“I got the smokes, Uncle Marty, and the sandwich and the lottery tickets,” he said. His voice was cracking and adolescent. He looked at us and wondered who we were, and it seemed like a lot of work for him. He fixed his gaze on me, and after a while a dim light came into his eyes. He didn’t try to hide it, or even realize that he should. There was irritation on Czerka’s face and in his voice.
“Yeah, great work, Stevie. Now go watch the front room- and close the door behind you.”
Stevie stared at us harder, in what I realized was supposed to be a tough look. “You got a problem here, Uncle Marty? Something I could help with?”
“Go!” Czerka barked. Stevie colored but did as he was told. Czerka stubbed out his smoke and looked at Neary and chuckled. It was moist and mocking.
“Since when are we such old pals that you waltz in here calling me Marty? And since when do I give a shit about you or your friends or their problems or whatever the hell you’re in the market for? You may not be a Feeb anymore, but you still got that Feeb attitude, that’s for damn sure.”
He took a loud breath and laughed some more.
“You got a lot of fucking nerve coming in here, thinking I got something to sell you. What, you think you’re the only stand-up guys in the world? You think the rest of us lowlifes are just looking for a chance to roll on a client?” Czerka got winded and his laughter dissolved into a racking cough.
Neary nodded at him. “I didn’t realize your sensibilities were so refined, Marty,” he said. “You have my deepest apologies. And now we can talk cash money, or I’ve got some business I could push your way, or we could do some of each. Or maybe you’re interested in something else. But if you are, you’ve got to tell me, because I can’t read minds.” Neary paused and smiled. “So, do you want to do yourself some good here or not?”
Czerka flicked at us dismissively and dug through the bags on his desk. He pulled a brick-sized package in white butcher’s paper from one, tore back the wrapping, and hoisted a sloppy pastrami on rye to his mouth. Grease bled down his hands and left his chin and mustache wet, and the smell of meat and fat rose to mingle with the other delicate aromas in the room. He put the sandwich down and pulled a cigarette from somewhere and lit it even as he chewed, open-mouthed, on the pastrami. Jesus.
“Forget it, Neary,” he said, and bits of food fell from his mouth to the desk. “Your pockets aren’t deep enough to make it worth the trouble.” He glanced at me and shook his head. “Even his aren’t deep enough. Now get the fuck out of here and let me eat my lunch.” He picked up his sandwich again.
Neary looked at me and shrugged. I took a deep breath and tried not to choke. I spoke quietly. “Mesmerizing as it is to sit here while you smoke and fart and smear yourself with lard, I’d be more than happy to go get myself steam-cleaned and leave you in peace, believe me. But I’ve got a client who’d really like to know what’s going on, and frankly so would I. I know you don’t give a shit about who wants what, but my client has some resources, and I do too, so maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss. Maybe you should get your brains out of your fat ass and reconsider.”
Czerka stared at me, his sandwich poised above his desk. He was quiet and his blue eyes were hard beneath their folded lids. Red patches spread over his cheeks, and his shoulders and fat arms began to shake, and then a gurgling sound came from his open mouth. Czerka put his sandwich down and shook and laughed for almost a minute, until his face grew dark and there was a hissing in his breath. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Son of a bitch!” Czerka laughed, “Fucking steam-cleaned, huh?” He looked at Neary. “See- your pal thinks I’m dog shit, just like you do, but he comes out and says it. He can barely stand to breathe the same air as me, but he puts it right out there. I got to say, I kind of like that. But sweet talk won’t get you into my pants, March.” He looked at me as he said my name, but I managed to keep my composure. Czerka laughed a little more and took hold of his sandwich again. After a while he glanced up.
“Door’s right there, boys,” he said.
We walked out of Czerka’s office, past Stevie and his bandages. He tried to give us another hard stare as we went by, but it came off looking like constipation.
On the elevator, Neary sighed loudly. “Not just another pretty face, is he?” he said.
“But a great personality. My guess is he won’t have a lot of second thoughts.”
“He won’t have any. We’ll pull together a list of the people my crew has ID’d and see if anybody in my shop knows any of them. If they do, that might give us a place to start.”
It was warmer outside, but compared to Czerka’s office the air seemed fresh and clean. We walked back to Broadway in silence and stopped outside the subway station.
“What do you think happened to Stevie?” I asked.
“Tripped over a barbell maybe?”
“Maybe it outsmarted him.”
I was still trying to clear my lungs when I pushed open the glass and wrought-iron door of my building and stepped into the entry vestibule. And then I stopped. There was a large manila envelope taped to my mailbox. It was blank except for my name, which was printed in capitals, in black marker. I peeled it off the mailbox door. It was light. I opened the flap. There were just a few sheets of paper inside. I slid them out and felt a rush of heat in my face and a surge of blood through my temples.
They were photographs, in color, printed on plain paper. Their quality was mediocre at best, but the subjects and their surroundings were clear enough and so were the little date-and-time stamps in the corners.
“Jesus.” My legs felt shaky and my heart was pounding, as if I’d just run a long way. I leaned against the wall for a moment. “Jesus.” I pulled out my cell phone.
My fingers felt clumsy as I punched her number. Jane’s phone seemed to ring forever, and I looked down at the photos while I listened. Her assistant finally answered.
“Jane Lu’s office.”
“Is she there?” My throat was tight and it was hard to get the words out.
“Hi, John. I’m afraid she’s not available right now.”
I ground my teeth. “Is she in, though- actually in the office now?”
“Oh, yes. She’s in the conference room, in a meeting.”
“You’re sure of that? You’ve seen her?”
“I just saw her go in.” She sounded puzzled. “Is something wrong, John?”
Something loosened in my chest. “No, nothing. Just have her call me when she gets out. First thing, okay? Tell her it’s important.” I hung up and punched another number. Janine answered.
“Johnny- you must’ve read my mind. I was just about to give you a call.”
“Are the boys at home, Janine?”
“They just this minute walked through the door,” she said.
I let out a deep breath.
“They’re still washing up, so they haven’t opened them yet.”
My throat tightened up. “Opened what?” I said.
Janine laughed. “The presents you sent. They came about an hour ago. But what’s in them, Johnny? And what’s the occasion?”
Peter Spiegelman
JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home
23
“Tell me what the hell this is if not a warning shot,” I said to Tom Neary. I tossed the envelope in his lap and got into the back of the Volvo sedan. It was double-parked in front of Jane’s office on West 22nd Street, and Sikes and Pritchard were sitting up front. “And tell me who it’s from, if not that bloated bastard.”
Neary took out the photos. There were three of Jane- leaving our apartment building, entering her office building, getting into a cab someplace in midtown- and three of my nephews, Derek and Alec- outside of their apartment building, in the park, and leaving their school. Neary studied them carefully and I looked along with him, until another wave of anger came over me and I turned away and stared out the window. But it did no good. The scene uptown kept playing in my head.