Carney’s associates had filled him in on Munson’s story. He’d worked downtown in Little Italy before getting transferred to Harlem. Working vice was a PhD in Shakedown Sciences. Mafia links, no doubt. In his new post, in addition to clearing the occasional case, he acted as a sort of diplomat for uptown’s criminal element, stepping in to cool out turf disputes between gangs and peddlers or to make sure competing numbers routes didn’t get tangled up. There was a flow of envelopes, and peace preserved the unimpeded traffic of those envelopes. A man who kept the peace was valuable indeed.
“It’s not about your piece,” Carney said. “I have some information you could use.”
“You. For me.”
“You always say, ‘If you hear anything.’？”
“And you always say you’re a humble furniture salesman, trying to make a living.”
“Which is true. I have something up your alley. And maybe you could help me out, too.”
“Spit it out, Jesus Christ.”
It’s Biz Dixon, Carney said. He could provide a map for his arrest. “I don’t need to sell you on a high-profile bust, do I? Up in Albany, you’ve got Governor Rockefeller’s drug task force trying to make inroads, the state assembly giving millions of dollars for addiction treatment, and nothing happens. It gets worse. Every day in the papers they’re talking about all the young kids hooked on junk, the streets too dangerous to walk down—”
“I’m acquainted with the drug scourge, Carney.”
“Of course. It’s ripping Harlem apart. Like last week, that shootout on Lenox. Broad daylight. People are saying it was Biz Dixon’s guys who shot that little girl walking by.” He had been making salesman hand gestures, as if trying to close the deal on a dinette set. “What I’m saying is, I know where he operates—where he keeps his stash.” Stash wasn’t in his vocabulary and it showed. “I think it’s a raid you’d like to have your name on. Roust. Bust.”
“Man, what do you know about what I like and don’t like?” Munson sat up. “Who’s Dixon to you?”
“I grew up with him. Knew him then, know who he is now.”
“And what’s your angle?”
Carney gave him the name: Cheap Brucie.
Munson cocked his head. “The pimp? What do you care about him for?”
It was a good question. Carney had been asking that himself lately. A month ago he hadn’t even heard of the man. “He’s a crook,” he said.
“If being a crook were a crime, we’d all be in jail,” Munson said. “He’s got friends.”
“A man’s got friends so you don’t do your job?”
“It’s not my job to pick up a man because a civilian, who I know happens to be bent, asks me to. Your envelope ain’t that fat.”
“He should be locked up.”
“I should be locked up, this loony bin bullshit.”
At Carney’s expression, the detective took off his hat. He spun it around on his fingertips by the brim.
“It’s like this,” Munson said. “There is a circulation, a movement of envelopes that keeps the city running. Mr. Jones, he operates a business, he has to spread the love, give an envelope to this person, another person, somebody at the precinct, another place, so everybody gets a taste. Everybody’s kicking back or kicking up. Unless you’re on top. Low men like us, we don’t have to worry about that. Then there’s Mr. Smith, who also runs a business, and he’s doing the same thing if he is a wise and learned soul and wants to stick around. Spreading the love. The movement of the envelopes. Who is to say which man is more important, Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith? To whom do we give our allegiance? Do we judge a man by the weight of the envelope—or whom he gives it to?”
He seemed to be saying that Dixon paid protection, and that there was another peddler also laying out ice, and that some sort of arbitration had to occur. So where did that leave matters?
Munson stuck his arms into his sports jacket and beat it to his next shakedown. The jacket was a plaid number that made him look like Victor Mature, second feature in a matinee. Had Victor Mature played a mouthy deputy? Carney was sure of it. More than once. “I’ll look into it—both things,” the detective said. “Ask around if Dixon’s up or down these days. Maybe someone’s interested in what you got.”
On the way out, Munson asked Marie when she was going to make those little snack cakes again, the ones with that stuff on top.