for Clyde Kelly.
Maybe, Millard pointed out when I finished my pitch, the door to Domestic Solutions was unlocked, and maybe Barsakov was smoking the joint when I walked in. He wasn’t doubting my word. But the narrow definition of public space in the penal code did not include place of business.
‘Bottom line,’ he finally said, ‘we can put him in the system, but the judge’ll toss the case when it comes up for arraignment tomorrow morning. Assuming you don’t find your witness by then.’
‘Tomorrow morning will be fine. And you could do me one other favor.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Find someone to fingerprint the suspect. I want to make sure he isn’t operating under an alias.’
‘No problem.’
I went from Millard’s office to Bobby Bandelone’s cubicle, there to request a second favor. Procedure required that I show Clyde Kelly a photo array that included Barsakov before I put the suspect in a line-up. I needed someone to snap Barsakov’s photo, and the photos of five other white men who looked reasonably like him, with the precinct’s Polaroid.
Bandelone put up only a token resistance when I asked him to perform this little service. Maybe it was something in my eyes, something he recognized. Bandelone was a very good detective. Or maybe he was a bit afraid of my reputation as an IAB snitch. Or maybe he just thought it better to stay on Crazy Harry’s good side. I didn’t much care. I was already focused on Clyde Kelly.
FIFTEEN
The Karyn Porter-Mannberg Senior Residence on Wythe Avenue was typical of others scattered through the five boroughs. Four stories high, the building spread across three lots and was virtually without architectural detail. Red brick, green window frames, white sills beneath the windows, absolutely regular, absolutely functional. But whatever Porter-Mannberg lacked in style, it was clean and solid. The hot water would be hot, the toilets would flush, heat would be forthcoming in the winter. For the elderly poor, like Clyde Kelly, it was the difference between a tolerable decline and the absolute hell of a men’s shelter.
The white-tile lobby I entered was just large enough to hold the mailboxes and a small desk. A security guard sat behind the desk. Tall and thin, he wore a blue uniform with a nametag over the left breast identifying him as OFFICER ROBERTSON. A thick leather belt around his waist held a canister of mace, a pair of handcuffs and a folding knife.
‘I’m looking for Clyde Kelly.’ I displayed my shield for the customary three seconds. ‘Is he upstairs?’
‘Nope. Went out about one o’clock and ain’t come back since.’
‘Will he return for dinner?’
‘Mostly, he does.’
I glanced at my watch. It was almost six o’clock. ‘What time is dinner served?’
Robertson smiled. ‘Well, it ain’t exactly served, but you can get a hot meal between six and seven. After that, it’s peanut butter and jelly. But you ain’t gotta worry. Clyde always comes back in time for the curfew at ten o’clock. Sleepin’ in the street makes him nervous.’
With little choice in the matter, I settled down to wait.
A few minutes before seven, a short black man hustled through the door. I locked eyes with the guard who nodded at the new arrival. He wore a camouflage T-shirt over a pair of cargo pants and he caught an attitude when I stopped him, despite the gold shield I held in my hand.
‘Ain’t got time for no bullshit,’ he declared. ‘Ah’m gonna miss my dinner.’
‘This’ll only take a second.’ I stepped between him and the stairs. ‘I just need a little help here. I’m looking for Clyde Kelly.’
Officer Robertson spoke up. ‘Ain’t nothin’ bad, Percy. Jus’ speak to the detective.’
Percy tossed Robertson a hard look that spoke of grievances past, grievances unresolved. ‘Last time I took notice,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t in your army and I don’t got to take your orders.’
‘That’s right,’ I echoed, ‘this is between you and me.’ I added a smile to my comment before offering the man a deal. ‘By the way, I’m guaranteeing your dinner. You don’t get fed upstairs, the Chinese take-out’s on me.’
Percy huffed twice, in an effort, no doubt, to show me that he was a hard sell. Then he said, ‘I jus’ come from Clyde. We was under the bridge, hangin’ out.’
‘Is he on his way back to the residence?’
‘Naw, he went to the festival, watch ’em tote that statue. Clyde’s a Catholic.’
‘What festival?’
He flared up, his shoulders rising as though I’d deliberately provoked him. ‘You know, where the wops carry that statue down the street. I can’t pronounce that name they call it.’
Robertson supplied the missing information, his voice dripping contempt for Percy’s ignorance. ‘The Giglio. It’s called the Giglio.’
His pronunciation of the word — JEEL-yo — finally kicked my brain into gear. Some weeks before, a long memo from the Community Affairs Officer had circulated through the Nine-Two, a kind of reminder. I’d read the memo from beginning to end, intrigued by the details.
Every year, according to the memo, one of the many Catholic churches in Williamsburg throws a festival to honor an Italian bishop whose name I couldn’t recall. The highlight of each day is the ‘dance’ of the Giglio. This may not seem like such a big deal, but the Giglio includes, among its elements, a seventy-foot tower crowned with a statue of the saint and a wooden platform large enough to hold a brass band, a priest from the parish, the capo in charge, and a few local celebrities. Beneath the platform, more than a hundred of the strongest and most virile men in the neighborhood crouch, their shoulders pressed to aluminium crossbars, awaiting a signal from the capo. They raise the four-ton Giglio when that signal comes, then carry it a short distance before setting it down. This process is repeated a number of times.
I’d put the memo to one side after reading it. From a policing standpoint, the issues were about crowd control and petty crime. They had nothing to do with Detective Harry Corbin.
‘You know where this festival takes place?’ I asked.
‘Up the Northside, on Havemeyer Street. But if you fixin’ on locatin’ Clyde, you can just put that shit away. Them guineas, they pack ’em in like sardines when they dance the statue. You can’t hardly move.’
Percy was right. I approached Havemeyer Street along North Seventh Street, from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, only to find the short block choked with pedestrians, road and sidewalks both. I could hear a band playing in the distance. The music was up-tempo, heavy on the brass and so obviously Italian that I was instantly transported to the opening scene of The Godfather, a reflex I knew I’d carry into the grave. But I could see neither band, nor Giglio, nor any sign of a procession from where I came to a halt. The hundreds of people pressed shoulder-to-shoulder between me and Havemeyer Street were only the crowd’s overflow. The task was hopeless.
I retraced my steps to the end of the block, then called Drew Millard at the Nine-Two. Not only, he told me, was Barsakov still in custody, an ADA was expected at any moment to prepare warrants.
‘You’re not havin’ a problem locating the witness, are you, Harry?’
‘No, we’ll be along.’
‘Good, because if Kelly doesn’t show up, I’m gonna look like a complete asshole.’
There was nothing more to say, and I headed back to the senior residence, my focus already shifting to Konstantine Barsakov. Interrogation, the duel in the box, is more than my specialty. It’s the main reason I continue to carry the badge.
It’s never in a suspect’s interest to confess to the police. The police cannot, by law, make deals. Deals are the province of the District Attorney. Most suspects know that very well, yet they confess anyway. They confess because good detectives make them confess. And not by any use of physical force more compelling than an occasional slap. No, detectives, the good ones, anyway, know how to unlock the locks, to open the mind, to force all that guilty knowledge through a single outlet. From the lungs, up the trachea, through the larynx, over the lips and gums. Then the leap, through space, into the welcoming ear of the patient detective.
