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your house. I'm on it."
"What's she got?"
"Bessemer's back," Wallace said, pounding his fist on the hood of the car.
"C'mon, unlock your batmobile and run me over to One Hundred and Eighteenth.
Kevin Bessemer just showed up, high as a kite and looking to score. Drugs and
the daily number. Sooner or later they all come back round."
"You, blondie. Backseat. Buckle up and keep your yap shut. Maybe Kevin'll tell
you who the real moneybags is behind the whole operation. Find who paid to
hire Helena Lisi for Tiffany."
Mike reached under his seat and lifted the red bubble dome to the dashboard.
He tested the whelper to make sure it was working and wheeled out of his
parking space, headed back to the northbound FDR Drive.
Mercer was on the phone, calling the precinct to talk to the squad lieutenant.
"Get your men over to Limpy's place. Kevin Bessemer, the snitch who-"
The lieutenant didn't need a scorecard. He knew the players. Especially the
one who'd taken himself out of the lineup.
"Don't you want to grab him yourselves?" I asked.
"And take the chance we knew where he was and let him get away again?" Mike
said. "They'll hold him there for us and then we'll get to eyeball him."
Mercer dialed again. "Limpy? Wallace here. That scumbag you got hanging out?
Yeah, that's the one. The cavalry's coming. No, no, not to worry. They're not
there to break your balls-they just want Bessemer. Don't let him outta your
sight, okay?"
"Why'd you give him a heads-up?"
"Good guy, Alex. He's worked with us for a long time. Runs a pretty clean
operation. Does numbers on the side. Just didn't want him to panic when the
men in blue burst in. Limpy's bigger than I am, so Bessemer won't be going
anywhere."
"How's he going to hold down an out-of-control junkie, high on crack? He
limps, no?" I asked.
"Not his leg," Mike said. "Limp dick. That's how he got his name. Ex-wife gave
it to him and it stuck."
We were almost there when Mercer's cell rang.
"Be there in two minutes," Mercer said. He repeated the rest of the
conversation to us. "Bessemer's acting like a wild man. Limpy has him pinned
in a chair in the basement with the cops at the top of the stairs."
We pulled up to the building that housed the newsstand that was the front for
the illegal numbers business. Mike and Mercer got out and went inside. I
stepped onto the curb and explained to the two uniformed cops posted beside
the open door that I was just waiting for the detectives to bring the prisoner
out.
I could hear Kevin Bessemer screaming at the top of his lungs. There was a
sound like furniture crashing around the room, and Wallace's deep voice
telling him, "Stop kicking, man. Stop breaking up the place. Calm down."
They were on the staircase now and the scuffling noises continued, getting
closer. Bessemer was kicking the walls and cursing.
One of the cops felt it necessary to apologize to me for the perp's foul
language. "That's the crack talking, ma'am. Sorry you have to hear it."
Mike backed out of the store before the two detectives holding the cuffed
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prisoner. "You're the Kentucky Fried Chicken man, no? Two breasts and some
wings-to go. Right out the fire escape with Tiffany. You ought to watch the
Food Network more often, Kev," Mike said, faking a punch in his direction. "
Bam!Take it down a notch, Kev."
Mercer came out behind the prisoner. "Let's get him over to Met to sleep off
his high. Psycho him before we think about going to court."
Metropolitan Hospital was only a five-minute drive. The psych ward there had
seen far worse than Kevin Bessemer.
"So, Kev, tell the nice lady who your lawyer is. Your real lawyer."
"I got the best money can buy," Bessemer screamed, twisting against his
captors and kicking at the car tires on the RMP. "I got Clarence Friggin'
Darrow. I got Johnnie Friggin' Cochran. I got Clarence Friggin' Thomas working
for me. They gonna 'peal my case up to the Supreme Court."
One of the cops grabbed the crown of his head and pushed it down, trying to
get Bessemer off the street and into the patrol car as a small crowd began to
gather.
"What about Tiffany?" Mike asked. "Tell me who to talk to so Tiffany isn't
left out there to swing in the breeze."
"Fuck Tiffany," Bessemer shouted, lying back on the rear seat of the car and
hurling his feet against the door as the cop tried to close it. "Tell that
Spike Logan I'm coming back for a piece of what he got."
37
"I'll catch up with you two later in the day. Let me go on down to the
hospital and sit by his bedside. Maybe when Bessemer sobers up, he'll be
willing to talk to me," Mercer said.
I got into the passenger seat and while Mike drove downtown toward my office,
I tried to page the child welfare lawyers-Irizzary and Taggart-to learn what
had happened at the meeting with Andrew and Dulles Tripping.
The phone was ringing as I walked in. It was Peter Robelon. "You've got news?"
I asked him.
He was still angry about this morning. "Can we strike a deal? I act like a
gent and you keep your goons away from me when you want to talk."
"Depends on whatever deals you've worked out with Jack Kliger."
Robelon was silent. It was obvious he had thought I didn't know that he was
the target of an investigation in our office. "That's below the belt."
"So is everything that's happened to this poor kid for his entire life. Don't
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