Martyr’s loft was a beautiful abyss. That’s the only way to describe it. There were paintings and sculpture everywhere: some of it stunning, some of it crap, but all of it probably worth a fortune. The refinished broad plank oak floors left over from the building’s former life were themselves works of art and the huge arched windows provided breathtaking views of the Brooklyn Bridge, the river, and Manhattan beyond. Yet it was as much a junkie’s hovel as an artist’s paradise. The place smelled like a high school locker room where the toilets had backed up. There were empty coffee cups, piles of old newspapers, and dirty, sweat-soaked clothing everywhere. Used cotton balls, alcohol wipes, and empty cellophane syringe packets littered the floor. The sink and kitchen counter were full of dirty dishes and open food containers. I didn’t want to think about the feast the roaches must have had every time the lights went out. But when I looked over at Jimmy, he didn’t seem half as disgusted by the condition of the loft as I did.
“The painting,” Martyr said and actually had the chutzpah to snap his fingers at me.
“Jimmy,” I said, “do me a favor and show Nathan what you showed the doorman down in the lobby.”
Palumbo pulled his 9mm and aimed it at Martyr.
“Listen to me, you scumbag. Don’t you ever snap your fucking fingers at me again. I got you your painting and you’re gonna give me that list of names and that’s that. Try and remember that when we’re done here and whether I get Sashi back or not, I know where you live and I know how to get to you. You won’t last five minutes in Rikers and I can pretty much guarantee you a free, all-expense paid trip. So let’s get this over with. Do we understand one another?”
Martyr gulped and said, “Uh huh, I get it.”
“It’s okay, Jimmy, please put that away.”
I handed the painting to Martyr as Jimmy Palumbo put his Sig back in its holster. Martyr treated the painting with great care, carefully slitting the tape and removing the bubble wrap. He held the canvas up before him, his eyes focusing on different aspects of the textured black- and red-speckled painting.
“She was growing up,” he said, grudging admiration in his voice.
“You like it?”
“No, but you can see that she was actually thinking her way through it. This wasn’t just about blue swirls and bright orange sunshine looking pretty for the eye of a little girl. There’s depth in this. Too bad, really.”
“What is?” I wanted to know.
“That the little bitch is dead.”
Jimmy Palumbo, bad knees or not, pounced on Martyr and had a hand almost all the way around his scrawny neck before I could react. If you watch sports on TV, you can’t really appreciate just how profound the difference is between a weekend warrior and a professional athlete, even a retired one. Pros are so much quicker, so much stronger, so much more instinctive that it’s incredible. And Jimmy just reminded me of that difference. I guessed Martyr was learning that lesson for the first time.
“Okay, Jimmy, enough! Enough! Get off him. Let him go.”
But Jimmy wasn’t letting go and Martyr’s face was turning twenty-three shades of red. I didn’t know how much of this the junkie’s body could take. My first instinct was to jump on the big man. Scratch that. Even at the height of my strength and athletic prowess, such as it was, I would have been no match for Jimmy Palumbo. I moved to reach around for my. 38. I scratched that move also. I wasn’t going to shoot the guy and I wasn’t sure he was rational enough to heed a threat. The ASP snapped out as smoothly for me as it had for Thompson and I less than gently laid it across the back of Jimmy’s left hamstring. That did the trick.
“Fuck!”
All the piss went out of Jimmy Palumbo. He let go of Martyr and rolled off the bastard. He rubbed furiously at the back of his leg, trying to work the pain out as if it were a cramp. For his part, Martyr was coughing up a lung and massaging his neck.
“Are you crazy?” Martyr choked out.
“Fuck you.”
“All right, boys, that’s it. Go to your corners and keep your mouths shut.” I helped them both to their feet and they both did as they were told. Sashi’s painting had miraculously survived the scrum intact.
I turned to Martyr. “Now you’ve got your painting. Where’s the list?”
Chastened by Jimmy’s neck squeezing, Nathan Martyr scrambled to find the list he had printed out. He handed the pages to me as quickly as possible. I think the list was probably the only thing he could have found in the chaos that was his apartment without a week’s worth of searching. Well, that, a spoon, and a fresh syringe.
“I highlighted some names for you,” he said. “See, in green marker, like there and there. Those are the real crazies. I also included some of their home addresses, the ones I knew, anyway.”
“Thanks, but remember, if this turns out to be just some junkie scam bullshit, we’ll be back and I won’t stop him from wringing your neck. In fact, he may have to stop me from doing it myself.”
“That’s the list, Scout’s honor.”
“Okay. Come on, Jimmy, let’s go.”
Palumbo, still rubbing the back of his leg, followed me out of the loft and to the elevator.
“Shit,” he said when we stepped inside the car, “did you have to hit me so hard?”
“Honestly, Jimmy, yeah. I thought you were gonna kill him.”
“I guess maybe I would have.”
“You working tomorrow?”
“I get off at three, why?”
I waved the list at him. “We got some people to visit. You up for it?”
“Does the pope wear red shoes?”
“I don’t know. The angels stole Elvis Costello’s.”
“What?”
“Forget it. New Wave humor went out with skinny ties and electric drums.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Okay,” I said, “but you’ve got to promise me no repeat performances of that little neck stretching thing you did with Martyr. The guys we’re going to see tomorrow are apt to be even bigger assholes than he is. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee it. So-”
“I swear. I just lost my mind in there a little bit. Man, that guy is a piece of shit.”
“Forget him. It’s these guys we have to think about now,” I said, waving the list at him.
“You’re right.”
“Just let me ask you… that Sig you’re carrying around with you, is it-”
“Registered? Yup. Totally legal. I got licensed when I was playing ball. You know, crazy fans and shit,” he said. “The cops understand that you can get harassed by some pretty wacky people. Then when I got into security, it helped that I already had a carry permit.”
“Cool. Just checking.”
When we got back down to the lobby I could see that Thompson was still stewing over what had happened earlier. Men don’t like getting their toys taken away from them, especially on their own turf. Freud would have said it was a castration thing. With a guy like Thompson, he would have been right. Thompson wasn’t the type of guy to just let things go. I placed the ASP up on the security desk. It wasn’t much, but it was the most conciliatory gesture I could manage on short notice. Needless to say, no thank you was forthcoming. He grabbed the folded baton and stuck it back under his blazer. As Jimmy and I left, I could feel the doorman’s eyes burning a target on the back of my head. He would come for me some day when Jimmy Palumbo wasn’t around for backup. It knew it wasn’t a matter of if, but when.
SEVENTEEN
When I got home I faxed the list Martyr had given me over to Brian Doyle with a note asking him and Devo to get me as much on these guys as possible: addresses, contact info, bios, arrest records, whatever was readily available. I also made sure to say that this was a paying job and I needed the stuff stat. Sure, I could have relied on
