When I finished, Duma instructed Zee to wait outside. He then voiced his concerns, “Zee’s a good dude, but a black cloud follows him. And I don’t like Candi being involved … how many times are you going to let her eff up your life before you learn your lesson? If I’m going to put myself on the line for you, I can’t have you thinking with your dick.”
I attempted to explain that wasn’t what was going on here, but the hand went up again. “And when it comes to Zee, you’re thinking with your heart, which might be worse.”
Duma’s motivation was clear from the beginning—this was solely about business, and he saw Zee’s unreliability as a threat to his bottom line. I respected it, but didn’t agree.
When he finished lecturing, I did what I’ve always done—I served as the mouthpiece for Zee Thomas, and defended him to a skeptical jury. If I was going down, I was going down with the last person left on the planet that I completely trusted.
Zee and I walked south on Broadway until we reached 42nd Street. We hung a left, and continued on foot until we arrived at Bryant Park, where we waited by the skating pond for Sophie. To avoid any scrutiny, she would always leave through a different entrance, twenty minutes after Zee exited the club, and they would meet up here. To keep their relationship under wraps, I might also suggest avoiding public wrestling matches.
Sophie arrived on schedule, having gone from no clothing to now being dressed like an Eskimo. Her cheery demeanor had also returned, and she apologized profusely for her out-of-character behavior. “Look who’s the one in love now,” I whispered to her. Two could play that game.
It seemed as if we’d escaped unnoticed, but as we attempted to hail a cab on Sixth Avenue, a flashbulb grabbed my attention. Zee noticed it too, and turned toward the source. When he did, the grinning photographer called out, “Are you sure you don’t want that dance, ZT?”
Zee and I usually had our paparazzi antennas up, so I was immediately kicking myself for not pegging the woman in the club as a plant.
She took a couple more shots, seemingly enjoying the cat and mouse game. “Say cheese, ZT,” she yelled out, her attention then shifting to Sophie. “I thought Duma’s didn’t allow its whores to go home with the clients? Maybe I should send them a few of these shots, Blondie.”
When another flash went off, Zee looked ready to pounce. I tried to position myself in front of him, hoping to stave off another altercation. But Sophie had beaten me to it. It seemed that he had a new protector.
Another voice rang out. I looked to see Zee’s other fan from the club, Paulie. He now wore a trench coat, with a winter cap pulled over his thick helmet of hair. It looked like we were right back to where we started.
Where’s that damn cab?
“I thought I told you to leave him alone … you got wax in your ears, sweetheart?” Paulie shouted, moving closer.
“That’s more than you got between yours,” she fired back.
“I said get lost.”
“It’s a free country.”
When they stepped toward each other, Paulie reached under his coat and pulled out a gun. “I’m gonna say it real slow this time, so you can understand. I. Said. Leave. Him. Alone.”
They stared at each other for what seemed like a minute, but the gun won out. She took off in a slow jog and mixed into the crowd. The hustling and bustling crowd on Sixth Avenue seemed unconcerned by the incident, as if it was just a typical case of holiday stress in the big bad city.
Paulie put his gun away and turned back toward us. I wasn’t sure if we should shake his hand or run for our lives.
I was hoping that he was just an overzealous fan, but I knew his arrival was no coincidence, nor was what he said next, “I think it’s a beautiful night for a walk. The lights, the snow … I love the city at Christmas time. I suggest you take your girlfriend for a romantic stroll, ZT.”
When he didn’t move, Paulie opened his coat just enough for us to get another look at the gun. Zee gave me an unsure look. I nodded that he should go for that walk. This was between me and them, and I wasn’t going to allow Zee to be taken down in the crossfire.
He didn’t appear convinced, but put his arm around Sophie and began walking away. He glanced over his shoulder with another concerned look. I waved to indicate that everything was going to be okay. But I wasn’t sure that it was.
A cab pulled up alongside us. I didn’t take it as a sign that my luck was changing.
Paulie pointed for me to get in. In spite of the many hours I’d spent watching mob movies, I still chose to enter the vehicle. The driver was wearing a denim jacket and a skullcap. He looked like Paulie’s chubby little brother.
Paulie piled in next to me in the backseat and we were off. My best guess was that they were a couple of Scroggie’s thugs, but so many people were after me at this point I couldn’t be sure.
“Court Street, Brooklyn Heights,” Paulie instructed the driver, which just happened to be where my apartment was located.
He turned to me. “That is where you’re going, Collins, isn’t it?”
“I appreciate the ride home—the subway can be a zoo this time of year. But if you’re looking for a good place to torture me, that might not be the best spot. I’m not the only person living there. I’m sure you’re aware that with each body you have to clean up, the chances of you getting caught go up dramatically.” I couldn’t let Alyson get trapped in this, anymore than Zee.
The driver laughed. “Who’s gonna catch us, the FBI?”
Paulie grinned at the comment. “I know that Alyson Rudingo is working late tonight, and Robbie is staying with his father. So it’ll just be us, Collins.”
“And who would
us
be?”
Paulie reached under his trench coat and pulled out a badge. It identified him as Paul Falcone, a special agent with the FBI. The driver held up his badge—Larry Boersch, also with the FBI.
Not what I’d expected, but the lesser of the evils. They would just grill me, while the Scroggie thugs would likely cook me on a grill and serve me for Christmas dinner.
“If this is about the fight at Duma’s, I didn’t start it. Come to think of it … I believe you did, Agent Falcone.”
“No—Jacqueline Helada did. Do you know who she is?”
“I think she’s that photographer that you almost shot on Sixth Avenue.”
“It would make your life a lot easier if she was … or if I shot her. Jacqueline Helada is a longtime associate of Stone Scroggie, and is no stranger to guns. You are aware of who Stone Scroggie is, correct?”
“I think I overheard someone talking about him at the Wainwright party. A business partner that might have embezzled from them, or something like that.”
Falcone began laughing. “Funny guy, ain’t he, Larry?”
“A real crack up,” Boersch added. “Like he makes me wanna crack up his skull.”
“Don’t mind him,” Falcone said to me. “He’s just a little pissy because he had to squeeze into an elf costume and park cars in the snow for a bunch of rich pricks. He even had to chase down a guy who decided he’d rather spend his Sunday at the lake, instead of at the nice warm party.”
“Trust me, if you were inside that party you’d understand.”
“I don’t trust anyone, especially felons like yourself, Collins. But I was inside that party, and I agree—it was a pretty scary place.”
Boersch added, “Not as scary as where you’ll be going if you don’t start telling us the truth.”
Since that wasn’t an option, and lying to federal agents seemed like a good way to end up back in prison, I decided to just stare out the window. The cab was headed south on FDR Drive, a road named for the man who once uttered the words, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” I begged to differ.
Falcone filled in the downtime by making a phone call. “Any word on Gooch?” he asked.
After a short pause, he responded, “I was distracted breaking up a fight … when I looked back he was gone … keep looking.”
After the call ended, we again sat in silence. Finally curiosity got the best of me. “Gooch?” I asked.
“Gooch is short for goochelaar,” Falcone answered. “It’s the Dutch word for magician. And you got to see one of his disappearing acts tonight. One minute he was chatting it up with you and getting a lap dance from your buddy’s girlfriend, and next thing we know, he’s gone.”
“The professor?”
Boersch chuckled. “Professor … now that’s a good one.”
Falcone didn’t seem to share his partner’s humor, remaining grimly serious. “Gooch could teach a class on how to take a body apart, piece by piece until he gets the information he’s looking for.”
“And this Gooch works for Scroggie?”
Falcone nodded. “He grew up with your old pal Diedrich Kerstman in the Netherlands. That’s how he was able to bring the two of them together. And when I say he works for Scroggie, I mean he kills for him.”
If he was trying to scare me it was a waste of time—I was already scared. Hence the bulletproof vest. “So what do you want?” I asked.
“What I want,” Falcone said, “is to take my wife out to dinner on New Year’s Eve.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I know Sal Morzetti—represented him in some legal matters. If I pull a couple strings, maybe I can get you a reservation at his restaurant.”
“That’s nice of you to offer, but I’ve promised to take her out every year since we were married, and I’ve always ended up having to work on New Year’s. And this year I’m stuck on the job until the Kerstman money is recovered. So if you would let us know where it is before then, I’d really appreciate it … as would my wife.”
“You guys think I know where the money is?” I asked with a surprised look.
The comment caused a ripple of laughter, but not the friendly kind.
“You know who also thinks you know where it is?” Boersch asked.
“Scroggie, Alexander Wainwright, and this Gooch fella come to mind, but I’m probably leaving someone out.”
“The difference between us and them, is after we get the money, we’re going to put a roof over your head and feed you three meals a day. But a guy like Stone Scroggie is going to send you through one of those chippers like they do with dead Christmas trees.”
“What Agent Falcone is trying to say in his
eloquent
manner, is that if you return the money, and help us put Scroggie away, we can put in a good word with the judge for you,” Boersch added. “And I’m sure your time served will be factored in.”
That sounded more like a death sentence than an olive branch. “Even if I knew where the money was, anything Kerstman told me during the course of the trial is bound by the attorney/client privilege, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”
“The good news for you, Collins, is that you’re no longer an attorney, and Kerstman is no longer a client … at least not a living one. And since we’re your new BFFs, we’ll keep your secret. That’s what friends do, right?”
“You know it doesn’t work that way, Falcone. I have nothing to say.”
“Just like your client had nothing to say at trial. And you were quick to take that plea before you ever got to trial.”
“Sounds like something’s going down to me,” Boersch got the last word in. “And I’m not just talking about that boat Kerstman was on.”
I might not have been a lawyer anymore, but I still knew that anything I said at this point could and would be used against me. I was practicing a new law these days—the law of the jungle.
We passed over the East River with an assist from the Brooklyn Bridge. Its many suspension cables were lit up for the season, making it look like a Christmas spiderweb connecting the bridge’s Gothic towers.
Traffic had slowed to a crawl. The bridge had originally been built for horse-drawn carriages and trolleys, which probably crossed faster than we were doing.
Since I wasn’t talking, Falcone decided to speak for me, outlining how he thought things went down. I stared emotionless at the brake lights in front of us, not wanting to tip him off whether he was getting hot or cold.
“Stone Scroggie made his fortune off the desperation of struggling companies. Ones similar to Kerstman Publishing, which was bleeding red ink—a combination of too much overhead, and the drying up of the Harry Crawford pipeline. And as luck would have it, your new friend Professor Gooch had an in with Diedrich Kerstman from their days in the Netherlands, and was able to introduce the two men.
“Being the nice guy that Scroggie was, he offered Kerstman an interest-free loan. All he wanted was the personal details of his employees, including Social Security numbers, which he would sell to companies who were looking to use the info to market their products to specific audiences, mailing lists and such. Scroggie would make a nice little profit, and Kerstman would buy time to get back on his feet.
“Of course, Scroggie had other plans for the information—he used it to rape and pillage the identities and finances of the Kerstman Publishing employees. He drained bank accounts, got loans and credit lines in their names, and cashed out their 401Ks. When he informed Kerstman that he was complicit in a scheme to rob his employees, Scroggie offered a way out. Kerstman needed to sell before the damage was discovered. The only other choice was jail, and as we’ve learned, Kerstman would rather be anywhere, including the bottom of the Caribbean Sea, than in jail.