Revolver (16 page)

Audrey periodically glances over at her father, but his face is set in stone again as he listens. Guess he knows all this.

“We met him at the riots, your grandfather and me, and like I said, he seemed okay. But later, when I was in the hospital, I started hearing things. Like how Wildey was back with some of his old gang buddies. And this time they were pushing dope, all over the Jungle. You know what the Jungle is, don't you, honey?”

“I am indeed familiar with that racist term used to describe a certain section of North Philadelphia,” Audrey says.

Taney's not sure how to take that. The Captain swallows another smile. Taney decides to ignore the remark, keeps going.

“Terrill Lee Stanton ran drugs all over the Jungle. Wanna know when heroin first started showing up? The fall of sixty-four and spring of sixty-five, right after the riots. You know who to thank? That scumbag Stanton. You know who gave him protection? Officer George Dubya Wildey.”

“Are you saying my grandfather was involved in this, too?”

Taney holds up his liver-spotted hands. “No no. Not Stan. All this was behind his back. Wildey used your grandfather as his own protection. See, back then you'd never send two black guys out as partners. Shit, you might as well not send a car at all, in that case. But the white cops was supposed to keep an eye on their black cop partners, to prevent shit like this.”

“So why didn't he?” Audrey asks.

“Look, I don't mean no offense. Jimmy, you know I loved your pop like a brother. But he wasn't that kind of cop. Stan was a bruiser. There's nobody else I'd want watching my back. As far as his detective skills go…”

Audrey watches her father tighten his fists. Taney'd better watch out, unless he wants another couch dropped on him.

“Jimmy, come on, no disrespect. I'm not that kind of cop, either. I mean, look at me.”

“So why did Stanton turn on his own protector?”

Taney looks away for a moment. “Same story as always. Wildey got greedy. Stanton didn't like that. Stanton decided to kill him. Wildey had outlived his usefulness.”

“Why in that bar? Why both of them? Stanton could have killed Wildey somewhere else.”

Taney leans in closer to Audrey. She can't stand his whole smoky aura and foul breath and watery eyes but doesn't flinch.

“I think Wildey knew something was coming. And he talked Stan into going along with him for backup. That black bastard
got your grandfather killed
.”

“Happy New Year,” Stan says as he opens the door, cold air blasting his body.

Wildey and his kid have shown up early, which sends Rose into near fits. She likes to have food and drinks ready long before the first guests arrive.

“Happy New Year, partner,” George says, big smile on his face, arms open wide, expecting a hug that is only halfheartedly returned.

It's New Year's Day, and in a Polish household this means a roast pork in the oven and the mummers on the television. Stan's favorite string band, the Polish American (naturally), took top honors last year with “Fantasy of Jungle Drums.” He's hoping they'll be able to take top prize again this year.

George Junior is looking up at his father, waiting for an introduction. To Stan's eye, he's a sullen little boy, not at all happy to be here. He looks a year or two younger than Jimmy.

“Hey, little man, see Jimmy over there? I'm sure he'd love to play with you. Go on, let me talk to my partner here.”

Jimmy smiles uneasily. He's kneeling down near the Christmas tree surrounded by this year's loot—a couple of new albums, new guitar strings, socks, a bottle of spicy cologne.

Wildey nudges Little George in his direction. “Go on.” His boy toddles over to the Christmas tree and kneels down, mirroring Jimmy.

Rose comes out of the kitchen with a cup of tea. “Lots of milk, lots of sugar,” she says, handing him the cup.

“Ah, you remembered. Happy New Year, sweetie.”

Wildey goes to kiss her cheek and Rosie freezes, accepts the embrace, and pats him on the shoulder.

“Uh, Rosie, it's New Year's, for Christ's sake. I'm sure George would like something else. How about a beer?”

“No, no, tea's good.”

Rose goes back to the kitchen. Wildey nods at the TV.

“Mummers, huh. I know a couple of guys who did some session work with some of the comics.”

“You watch the parade?” Stan asks with some surprise.

“Eh, no, not a big fan of banjo music,” Wildey says. Nor
white guys in blackface,
for that matter.

“Come on, you've never been to a parade?”

“You know how the mummers started out?” Wildey says. “Hear me out now, I read about this. First mummers were a bunch of guys in masks, shooting guns in the air, demanding free drinks from tavern owners. Finally got so bad that the city said screw it, let's organize this damned thing and keep it under control.”

“There you go,” Stan says. “Ruining everything. It's just music and laughs. Thought you'd appreciate that.”

“Sure. Who doesn't like to hear an off-key rendition of ‘Oh Dem Golden Slippers' by a bunch of drunk dockworkers.”

“Pork's ready,” Rosie says.

Billy Taney and his wife, Judith, arrive late, irritable and hung over. Their two boys come barreling into the living room, relieving the awkward stalemate between Jimmy and Little George. The look on Billy's face, as he sees Wildey, is one of amusement and surprise.

“My saviors,” he finally says.

Taney's face and arms are still raw with burn scars, and he's using a cane, with additional support from his wife. She guides him to Stan's easy chair, which is cocked in front of the TV, and guides his big frame down into it. Which is where he'll remain for the rest of the evening, with Judith bringing him pork, sauerkraut, and rye bread on a plate and a steady supply of Stan's beer. Stan and Wildey end up standing around Taney, plates in hand, just so he's not left out. He doesn't say much, anyway. Most of his attention is focused on the parade.

After dinner the somewhat uncomfortable subject of George's wife comes up. Stan shoots Rosie a look but she ignores him. “Well, thanks for asking about her,” George says, “but she's visiting her own family for a while. It's just me and Junior today.”

Taney's kids go back to playing with Jimmy and Little George near the Christmas tree, but a fight breaks out. Jimmy holds up one of his new records—
Beatles '65
.

“Look what he did!”

“I ain't scratch nothing, you liar!”

“Dad!”

Stan shakes his head. “Enough, enough.”

Wildey immediately goes to his boy, picks him up off the floor by his upper arm, asks him what the hell's going on here. Stan tells him, hey, it's okay. “Me and Junior are going to have a little talk,” Wildey says, then marches him to the kitchen, Junior's feet struggling to keep pace with his father's.

Taney turns himself around in his easy chair and starts to laugh. “Oooh, hey hey, somebody's gonna get it.”

Later, Stan is draining his sixth can of Schmidt's while Wildey continues to nip at the red wine Rosie insisted on pouring him, with little birdlike sips. That isn't going to get the job done, Stan thinks. Wildey says, “Hey, can we go out back or something?”

“It's freezing out.”

“Somewhere a little more private, then.”

Somewhere a little more private turns out to be the basement, where it's not much warmer than outside. Stan unfolds two metal chairs and they sit across from each other.

“Now, you know I came over here to see your family,” Wildey says. “But I also wanted to talk to you away from the station house, off the streets. Something's bothering me about our friend Terrill Lee.”

“A lot of things bother me about that guy.”

“No, serious now. I think he was onto something.”

“About what?”

Wildey stands up. “Let me get you another beer. Got a feeling you're gonna need it.”

Stan shrugs. It's New Year's Day. Drinking is the order of the day, no matter what his partner has to say. Wildey walks over to the basement icebox, plucks a can of Schmidt's out of a row, tosses it to his partner. Stan hooks a finger around the tab and pulls it off, sticks the tab in his shirt pocket, where it joins the others.

“Listen, Stan. I'm gonna tell you what I haven't told anybody. And the only reason I'm telling you is because I think you've seen it, too. And buddy, I'm going to need you on my side for this one.”

“Just spit it out already. I don't want to miss the Polish American.”

Wildey twists his mouth into a slack smile and shakes his head slowly. “Dammit, when I want to kid around, you're all serious. When I'm serious, you're talking about a fucking string band.”

“Who's kidding?”

Wildey sighs.

“I've been asking around, on my spare time. That shit Stanton was slinging about wolves? I think he's telling the truth. There's all kind of product in the Jungle now, and word is it's a bunch of white guys selling it to the gangs.”

“Product?”

“Heroin, man. Horse. Junk.”

Stan takes a long pull of his beer. “What white guys?”

“Yeah, well…that's the thing that's gonna make you spit your Schmidt's there.”

Stan spreads his arms, beer in hand, waiting for it.

“Maybe this Plan he was talking about is real.”

Wildey qualifies all this by saying his evidence is anecdotal—he doesn't have any hard evidence. But his sources are good people. Pastor Stebbens, some of his parishioners, other North Philly residents who've got nothing to gain by telling lies. “There have always been junkies in North Philly,” Wildey says. “But the problem just went…” He spreads his hands and makes an explosion sound by pursing his lips and blowing them apart. “Haven't you noticed that we got a whole lot busier these past few months?”

“Yeah, but what's that prove?”

“Come on, man, I don't have to spell it out for you, do I? You got a need, you'll do anything to satisfy that need. You'll knock over stores, steal cars, smack somebody upside the head for their wallet, whatever. Exactly what we've been seeing.”

“Okay, fine. But what's this about white guys being responsible?”

“All those good people I mentioned before? They've been seeing a lot of white faces round the Jungle. People they don't recognize. Sharp suits and sunglasses, looking like landlords.”

“I don't know, George…”

“Look, I'm not saying I've got hard proof. But it's something I think we should be looking out for, you know? Anyway, I just want to know if you've got my back on this. That you'll keep your eyes open along with me.”

“Yeah, okay, George.”

Wildey smiles, claps Stan on his shoulder. “Good man.” Stan smiles uneasily, drains the rest of his beer, crushes the can. He's not sure what to think. About a month ago, Wildey here thought this whole Plan thing was a crock. Now he thinks there's a conspiracy going on? Stan doesn't believe in them. You don't need conspiracies. There are plenty of bad men around doing things to make this city a worse place.

As they head back upstairs to join the party Wildey says, “Hey—what was that polka album you wanted to play me? The one Jimmy got you for Christmas? ‘Who Stole the Krishna,' or something?”

“What's up, Aisha?”

“Sorry to, uh, bother you if you're in the middle of something.”

“You're not bothering me.”

Jim can imagine his partner rolling her eyes, not believing a word of it.

“Look,” Aisha says, “I don't know where you are, but one of Kelly Anne's coworkers—Lauren Feldman, one of the editorial assistants, wants to talk to you right away.”

“Can you handle it?”

“She insisted on you.”

“Why?”

“Clearly you've got a way with the ladies.”

“Bite me,” Jim says, then hangs up.

Jim calls Ms. Feldman and suggests they meet at the food court at Liberty Place, since it's near the
Metropolitan
office. But it's Saturday, and she's not at work, so Feldman countersuggests the Locust Room—a notorious hookup joint near the Academy of Music. It's the kind of place where the money you save buying rail booze will come in handy later when you're paying for dialysis.

An hour later Feldman orders a double gin and tonic; Jim sticks with a Yuengling, as it's barely noon. He's still rattled from his early-morning detour to Juniata Park. He doesn't want to dump hard booze on top of all that.

“Kelly Anne was banging Mike,” Lauren says, in a way that is probably intended to shock.

That would be Michael Sarkissian, the executive editor of the magazine. Otherwise known as Blow-Dry Guy. So why does Kelly's friend want to volunteer this information now, on a Saturday? Is she really trying to offer up her boss as a suspect? Or does she want to bury her friend Kelly Anne Farrace even deeper?

But all this conjecture is Inner Jim. Meanwhile, Outer Jim nods like he understands, sure, sure.

“Tell me what you know.”

Lauren doesn't know everything; just what she saw around the office. The flirting, the grab-assing, the voice mails. Michael is older, married, four kids, big Main Line family. His wife is apparently some superstar attorney. The more Lauren gushes, the more Jim begins to realize that she was probably “banging” Sarkissian, too. If he had to guess, their affair ended right around the time Kelly Anne showed up to be the new fact-checker.

“Do you think Mr. Sarkissian had anything to do with Kelly Anne's death?”

“No! Of course not.”

“So why are you telling me this?”

Seriously, lady—because we have this thing pretty much wrapped up.

Lauren looks at her drink. “Because his wife's a real psycho.”

Jim blinks. “The superstar attorney? You think she did this?”

“Personally? No, not herself. But think about it.”

“Think about what?”

Lauren seems exasperated that he's making her spell it out. “Maybe even a former client of his? I don't know. I'm just saying, it's something you'll want to look into. And nobody else wants to admit it—but we're all thinking it.”

Jim takes a pull of his lager while he watches Feldman. Sure, it's easy to have someone killed. Just look up
hit man
in the phone book. Especially those rich Main Line types. They probably keep a few pro killers on their Rolodexes at all times because you never know.

So what are you hoping for, Lauren? That the wife did it, or paid someone to do it, and while she's sent upstate, you'll be there to console a grieving editor and his four children? Jim is annoyed she's wasting his time. He tells her he'll look into it, and that obviously, writing about any of this would be a mistake.

“They were together Wednesday night,” she adds as he calls for the check.

Jim lowers his arm and stares at her for a moment. “Where? And what time?”

Turns out Lauren Feldman here has the receipts, because Sarkissian submitted them for reimbursement yesterday—Friday—and Feldman is in charge of filing expense reports with accounting. Well, this alone makes the conversation worth it. Another block of time, potentially filled in.

She tells him: Circa (obnoxiously pronouncing it
chair-KA
). “I don't know the time, but Michael signed for the tab at ten forty. And then he caught the train home to Narberth.”

Jim hopes he hasn't visibly jolted in front of the editorial assistant because on Wednesday night, around ten forty, he was sipping martinis at Circa, too. Not only did he most likely see Kelly Anne during her last night alive—he may have seen her killer, too.

But more important, it explains the initials in her weekly minder.

MS.

Michael Sarkissian.

During the short time he was nursing a beer at the Locust Room, Sonya Kaminski has left a half dozen messages. Little pink
WHILE YOU WERE OUT
slips litter his desk like confetti. Jim can't duck them forever.

“What's up, Sonya?”

“When are you going to announce your suspects?” she asks. “The mayor's real eager to see this thing wrapped up. And there's still time to make the Sunday paper.”

“We're nowhere near ready for that. They've got a lawyer and we're fighting with him to give 'em poly tests.”

“Please tell me you're not going to just let them walk. You need to make this case.”

“Sonya—can I talk to you off the record for a minute? Pretend you're not here representing the mayor?”

“Of course. Haven't we been doing that all along?”

“This isn't as open-and-shut as it looks. I've got a lead on another suspect. And, respectfully, if you take your high heel off my neck for two minutes, maybe I can wrap this up before Election Day.”

“You're such a tease, Detective. So who is it? Come on, between us.”

“Let me do my job, Sonya.”

“You free for drinks tonight?” she asks. “After work, I mean. I've got this Nicole Miller thing at eight, but think I'll be out of there and at the Palm by ten or so. You can update me then.”

“Pretty sure I'm going to be busy.”

“Your loss. But be sure to keep me posted, and I'll do everything in my power to help.”

Jim wonders why he let that detail about a new suspect slip. He tells himself it was to shut Sonya up for a while, give him some space to work without worry about the need for constant updates. But the truth is, Sonya can be useful, and he doesn't want to alienate her. He has his future to consider, and it's always smart to have someone like Sonya Kaminski owe you a favor. Like the drink she suggested tonight. He knows it's not about anything beyond work. She just wants his full attention. She wants the inside dirt first. Let her have it.

Besides, he may need Sonya later, if things get a little ugly for him.

When Jim comes home dinner is almost over. It's just Claire, Cary, and Aud—Sta
ś
is out with Bethanne at the Neshaminy Mall, catching a movie. “Sta
ś
wanted to see
Fair Game
, but Bethanne talked him into
Home for the Holidays
,” Claire explains. Which means it's relatively quiet in the house except for Audrey, who hums to herself constantly as she twirls spaghetti around on her fork. There's more sauce on her face than on her plate. But when she sees him—

“DADDY!”

“Hey, sauce face.”

“Hey, Pop,” Cary says.

“Didn't expect you home,” Claire says. “Hold on, I'll nuke a plate for you.”

But Jim can hardly stand to eat. Not with Terrill Lee Stanton on his mind. He's picked his bar. He's going to do something. But what? And when? The ex-con has got to be feeding his parole officer some kind of bullshit, but it won't last forever. Terrill Lee may be stupid, but he knows as much.

Jim glances at the clock built into the microwave oven. Five till seven. Terrill Lee might have already gone back to the bar by now, when it's more crowded. Mugsy's was probably busy on a Saturday night. That was it. He wanted to rob the place but got cold feet last night. He was casing the place again this morning, but the owner scared him off. Now, though, he's ready to do it.

(Or he's already done it, and you're too late, Jimbo. Once again.)

He wonders if he should call the place, just to see…

(If what? There are any suspicious characters lurking about it? It's a Mayfair bar. The place will be full of them.)

Jim is busy working up an excuse for Claire so he can head out again—after all, the bar is barely a two-minute drive away—when Sta
ś
arrives home. He's also surprised to find his father sitting at the kitchen table.

(Don't worry, son, I wouldn't ordinarily be here, but I suspect a crime is going to happen nearby, and I want to be there quick if it does.)

“STOSHIE!” Audrey screams. “Where's your girlfriend?”

“She had to go home. Hey, Dad.”

“How was your movie?” Claire asks.

“Eh, it was okay. Look, Dad…you got a minute to talk?”

Jim realizes he's only half-paying attention. Some part of his brain screams at him: Hey. Asshole. Your older son wants to talk to you. Don't fuck this up by asking him to repeat himself.

“Sure, Sta
ś
,” Jim says.

Then, after a moment's thought, adds almost casually,

“Hey—want to go for a short ride?”

They head south on Frankford Avenue. Jim plays it like it's random—just somewhere to drive. At first they don't say much to each other. Jim can tell Sta
ś
needs to unburden himself of something, but he's not going to force it. He'll talk when he's ready. And sure enough…

“I've been thinking about school,” Sta
ś
says.

“You mean, where to apply? I guess it is that time of senior year.”

“No. I'm not talking about college. I want to join the department.”

Oh boy. Claire will not like this. Jim's not sure how he feels about it, either. To be honest, he didn't see this one coming. Sta
ś
is at that age when he's more interested in Bethanne than anything else in his life. Jim assumed his boy would follow his girlfriend to whichever college she chose and figure it all out later.

“Dad?”

“No, I heard you. I'm just processing it.”

The boy sulks.

“Thought you'd be happy.”

Jim, of course, is torn over the news. What man wouldn't be overjoyed by the news that his firstborn child wants to follow him into his chosen profession? But not when the profession is police work. Jim realizes now that he didn't ever really choose it. It was inevitable. Someone kills your father, you seek vengeance. You can do so through extralegal means, or you can do it within the boundaries of the law.

(Like you stalking Stanton last night and this morning, Jimbo? Was that within the boundaries of the law?)

Jim finds an empty space directly across the street from Mugsy's. He thinks about coming up with some excuse for being here—some kind of surveillance work tied in to the Kelly Anne Farrace murders. But no, this is his firstborn son here. Sta
ś
doesn't deserve a charade. The air is cold and crisp, dipping below freezing. He turns off the car.

“What are we doing here?”

“The man who killed your grandfather has been casing this bar.”

“Are you for real? Where?” Sta
ś
peers out of the window, cupping his hands on the glass. It's night and too cold for anyone to be standing outside.

“He's not here now. But I have a feeling he could wander by at some point. I think he wants to rob it.”

Sta
ś
considers this.

“If he killed Grandpop, how's he walking around free?”

“He was never convicted of the murders. He was put away for a drug-related murder back in 1972. He got out just a few months ago. I didn't know until just a few days ago.”

“Terrill Lee Stanton,” Sta
ś
says.

Jim turns to look at him. “How did you know that name?”

“I looked in your scrapbook a few years ago.”

Jim should smack him upside the head for snooping through his private papers, but it's a relief to be honest. He doesn't have to explain it all to Sta
ś
the way he would the other kids.

“So you know the whole story, then.”

“I think I do.”

“I became a police officer because I felt I owed something to your grandfather. I swore I would avenge him. Find the guy who did it. By the time I found out who that was, it was too late.”

“It's not too late! Can't you reopen the case? Nail his ass?”

Jim sighs. He meant it was too late to choose another profession—not too late to go after Stanton for murder.

“I know how you feel, but sadly, that's never gonna happen. This case is thirty years old. All the witnesses are dead, there's no physical evidence. When I was your age I thought I could do that, but I've worked enough homicides to know the truth. Best chance they had to nail this son of a bitch was back in sixty-five and that didn't happen.”

Jim hears himself speaking the words while Inner Jim heckles him simultaneously.

(If that's what you really think, then why are you out here?)

“Anyway, what I'm trying to say is,
you
don't have to do this. Forget the police for now. Go to college, earn your degree. If police work is still something you want to do, then great. Department needs guys with college training. Especially forensics. Point is, I want you to have the chances I never did.”

“But Dad, this is what I want to do right now. I don't want to waste time.”

“The family debt is paid. I think the Walczaks have done plenty for the Philadelphia Police Department.”

Sta
ś
squirms in the passenger seat. “It's not about that,” he says finally.

“What's it about, then?”