you might have some jurisdictional issues. In the end, you might be stepping on some very sensitive toes.”
“You let me worry about that,” he said. “I can step very softly when I have to, or step down really hard when it suits the purpose. If you catch my meaning.”
I caught it all right. The flip side of his desperation was fury. I was being warned about playing with fire—hellfire. If I was involving him now in something that resulted in a second public embarrassment, he wasn’t going to suffer it alone. I was going down with him and I was going down hard.
“I was a good gloveman in baseball,” I said. “Caught almost everything hit my way.”
“I’m glad that we understand one another, Mr. Prager. Because to extend your baseball analogy, I’m the manager of a team on the wrong side of a one-run game in the bottom of the ninth, and we’re down to the last strike. We lose the game and—”
“—you’re looking for a new managerial position,” I said, regretting I had started us along this metaphorical road.
“Yes, we’ll both be out of the game for good.”
Time to put an end to this. “I’ll be waiting for your fax.”
I rang off before he could give me the bunt sign.
I SAT AT my desk in the office of Red, White and You, watching the fax machine. As a way to pass time, it ranked right up there with reading James Joyce. At least I didn’t have to pretend to enjoy it. Fishbein
was prompt. The machine began chittering away less than twenty minutes after we’d gotten off the phone. I resisted the urge to read the fax sheet by sheet. I had already gotten too far ahead of myself and didn’t see the point of drawing and redrawing conclusions with each page received.
The unease I felt at the breakfast table proved well-founded. The body discovered in the reeds between Rockaway Boulevard in Brooklyn and Crossbay Boulevard in Queens had been positively identified as Melvin Broadbent, a.k.a. Malik Jabbar, born May 26, 1959, in the maternity ward of Coney Island Hospital. By the look of his rap sheet, Malik’s favorite pastime seemed to be getting arrested. Most of his arrests were for petty crap and he’d done the bulk of his penal tour at local venues: first Spofford as a kid, then the Brooklyn Tombs, then Rikers. Many of his arrests were for minor drug offenses, but he walked on almost all of those. He had done a short bid in Sing Sing or, as it was referred to these days, Ossining. Funny thing was, there seemed to be no record of his recent arrest for that coke taped to his dashboard.
I moved on to a less amusing section of the fax: his autopsy photos and report. No wallet or other ID had been found on the body, but the bracelet was discovered in the wet sand beneath him when the cops rolled him over. Good thing the fax had included a photo of Malik from one of his myriad arrests, because homicide had taken a toll on his boyish good looks. The two hollow-point loads put into the back of his head had removed large swaths of his face on the way out. And what the bullets had started, sand crabs and insects had finished. The autopsy photos were hard to look at, even for me. I decided to have a seat and to keep my lunch where it belonged. I’d gotten the gist of the report. I took down Malik’s address, phone numbers, etc., and placed the fax in a folder.
“You all right?” a customer asked me as I stepped out of the office. “You’re pale as can be.”
Nauseous . “Fine,” I answered.
“Good, then can you please explain to me exactly why you charge a full three dollars more for Moët White Star than Crates and Carafes in Roslyn?”
“I would be happy to.”
And for the first time in years, I was.
CHAPTER SEVEN
2951 WEST EIGHTH Street, that’s the address of the 60th Precinct. It’s one of those hideous prefab buildings that lacks looks, character, and just about every other aesthetic quality you might think of. Its only saving grace is that it is located directly across
“You let me worry about that,” he said. “I can step very softly when I have to, or step down really hard when it suits the purpose. If you catch my meaning.”
I caught it all right. The flip side of his desperation was fury. I was being warned about playing with fire—hellfire. If I was involving him now in something that resulted in a second public embarrassment, he wasn’t going to suffer it alone. I was going down with him and I was going down hard.
“I was a good gloveman in baseball,” I said. “Caught almost everything hit my way.”
“I’m glad that we understand one another, Mr. Prager. Because to extend your baseball analogy, I’m the manager of a team on the wrong side of a one-run game in the bottom of the ninth, and we’re down to the last strike. We lose the game and—”
“—you’re looking for a new managerial position,” I said, regretting I had started us along this metaphorical road.
“Yes, we’ll both be out of the game for good.”
Time to put an end to this. “I’ll be waiting for your fax.”
I rang off before he could give me the bunt sign.
I SAT AT my desk in the office of Red, White and You, watching the fax machine. As a way to pass time, it ranked right up there with reading James Joyce. At least I didn’t have to pretend to enjoy it. Fishbein
was prompt. The machine began chittering away less than twenty minutes after we’d gotten off the phone. I resisted the urge to read the fax sheet by sheet. I had already gotten too far ahead of myself and didn’t see the point of drawing and redrawing conclusions with each page received.
The unease I felt at the breakfast table proved well-founded. The body discovered in the reeds between Rockaway Boulevard in Brooklyn and Crossbay Boulevard in Queens had been positively identified as Melvin Broadbent, a.k.a. Malik Jabbar, born May 26, 1959, in the maternity ward of Coney Island Hospital. By the look of his rap sheet, Malik’s favorite pastime seemed to be getting arrested. Most of his arrests were for petty crap and he’d done the bulk of his penal tour at local venues: first Spofford as a kid, then the Brooklyn Tombs, then Rikers. Many of his arrests were for minor drug offenses, but he walked on almost all of those. He had done a short bid in Sing Sing or, as it was referred to these days, Ossining. Funny thing was, there seemed to be no record of his recent arrest for that coke taped to his dashboard.
I moved on to a less amusing section of the fax: his autopsy photos and report. No wallet or other ID had been found on the body, but the bracelet was discovered in the wet sand beneath him when the cops rolled him over. Good thing the fax had included a photo of Malik from one of his myriad arrests, because homicide had taken a toll on his boyish good looks. The two hollow-point loads put into the back of his head had removed large swaths of his face on the way out. And what the bullets had started, sand crabs and insects had finished. The autopsy photos were hard to look at, even for me. I decided to have a seat and to keep my lunch where it belonged. I’d gotten the gist of the report. I took down Malik’s address, phone numbers, etc., and placed the fax in a folder.
“You all right?” a customer asked me as I stepped out of the office. “You’re pale as can be.”
Nauseous . “Fine,” I answered.
“Good, then can you please explain to me exactly why you charge a full three dollars more for Moët White Star than Crates and Carafes in Roslyn?”
“I would be happy to.”
And for the first time in years, I was.
CHAPTER SEVEN
2951 WEST EIGHTH Street, that’s the address of the 60th Precinct. It’s one of those hideous prefab buildings that lacks looks, character, and just about every other aesthetic quality you might think of. Its only saving grace is that it is located directly across
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