Politika

“And a genuine mensch,” Gordian said.

“Sorry, don’t speak French,” Reisenberg said.

And hung up the phone.

* * *

“You ask me, it’s a crying shame those antismoking Nazis made it against the law to light up anywhere in the city, including your own fucking toilet.” This out of Steve Bailey, the customs supervisor Lenny Reisenberg had mentioned to Gordian. He was sitting across from Lenny in a leather booth at Quentin’s, a British-style pub across the street from the twin towers, with a lot of dark wood wall paneling, an enormous horseshoe bar, and middle- aged waiters who had been working there long enough to recite the menu backward and forward by heart.

Lenny gave him a noncommittal shrug.

“There are pros and cons,” he said.

“You going to tell me something’s wrong with restaurants having smoking sections? The way they used to before the world got taken over by prudes and sissies?”

“Truth is,” Lenny said, “I feel sorry for the poor waiter who’s put at risk of lung cancer because of the secondary smoke he’s got to inhale on the job.”

“Spoken like the reformed three-pack-a-day man that you are.” Bailey snorted. “I mean, the owner feels compunctions about his staff, he can go ahead and hire smokers to serve the smoking sections.”

“Even so, Steve,” Lenny said, “what they’d do in the old days was calculate the size of the sections according to seating capacity, which made it kind of hard for the Board of Health to enforce the regulations. The inspectors would have to come in and count heads to make sure there were no violations, you know what I’m saying.” He shrugged again. “Meanwhile, the people that ran the places would cram the tables so close together, the guy at the next table practically would be sitting on your lap…”

“Or gal at the next table, to look at the positive side…”

“Whatever.” Lenny snorted. “The point is—”

“That I just finished eating a delicious lamb stew, and have a fresh Macanudo tucked away in my pocket, and want to smoke it to round out my dining experience,” Bailey said, brushing a hand through his frazzle of white hair. “At fifty years old, with a prostate that’s bigger than a basketball, I don’t have many ways left of having fun. A guy deserves some slack, Lenny.”

Lenny looked at him. He figured that was about as perfect an opening as he could have asked for in a million years.

“That reminds me.” He reached into a pocket of his sport coat, pulled out a slim envelope with the Madison Square Garden logo on it, and slid it across the table.

Bailey stared down at it, keeping his hands under the table.

“Jesus,” he said. “What the hell’s that?”

“A little gift, Steve. From the New York Knickerbockers to me, and me to you.”

“The Knicks?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Jesus.” Bailey swallowed, one hand appearing and reaching for the envelope. He picked it up gingerly, almost as if it were hot to the touch, then lifted the flap with his fingertip and peeked inside.

His eyes widened.

“Jesus,” he repeated for the third time, his head wagging from side to side. “This is a goddamned season pass.”

“Well, partial season, technically, being as it’s already January,” Lenny said. He glanced at Bailey. “Why’re you shaking your head?”

“I’m not shaking my head.”

“You are,” Lenny said. “If you don’t like my gift…”

“Of course I like it, you know I do, how the fuck could I not? But being that Christmas is over, and you don’t know my birthday, there’s got to be some other reason you’re giving this to me, and I’m not sure I want to know what it is.”

“You wound me, Steve.” Lenny used his fork to slice off a wedge of the blueberry cheesecake he was having for dessert. “The pass is yours free and easy, just because we’re friends.” He grinned. “Of course, now that you mention it, there is something you…”

“I didn’t know I’d done that.”

“Done what?”

“Mentioned it.” Bailey stared ruminatively at the envelope, seeming to weigh it in his open palm. A few seconds later he grunted and stuffed it into his pocket. “But now that you’ve gone and raised the subject of how I can reciprocate, please feel free to give your suggestions. Bearing in mind I try to be a law-abiding fellow. Whenever possible, that is.”

Lenny nodded, ate the slice of cheesecake, and wiped his lips with his napkin. Then he leaned forward and told Bailey what he wanted.

“I’ll take anything you can get me,” he concluded in a hushed voice. “Cargo manifests, bills of lading, authorization documents — you name it. The more, the better.”

Bailey looked at him. “This Zavtra outfit in Russia… is it an air or sea carrier?”

“Could be both for all I know. Does it matter?”

“Only insofar as it’d make my life easier. I mean, ninety percent of import and export transactions are filed electronically these days, which makes the info I pull out of my computer practically up-to-the-minute. But there are different systems depending on the method of transport.”

“Don’t they interface?”

“Sure they do. Like I said, it’s no big problem to run a global search. I’m just trying to cut down on the time involved.” Bailey scratched behind his ear. “How soon you need this stuff, by the way?”

“Five minutes ago,” Lenny said. “And that was pushing things to the wire.”

Bailey ballooned his cheeks, slowly let the air whistle out.

“Do you always lay this kind of fucking bullshit on your wife and kids when you give them presents?”

Lenny shook his head.

“The love I’ve got for my family is unconditional,” he said. “I only associate with foul-mouthed sports fans like you out of necessity.”

Bailey grinned.

“Hurry up and ask for the check, asshole,” he said.

* * *

“Michael Caine!”

“No, it’s Tom Jones.”

“Tom Jones is a singer. The question was what British actor worked in a coal mine before he was famous.”

“I seen him act in that movie about the Martians attacking, Boch—”

“That was what they call a cameo, which ain’t the same thing. And besides, Tom Jones was a fucking grave digger—”

“No, no, I’m telling you Rod Stewart was a grave digger, Tom Jones…”

“Look, stunade, I don’t wanna hear no more about Tom Jones, okay? If it wasn’t Michael Caine it’s gotta be Richard Harris…”

“Who the hell’s Richard Harris?”

“Jesus Christ, what planet you from, anyway? He’s the guy who—”

“Hey, Boch, how you doing?” Lenny Reisenberg interrupted from the entrance to the Quonset.

He had been freezing his rear end off for the past five minutes, listening to Tommy Boccigualupo, the dockyard foreman, argue with his pal about a question that had been posed on the quiz show they were watching on Tommy’s small color TV. Behind him on the Twelfth Avenue wharf, hydraulic winches hissed and forklifts clanked as cargo was shuttled between ship holds and wide-load semis. There were a couple of pigeons squabbling with a