I could not move. How, I wondered, could he do this to me? Why? Pete nudged me forward so that I was going to either walk or fall. Brightman shook my hand and shoved me onto a very isolated little island.
“This was a case to me, a case I was not anxious to accept,” I said. “I am pleased to have successfully fulfilled my professional obligations, but the results are not the results I would have hoped for. I have two-no, three things to say. First, I could not have done this without the help of Y. W. Fenn, Captain Lawrence McDonald of the NYPD, Detective Robert Gloria of the NYPD, Peter Parson, NYPD retired, and Joe Spivack of Spivack and Associates. Second, on behalf of these men and myself, I wish to extend our condolences to the Heaton family. Finally, I would ask that any reward monies due me go to establishing a scholarship fund in Moira Heaton’s name at her alma mater, Fordham University. Thank you.”
The press started firing questions before I was six inches away from the podium. Thankfully, none of them were for me. A hand reached out of the crush of bodies on the platform and grabbed my forearm. It was Brightman’s. Now he was shaking my hand.
“I think maybe I was wrong about you and politics, Mr. Prager,” he said, beaming at me. “That scholarship thing was brilliant, just brilliant.” That struck me as an odd thing to say. Once a politician, always a politician, I suppose. “Well,” he went on, “I just wanted to thank you again. We’ll be seeing you and your friends this evening, correct?”
“Tonight, yes,” I said.
“Senator Brightman! Senator Brightman!” someone from the press corps called out, and he was gone.
10-9-8, located in an old meatpacking warehouse on the Lower West Side, was the most chic, coolest restaurant in town, which, in Manhattan, meant hardly anyone knew the place existed. Once its name appeared in the papers or in
Geary had sent a limo to pick us all up. Unlike this morning’s press conference, there would be no somber pretense this evening. Tonight was about celebration, about showing gratitude for a job well done. I wasn’t going to argue the point. In spite of my past successes, circumstance had conspired to prevent me from sharing them. At last, I had completed a case with no dark secrets to keep, no personal price to pay. The tragedies were someone else’s.
We were shown into a private dining room inside what had once been a meat locker, the main design feature being stainless steel. Given Moira’s fate, it seemed an odd choice, but even that wasn’t going to upset me, not tonight. It was the usual cast of characters: Wit, Pete, Larry, Gloria, Spivack, Geary, Brightman, and me. Geary had promised a dinner at some later date, when things had settled down, that would include our families and friends.
The champagne was flowing and everyone seemed to be in good spirits. Everyone, that is, except the still rather dour-looking Joe Spivack. He had taken his failure to make the connection between Ishmail Almonte, Ivan Alfonseca, and Moira very hard and very much to heart. Not a man in the room blamed him for what had happened. Like I said before, sometimes it takes time and distance to see the things that are there to be seen. Though I wasn’t particularly fond of the ex-U.S. marshal, I couldn’t help but feel for him. I knew only too well what a case of the ifs could do to a man.
Dinner was okay, if you were fond of starvation. 10-9-8's chef’s favorite ingredient seemed to be big, mostly empty plates. Clearly, he had read too much French existentialism and wanted to make a statement about the importance and isolation of the individual in a starkly judgmental world. Who knows, maybe Camus wasn’t dead, but cooking in Manhattan.
I whispered to Pete, who passed it down, that I’d treat them all to their choice of a roast beef sandwich at Brennan amp; Carr’s or hot dogs at Nathan’s. The world knew Nathan’s Famous in Coney Island, but only Brooklynites knew about Brennan amp; Carr’s. It was situated at the strategic crossroads of Avenue U and Nostrand Avenue, and you could smell the roasting meat for blocks around. They’d slice you a hefty mound of buttery soft beef and then dip the bun in the rotisserie drippings. The sandwich fairly melted in your mouth. You just sort of chewed out of habit.
Following dessert-smaller portions on bigger plates-we all split into groups of twos and threes, chatting, smoking contraband cigars, drinking port or cognac. The taste of the earthy, sweet cigar made Joe Spivack smile in spite of himself. It seemed to me he was transported back to his time in South Florida when he was a part of the big agency and the spotlight shone a little less brightly on an individual’s mistakes. I didn’t approach him for fear of breaking the spell. All the alcohol was getting to me, and I excused myself in an attempt to find a bathroom among the meat lockers.
When I got back from the bathroom, they’d all returned to their seats and Geary was giving a little thank-you speech to the boys. He wasn’t quite the speaker his protege was, but few were. He was just full of compliments for everyone and asked that each of us speak with him privately before leaving. That was the Crocus Valley in him. We were going to get our Christmas bonuses, but not in a gauche, public display.
Then Brightman stepped up to speak. He hesitated, allowing enough time for the waiter to fill our fresh champagne flutes with Dom Perignon. When the waiter left, Brightman did not launch into one of his inspirational talks. He asked simply that we raise our glasses.
“Gentlemen. To Moe Prager. A man who will go a long way for an expensive meal.”
“Here. Here,” Larry seconded.
“Expensive, yes,” I said, raising my glass, “but hardly a meal.”
Even Geary laughed. The champagne, wonderfully cool and yeasty, went down easily.
“I’ve done enough public speaking today for several lifetimes,” I said. “Good luck to Thomas Geary and Steven Brightman. Again, thank you all.”
When I sat back down I noticed one of my business cards where the flute had sat before I raised it. I flipped it over.
There once was a man who with magic
Turned to good use events that were tragic
He was cleared of a murder with delicate aplomb
Because his men were blind, deaf, and dumb
And now he’s free to run without static.
The handwriting was, as near as I could tell, the same as on the first card. Though the syntax had improved, the general theme remained consistent. Someone, a man most probably in this room, was not so fond of Steven Brightman as he pretended. I slid the card into my wallet to keep the first limerick company. Maybe someday I’d look into the authorship, but not tonight.
Geary called an end to the evening’s proceedings. He and his boy thanked us again, individually, as was the plan. Brightman, of course, disappeared when the envelopes were passed out. I went last of all.
“ ‘Thank you’ loses all meaning after a while, don’t you agree?” Geary offered, shaking my hand with a genuine firmness I had not expected. “One day you may be able to say that you had a large part in turning this state, maybe the country, around.”
“Please, I’m already a little nauseous. Don’t make it worse. I just did a job and I got lucky and had a lot of help.”
“You see,” he said, smiling smugly, “never underestimate luck.”
“Never.”
He handed me an envelope. “Open it at home, please. As you requested, Steven has made arrangements for the reward money to be placed in a scholarship fund in Moira’s name. I have added a matching check to that amount, and Steven has promised to set up a charity to continue adding to the scholarship. Strangely, Moe, it has been a pleasure knowing you. You’re not at all what I’d been led to believe.”
“Talk about a Jewish compliment.”
“Yes, well, things don’t always come out quite how you mean them. Please, if you ever need a favor …”
I left it at that.
None of us spoke much in the limo. To a man we were pretty well beat and several times drunk by any legal standard. Though we all kept our envelopes unopened, I noticed we all patted our jacket pockets with regularity to make sure they hadn’t disappeared. No one seemed inclined to take me up on my offer of free food, and the limo emptied out one man at a time, until only Larry and I were left.
