Black Midnight Page 15

  The bartender returned the shake firmly. “Michael’s mine. But most just call me Mickey.”

  He was young, Link noted. Mid-twenties. Probably an actor waiting for a decent role, working his butt off here to pay the rent until one came along. “I don’t think I ever saw you before,” said Mickey as he washed a few glasses in between orders.

  “You’re right. First time. Friend told me about it. Said I was gonna love the pussy.”

  Mickey laughed. He had a nice smile, a pleasant and easygoing way about him. Congenial. “You be your own judge.”

  Link grinned from ear to ear. “Yeah. Think I’m gonna like it fine.” He swallowed half his beer. “How about you steering me in the right direction? Maybe make a few introductions.”

  “Sure. I can do that. But really, Wilson, you don’t need it. No shortage of ladies here. And you never have to scrape the bottom of the barrel. Take my word for it.”

  They laughed together. “You get a lot of ass?”

  Mickey leaned over the counter. “It’s against policy for staff in this place to date the customers. Between you, me, and the wall, though, by the time my shift is up at three there’s more than enough still hanging around. Lotta high and lonely ladies just begging for a sympathetic ear — and a hard cock. Some of them got money, too. Real fine places up in SoHo or Chelsea. Nice guy that I am, I take ’em home sometimes.”

  “I bet you do, man.” They laughed again. “Tell you what; this friend of mine — Spanish dude — he tells it like you. Even says white and black meat mix just fine over here.”

  “Seen a lot of black an’ whites,” Mickey agreed.

  “My buddy, he’s a regular. Used to be, anyway. Been outta town for a while.” Link snapped his fingers. “Bet you a joint you’d know him.”

  “I know a lotta hungry guys.” A miniskirted waitress was shouting for an order. Mickey excused himself to fill it. When he returned, he said, “What’s his name, this buddy of yours?”

  “Jaime.”

  Mickey shrugged. “Tell me more.”

  “About twenty-five. Slick dark hair, Combs it back.” He indicated with his hand. “Pays forty, fifty bucks for a stylist to do it for him. Sharp dresser, too. His old man’s a big shot upstate. Come on, you gotta know him. Jaime DeVicente.”

  Mickey thought, then smiled expansively. “Jimmy. Hey, man. You gotta mean Jimmy. Only guy around here who fits that description. Hear he’s loaded.”

  “Right on. That’s my Jimmy. Seen him lately? In fact, I figured I’d run into him tonight. He’s back in the city, even got me to buy a ticket for the big masquerade party you guys are having tomorrow. I figured why not. Got nothin’ to lose, right? Jimmy promised me I’d leave with three ladies clinging to my arms, if I could handle all that action. Says he does all the time.”

  Mickey stared at his new acquaintance. “Sure,” he said, as he cleaned a beer glass. “I think I know Jimmy DeVicente. Only the way you describe him is pretty funny.”

  “Why, man?”

  “Because … ” The bartender openly pulled back on the friendliness of the conversation, “I never saw Jimmy together with a girl. He’s gay.”

  Link blinked, recovered fast. “C’mon, man. Whole world knows that. But I ain’t gay. Jimmy just told me the score, that’s all. He likes to joke about pussy, talk about it, you know.”

  Mickey seemed skeptical, but less defensive. “Yeah. He does that sometimes. Kids with some of the regulars. They don’t mind. He’s a good guy, and they like having him around.”

  “So? You seen him?”

  “No. But if I do I’ll tell him his friend Wilson was around.”

  “Right. You do that.” Christ, Link thought. I may have blown it. Why the hell didn’t anybody know he was gay? How the hell could we have missed that one?

  “Tell you what, Mickey.” He reached into his pocket. “You been a good guy with me, so here. Take this for yourself. Really fine shit. No charge. On the house.” The bartender glanced at the tiny white envelope held between his patron’s fingers. “What is it?”

  “Gold, man. Mexican gold. Best crack ever hit the streets of this town. One smoke and it’ll blow your mind.” He slipped it over to Mickey, who took it and quickly put it away safely under the counter. Link got up. “Think I’m gonna buy some smokes, cruise around for a time. Catch you later.”

  “Sure, Wilson. Catch you later.”

  Link casually strolled toward the dance floor. He eyed the sexy blonde, sighed sorrowfully because she really was a foxy lady after his own heart. If only he wasn’t on duty.

  What he didn’t notice was the bartender. He glanced over to one of the tables. A burly silver-haired man dressed in a suit nodded, quietly got up, paid his bill. Link strutted toward the exit. The burly man followed him out.

  Link stood at the entrance, angry at himself. He lighted a cigarette and mumbled curses. He walked casually down the block, turned into a quiet, deserted street. He’d begun to feel he wasn’t alone, that someone was watching him, following. He tensed. His hand eased toward his gun.

  “Hey, Sambo. Yeah you, monkey.”

  Link turned. He stared into the face of his caller. A strapping silver-haired man built like a professional wrestler who’d seen better days. Flab bulged from where stomach muscle used to be. “You speakin’ with me, honky?”

  He noticed the black man’s hand slip to his side. “Keep both your hands in the open or I’ll kick your fuckin’ black ass all the way back to the Cotton Club, nigger.” Before Link could move, the burly man shoved him hard against the wall. “Spread and freeze, Sambo.” Link felt the barrel of a gun cold against his neck. “I’m gonna empty your fuckin’ pockets and see what kinda shit falls out.”

  “Hey, what the fuck — ”

  His assailant cocked his gun. “Don’t piss me off, nigger.”

  “You freeze, asshole! And drop that weapon before I put bullets in your brain and your balls. Balls first.”

  The burly man did as the voice commanded, slid his gun to the ground. Carefully. He turned around slowly. Warren was in a crouch, .38 drawn, held tight with both hands, finger at the trigger, and aiming right for his belly. He wasn’t joking.

  “You goddamn sonofabitch!” shouted the burly man. “I’m a cop. What bullshit are you pullin’ here?”

  Warren stood his ground. “I’ll show you what bullshit. Let’s see your badge. Slowly, fucker. I’m tired and outta patience.”

  “Detective Forbes. Narcotics.” He went to his back pocket, took out his wallet. The gold shield was pinned to it.

  Warren put his gun away. “Resnick, Homicide, assigned to TTF.” He stood fully, glaring.

  “Well let me tell you, Resnick, you’re one stupid prick.” Forbes looked over at Link with venom in his eyes. “This nigger’s been pushing right in front of me. I got proof — and a witness. The bartender inside. He’s undercover. We’ve been working this bar for more than a month. Ready — almost — to come down hard on some big stuff. Crack by the truckload. Then along comes this petty black-assed joker and almost ruins one of the biggest busts this city ever saw. I’m gonna drag his ugly ass into jail.”

  “Forbes, you really are an asshole, you know that? You’ve succeeded in blowing an undercover assignment.”

  “Listen, hot rocks, are we supposed to know goddamn TTF’s got this place under surveillance?”

  “Ah, shit,” said Link. He kicked a trashcan with his foot. “You bigoted motherfucking scumbag,” he yelled at the Narcotics man. “You nearly broke my cover. What you think I was doin’ in there? Pissing all over myself? Asshole. That dildo rookie in there was feeding me bullshit I almost bought. I coulda believed the cocksucker.”

  “Your cover?”

  Link took out his own badge, stuck it in Forbes’s face. Onlookers were starting to gather at the windows over the commotion. “Don’t you clowns know what’s going on? Doesn’t anyone in your unit bother to collate with HQ? Shit. I been jerked off all night by that pretty boy puke of yours.”


  “That pretty boy is one of our best. Took him months to gain confidence in that place. If you’re a cop, you’re a goddamn disgrace. I’ll have you pulled from plainclothes and thrown back on a beat.”

  “I’m a detective, sucker. TTF. Special assignment. And your boy in there nearly led me down a fuckin’ blind alley. On purpose. Pretty boy not only hampered, but almost blew a crucial TTF investigation. Think again on who’s gonna be pounding a fuckin beat.”

  Forbes almost fell back against the wall. Warren sighed, shook his head. Their most promising work had turned into disaster.

  “Listen,” said Forbes, wiping perspiration from his brow, “how the hell was I supposed to know?”

  “Fuck off,” said Link. He and Warren made to go. “Just a minute,” Forbes called after him. “Nobody speaks to me that way.” He pecked his index finger against his swollen chest. “Nobody. Not even a hotshot wise-ass from TTF. What’s your name, boy?”

  Link smiled his best nigger ass-kissing smile. “Washington, sir.” He spoke it very, very slowly. “Lincoln Jefferson Washington. Like the presidents. Write it down.”

  Forbes watched with disdain as the two men turned their backs on him and walked away. “Sure,” he said. “Fuck you, too.”

  *

  Yvonne turned sleepily in her bed. She lay curled up, covers mostly tossed aside, both hands clasped under her pillow. It was the sound of thunder in the distance that had woken Ellen. She had sat up on the couch with a start, perspiring and catching her breath. The bad dreams persisted. She was feeling frightened again. That was the reason she came into the bedroom.

  She stood and watched the silhouette of the sleeping figure for a while, deciding not to wake Yvonne up. So she sat in the lounge chair across from the bed, in the dark, staring at the woman whose custody her life was in. She didn’t make a sound.

  The glint of a gun barrel could be seen on the night table. The .38 was unholstered. Within hand’s reach. Ellen was no cop, but you didn’t have to be to know why the weapon was out.

  Odd, she thought, but Yvonne DiPalma didn’t fit the image at all of what she thought a woman cop would be like. Tough, masculine. If anything, it was quite the contrary. Everything about Detective DiPalma portrayed her femininity. From the lace curtains, to the rows of plants and flowers lining the shelves of her apartment, down to the stuffed animals scattered around her bedroom. A curious look into Yvonne’s closets showed a small but stylishly select wardrobe. Well-tailored women’s business suits, quality shoes, simple but choice skirts and dresses. You can’t get rich on a police salary, Ellen knew. Yvonne was proof of that. But she seemed to handle her life with style and grace, and Ellen had to admire her for it.

  Yvonne stirred. Ellen sat motionless, afraid she would wake up and find her there. She meant no harm. But living here these past days had made her openly wonder about this woman who took it upon herself to protect her. Certainly there had been no obligation to do it. Her partner was openly against the idea. Nevertheless, Yvonne had gone out of her way to make Ellen comfortable. Why? Sympathy for a lonely woman in possible danger? Some ulterior police motive that Ellen had no understanding of? No. She discounted these reasons and others that ran through her mind. Her only explanation was that Yvonne was a nice person. A good person. The kind you look for in a friend.

  Friend. She would like to have her as a friend. Not a roommate, not a lover. Just someone she could share things with.

  She had begun to take a definite liking to Yvonne, even though she hardly knew her. She wasn’t exactly sure why. They were very different people with very different lifestyles. Something about the woman detective intrigued her, though. And now she wished that the circumstances of their meeting had been different.

  She knew Yvonne was divorced. Knew that she took her work seriously and loved it. More than that, however, she had little idea.

  The thunder grew louder. An autumn storm typical of New York. Yvonne restlessly opened her eyes. She saw Ellen’s shadowed figure, and more as reflex than anything else she immediately reached for her gun.

  “It’s only me, Yvonne — ”

  Yvonne sat up startled. “Ellen? What are you doing here?”

  “The storm woke me, too. I, er, didn’t want to be alone so I came in here.”

  “Still having those bad dreams?”

  Embarrassed, Ellen nodded. “I’m sorry if I’m a burden. I don’t mean to be.” She started to get up.

  “No, don’t leave.” Yvonne reached over and turned on the lamp. The light bothered both their eyes. “What time is it?” she asked sitting up in the bed. She propped the pillows and leaned back, buttoning up her pajama top. “About three, I think.”

  “Christ.” She reached for her cigarettes, lighted one. Rain pelted against the windows. Yvonne made to get off the bed.

  “I’ll close them,” said Ellen.

  “You were soundly sleeping when I got home. So I didn’t wake you to say hello.”

  “Took a pill.” She frowned as she sat again.

  “Don’t help you much, do they?”

  “Not on bad nights. I wish it would go away already.”

  “It will, Ellen. Give it some time.”

  “I feel so stupid. Like a kid. Waking up frightened and sneaking into your room like this.”

  Yvonne smiled. “Hey, I used to sneak into my mother’s room all the time. When I got older it became my sister Fran’s room. Sometimes we’d sit up all night talking. I still would, I suppose, if I had anyone to talk with.”

  “Then you’re sure I’m not any trouble for you? I mean, you don’t have to put yourself out like this. I know it must be very uncomfortable. Having to put up with a stranger in the house and all. I hope you’re not angry about it.”

  “Don’t give it a thought. I enjoy the company. Living alone gets lonely.”

  Ellen nodded. “Yeah, I know. Hated it. That’s why I was so happy to have Sally — ” Her lip began to tremble and she bit it.

  “It’s okay, Ellen. Don’t hold back. Let it out. Cry your heart out if you want to.”

  “I feel so stupid … ” Tears were falling down her cheeks.

  “It’s not stupid. It’s the most natural thing in the world. Hey, I do it all the time.” She smiled. If only Ellen knew.

  Ellen sobbed for a time. Yvonne sat there saying nothing.

  “I really did love Sally,” Ellen said after a time. “She was perfect for me. It used to be so much fun, just coming home after work, seeing her sketches and paintings on the walls. Watching her work. See her so … happy.” She sniffed. “And I think Sally felt the same about me. She said she’d never been so happy before. Her other lovers were only transient. Meaningless in her life. She told me that. I was real for her. Special.”

  “Because she knew you cared so much.” The thought of Sally’s brutal death made her seethe inside. It was so unfair. Why the hell is life always so unfair?

  Yvonne sighed as she snubbed out her cigarette. “It may not seem like much comfort now, but be sure no one else’s life is going to be ruined that way. You paid a heavy toll, Ellen. I respect you for the way you’ve managed to keep yourself going.”

  Ellen’s brown eyes brightened wetly. “Do you mean that?”

  “Sure I do. You’ve got a great way of seeing the world. That people are basically good, honest. I guess I used to be that way also. Time changed that. Being a cop deepened it. Makes you cynical. Lose faith in just about anyone and everyone. Angry at the world.”

  “You haven’t changed as much as you think.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “About losing faith and all that. I think you just need someone to remind you of it.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” She yawned and pulled the blanket tighter around her. “Why don’t we forget about the storm and go back to sleep? God knows we both need it.”

  “What time you getting up?”

  “About seven.”

  “I’ll have the coffee waiting.”


  “That I really appreciate.” Yvonne shut off the lamp. “Rest well, Ellen. It’s going to be okay.”

  Ellen Booker nodded as she left the room.

  *

  A Caribbean band turned the corner from Bleeker Street. Garbed in colorful costumes, women with flowers in their hair, sashes across their waists, flowing ruffled dresses, they danced and strutted to the harmonious beat of steel drums. The scene was spectacular. Shirtless men swaying muscular, sweaty bodies around the procession of masked shimmering females. The scene was carnival. The music loud, sometimes screaming, but stunningly catchy and haunting. A Jamaican panorama of vivid color and counterpointed rhythms. Small children, many barefoot, danced alongside the band. They clapped and shimmied with the symphony of marchers to the delight of the onlookers.

  The streets were mobbed. Police barricades everywhere, uniformed patrolmen at every turn. Cars were halted on the Avenue of the Americas and forced to detour. Tens of thousands had turned out on this pleasant moonlit night, lining every block of the parade. Singing, chanting, applauding, raucously joining in a togetherness rarely seen in New York. The single night in the year when everyone reconciled, turning Greenwich Village into a huge rainbow tapestry. Deafening, thunderous, jarring and truly magnificent.

  Yvonne sat calmly in the front passenger seat of the plush sedan. The plainclothes driver at the wheel turned into the only street where passage was possible. He flashed his badge and was permitted to move on. He made the first left turn he could, passed a street vendor selling Greek souvlaki and a group of white-robed black Muslims gathered in front of their storefront mosque.

  “Make a right at the next corner,” said Yvonne. “Then stop. Turn off the motor.”

  “Okay.” The officer was young. Uncertain and a bit confused, but trying not to show it.

  A gathering of costumed partygoers blew noisemakers and laughed loudly as they weaved between parked cars on their way. Yvonne could smell the sweet odor of the lighted joint they were sharing.

  “Park anywhere,” she said after they made the turn. The officer pulled in front of a hydrant, shut off the lights. The police radio crackled with static.