Madman's Thirst (13 page)

***

    The game was in its second
hour when the door to the hotel suite opened and a young Hispanic woman wheeled
in a tray of cold cuts and salads to supplement the chips, dips, drinks, wings
and Swedish meatballs set up around the bar. She was young and nervous, with
good reason. Bimm insisted that all room service be done by female employees.
He liked to see their reaction to the pornography on the screen. As the girl
uncovered the food, he fingered the remote to increase the volume. The grunts
and groans from the porno film caught her attention – as intended – and her
eyes widened.

“Put the cart over by the
television, honey” Bimm ordered. On the screen a woman was being penetrated by
two men and, not surprisingly, was yodeling loudly. “How about making me a
plate. A little of everything. And ask the fellows if they want something.”

The girl looked plaintively at
Silman, who knew what the fat man was doing. It was his regular modus operandi.
An obese and perverted plastic surgeon. They must have broken the mold after
him, he thought. But the bastard wasn’t the one who might be facing a
harassment suit.

“Just make Dr. Bimm a plate,
Rosita,” Silman said quickly.  “We can make our own plates up.”

She quickly threw some food on a
plate and brought it over to the table. Bimm sent her back for more potato
salad with a pat on her rump. Finally, he let her leave, giving her a dollar
tip and another pat. He continued playing during the entire incident and lost
two miniscule pots, on purpose. Bimm knew he would get the money back easily
when he stopped his loose play and he and Porcini trapped a sucker between
them. Which they did within the half hour. The victim was Brendan McCarthy, a boozy
reporter who “covered” Borough Hall for
Staten Island
, a slick monthly
magazine secretly financed by the Borough President.

McCarthy, with a good “7” low had
been caught between Bimm and his shill. He finally folded after 15 raises by
Bimm, who had an unbeatable “6” low, and Porcini, who turned out to have only
two pair. The pot topped out at $900, serious money for a journalist already
into Bimm for several thousand.

“You didn’t belong in the fucking
hand,” McCarthy whined to Porcini. “All you did was build a pot for this
whale.”

Bimm thought it best to distract
the irate loser.

“What do you care about losing a
few bucks? You’re gonna be the city editor of the
Register
soon, right?
What are they waiting for over there? It’s been weeks since Pearsall flipped
out. You’d think they’d be happy to replace that holier-than-thou pain in the
ass with someone who knows his way around Borough Hall.”

Somewhat mollified by the suggestion
he would get the job – everyone at the table knew he had submitted his resume
and considered him delusional – McCarthy nevertheless felt that Bimm’s
characterization of Pearsall was uncalled for. He certainly didn’t want anyone
else thinking he was as insensitive as the piece of lard who had just taken him
to the cleaners.

“I don’t think the
Register
is
going to rush into anything. They’re all pretty broken up about what happened
to Bob. And while I didn’t see eye to eye with him on some things, he was a
good editor. And a good man.”

Eye to eye, my ass, Bimm thought.
Pearsall thought you were a hack, which you are. Beldon Popp and Jennifer Fish would
never make you city editor. You are bought and paid for, and not just at the
poker table. But the other players had squirmed in their seats at Bimm’s comments
and he knew he had overplayed his hand.

“Of course, I liked Bob, too. What
happened to his daughter was terrible. Worst thing that can happen to a parent
is to have a child predecease him.”

 Bimm believed nothing of the
kind. He had been married once, years earlier, to a freckled, red-headed woman from
Breezy Point, the “Irish Riviera” on Long Island. Her perky looks and
insouciant demeanor had temporarily charmed him. Their union produced a boy and
a girl, both of whom had inherited some recessive ugliness genes. They grew
into short, dumpy, washed out adolescents with stringy red hair that constantly
reminded Bimm of their mother and his idiocy. He filed for divorce while the
kids were in grade school and before his wife could lay claim on his soon-to-explode
medical riches. He rarely saw his children, begrudged them every cent of his
court-ordered paternal support and didn’t want anyone to outlive him, even
them. 

“I hope they catch the bastard who
murdered that poor girl,” he intoned gravely.

“They may be getting close,”
McCarthy said. “Something new has come up.”

That got looks from everyone at
the table. But nobody paid more attention to the remark than Bimm, who managed
to hide his surprise by relighting his odiferous cigar.

“Don’t tell me they finally got a DNA
match,” said Michael Basilio, the superintendent of schools for Staten Island.
Everyone in the borough knew that the girl had been raped and couldn’t
understand why the cops couldn’t locate the killer, like the C.S.I. teams did
on TV.

 “I don’t know about DNA,”
McCarthy said. “All I do know is that some private investigator is nosing
around. Apparently he’s got a lead.”

“Aw, it’s probably bullshit,” Bimm
said casually, feeling relieved. “Some private dick who sold a bill of goods to
the family. It’s a sin what some unscrupulous people will do for a few bucks.
Deal the cards.”

“Hold your horses, Nathan. Not
winning fast enough? I want to hear this.”

It was Al Johnsen, who owned a
large CPA firm and, other than Bimm, was the best card player in the room. Bimm
knew the man was a genius with numbers and had recently dropped some hooded
remarks about Bimm’s winning streak. It wouldn’t be long before he figured out
what was going on. Bimm had already decided to wean him out of the game. 

“I don’t know if it’s bullshit,”
McCarthy persisted. He wasn’t going to be derailed. The attention he was
getting was easing the pain of his last poker hand. “I don’t think it’s the
family. Bob’s out of the picture, and I don’t know who else would be that
interested in hiring this guy. He’s apparently a big deal in the city. Well
connected. I don’t know what he’s got. I overheard a couple of the guys in
Borough Hall talking and all they knew was that the guy is convinced the murder
wasn’t random.”

“Still sounds like a scam,” Bimm
said, trying to keep his tone even. “What’s this super sleuth’s name?”

 “Scarne. Jake Scarne. Apparently
he knows his way around the Island.”

“Never heard of him,” Bimm said
dismissively. “What about you, Moo Shu? You know everyone in the city. On both
sides of the law.”

Silman ignored the jibe.

“Maybe. Sounds familiar. Think
he’s an ex-cop.”

“Big deal. They all are. Burnt-out
losers.”

“I know him.”

They all turned to a man fixing a
sandwich at the buffet tray. His name was Manny Manieri and he ran the largest
car dealership on Staten Island.

“Jake Scarne. He used to hang out
in some of the bars on the North Shore. Nice guy. We were pretty good friends.
Bit of a wild man, but nowhere like the lunatics he ran with. He’s real tight
with Dudley Mack.”

Dudley Fucking Mack, Bimm thought.
He suddenly lost his appetite, a rare occurrence.

“They went to college together,”
Manieri continued. “Jake’s from out west somewhere but used to stay on the
Island a lot. I met him again a couple of years ago at somebody’s wedding on
the South Shore. Actually asked him if he’d like to do some investigating for
me. Remember when I had those cars vandalized and the cops sat on their asses.
He was polite, but said he never worked out here. If he’s looking into the Pearsall
thing, it must be serious.  He’s a bulldog. And he’s tight with the Police
Commissioner.”

This gets better and better, Bimm
thought.

CHAPTER 16 – OUTSIDE HELP

Bimm continued playing poker for a
few minutes, but was so distracted he actually lost a big hand, drawing a
disbelieving look from Porcini, who nervously thought that he was responsible. Finally,
Bimm stood up.

“I gotta take a dump. Deal me
out.”

 “Thanks for sharing that,”
Johnsen said. “Make sure you wash your hands.”

Bimm laughed good-naturedly, and,
farting for effect, walked into the bedroom, closing the door. His smile
evaporated. One of the reasons – other than his natural greed – that he put up
with the oafs he played card with was the information he gleaned from them. He
took out his cell phone and dialed a number he rarely used, knowing he was in
for a lecture for even calling.  

“It’s me.”

“For God’s sake. I’m in the middle
of a charity auction.”

Bimm heard laughter and chatter in
the background. An obviously annoyed female voice said, “Why can’t you ever
turn that damn thing off?” The wife, no doubt. The bitch has an eight-carat
diamond ring and flies to Palm Beach on a private jet to get her pussy waxed –
and still kvetches. Rumor is she’s yesterday’s news, and her lawyers will soon
be going over her pre-nup with a fine-toothed comb. A lot of good that will do.

“Call me Monday,” the man barked.
“I’m bidding on a Richard Prince.”

Bimm, who couldn’t tell a Prince
from a Picasso, wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But that would be
foolish.

“This may be important. Sorry.”

“What’s so important on Staten
Island that it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

The man had raised his voice when
he said
Staten Island
, Bimm knew, so as to be overheard by some of his
fellow Manhattan moguls. He was probably winking at them. Have to talk to the
provinces, you know. Filled with rubes who buy their machine-generated
paintings of Bengal tigers and bald eagles at weekend Holiday Inn ‘art’ shows.
Bimm smiled, knowing his next remark would freeze the supercilious grin on the
other man’s face.

“The solution to our local media
problem is coming under new scrutiny.”

“Hold on.” The man was apparently
moving away from his table. Bimm heard the whining woman call out. “Where are
you going?” The man replied sharply, “Just keep bidding until you get the damn
thing!”

Bimm heard a door click. Now there
was no background noise. The man probably went into another room.

“What kind of scrutiny?”

The voice was icy.  

“Not the local kind.”

There was a lengthy silence as Bimm
idly dug into his ear with a fat pinky, which he then sniffed, making a face.
Finally, the man said, “I’ll have a car pick you up at 8 A.M. sharp.”

Bimm smeared ear wax on a window
drape and hung up.

***

The Lincoln Town Car pulled up
alongside a Rolls-Royce Phantom VI parked at the 34
^th
Street
heliport in Manhattan. Bimm got out and walked over to the magnificent
silver-and-black saloon as its chauffeur moved to open a door for him. The
Phantom has two opposite-swinging rear doors on each side. Noting Bimm’s girth
with ill-concealed distaste, the driver, a rapier-thin Asian, opened both.
Bimm, whose eyes drifted to the automatic in a shoulder holster under the
chauffeur’s left arm, missed the look.

“Wait outside, Cong Bao.” The
deeply timbered voice from inside the Rolls had the barest trace of an accent.
“You can keep Karl company. But don’t smoke in the limo! I’ll call you when I
need you.”

Despite its famously sturdy
chassis, the Rolls settled slightly as Bimm sat in the car. He could feel rivulets
of sweat streaming down his sides from his damp armpits. He wanted to mop his
brow, but was afraid to show weakness. Maybe the son of a bitch wouldn’t
notice. Fat chance. He didn’t miss anything. There he was, looking cool in his
charcoal grey suit, sipping pomegranate juice from a crystal tumbler. A small
tray of croissants lay perched –and untouched – on a side console, surrounded
by little jars of marmalade and honey. The aroma of high-grade coffee wafted
from a covered silver carafe embedded in mahogany cup holder. I’m starving, but
the bastard won’t offer me anything, Bimm fumed. He never does. I’m not an
equal.

“I’m surprised you employ someone
who smokes,” Bimm said. “It doesn’t fit your reputation for fastidiousness. And
didn’t I read somewhere that you gave millions to the Mayor’s anti-smoking
crusade.”

“The Mayor is an idiot. And you
don’t tell a Vietnamese not to smoke. They come out of the vagina with a
cigarette in their mouth. Now, what do you have?”

So much for small talk, Bimm
thought, as he recounted the news from the poker game. When he finished, the
man looked out towards the East River and began speaking. 

“Do you think it’s Lacuna?”

Bimm shook his head. The Staten
Island Mafia capo who handled the Pearsall contract was a lot of things. Stupid
wasn’t one of them.

“He would keep his mouth shut. He
has nothing to gain and everything to lose. Especially after what happened to
the girl. It’s his back yard. His protection would dry up.”

“Then it must be one of the men he
used.”

“One of them is dead, remember.”

“I know that! The one that raped
the girl and caused this whole mess. For which I hold you responsible, Bimm. Perhaps
there is a leak from the landfill, so to speak.”

“Landfills, plural. That’s too
farfetched to be even possible.”

“Then it’s the other man. Lacuna
should have used his own men. I should have taken care of this myself. I know
people better suited for this kind of work.”

“Lacuna was an obvious resource.
He was on the ground, and has a vested interest in the project. But the Mafia
isn’t what it used to be. The younger generation doesn’t go into the family
business. They can make more money stealing legitimately on Wall Street. Old
timers like Lacuna have to farm out much their work. It’s like the Roman Empire
towards the end. Using mercenaries from the provinces to fill out the ranks of
the legions. Or Hitler’s SS enlisting non-Germans when they had a billion
Russians knocking on the door. Quality goes into the crapper. That’s why he
used outside talent.”

“Spare me the history lesson. What
about the other man?

“We may be jumping to conclusions.
It could be something else entirely.”

“We can’t take the chance.”

“I don’t know. He thought so much
of his own security he shot his partner.”

The man was silent for a moment,
then turned to look at Bimm.

 “This private detective, Scarne,
is well connected and has a reputation for getting things done.”

“You know him?”

“Not personally. But we know some
of the same people and his last big case was notorious in my circle. His
involvement was suppressed by his friends in the media and the police. He won’t
be easy to handle. It would have to look like an accident, and even then there
might be blowback. It might be better to just make sure he can’t find anything
out.”

Although the Phantom’s air-conditioning
was on full blast, its rear windows were open and the man’s last words were
almost drowned out by a helicopter landing nearby. They closed the windows as
the dust kicked up. The man waited until the muted racket subsided as the pilot
trimmed the rotors and cycled the engine into neutral.

 “Will Lacuna give us the man’s
name?”

Bimm stared at him.

“I know what you’re thinking.
That’s crazy. He wouldn’t even tell me. Just said he was a tough little Polack
who knew his way around the Island. He won’t give him up. It’s a line these
guys don’t cross. Besides, he’ll know you are cleaning up a trail, and he’s at
the head of the trail. It would be suicide to even ask him.”

“Leave it to me. Just keep your
eyes open and your mouth shut. There are not going to be any more mistakes.” He
pushed a button and the window slid down. “Cong Bao, we’re done here.” He
turned to Bimm as his driver, who had been smoking with the Town Car driver
under the FDR Drive, started walking back to the Rolls. “I’ll be in touch when
I get back.” With that, he opened the door the chauffeur held for him and
walked purposely toward the waiting helicopter.

Big fucking deal, Bimm thought,
watching the man’s back. I’m dismissed. He mopped his brow and reached for the
croissants. They were still warm. He put several in his pockets.