Chapter 7: Yelp

The black-car driver held a sign — R. Adams — up to his chest. Dapper little dude, Thin Man mustache. Thick, nasal, accent straight outta The Bronx that would never pass William Powell’s lips. He offered to carry the commodious shoulder bag, my only luggage for this trip.

“No thanks, I got it.”

I sat in back of the Town Car, leaned forward and showed him the address in a remote area of Queens.

“Jeez, lady. You don’ wanna go there. Where ya’ from, Paducah?”

I could do New York. And did it pretty well. “No, I am not from Paducah. Sutton Place. Where are you from, Arthur Avenue?” Tourist stretch.

That had him muttering to himself, “Okay, your funeral. I ain’t waiting round.”

“Yes, in fact you are. According to Mr. Goldstein.”

More muttering.

He crossed the East River on the 59th Street Bridge, just as if we were heading to LaGuardia. Turned up some terrible techno-rock, mostly drums. I sat back, let him enjoy his little victory.

Fifteen minutes later, he exited a parkway and worked his way steadily east and a little north on surface streets. Completely uncharted territory for me, but he seemed to know where he was going. Past Maspeth, past a couple of bridges — Whitestone and Throggs Neck. I had given him an address two blocks east and a block south of the pocket park where I was to meet Hersch. Who may or may not tell me something worthwhile.

But he had talked to someone, someone who gave him one of the Rachael Adams cards. And Hersch was the sum and substance of the leads I had into the mysterious world of diamonds. Which, if my little wisp of an idea panned out, might lead me into the mysterious world of guns.

We’ll see.

This section of Queens wasn’t as bad as my driver had intimated. Mixed use, for sure. Light manufacturing, a few apartment houses, sprinklings of retail streets. Storage units, payday loans, even a few Archie Bunker duplexes. Hispanics, with a few blacks and a smattering of whites. One corner bodega, several Korean nail salons. One Korean greengrocer.

The pocket park ... well, abandoned, weed-filled lot, would have been a more accurate description. I arrived fifteen minutes early, more than enough time to walk all four sides. On my second perimeter trek, I saw a young boy on the opposite side — the southern side.

He was maybe ten, maybe even younger. Definitely out of place. Even across the park I could see curly sidelocks, a black Fedora, a black cloth coat. It’s called a rekel, thank you S & S Research. If he were older, he might have a black beard as well.

Hersch raised his right hand; I responded. Then he set off, walking across a street with cars double-parked on the park side. I cut through the weeds to follow.

Although neither one of us looked neighborhood-native, no one seemed to pay much attention. It was New York, after all. I mean I got the occasional catcall and whistle, but that went with being a girl. With having boobs.

Hersch cut through an alley and disappeared to the right. To the west. I fast-paced myself through the alley, resisting the urge to run. To catch up, to keep him in sight. Whether he really had information or was leading me into some kind of trap, he, or they, didn’t lure me all this way to lose me.

Two blocks west, he came to a stop. Back still to me, he looked over his shoulder. I raised my right hand — yeah, I see you, kid. Hersch pointed to his right, to a small redbrick church. Then he kept walking, turned right again. Gone.

I approached the church. Saint Rafael Kalinowski RC. The doors were closed. I walked up the stone steps, resisting the urge to check behind me. I placed my right hand inside my shoulder bag, reached for the door with my left. Unlocked.

Vanessa is one of those people ... when she wears something different ... well, other women look at her and just assume it’s back in style. Or soon will be. Black and white spectator pumps, for example. A short bolero jacket worn as a cape. Like that.

I expected a dim, hushed interior. Instead, I pushed through the vestibule and entered a brightly lit nave. Above me, behind me, out of sight, was a boisterous choir practice. All women, unless Little Anthony and his cousins were in this part of Queens. I didn’t recognize the hymn, nor the language. Later, on the train back to DC, I tapped Dr. Google on the shoulder. Polish. Well, Kalinowski. Made sense.

I looked around, didn’t see anyone in the nave, nor in the sanctuary behind the rail. To the right, a door in a wooden confessional cabinet swung open. I took this as an invitation. Now I wasn’t Catholic, although I’ve attended mass with friends. Weddings.

I couldn’t see the person on the other side of the screen. It didn’t bother me that I was visible to him. I’d been observable for several blocks. For some reason, not spiritual, I knelt down on the step, the kneeler, and waited.

He spoke without preamble. A heavily accented voice, one, as with Sholom Satmar, I had assumed was Eastern European. This confession-guy’s voice was a guttural whisper. I didn’t have the impression he was disguising anything; it simply sounded like the way he talked.

It turns out that I probably could have recorded the one-sided conversation; nobody searched me, touched me, even approached me. But it didn’t matter. I could remember one sentence. Sometimes even two.

As soon as I closed the door, he said, “Kiryas Square. New Jersey”

I had my eyes closed in concentration. He said, “Go.”

I went.

The kid, Hersch, was back. Across the street. He pointed to his left hand, held up something small and white. A 3 x 5 index card. He placed it behind the windshield wiper of a battered plumber’s van. Turned his back, turned a corner and ... I never saw him again.

I looked both ways, like I’d been taught, and crossed the street. Took a quick photo of the van, E. Fuentes, Plumbing. Contact info. I snapped the plate too. Just being thorough. I knew the van wouldn’t lead me anywhere.

The index card had a single phone number on it. Area code 903. I looked it up. Jersey. Written in block letters, the card said, Tomorrow. 9.

Morning or evening? I read it again. Unforthcoming.

My muttering black-car driver was where he was supposed to be. He didn’t get out and open the door. Well, fuck him. At Penn Station he spat out, “Paducah.”

Maybe I didn’t do New York as well as I thought. Well, if I drew him again, I’d go Oxbridge. Yeah, that’d fix him. Being mature this week, I decided not to shoot the fucker. Thought about it, though. ‘I’ll Paducah you, you... ‘

On the train, I called Matt first, “Kiryas Square.” Hung up, keeping my burner phone usage under thirty seconds. Repeated it, spelled Kiryas again, with Jesse Sullivan. I’d tasked Dr. Google with verifying the spelling — took me three tries.

Kiryas Square was a small Hasidic town in south central New Jersey. Toward the Pennsylvania line. Rural. Several miles from the nearest town. 2010 population of just under 15,000. Average household size — six. Average household income of only $14,800.

I put down my airline bottle of red, fairly nasty, and looked out the west side of the Acela passenger car. The route from Boston to NYC to DC cut through the underbelly of the urban Northeast. Abandoned factories, windows broken and shot out. Hulks of burned-out cars. Small houses on dusty, rail-side streets. Men in throngs of three, four, five, smoking, watching.

But it was now after nine at night. And darkness, like rain, had a beautifying effect on cities and towns. The lights sparkled, the shadows seemed mysterious rather than foreboding. The landscape gentled out.

I was getting too philosophical and switched to gin and tonic.

Kiryas Square was known locally as K S. I immediately decided not to take this as an ominous sign from the heavens. Just a coincidence. Fucking Kansas. KS.

There was an ongoing legal hassle involving the K S rebbe and three of his top echelon. Tax fraud and money laundering. I’d return to that. First, I was interested in the town itself. Taking a clue from Daddy, I’d think of Kiryas Square as a person. What sort of person would it be?

From what I could determine online, K S was a typical Hasidic community. Whether it was in the middle of Brooklyn or isolated in rural Jersey, the community was dominated by religion. Its single most important element of existence. It infused every aspect of daily life.

Orthodox, observant, insular. Women had babies, lots of babies. They usually didn’t work outside the home once the second child was born. So far as I could figure out, there were three tenets for these Hasidic women — no birth control, have lots of babies, stay in Kiryas Square.

I felt a vague, unpleasant awareness of the Hasidic similarity to the Neo-Nazi compounds. Probably said something about how each of them perceived women — second class.

In K S, with one wage-earner, supporting four or five, or more, children, the poverty level was high. Higher, actually, than in many Appalachian towns of a similar size.

That called for a refill-trip to the bar.

The passenger seats were comfortable, there was an airline-type tray, I kept my shoulder bag tucked under my left arm.

So, large families, rapid population growth, a high percentage of food stamp usage, ever-increasing need for more housing, more social services.

The K S demographics: over 60% Romanian descent. Followed by Hungarian, Israeli, Polish. Negligible number of Hispanics. Language spoken at home: 90% Yiddish, 7% English, 3% Hebrew.

Unlike with some of the Hasidic communities in upstate New York, K S wasn’t on the receiving end of complaints and legal suits about expansion. There, in New Jersey, the town was buying up farmland to build more townhouses. To shelter its ever-expanding population.

Tight knit — the grand rebbe approved all political candidates. There was almost no crime; zero homelessness.

As I read deeper into the description, one interesting fact popped out. The town voted, almost 100%, as a block. Making K S a highly-courted segment in New Jersey swing elections.

I scribbled hand-written notes. Nothing digital. Maybe Matt was making me paranoid. Maybe Matt was making me safer.

Maybe I’d been a little tipsy when Matt collected me at Union Station. A sip of red, three G & Ts ... well, he was kind enough, smart enough, not to mention it.

Then, at home, half-smokes from Ben’s Chili Bowl! Just sitting there in the oven waiting to be heated up. Wisely, he’d ordered extra chili because he didn’t want the fries drenched on their journey across town.

I watched contentedly as my guy — lesson learned from me — slid the fries into his large cast iron skillet and turned up the juice. Placed a lid on to heat all the sides. He’d also employ a spatula for crispness. Same technique worked for yesterday’s pizza. Or you could just enjoy a cold slice as soon as you woke up. Or, Winter-style, chomp on the cold while preparing the hot.

Matt smiled, “Let’s talk Kiryas Square in the morning.”

I frowned, “You don’t have designs on my innocence do you?”

“I do.”

“Better watch it, buddy. I’m reviewing you on Yelp.”

Matt looked at the index card again. Checked the back again. Nothing new. I said, “I’ll call at nine this morning. If that doesn’t work ... again tonight.”

He nodded.

I scraped the breakfast dishes, started the dishwasher, watched the time.

Someone answered on the first ring. “Two weeks. Same time.” Click. Odd accent; it sounded something like ‘Tuh wiks.’

I said, “Matt, remember back when I had concealment envy?” The slick pistol-hiding slot near the gearshift of his Audi.

He smiled, “What now?”

“Rifle envy.”

I now have a similar hiding slot for my Heckler & Koch in my pickup. But the idea of a rifle had intrigued me ever since Matt had shown me his father’s Echols Legend.

He said, “Better than penis envy.”

“Oh ... maybe.”

Daddy had never owned a rifle, just handguns. I followed suit, but then added a shotgun back when Hugo Blenheim, that monster, was back in Kansas City. I acquired a second Mossberg — office edition — around that same time.

I hadn’t really considered a rifle; twenty-feet or so had seemed the maximum distance that I’d need. Want.

Then Matt showed me his rifle. And that triggered the memory of Wexler shooting at me on that Crow Reservation highway. I now believed that he hadn’t really cared whether he hit me or not. He was still toying at the time.

But that Montana incident was a real-life reminder, a grim one, that he didn’t necessarily have to shoot me at close range. And, logical extension, I didn’t necessarily have to be all that close to him when I’m on the hunt.

Matt said, “I know a guy. Want me to look into it?” A rifle.

“Yes, please.” I thought of Gertie, “What’s the budget range?”

“Oh, I think Commerce will fund it. You need it for seed inspections across state lines, right?”

“Do I? Oh, of course.”

Vanessa: “What do you call a lesbian sharpshooter?”

Walker & Pilar, “What?”

“A crack shot.”

Back home, back in my Livestock Exchange office, I started to call Bulldog to ask him about guns. Thought better of it and called the Dragon Ladies. Number Two said, “He can see you in the morning. Seven. Ten minutes.”

“Thank you.”

I’d been in City Hall once when several square downtown blocks lost power. As I rode up to the top floor, to Bulldog’s office, I decided to think of something besides climbing up and down 42 stories.

The three Dragon Ladies, hunched over Apple keyboards, hardly glanced at me. Two of them were also on the phone.

Emile Chanson was in his usual place, at his own desk, in Bulldog’s large corner office. An office far more majestic than the mayor’s a few floors below. I nodded at Emile, half-buried behind the WSJ. He said, “Winter.” Talkative this morning.

I wouldn’t waste Bulldog’s time. I said, “Who can I talk to about guns? About making them. Manufacturing. Assault rifles.”

“Call Battle.”

End of meeting.

James Battleford Lightfoot must still be out there, charming San Diego widows and divorcées. At least his landline was. According to its area code — 619.

It was 8:30 here, so did I want to risk waking him up, and a possible companion too, before the dawn broke? No, I didn’t. Not when I was on an Ask. I waited until noon, my time, and still woke him up. He was civilized about it, had an almost courtly manner.

I said, on my newest burner, “I don’t want to talk on the phone, but I’m looking for information on the manufacture of assault rifles.”

“Hold.”

A few seconds later, “You can come out here Friday. Or I’ll be in DC on Monday.”

“DC. Where?”

Battle gave me a different number, not a DC prefix. So probably a cell. A burner I hoped. Fucking Striker had me spooked.

Since I wasn’t on the FBI payroll, nor expense account, I was free to travel as much as I needed. Hello Matt! And I was also free to work my own cases, earn some jack. I cleared it with M. Striker of course. Since I was a paid consultant to the United States fucking Senate.

“Don’t neglect the search for Wexler. Don’t forget to protect yourself, first and foremost. But, yeah, you can work your own caseload in between.”

“Thank you, sahib. Ever so much.”

“Of course that means you’re incurring some rigorous personal obligations.”

Our Wrigley kitchen table. Walker and I had shared so many meals there. And conversations. Laughter. Mindy Montgomery for a while. Vanessa, now Pilar. And Hobo, plus the Proper Villain.

Vanessa said, “Winter, do you think this Wexler thing, this ... white supremacist thing, could be incels?”

“Not Wexler. Pretty sure. He was scoring babes when he was rodeoing around.”