Crook Manifesto (Ray Carney, #2)(11)
He kept his card.
He didn’t know Green’s rates, but this was Munson’s deal and the cop had a timetable so Carney wasn’t going to sweat it. It was coming on seven-thirty. Whether or not this went down tonight depended on how Green rolled. Maybe he kept this kind of money on tap and maybe he didn’t. The detective might have to wait until tomorrow—unless Carney fronted some cash tonight as an advance. Became more than a go-between. If this remained an exchange for concert tickets, Carney could tell himself he was still retired. To get more involved—
“Apartment 19J,” the doorman said. “You can go right up.”
* * *
***
The foyer gave way to a spacious, modern living room exposed to the north and east. A conversation pit dominated the center, the sunken green vinyl banquettes surrounding a low coffee table of dark walnut. The other pieces—the dining-room set, the lounger, twin arc lamps—were amalgamations of chrome, leather, fur, and plastic. Closeout sale at Barbarella’s. There was a time in the fall of ’67 when Carney tried to move some of that cold European stuff in the store: zip. His customers looked at him like he was practicing witchcraft. Despite its lower price point, the wall sculpture Green bought from Carney hung in seamless complement.
“So glad you came by,” Green said. His smile was at once practiced and sincere. He was dressed in a white Nehru jacket and a purple-and-pink paisley shirt. Psychedelic noodling, heavy on the sitar, emerged from the hi-fi.
Carney checked out the view while Green got him a cola. A few months ago the apartment would have had an unimpeded view of Randalls Island and Astoria, but new residential high-rises rose in every direction, construction lights burning bright in skeletal, half-completed floors. That slow-motion race.
“Queens, Bronx,” Green said. “Know what you can’t see? Brooklyn. My back is to it.” He got a hold of himself. “Let’s see what you have for me.”
They set up at the dining-room table. When Green got a look inside the briefcase, he said, “Where are my manners?” and retrieved a large black felt mat from the chrome sideboard. “May I?” He laid the pieces out with religious care. Gloves had materialized on his hands.
Carney returned to the window to let the man work. He had the items cataloged in his head, nothing was going to disappear while his back was turned. The high-rises—it was like they were stacking floors to escape the madness on the street. As if the distance would make them safe. Last week the city had released its new crime study and the papers gave it a good gnaw: Crime Inc, Murder Shock, Rotten Apple. In the last ten years, the homicide rate had quadrupled, rapes and car thefts and burglaries were at historic highs, and you couldn’t walk a block without packs of knife-wielding muggers descending on you, and so on. The statistics were set in bullet-pointed lists, in cheap ink that stained your hands like blood.
125th Street didn’t need the papers to deliver that news but maybe now it was sinking in below Ninety-sixth. Some white flight ditched out to Long Island, the suburb constellations, and some was up, floor after floor. You can run out of land but not sky.
“You’re out of retirement?” Green said. His verdict: It was wonderful stuff.
“A one-off,” Carney said.
“It’s gorgeous, like I said. Marjorie Baxter? But it’s only been a week and there’s so much heat on it, I have to pass.” He took off his gloves. “Anything else comes your way—anything else—I’d love first crack at it.”
“A week of what?”
Green arched his eyebrows. It was odd that Carney didn’t know their provenance, or that he pretended not to. Green opened the dry bar’s cabinet—a black Maison Jansen rip-off with chrome fixtures—and unlocked the compartment at its base. He withdrew a folder.
They’d updated the format for police bulletins since Carney stepped away. It was easier on the eyes these days. The inventory from last week’s armed robbery of J. M. Benson Fine Jewelry on Third Avenue matched Carney’s mental inventory of Munson’s goods. The suspects were four Negro men, ages twenty to thirty, average height. Taking into account inflation for the insurance, Carney had nailed his estimate of the stones’ value.
Green reiterated that Carney should call him the next time he was looking to partner, but the Benson haul was impossible. “Word is, it’s the Black Liberation Army,” he said. “They’ve been knocking over banks the last few months. Doing robberies. Between that and the policemen shootings, they’re too hot.”
Of course. Black hoods didn’t take down East Side jewelry stores in the middle of the day. Only crazy radicals and nutjob revolutionaries pulled shit like that. Green had put his back to his home borough, but the way he said “knocking over banks” struck a Brooklyn spark.
Green said, “Moskowitz said you severed your business relationship over what he called ‘high visibility merchandise.’ I apologize that we find ourselves in similar circumstances.”
“He gave me up.”
“Not very collegial,” he said, with evident disgust. “I asked him who was the most honest man he worked with, and he said you.”
“Right.”
“He died last year. Fell over in his living room like that.”
“Sounds quick.” Moskowitz had sold him out to the men who killed his cousin. Occasionally Carney had imagined the shape of his revenge, but let it go once he retired. Step away entirely or you haven’t stepped away at all.