Bad to the Bone, page 30
Unfortunately, the sample Dinky was demanding, a thousand packaged doses, was larger than Wendell’s reserves, but Davis Craddock had come through, right on schedule. The man had sent one of his slaves to Hanover House with a small package and instructions to leave it in a place Wendell Bogard remembered well. The delivery had been scheduled for early afternoon and Wendell, with no wish to be seen by the messenger (eyeball witnesses make prosecutors drool), had arrived in the early evening. He’d gone directly to Craddock’s living quarters, to a familiar closet, lifting several floorboards to reveal three large Ziploc bags resting on a pile of video tapes. He removed the bags, casually stuffing them between the silk underwear and Tshirts in the suitcase he’d brought for his trip to the coast.
Wendell glanced at his Rolex (all the big players wore Rolexes; it was almost an ID card) and frowned. It was five-thirty-five and his plane was scheduled to leave at nine-fifteen. Well, better to see the bright side, maintain that positive attitude. Now, there was time to play. He reached back into the hole and took up the video tapes, remembering Craddock’s documentary on the demise of Deeny Washington. Unfortunately, Davis had removed that little gem. The man wasn’t entirely crazy, after all. But the tripleX porno tapes in Wendell’s hand would serve to pass the time.
Wendell thought of Marcy Evans and little Blossom Nol and Davis Craddock’s personal style. The dope business was so grim. Brothers walking around in thousand-dollar suits, wearing diamonds on their fingers, and still looking like they wanted to kill every motherfucker in the room. But Davis Craddock was always ready to play. Not that there was any soft to the man. The man did what he had to do, bad as any brother, but he played even when he had to be hard.
His own life had always been hard, hard and unforgiving. The street didn’t allow for slack. It demanded unrelenting vigilance. The street would take anything you had, even if it was a pair of raggedy sneakers and a Yankee baseball cap. That had happened to him. He was eight years old and trying to stay away from his alcoholic auntie when a crew he didn’t know dragged him into an alley and stripped him down. The sneakers and jeans they snatched were old and worn (though his auntie would still put a whipping on his butt for losing them), but the cap was brand-new. A sympathetic social worker had bought it for him at the only baseball game he’d ever seen.
Crying didn’t help. It didn’t make him feel better. What made him feel better was catching some other street kid and taking his baseball cap. And his goddamn sneakers which were only ten times better than Wendell’s. And then smuggling an eight-inch carving knife past his drunken aunt in case some other crew decided to renew the cycle. He was eight years old and ready.
Well, there was no doubt about it, the streets were hard. Even the basketball games were like wars. Play meant prey. That’s what really made the little street rats happy. All the little street rats and, Lord knows, there were plenty of them. Hungry kids everywhere. Looking to grab a piece of the nothing they shared.
Wendell flipped on the TV and the VCR, pushed in one of the tapes and sat back in an overstuffed chair. The label on the tape said Lickety Split, but the tape was homemade. It began with Davis Craddock lecturing four women.
“You can never be free,” he proclaimed, “if you’ve never been a slave. Freedom isn’t natural. You’re not born with it. It’s not like eyesight or hearing. It’s a higher state and can only be achieved through personal effort. You have to dump every vestige of the conditioning that imprisons you. It doesn’t happen overnight. There’s no sudden flash of insight to lift you into higher consciousness. Freedom flows directly from years of grueling work. Do you understand what I’m saying?” The women nodded gravely. “All right, you may begin.”
Wendell shook his head in wonder. The bitches didn’t waste any time getting into it. Ordinary women stripping out of their clothes. Hugging, then kissing, then moving on. Not even attractive. See them on the street, he wouldn’t turn his head if they were strutting down Avenue B with a finger up their ass. But, somehow, Craddock’s video was incredibly erotic: It was hotter than any porno film he’d ever seen. That was because they wanted to do it, because their cries of pleasure were genuine, as were their gyrating hips. They were saving their souls, putting their hearts, minds, fingers and tongues into the effort.
Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. It doesn’t matter how many bitches are begging for a chance to sit on your cock if you’re alone watching four women gobbling away on the goddamn TV. Wendell did what he had to do, then, his objectivity (and his equilibrium) restored, sat back to enjoy the rest of the show.
Ten minutes later, the women finished the exercise, dressed and returned to their seats. Craddock’s face reappeared on the screen and he began to lecture once again.
“Children, up until the age of five, should be understood as sponges, soaking up the world around them. This is not to say that heredity plays no part in human development, only that environment flows into heredity like a river flowing into the sea. Using the analogy, it’s easy to see that, while the sea remains fixed, while an individual’s genetic inheritance cannot be altered, the more rivers flowing into the sea, the greater the mix of cultural nutrients. The nuclear family overlooks this simple truth altogether. During those crucial five years in an individual’s development, the influences come almost entirely from the mother, father and siblings.”
Wendell laughed out loud. Crazy white fucker making sugar out of shit. The four women staring at him through worshipful eyes. And the man didn’t believe a word of what he was saying.
Wendell shook his head and, out of the corner of one eye, saw Stanley Moodrow come into the room. “Damn,” he said, his hand streaking toward the .45 tucked into his trousers.
An ordinary citizen confronted by a very large man reaching for a very large gun will freeze, at least momentarily. Long enough, certainly, to make a perfect target. Moodrow, on the other hand, was well trained. A seasoned veteran. Which is not to say that he reacted calmly. His heart rate shot up with the suddenness of a jazz drummer beginning a solo. A voice in his head began an unrelenting scream: oh no no no oh oh no no oh no oh no oh no no no no no gun gun gun gun gun. It played a violent counterpoint to a second voice whispering calm instructions: He’s got a gun. A .46. He’s faster than you. Reach for your weapon. Don’t make a mistake. He’s got the first shot. It’s an automatic. He’s right-handed. He doesn’t practice. The gun will pull. High and to the right. Step to his left. Don’t touch the trigger. Clear the holster. Watch the hammer. Watch your jacket. Come straight up. Sight the target. Before you shoot. Sight the target. Don’t jerk. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.
Moodrow watched Bogard’s .45 sail through the air, watched Bogard fall backward to the floor. He turned away and saw the neat row of holes in the wall behind him. The first hole was two inches from his head, but each succeeding hole was farther to the right and a little higher on the wall. Funny, he hadn’t heard the roar of Wendell’s .45 while the report of his own well-worn .38 still echoed in his ears.
Wendell couldn’t move. Kept asking his body to get moving, go after the .45. Do something. But the only part of him that moved was his head.
The blood was running, though. He could feel the blood running down his belly. Hear it dripping onto the carpet. He could see the white man with the revolver coming toward him. Could hear him draw back the hammer. Could understand the words he spoke: “Where’s Craddock? Where’s he hiding?”
But he couldn’t concentrate on the questions. Abou was crowding into his mind. Abou and his warning not to trust a white man, not even a crazy white man. Craddock was sitting out there somewhere. Sitting on a pile of white powder that would turn into more money than Wendell had ever seen. Meanwhile, he, Wendell Bogard, was listening to his life drip onto the carpet. He tried to say “Motherfucker,” but the only sound that came from his mouth was the liquid gush of dark arterial blood flowing over his lips.
Moodrow’s heart began to slow as he stood over Wendell Bogard and realized that the man would never tell him anything. If someone outside had heard the shots and was even now dialing the police, he, Moodrow, was going to be in a lot of trouble. He was tempted to leave immediately, but he knew that gunfire was common on the Lower East Side and the Chinese living in the surrounding tenements as clannish as any ethnic group in New York City. No one had come to investigate the gunfire, which meant that Hanover House was empty. He wouldn’t get this opportunity again.
He took off his coat and jacket, then rolled up his shirtsleeves. The blood would come off his skin with the application of a little soap and water, but once it sunk into fabric, it would be almost impossible to remove. He dropped to his knees and began to go through Wendell’s pockets, retrieving the bags of PURE as well as the plane ticket to Los Angeles. He noted the departure time, then glanced at his watch. It was just possible that Wendell was making the trip alone, that he wouldn’t be missed for a few days.
The PURE went into Moodrow’s pocket. He had his sample, now. The lab would be able to prove that Davis Craddock’s dope had reduced Flo Alamare to a vegetable and poisoned at least three other people. The case was made. He rolled Wendell Bogard over and dug into the carpet with a small pocket knife, retrieving the single slug he’d fired. Cushioned by the carpeting, it was, as expected, in excellent condition. He put it in his pocket. The cops would find Bogard eventually, but they wouldn’t be able to trace the shot that killed him to Moodrow’s .38.
Craddock’s private quarters, thoroughly searched, revealed nothing. Moodrow was looking for business records, filing cabinets, office desks. He went from room to room, flicking lights on briefly, glancing at dormitories, meeting rooms, kitchens, dining rooms. He crossed to the center building and worked from the bottom up, finding more of the same until he got to the top floor, the combined offices of the Hanover Foundation, which ran the commune, and Hanover Housekeeping, Inc. A row of gray filing cabinets lined the wall beneath the windows. They were still full, proof of the haste with which Craddock had abandoned the commune.
Moodrow pored through the drawers, looking for accounts payable, thumbing folder after folder until he found the ones he wanted: Citibank, Chase Manhattan, New York Telephone, The Long Island Lighting Company. He stuffed them into a large manila envelope lying on one of the desks. There might be more, but he couldn’t afford to wait around. He turned the light out behind him as he left.
It was only seven o’clock when he got back to his apartment, but he wasn’t surprised to find Jim Tilley waiting for him. Nor was he surprised when Tilley took one look at him and asked, “What happened, Stanley? What’d you do?”
Moodrow unlocked the door and walked inside before answering. Then he recited the details of his adventure as if it had taken place years before. The future was pulling him along, all the things he had to do before Betty was free and Craddock where he belonged. He couldn’t afford to dwell on the past, even if the past involved bullets screaming by his skull.
“You mean to tell me,” Tilley said, “that you went into that room without your weapon in your hand? You’re even crazier than I thought.”
“I’m not a cop,” Moodrow explained. “At the very least, I was trespassing. And I knew Craddock wasn’t there. If I walked in with a gun in my hand and someone recognized me, the boys at the Seven would have me tied up for days.”
“Stanley, you almost got shot.”
Moodrow giggled. “Well, it was a judgment call.”
“It was almost judgment fucking day.”
Moodrow responded by tossing the envelope on the table. “Let’s cut the bullshit and get to work, all right?”
Fifteen minutes later they had what they wanted. Someone had made dozens of calls to the same number in the 516 area code which covered two-thirds of Long Island, including Shelter Island. Tilley called a special number, 555-4355, and reached a NYNEX supervisor. He gave her his badge number and she forwarded his request to a 516 operator. It took less than a minute to convert the number to an address. Eleven Bucks Creek Road. Moodrow thumbed quickly through the Long Island Lighting Company bills and found what he wanted. Despite the bills having been addressed to The Hanover Foundation, the address of the actual consumer was printed clearly on each bill: Eleven Bucks Creek Road.
The urge to get moving, to jump in the car and drive a hundred miles an hour all the way to Shelter Island was so powerful that Moodrow felt like he was being sucked out of the chair. Of course, he wouldn’t be going anywhere until after Craddock’s nine o’clock call. If he wasn’t there to answer the phone, Craddock was liable to do anything.
It was just eight o’clock. An hour to wait, assuming Craddock phoned on time. Moodrow dialed Leonora Higgins’ number, waiting impatiently for her to pick up, then explaining what he’d gotten and how he’d gotten it.
“I’m going with you,” she announced when he finished.
“No way.”
“I’m a lawyer, Stanley, and you may need a lawyer before you’re finished. Besides, it could be necessary to bring in the local cops. An assistant district attorney is a long way up from a retired cop and a young detective. The locals are more likely to cooperate with me than with you.”
“You can’t represent me,” Moodrow countered. “An ADA isn’t allowed to practice law outside the district attorney’s office.”
“Then I’ll be an ex-ADA. Stanley, I’m coming with you.”
“All right, Leonora. The truth is we can use your help. But remember, you invited yourself.”
After hanging up, Moodrow went to his bedroom closet and retrieved a small, stuffed suitcase. It was filled with maps, maps of every county surrounding the five boroughs of New York. Moodrow, after spending the better part of six hours running in dispatcher-directed circles, had bought them directly from Hagstrom, a company specializing in detailed street maps. He tossed the suitcase on the kitchen table, rummaging through the maps until he found the one he needed. “You want coffee, Jim?” he asked, already filling the pot.
THIRTY-FOUR
BY TEN-THIRTY, BETTY’S ARM felt like it was about to fall off. She’d been working steadily for more than an hour, but the hole in the sheetrock was minuscule. With the bureau pulled away from the wall (but not so far away that she wouldn’t be able to get it back if someone came down the hall), she had almost no leverage, no room in which to work. Originally, she’d planned to punch through the sheetrock, then lever her improvised weapon back and forth like a screwdriver, but the metal was far too soft. She would have to pick at the wall like a woodpecker chipping at a tree. And the handle she’d constructed so carefully was beginning to loosen. If her ice pick fell apart, if the metal snapped or the handle split, she would have nothing.
“Damn,” she whispered, peering into the small hole, “I can’t see anything back here.”
“I’ll get the light,” Mikey offered.
“No, you stay where you are.” She pushed herself to her feet, retrieved the lamp and plugged it into an outlet alongside the bureau. The hole in the sheetrock was so small that she had trouble seeing, even with the extra light. Still, the dull red color of the outer wall was clear enough. The house was made of brick.
She stood up and pushed the bureau against the wall, determined not to show her disappointment. “Let’s take a rest, Mikey.”
The boy, his ear glued to the door, nodded gravely, then joined her on the bed. “Is it working?” he asked.
“It’s slow, very slow. And I’m afraid I’m going to break the tool.”
“If it breaks, we won’t have anything.”
“That’s just what I was thinking. That’s why I have to be very careful.”
“Because it’s a knife, too. Right?”
Betty smiled, giving Michael a little shove. “How come you’re so smart?” She looked at his serious face and sighed. “Yes,” she said, “it is a weapon. More like an ice pick than a knife. But it’s a tool first and a weapon only if there’s no other way for us to get out.”
The boy took a moment to absorb the information. “Do you think my daddy’s gonna hurt us?” he asked.
“He might, Mikey. I think he might.”
“I think he will.” He moved closer to Betty. “Why does he want to hurt me? I’m his child. He’s supposed to care about me.”
“It’s hard to explain that.”
“Try,” the boy insisted.
“You know, you’re a pretty tough guy.”
“Please try,” he repeated.
“Mikey, have you ever hurt anyone?”
“I once hurt Brian. I got mad at him and I hit him with a baseball.”
“How did you feel about it?”
“I said I was sorry, but he didn’t talk to me for three whole days.”
“Were you really sorry?”
“Of course.”
“All right, Mikey. The simplest way to understand your father is that, when he hurts someone, he isn’t sorry. He’s not like ordinary people. If he wants something, he takes it. It doesn’t matter who gets hurt. He just doesn’t care. It’s a kind of sickness.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes while Michael tried to put it all together. He had no illusions about the purpose of Betty’s ice pick. It was going to be used on his father. As a child, however, he’d never been asked to approve decisions made by an adult. Betty, if she had to, would stab Davis Craddock. But only if he, Michael, said it was okay.
“Maybe we could make another tool. A real tool. For digging,” the boy said quietly.
Michael’s reluctance to deal with his father came as no surprise. It would take time before the boy would be ready to accept what they might have to do. But Michael was clearly aware of the stakes. He wasn’t running away from his father’s savagery.
“Okay, Mikey,” Betty said, “let’s see if we can find a way out of here. We need something that we can use to dig through the wall. Something we don’t care about breaking.” Something, she didn’t add, strong enough to scrape away the mortar that held the bricks together.
