cascades of petals—

  Gustav

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  MY EYES OPENED. IT WAS dark. I’d slept.

  Someone was knocking on my new Godzilla-proof door. I kept the lights off and put my eye to the peephole.

  It was Frank and Kootie. You know, Huey’s boys, the ugly one and the muscle.

  I was all quiet like, just looking, when Frank says, “Tommy, we’re here to make peace.”

  I let a beat go by—basically still trying to wake up and get a handle on all that had gone down, that it wasn’t some screwy dream. What the hell time was it anyway?

  “OK, you boys go around the corner to the tiki bar. I’ll meet you in the back room there by the fireplace in fifteen or so.”

  I watched them exchange a dark glance and exit the foyer to the street.

  Yeah, there’s a tiki bar around the corner from me on Smith Street. Back in the day, when I was a kid, my parents would take the family out to a restaurant near Times Square called Hawaii Kai. They had hula dancers, the crazy bamboo decor, wild drinks, and a doorman that was a midget. Naturally, me and my kid sister, Kate, loved the place. It was like Disneyland to us. Then suddenly in the eighties it seemed all the Polynesian restaurants became passé, which means out of fashion. Now they seemed to be coming back, because there was one right around the corner from me and it was pretty popular with the hipsters. Not so popular with me, though. The crowd was too young, the music too loud. Which suited my purposes that night. If I was going to meet Frank and Kootie, it had to be in a public place where nobody could hear our conversation but us.

  I had to be careful. I didn’t know exactly what they wanted. Two days, two guys, two less heads. Then again, the kid had lost his gun; it might take him a while to find another. New York isn’t exactly Texas. Guns and ammo are hard to come by in the five boroughs.

  A pair of jeans from ten years back, a sweatshirt, and a long raincoat was the new casual outfit. There was no rain, but I’d sweat out the sweater and the top coat. They were still damp.

  The police still had Smith Street north of Degraw taped off. Bright work lights lit up the block in front of the bistro. Still searching the crime scene for the bullet maybe, I didn’t know.

  Frank and Kootie were in back of the tiki bar at a low table, across from two couples at the fireplace. I kid you not: a tiki bar with a fireplace. This was Brooklyn, after all, not Waikiki, and October. Frank had a glass of brown liquid I assumed to be whiskey of some kind, while Kootie sipped an ultralight beer.

  They were like a pair of meatballs at an Italian wake: nervous and gloomy. I stood over them.

  “What’s what, fellas?”

  So Frank says, “We admit we took the paintings for ourselves. That was Huey’s idea, it was his gig, we played along, what were we supposed to do? But as God is my witness, Tommy, we don’t have those fucking paintings, and we didn’t get our cut.”

  Kootie flexed his jaw.

  “Why you telling me this?” See, Huey wasn’t supposed to tell these idiots who he was working for, or about me. Ever hear of how in California, when it’s on fire, they cut down a bunch of trees so the fire won’t jump place to place? In our business, you try to leave gaps in who knows what so if one person gets hooked bythe fuzz the damage doesn’t spread. As we’ve seen, though, Huey thought he could make deviled eggs in the shell.

  The two goofballs exchanged a glance.

  Kootie says, “We figure you tweaked Huey for the double-cross. That’s the word on the street.”

  Then Frank says, “And maybe had Jo-Ball tweaked, I dunno. We’re just saying there’s no need to be crisp with us. We’ll do what we can to make right, but tweaking us won’t get you anything. We don’t have the paintings or our cut. I wish we did.” He looked kind of upset about that last part in particular.

  They thought I killed Jo-Ball and Huey because I was double-crossed. These idiots didn’t think that maybe it was the other buyer ripping them off. I was thinking Ms. French ordered the hits, hired Huey, and then tweaked him so she could pocket the whole take. That didn’t mean I should ease Frank and Kootie’s anxieties. I could use their fragile emotional state to my advantage.

  Slowly, I sat down across from them. I looked at one, then the other. With a shake of my big head I sighed and said, “I wish I could believe what it is you just said, Frank.”

  So Frank starts in again with his Catholic guilt. “Honest to God, Tommy…”

  Kootie kicks in. “The thing is, we’ll help get the paintings if we can and give them to you. Whatever.”

  I looked all squinty at Kootie. I sensed he lacked sincerity, like they were mostly calling me out to apologize so I wouldn’t tweak them. “You say that now. But Huey said he was going to give me the goodies, and he was obviously lying. Instead, he decided that you guys would clip me. Now here you are telling me you’ll deliver the goodies, again. Why should I believe you?”

  “For Christ sake, Tommy, you think we want our heads exploded, too? Had no idea you were such a hard case … that
shit is fucked up, man … fuck!” Frank spilled his drink in his excitement. “I mean, I understand why you’re crisp…”

  “The thing is, Tommy, whatever.” Kootie stared at his beer. “You did what you had to do, fair enough. We’re just saying that we’re here to help you get the money he got for the gig. And if you want to give us a little something for our trouble, you know … whatever.”

  You had to laugh. These goofballs weren’t as concerned about getting killed as not getting their share.

  I waved a hand at Frank. “Get yourself set up with another drink. I’ll have a brandy.”

  Kootie and I didn’t talk until Frank was back at the table. Anxious eyes were on me.

  I says, “Who is the one Huey sold the paintings to?”

  Frank makes a face like his gut hurts and says, “Wish we knew, Tommy. All Huey told us is the scam would double up our end.”

  Kootie cleared his throat. “Thing is, he didn’t say much about the upper end.”

  “Much? What is much? He told you about me, didn’t he? I was the upper end until this woman. And he doesn’t mention who she was?”

  “Sweet Jesus, Tommy, he told us he was protecting us, that it was better we didn’t know who she was.” Frank took a big gulp of his drink. “What he did say … Kootie, tell him, it don’t make any sense, for the love of God.”

  I folded my arms and looked at Kootie, waiting.

  He winces, and says kind of quiet, “He said it was a buy back.”

  I’m not sure I hear it right, so I say, “A buy back?”

  The two goofballs nodded together.

  “How much were you offered for the paintings?”

  “Hundred,” they said.

  “Your internal split?”

  “Me and Frank each got a thirty,” Kootie said.

  My deal with Huey had been for whatever I could squeeze out of Max. Had I squeezed a hundred I would have bagged forty percent, leaving Huey to split sixty. It was customary for the crew leader to take forty percent, so these two knuckleheads would get eighteen had Huey not double-crossed me. Had they been paid.

  “You guys met Huey in a coffee shop yesterday. What did you talk about?”

  “He was going to pick up our money.” Kootie looked like a kid who’d dropped his lollipop.

  “He was going to give us our split tonight, like, right now.” Frank’s lollipop was in the dirt, too. “Shit.”

  “What if I told you guys I know where the money is?” I was assuming that the money was in the duffel bag Huey put in the storage locker on Third Avenue.

  The goofballs leaned in, and Frank knocked his drink over again. “God damn it!”

  “It’s in a storage locker,” I said, “but before I tell you where, you have to get the key.”

  They nodded eagerly.

  “The key to the locker was probably on Huey when he was shot.”

  Frank perked up. “We’ll go to the hospital, put on some scrubs, see if we can find it.”

  I says, “Hospital?”

  So Kootie says, all glum, “He’s not dead yet. Whatever. I don’t think he’s going to make it. His brain is mostly gone.”

  “Get the key to the storage locker, and then we’ll go get the money.” I got to my feet. “I’ll let you split a single twenty-five share if you pull this off. If not, well…”

  Smiling, I walked out on them. If I put my hands on the hundred, I’d take Huey’s forty percent and give the goofballs their thirty each. My money troubles with the pink monkey would be solved, and I wouldn’t care who had the paintings. Maxie could go jump in a lake.

  Did I really think these two goofballs could come up with the key? It was a long shot.

  Still, it was a shot.

  Fortunately not a shot buzzing past my head.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  OUTSIDE THE TIKI BAR THE streets were wet. I zipped up my raincoat. Looked like I was the rainmaker of Carroll Gardens. I snapped my fingers, people’s heads exploded. I put on my raincoat, it rained.

  The clock in the dry cleaners told me it was eight o’clock. My stomach told me I hadn’t eaten anything but toast in two days. And I wondered why I was running out of energy chasing that punk who jumped in the canal full of used condoms and fuel oil. That mental picture didn’t help my appetite. I did need to eat, though, whether I was hungry or not.

  While doing some serious rumination about what was what.

  I don’t do sushi. That doesn’t mean I have something against Orientals or their food. There was a new Thai place a few blocks down. That’s actually sort of an ironic thing to say in Carroll Gardens, because there was always some new Thai place opening up on Smith Street. Anyway, I dropped in and ordered some Prom Grom Gam Gluk or whatever it’s called, along with some spring rolls. Took the stuff home.

  I approached my building carefully, from the opposite side of the street, out of the streetlight glare and in the shadow of the sycamores. If the word on the street was that I was on a rampage making people’s heads explode, I might have other visitors, other than Frank and Kootie. Maybe the Mafia, maybe Doh and Crispi from the NYPD, I couldn’t be too sure, which is why I really needed to lock myself in for the night and clear my head.

  I made it into my apartment, and bolted the front door like I was locking myself in a cell for safekeeping. Instead of shades I have interior wood-slatted shutters on my windows, and I closed them tight before turning on the lights. The punk was still rattling around Brooklyn, and for all I knew he’d tagged himself another sniper rifle.

  I dropped in a Cal Tjader CD. He leads his orchestra with a vibraphone, kind of soothing after the kind of day I’d had. I lit an aromatherapy candle on the coffee table.

  With a snifter of brandy and my chopsticks, I tucked into the food. On my second snifter, I was looking at the ceiling, chewing the chopsticks instead of the Goo Glop Gam Jam.

  This Ms. French had that punk kid out there killing everybody attached to this theft, but it all seemed so unnecessary. We were only talking about a hundred grand, and she already had the paintings, so what was the deal? I obviously wasn’t a prime target or I would have been shot first—and probably second had the shooter really wanted to take me out; he was a crack shot to hit someone in the head like that. The mayhem was upsetting the police and the Mafia, not to mention me and the ones who got killed. Very unprofessional. I don’t condone murder, but I at least expect people who kill for money to do it in a businesslike way. It didn’t pay to upset the police and the mob; it worked against good business sense.

  Also, to kill so publicly, by blowing people’s brains out on a public street—it was like it had some other meaning, like there was a message.

  I lifted some more food to my mouth, and the pile of slick red curry noodles suddenly reminded me of the stuff all over the town car in front of Donut House and on the bistro window.

  With a jar of peanut butter, a container of baby carrots, and a fresh brandy I went to bed to watch TV. There wasn’t a lot to watch except the news, so I thought I’d just ease my anxieties for a while and be entertained by other people’s problems.

  I was just mellowing out over turmoil half a planet away when the black lady anchor suddenly had a picture of a bull’s-eye behind her with the word brooklynin big bloody letters across it.

  “Tragedy in the Carroll Gardens section of Brooklyn today. In broad daylight, a sniper shot a restaurant worker in the head. Darla Draco is on the scene. Darla, isn’t this the second shooting like this in Carroll Gardens in two days?”

  The TV screen split between the black anchor lady and a reporter with too much blond hair and too much makeup. I’ve noticed those two things sometimes go together. She was holding an umbrella, and she was standing just around the corner from where I was in bed drinking brandy and eating carrots and peanut butter. She was standing where the police had all those bright lights on Smith Street. Pretty screwy to be watching TV and see what’s going on down the block from where you’re watching TV.
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  “That’s right, Lola. This is the second sniper attack in this neighborhood in two days, both in broad daylight. And the local community is not happy about this.”

  The screen went all to one picture of the front of Donut House earlier in the day. Darla’s voice kept going.

  “Yesterday, a customer of this coffee shop on Court Street was gunned down when he left after breakfast.”

  Garrison’s face filled the screen, a yellow microphone in his face, the inside of the coffee shop behind him. His name appeared at the bottom of the screen.

  Darla’s voice asked Garrison questions, and I guess she was holding the mike.

  “Garrison, you actually witnessed yesterday’s brutal murder in front of your restaurant. What was that like?”

  “It was like nothin’ else. Man’s head exploded outside. Don’t see that every day and don’t want to.”

  “He was shot in the head?”

  “That’s right, just after breakfast. Terrible.”

  A snapshot of Jo-Ball in shorts and a T-shirt was suddenly where Garrison had been. Johnny was kneeling next to a golden retriever. I never knew he had a dog. Darla continued to tell us more.

  “This man, Johnny Culobrese, was a beloved fixture in the neighborhood, the maître d’ at Brooklyn’s famous Italian restaurant Dominic’s. At eight forty-five yesterday morning he was shot down in cold blood.”

  Now they were interviewing the old guy who owns Dominic’s, Louie Parella, and his name was on the screen. I knew him a little. Never liked him, though. His eyes were close together and never stood still, with dark circles under them. His hair was dyed black and slicked. Not the kind of guy I generally think of as trustworthy to look at. Still, I’d never heard anything bad about him, except that he was a son of a bitch to Johnny most of the time.

  “Mr. Parella, you knew Johnny—he worked for your restaurant for many years. Tell us about him.”

  “I loved that man like he was my own brother. My own brother! I’m sick. I’m sick. How could this happen, in a family neighborhood? The police are down the block, I don’t think they have any idea what’s what. Two innocent people dead in two days! Tomorrow is another day. Who’s next? One of my customers? We pay taxes, don’t we? I have a business to run.”