Secret Isaac by Jerome Charyn

logic to it. The creature was purring in his belly. That’s all the encouragement a man could need. Isaac still had a cop’s head. What did Annie Powell mean to him? There were other scarred whores in the world, plenty of them. He hadn’t slept with this Annie, hadn’t touched her. And she’d mocked his offerings of champagne. But he was already smitten by that letter on her face, Dermott’s mark. He could have had his own inspectors swipe O’Toole off the street. Five or ten of Isaac’s deputies for each of Jamey’s arms. They would have unwired him. But Isaac would fix Jamey himself, when he got back from Dublin. Jamey was only a vassal to that king. It was Dermott Bride who had stepped on Annie’s face. He was the lad Isaac wanted. He’d already booked a flight with Aer Lingus, crazy as it was. Isaac was leaving tomorrow.
    He wasn’t going to Dublin as the great Isaac Sidel. A trusted deputy might have doctored a passport for him. Isaac could have flown under any name. But he didn’t want to involve his office. He used a crooked engraver, Duckworth, a thief that Isaac had kept out of jail. He had him smuggled into Centre Street with his bag of tools. The engraver was nervous. He liked thirty-six hours to “make” a passport. And he preferred his own darkroom off Canal Street, where he could exercise his artistry without any pressure from the First Dep.
    â€œIsaac, are you sure there’s a camera downstairs?”
    â€œDuckie, why do I have to repeat myself? You’ve been here before. The photo unit was always in the basement.”
    â€œBut how do we know what equipment the bastards left behind?”
    â€œThat’s what we’re going to find out.”
    Isaac grabbed a flashlight and they marched down three flights. Rats scurried around their legs. The smell of rat shit was enough to destroy a man. Isaac kept the engraver on his feet. Duckworth had his camera. The photo unit was intact.
    The engraver took half a dozen passports out of his pocket. They were samples of his own work, names he’d invented. All he needed was a photograph of Isaac to go with any one of them. He would legitimize the photograph, fix it to the passport with the State Department seal he carried in his bag. Duckworth rummaged through the passports. “I can give you Larry Fagin O’Neill, Marvin Worth, Ira Goldberg … Isaac, they’re practically real people. We’re just gonna throw one of them your face.”
    â€œKeep them for your other clients, Duckie. I have a name. Moses Herzog.”
    The engraver was heartsore. “Why Moses Herzog? That will triple my work. I’ll have to start from scratch. Fagin O’Neill isn’t good enough?”
    But Isaac was without mercy. Moses Herzog. That’s what it would have to be.

Part
    Two

10
    T HE Irish stewardesses were gentle with this businessman, philosopher, poet from the City of New York. They fed him coffee and chocolate mints. The worm adored the taste of mint. Moses was asleep when they arrived at Shannon. Passengers disembarked. Then the plane took off for Dublin town.
    His baggage was light. He figured on two or three days to dispose of his business with Dermott Bride. They wouldn’t miss him at his office. Isaac had disappeared for much longer periods than that.
    The cab ride to the Shelbourne cost him nearly three pounds in Irish money. It was a hotel with white pillars, a blue marquee, statuettes holding lanterns over their heads, tall windows, and a white roof. The Shelbourne sat opposite a long, handsome park. St. Stephen’s Green. Isaac couldn’t see the park from his window. But it still cost him twenty pounds a night. He’d have to kill Dermott and get out of here, or borrow from his pension money to stay alive.
    He had no idea what Dermott looked like. Would the king materialize on the staircase and present himself, like a fucking Druid? You couldn’t