BLACK FOREST /Thayer

Chapter One April 1964 Queens, New York Earlier this evening, before my fathers phone call, I watched a man doing onearm pushups on his stoop. Even before I knew how the rest of the night would go, I took this as a bad omen. Nothing good begins with one-arm pushups. This night is no exception. A frantic call from my father comes in after dinner. According to his distracted account, Edgar received a threatening phone call at his place of business. In a strange twist, the caller wants me to deliver one thousand dollars, providing detailed instructions as to time and place: the deserted parking lot in Flushing next to the Worlds Fair grounds. Not one minute later than midnight, or else. I dont know or else what. My father doesnt say.

BLACK FOREST /Thayer Why my dad? I wonder as I grab my car keys. My father was vague on the telephone about the source and nature of the threat. He needs me to handle this for him, he said, no questions asked.

Its a short hike from my place on Carmine Street to the lockup garage. My car is a 1960 Ford Galaxie, the model they call the Starliner, a hardtop coupe. Once in the car, I try to imagine the Fair Grounds. Vast spaces, velvet shadows, lots of open territory. I didnt go to the Fair last year, but I know its due to reopen next week. There will be tens of thousands of people at the Fair, according to predictions. None will arrive tonight. I keep a gun under the front seat of my car, a souvenir from my Army days. Its a monster, a .45 caliber Browning. The last time I cleaned it was during the KennedyNixon debate. That was the night after Nina moved out to pursue a career in Los Angeles. She married an aerospace engineer and lives in the San Fernando Valley, a place Ive never visited and probably wont. Four years since Ive seen her. She called one New Years Eve to tell me she was pregnant, that all was well with her. I heft the Browning, aiming it west toward the vast expanse of the continental United States, or CONUS, as we called it in the OSS. Still clutching the gun, I cut cross-town toward the tunnel. The city is in full cry with the supper clubs open, the restaurants packed, the dives in the Village humming with music. I used to tend bar in one of those dives, a jazz club. Manhattan is a blur even when youre standing still. I burst through a red light and wheel uptown. I toss the gun aside. Thank God for the usual mess as I draw near Thirty-Fourth Street. Traffic jams are mandatory retreats, my version of quiet time. I fiddle with the radio as a distraction from my increasing sense

BLACK FOREST /Thayer of dread, my fingers tuning the dial in the vain hope of hearing a deejay tell me that the phone call was a joke, my dad is fine. Edgar is seventy-one next month, a widower for fifteen years, father to four children, two of whom are dead: Chris at Guadalcanal, Deirdre to polio. I missed her funeral because I was stationed in Berlin, working to penetrate a Polish gang running members of the Third Reich into the warm embrace of Juan Peron. From Manhattan to Maspeth, Queens takes no time at this hour. The new stretch of the Long Island Expressway keeps me off the surface streets. My father made a lot of money in road construction in the Fifties, made a few enemies too. Thats why his garbled story about being in a jam sent me into immediate response mode. His enemies are my enemies. The construction trades in New York are rife with corruption, payoffs, featherbedding, and union officials on the take. I hope Edgar is keeping his nose clean these days, although I wonder. Edgar sounded shaken on the telephone. Threatening phone calls scare the hell out of me, but this is worse since it involves my father. Still, Im mystified as to why someone decided to squeeze the old guy now. Hes out of the construction business. Edgar bought a garage in the old neighborhood on Maspeths main drag, Grand Avenue.

An upstairs apartment is his headquarters, a modest two-bedroom with a view of an alley from the kitchen window. Not much to envy if youre a young man with something to prove. Thats not me, of course. Im a hometown hero. I pull into the driveway in front of the garage. Edgar named the business Maspeth Auto Service. I think it used to be called Farrells when I was a kid, before the war. More

BLACK FOREST /Thayer

and more these days, Maspeth is a place on the map, not the soul-wrenching home turf of yesteryear. The garage is a four-bay, cinder block building with the dwelling above looming over the hand-painted sign that reads All Makes, All Models. Windows fronting the boulevard are layered with grime thick enough to block out the sun. In the daylight the place looks like an architectural students vision of the Yellow Brick Road on the vertical. My father greets me in the driveway. Hes bundled up, gripping a flashlight pointed toward the ground. The sight of him worries mehe looks frail, defeated, and he hasnt said a word. We exchange an awkward hug on the driveway. Edgar resents needing me. He hates being old and cautious. But he gives me a tough-guy smile, and I pretend hes fooling me. Whats going on? I ask. Edgar shakes his head. I took a Buick in this afternoon. Right away I wondered why the guy driving the car was acting so funny. I should have known. Funny? What do you mean? Evasive. Weird, you know. I follow Edgar toward the garage. The bay doors are closed and locked. Edgar fumbles with the keys. Its the Riviera in bay four, he says. Show me, I say.

BLACK FOREST /Thayer Edgar unlocks the door, lifting the handle. Those bay doors are heavy, and hes sweating by the time hes got them open. I know better than to offer help with the doors. That would start an argument and waste valuable time.

He gestures with the flashlight after scanning the deserted street. Few cars pass by at this hour, just after eleven. Pull the door down, Edgar orders. The quaver in his voice belies his show of control. Edgar turns the overhead lights on. The car is a late-model Riviera with bucket seats and a Hurst shifter on a floormounted console. I lean through the open window on the drivers side for a look: an overflowing ashtray, carpet stained with mud. The owners a slob, I say. Edgar grunts. He has the car keys ready and heads for the rear of the car. He opens the trunk and shines the flashlight into the space. Spare tire. Lots of shadows. What am I looking at? Edgar sweeps the light across the trunks gray carpet. He holds the beam steady long enough for me to see the dark splotches. Then I notice the fragments of bone and hair on the spare tires white sidewall. Jesus, I say. Yeah, theres blood all over the place, Edgar says. Someone was killed in this car.

BLACK FOREST /Thayer He nods. We stare at each other, neither of us anxious to see that unholy mess on the spare again anytime soon. My father trembles for a moment, shaking his head from side to side. His gray hair is askew, his cheeks sunken. I miss the opportunity to say something reassuring, choosing instead to wonder how he came to be the custodian of a rolling murder scene. Edgar lowers the flashlight and closes the trunk harder than necessary. He hands me an envelope. Here is a thousand dollars. The caller wants you to deliver it. He was specific about that. Wait a minute, Dad, some guy drops off a car that had a dead body in it, right? Call the cops. Edgar presses the envelope into my hand. Do this my way, for a change, all right? This is a shakedown. I know what it is. Ive been dealing with these people since you were a baby. I dont want the cops here, Artie. I dont need the aggravation. These people. I look at my father, turning his phrase over in my mind. Im angry

that someone pulled this stunt, but I dont see how NYPD Homicide can pin a murder on my father. Through all my scrutiny, Edgar doesnt bat an eye. Hes been through the death of his wife, the grief of losing two children, success, failure, God knows what all in seven decades on the planet. Then it dawns on me that he knows who is shaking him down. Who dropped off the car? I ask in a soft tone. You dont want to know. Edgars reply is clipped. Hes done explaining.

BLACK FOREST /Thayer You recognized the guy? This is the way I want to handle this. If you dont want to make the drop, Ill do it myself.

Im digesting this while fighting off the desire to locate the man who delivered the Buick and wring his damned neck. What did he say? He said the tranny was acting up. This car is four months old. Edgar shrugs. In the harsh light he looks as though hes aged a decade since last week when we met for coffee on the boulevard. We talked about the real estate investment group were both part of. We walked over to Mount Olivet Cemetery to visit Deirdres grave. The caller asked for me? I ask, trying another tack, hoping that he will confide in me. Yeah. I dont know what to make of that. Im frustrated with Edgar. Are you in trouble, Dad? If you are, I can help you out. Im an investigator. Ive got connections. Edgar shakes his head. Look, you pay the grand, and they pick up the car tonight before anybodys the wiser. I cannot have the police tearing my place apart, which is what they will do if I dont pay. I know hes into something illegal. If I do this, you owe me an explanation. That means that we sit down and have a real discussion about your life. My life? Theres nothing wrong with my life.

BLACK FOREST /Thayer I point at the trunk of the Riviera. I beg to differ. Edgar glares at me. Remember something your mother told you years ago? Respect your elders. Are you gonna help me or not? ***

I drive up Maurice Avenue in the direction of the Long Island Expressway. I grew up in Queens, but I havent lived here since before the war, long before I owned a car. In Europe I drove a jeep after my promotion to buck sergeant. I know a few German cities pretty well, although since the rebuilding I probably wouldnt recognize Frankfurt or Worms anymore. Ten years of living in Manhattan has ruined me for the outer boroughs, so even on a good day I have a hard time navigating the streets of Queens. Northern Boulevard is an endless string of traffic lights, corner bars, yellow buildings locked up for the night. Driving to Flushing Meadow in the middle of the night is a sucker move, an amateur mistake. Knowing this is not helping my state of mind, not helping the situation. In a trance I turn onto Roosevelt Avenue. The stadium glows in the distance. My brother Michaels last known address is near here, Willits Point. Mike had a job with a body shop owned by an Israeli who commuted to Queens from Jerusalem. One orbit of the deserted parking lot convinces me that I have lost my mind. There are hundreds of empty spaces. Where to park? I climb out of my car in a sudden downpour feeling a current of electricity from my neck to the base of my spine. This is dumb, this is dangerous. I turn up the collar of my raincoat the way Orson Wells might have done in a cold and distant Vienna.

BLACK FOREST /Thayer I have the Browning concealed in my belt. Its a double action model so I wont shoot myself without thinking it over first. The parking lot is a two-acre asphalt void glowing orange where the elevated tracks dump commuters on the number seven train. Signal lights warn the motorman if the track ahead is clear. Its five minutes before midnight. A commercial airliner winks overhead on its final approach to LaGuardia. I lean against the trunk of my car feeling the drizzle on my face. The weather is changing, slipping across Long Island Sound under the cover of darkness with the indifference of an invader. There is no delay, no prologue. Edgars tormentor arrives in style, the tires of his Cadillac hissing on the pavement. The limousine gleams under the reflected light from the stanchions above, rolling to an elegant halt a few yards away. Doors open and men climb out. This is more than I bargained for. Id expected some sweaty underling in the Profaci Family to grab the money, make a few threats before vanishing into the night. I have an entire scenario worked out wherein I warn said thug to leave my dad alone. So much for my scenario. The driver snaps open an umbrella while a bodyguard hitches his belt. Over the Cadillacs roof the Worlds Fair grounds rise out of low fog like an alien city. From a distance it all looks fragile, but up close the scale is massive. Everything about the Fair

cries Space Age, but if you ask me that era ended when John Kennedy was murdered. Six months later Lyndon Baines Johnson sends out his presidential greetings in a recorded message: I am your new president at the dawn of a new era, and have I got a deal for you.

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Calvin Foyles is out of the car, holding the umbrella and brushing the hem of his raincoat. I catch a glimpse of his traveling companion, a flash of leg, a rising skirt. Her face is upturned, already anticipating the great mans return. She sees me and smiles. The only warmth I detect is from the Cadillacs heating system. On second glance shes older than I thought, into her thirties, the uncharted territory of the femme fatale. Im busy digesting the fact that Calvin Foyles is here, complete with his retinue from Guys and Dolls. My father and Foyles were business partners in the road construction business endowed by Robert Moses and the people of New York. Hes about the last man I expected to see on this miserable night. Foyles is no kid. Hes been around since before the war, back when I wore short pants and admired the sullen men who worked all day for wages before coming home to drink. He snaps his fingers at the pair of goons standing with their hands at their sides. One of them, the driver, sizes me up. I have to conclude from the smirk on his face that hes not impressed by the sight of me. The money envelope rubs against my shirt in a taunting way. One thousand dollars in twenties, just the way the caller specified. Foyles moves to within earshot, his expression tense. You bring the cash? he asks. I nod, aware of his driver and bodyguard as they flank me. The driver is the larger of the two, his face invisible under his fedora. He gestures to me, and I hand him the envelope. I feel as though he reached inside me and ripped out my heart. Count it, Foyles says. The driver falls to the task of counting with thick fingers and a furrowed brow.

BLACK FOREST /Thayer Its all there, I say. Shut up. We could be here all night, I say. My wisecrack is not appreciated. Counting is not the drivers strong suit. The guys lips are moving. Foyles is getting impatient, rocking on his heels. He wont look me in the eye, the bastard. This is not going well, not according to my pre-conceived notion of some eight-ball shaking down my dad. My gaze drifts toward the Cadillac, to the woman illuminated by the open door.

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She leans forward out of view, and I lift my gaze, wishing the entire mess to be a dream. Shea Stadium hovers in the distance, its metallic skin winking in the moonlight. Baseball will be played this year in my home borough of Queens by an expansion team called the Mets. Terrible or not, the Mets are the new home team and everyone says that they have to better than last years club. I know you, Calvin, I say. I know where you live. Shut up, he says. The counting resumes. I think if the jackpot had been ten thousand dollars wed be here for the seventh-inning stretch. Todays my anniversary, observed in the shadow cast by a man-made vision of the future. Five years ago I quit my job as an investigator at the Royal Sun Insurance Exchange to go private. By now I know most of the private investigators around town. Ive concluded that were neither good nor bad people, more like Roman soldiers at the foot of the crosssilent, stoic, more than a little complicit. Apparently satisfied, the driver hands the money to Foyles, who slips the envelope into his coat pocket. A wet breeze ruffles the remains of his hair.

BLACK FOREST /Thayer I turn to go. Not so fast, Arthur, Foyles says. You have your money, I say. The bodyguard is smaller than the driver, more aggressive. He steps toward me,

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his knuckles glinting metal. Brass knuckles are old fashioned but effective, damaging to ribs and vital organs. I can smell how anxious the man is to start taking me apart. Foyles dips his head to the bodyguard. Take it easy. The man quivers, violence suspended for the moment. Foyles moves closer to me, shaking a pack of Luckies at me. No thanks, I say. Foyles lights up, the smoke escaping his lips and nostrils, carried downwind by the breeze. You tell your father that hes making people nervous, Arthur. What do you mean by that? Foyles gestures with his cigarette. We go back, right? Me, your old man, hell, your entire family. Im doing you a favor. A favor? I have to control my urge to mash Calvins face in. He knows it; he reads it in my eyes. We do go back. He knows my family, where my father drinks and places his bets. Calvin is a shakedown artist at heart, never mind his construction company, his pals at City Hall. He was a thug in 1932, and hes a thug nowonly richer, more respectable. What do you want? I ask. Hes earnest now, reeling me in. I swear to God, Artie, this is not my idea, okay? Its not my call.

BLACK FOREST /Thayer Whos the looker? I ask, gesturing toward the Cadillac. Nobody you need to know. I glance toward the woman reclining on the rear bench of the limo. She is listening to our conversation, but her expression is dark. Her hair is a black wedge shining against her pale neck. Calvin pokes me in the chest. Eyes front, sergeant. I brush his hand away. The bodyguard says something threatening, but Calvin brings him to heel with a gesture. Calvin smirks. This isnt my idea, Arthur, tell your dad that for me. Whose idea is it? Why did they ask for me? Jesus, Calvin, I respected you, admired you. What is this crap?

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Dont take liberties with me, he says. I know you think Im old. Everyone gets old, Arthur. Meaning what? Edgar could get hurt, Foyles says. So could you. His threat against Edgar makes me ill, and it occurs to me that Ive underestimated Calvin Foyles. Foyles pitches his cigarette into the gloom. You look good, kid. I guess being back home agrees with you. Calvin turns on his heel, heading for the limo. His bodyguard walks backward, gunslinger style, his expression oozing menace. I dont know who the guy is, but hes taken a real shine to me.

BLACK FOREST /Thayer The motor purrs. I recognize the woman in the Cadillac. I cannot remember her name, but I do recall her face. I have the impression that her vamping is an act, a professional routine developed over the years to impress people like me. I am impressed, and she knows it. The car pulls away. Im relieved that Foyles drove off without resorting to violence, but I also know this is only the beginning. Blackmail never ends. I see the bone and hair on the new whitewall tire. A gust carries the sour odor of decay from Jamaica bay. Mr. Murray? Shes standing on the pavement in the spot left by the departed Cadillac. In my preoccupation with blackmail, I failed to notice that Foyles left her behind. I want you to know Im not part of this, she says. Like hell. She flinches, her eyes on my balled fists. My temper is a weakness, one of several, and I flex my fingers, forcing them to relax. Mr. Foyles told you the truth. At least part of the truth. Yeah, but youre not part of this. Im your consolation prize. A gesture of good faith. From Foyles? All right, from Foyles. I almost laugh. Need a lift? I ask. I need a lot of things, she says.

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BLACK FOREST /Thayer She moves closer, emboldened. I see her as an enemy scout assigned to gather

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information. Her gaze is forthright. Maybe she is telling the truth about her involvement with Foyles. He squeezes a lot of people in the course of a days work. You got a name? Abigail. I thought you recognized me. I was in the papers for a while. Im startled to realize that Abigail is the Turtle Bay madam, the central figure of a sex scandal that flourished back in 62. A deputy mayor resigned rather than testify in the trial that riveted the city for a month between Thanksgiving and Christmas that year. You look the same, I say. I guess thats a compliment. Its not an insult. Abigail steps forward and the light pooling around her is flattering, emphasizing her long legs. Even in a mans raincoat she has that essence of woman about her, graceful, knowing, confident. If you dont mind, Ill take that lift, she says. Where to? Manhattan. Im breaking out in hives this side of the river. I was born on this side of the river, I say. Thats not your fault, she says.

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Chapter Two I see a pay phone outside a drugstore on Roosevelt Avenue. After parking the Ford I dial Edgars number while Abigail stands on the sidewalk smoking a damp cigarette. This is a woman who rolls with the punches, dumped in a parking lot one minute, making a quick stop with me without complaint. Im not sure whether she is friend or foe or what I should do with her. Edgars phone rings, but he doesnt answer. I replace the receiver feeling uneasy. Doing things his way is more difficult than I imagined possible. The shock of seeing Calvin Foyles, hearing him warn me that Edgar is making people nervoussuddenly I need to know what the hell he meant by that. Everything all right? Abigail asks. I need to put you in a cab, I say.

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A rumbling echo stops me in mid-sentence. Im wired up from the encounter with Foyles, from my concern for my father, but she reacts to the sound of an approaching car before I do, performing a quick pirouette. The drugstore is closed for the night, the sidewalk deserted. Abigail drops her cigarette as the car, a rusted-out Dodge, slews to a halt on the slick pavement. A man jumps from the passenger side, leans against the door pillar, and starts shooting. I tackle Abigail after hearing the flat crack of the pistol. A round sparks off the sidewalk as Abigail struggles in my grasp. Shes scared, her body fighting me as we roll across a patch of city grass toward the protection of my Ford. Two more shots follow the initial pop. One rings off a fire hydrant to my left; the other skips the curb behind my cars tail pipe. I pull the Browning free and jump to my feet, using the Fords bulky outline as the best available cover. All the moving around leaves me disoriented for an instant. I scan ahead, desperate to lock in on the target, losing a few precious seconds in the process. My opponent fires before I do, his round gouging sheet metal off the roof of my car. He squeezes off three fast shots with a calm determination that tells me hes done this before. This guy is patient. I squeeze the trigger even though my line of sight is obscured. I cant hit him, the angle is wrong, so I shoot at the Dodge. The big slugs from my Browning punch out the cars rear window, take a bite of the pillar behind the passenger door. Someone yells. The shooter adjusts his aim and cuts loose with another three-round volley. My Starliner seems to rock with the impact of the bullets, and something hot and fast whistles past my ear. I keep waiting for the sound of police sirens, for some indication that the gunfire has stirred the neighbors.

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This part of Queens is non-residential, a quiet backwater between the fairgrounds and Willits Point. I fire again. Abigail seems frozen in place. I wish for the sight of sector cars flying down the street, sirens screaming. Nothing, no such luck. The Dodge is rolling. I hear more yelling and realize the driver is panicking, looking to hit the road. Tires are squealing, smoke fouling the empty street. The shooter takes one last shot, blowing my wing mirror into pieces before closing his door like a man who picked up his dry cleaning and remembered he had to be somewhere. They barrel west on Roosevelt toward the city. I run into the street before deciding a wild shot down Roosevelt is a dumb idea. I try to assemble a description of the shooter in my head. Hes a bulky man of average height with hair cropped short. His eyes are pinholes, his mouth lined with sharp teeth. I put gray in his hair for my mental sketch although I cant be sure that detail is accurate. In the distance I hear sirens. My heart is racing, and I cant seem to move. Retinal images of the taillights linger, blinding me for a moment. Mr. Murray? Abigail is standing next to me. She takes my hand and squeezes. Are you all right? I ask. Abigail nods, biting her lower lip. She is composed although she maintains her grip on my hand. I dont mindher hand is warm, alive. I need to check on my dad, I say, my voice booming in my ears. Your father? Is he ill?

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I shake my head. My comment makes no sense to her. We walk back to the Ford holding hands. Her cheeks are flushed, her raincoat black with moisture. I brush leaves from her coat, watching her face. Without another word, she climbs into my car. Whether hers is an act of trust or desperation, I am glad she sticks with me. I take off, hoping that the Ford is operational. I crank the window down and use the butt of my gun to knock away the rest of my mirror. The coupes big V8 rumbles to life. The police are coming, Abigail says. She sounds almost serene, but her eyes glisten, her delicate hands clutch the hem of the raincoat shes wearing. Police, she says. I hear them. At the next intersection I turn right. Blank-faced warehouses with loading docks flash by. The cops descend on the drugstore, the sound of hard braking and door slamming audible from this distance. A few moments ago I was praying for the police, now I dont want the next twelve hours devoted to answering questions. I slow down and make a left. My goal is to head west, pick up Northern Boulevard, and find the Van Wyck. The street ahead is narrow, jammed with garbage bins overflowing with junk. Do people often shoot at you? Abigails question hangs until the end of the block. I make another left, guessing that sooner or later Ill find a street I recognize. No, I say. We catch a red light. A sector car guns through the intersection close enough for me to see the expression on the drivers face. I guess they were shooting at me, she says. Why?

BLACK FOREST /Thayer A double cross, Mr. Murray. An occupational hazard.

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Her statement lends her momentary strength; she lifts her chin and folds her arms. I understand that. You speak your worst fear out loud and feel a little better. The technique doesnt work for me, but I am glad shes calm enough to analyze matters. I turn right, following the same path as the Dodge, accelerating through a yellow, heading west into the darkness. Foyles left you for those guys? I ask, processing her words. Back at the Worlds Fair parking lot she had said she needed a lift. That was the understatement of the decade. I suppose he did. She has spirit. I swing onto Northern Boulevard surprised by how normal everything looks. Trucks are headed eastbound toward Long Island, the occasional airport cab hisses by. I search the oncoming traffic for the Dodge, for the men who tried to kill us a few minutes ago on a deserted street in Flushing. Abigail is watching me. Her expression darkens, her eyes shifting between me and the indifferent world of bars, theaters, and gas stations arrayed before us. At least the rain stopped, I say. She manages a smile. I take the exit for the Van Wyck and head south.