Commerce proceeded.
Carney still had the business card: Martin Green, Antiques. Why hadn’t he thrown it out? Because he knew or wished a day like this might come. Crooked stays crooked.
Green lived near the corner of Eighty-second and York, in a white-brick number notched with cramped terraces and equipped with a lobby that was recessed from the street. To overcompensate for the building’s newness, they decked out the doorman in an old-fashioned getup of red and gold, like the leader of a marching band that had deserted him. The doorman called up to the apartment.
Martin Green was the only fine-gem guy Carney could think of. The men he trusted had fallen hard since his retirement. Boris the Monk got caught holding the Fox-Worthington haul, which had been heisted from the heiress’s Fifth Avenue penthouse. Ellen Fox-Worthington’s usual domain was deep in the gossip columns; the robbery elevated her to the front page. The cops had been on the lookout. Now Boris was doing eight to twelve in Dannemora, where Carney’s original connection Buxbaum had died last spring, gut cancer. Ed Brody’s place on Amsterdam got knocked over so many times he enrolled in night classes to get his real estate license. Now he sold marsh-adjacent lots in Florida to a variety of suckers. Brody sent a Christmas card every year: “I’m making more than I ever did hustling stones.”
There were new players, but no time to make a proper inquiry. Martin Green was his only lead. A phone call confirmed he was still in the trade, and after a stop at the office to upgrade the paper bags to his black leather briefcase, Carney caught a taxi downtown.
Green had dropped by the store in the fall of ’69 to introduce himself. Carney had white customers—neighborhood lifers, college kids, and intrepid young couples after cheap rent and undeterred by Harlem’s current decrepitude. The moment he saw Green, he knew the young white man was not one of them. He was in the showroom observing an Esme Currier wall feature, a brass-and-steel lattice overlaid with a series of blue-and-green enamel crescents. He scrutinized it with the tip of his eyeglasses stuck in his mouth, as if he stood on the cool marble of a museum. “I love it,” Green said, before Carney could speak. “Can I take it home with me?”
He wore a white linen suit and a shiny yellow shirt, the top three buttons open to reveal pale, freckled skin and a turquoise Indian pendant. Green was lucky he didn’t get beat up, walking around uptown like that. The man was oblivious.
In the office he shared the real reason for his visit: to present his services as a dealer. Harvey Moskowitz, Carney’s old contact, was a friend and had informed him that Ray Carney was the man to talk to if you were looking to do business uptown. “He said you’re an honest apple,” Green told him. “And that you catered to an underserved community.”
Underserved community was an amusing way to say Black thieves refused service by white fences downtown. He asked Green if Moskowitz had explained why they’d stopped working together.
“He mentioned an incident, and that the blame was entirely his.” Green spotted the Hermann Bros. safe. “Wow, that’s a beauty.”
The secret fraternity of Hermann Bros. safe aficionados. Green gave his pitch. Like Moskowitz, he was the American point man for a European network. Anything put in his hands would be out of the country in seventy-two hours. He was careful, he said, and discreet. No one had anything on him—criminal, cop, or Fed—and he meant to keep it that way.
“Which is all to say,” Green concluded, “if you need a venue one day, I’m your man.” He hooked his thumb toward the showroom. “Now about that Currier piece—it really is exquisite.” He peeled off some bills.
Carney liked him—despite his association with Moskowitz, who’d sold him down the river during their last encounter. Nonetheless: Carney was retired, and sometimes whole hours passed where he didn’t have a crooked thought.
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.”