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  “The Jewish Alps?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Coleridge—didn’t you ever watch Dirty Dancing? The Jewish Alps, also known as the Borscht Belt after the Eastern European immigrants who put down roots in the hills and the Jewish entertainers who did the resort circuit. During the ’60s, come summer, daddies parked their families at these full-service resorts and worked in the city during the week. They’d visit the family Friday nights through Sunday afternoon, then trudge back to NYC or Albany, or wherever. My wife, God rest her, and her parents did that routine when she was a young girl. The culture dried up and blew away. Atlantic City and cheap air travel killed it.”

  “Taking that theory further,” I said, “does Oestryke have a support network, or what’s left of one?”

  “I have a feeling we’ll never know,” Bellow said. “The creep will pull a Zodiac Killer on us and simply vanish.” He hesitated before continuing in as sober a tone as I’d ever heard him utter. “Want some advice from a career public servant? Yes, no, maybe? Good, I don’t care. Drop this investigation and stick to safer activities, like snake handling blindfolded or juggling high explosives.”

  “You’re jealous because I’m going to nab an infamous killer and get all the credit.”

  “Wrong. This mofo don’t play. I’m concerned he’s going to put your head on a stick.”

  “That’s sweet, Agent B. Although, the dude has to be a gray-bearded pensioner.” I laughed to demonstrate bravado I didn’t feel.

  Bellow joined in. His laugh sounded as fake as mine.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Before you shoot a man, you have to find him.

  In this instance, my task was to track down a murderer, or at least determine the murderer’s motive. Perhaps a distinction without a difference. Friends and associates of the subject are always a solid starting point.

  Since my exile from Alaska, I’d invested significant resources extending my network of contacts to New York State. Local denizens of the underworld knew me by sight. Between these contacts and Curtis’s list, I hoped to dig up a lead or two.

  First order of business was to snoop around Harold Lee’s home and interview his housemate and colleague, Nic Royal, should he be on hand. I’d glimpsed Royal across a crowded room or two. Tall, dark, and mean. Apache and African American; lousy with cryptic tats from his stint as a Marine grunt on tour in the Middle East. Another former Alaskan by way of Fairbanks. The book on him was typical of men who parlayed ferocious tendencies and military discipline into civilian enterprises. He’d tried his hand at several trades—long-haul trucker, carpentry, night watchman—but a vicious streak inevitably sabotaged his efforts to maintain consistent employment.

  Often sighted in the company of businessmen tangentially affiliated with the local underbelly, Royal swerved clear of direct Mafia ties. Debt collection and bodyguard gigs in service of penny-ante loan sharks were his forte. He broke heads at dives in Kingston and New Paltz.

  “Oh, you kids have a common interest,” Lionel said after I familiarized him with the state of affairs.

  “Us? I’m a lowly civilian. Aren’t jarheads brothers from different mothers?”

  “Some are kinda adopted.”

  I bought breakfast at the Regal Diner in Kerhonkson. Corned beef hash, four eggs over easy, toast, and a quart of OJ for me. He ordered an everything bagel and a cup of black coffee and laughed heartily when I further detailed my struggle with Mr. Skinhead and Mr. Beardo and the unfortunate revelation that Beardo played ball for Team Curtis.

  Afterward, we cruised north along Route 209. Fields and hills spread on either side. The Catskills formed in the enchanted distance. New York State’s bucolic panoramas beat the hell out of wandering the frozen Alaskan tundra.

  Lionel drove methodically, two or three miles per hour over the limit. He smiled with the corner of his mouth at the traffic jam behind us. Locals treated this stretch of the highway like the Autobahn, and he extracted perverse pleasure from antagonizing drivers who’d cut the morning commute too close. A career of wartime military service had estranged him from the niceties of civilization. After absorbing a skinful, he often lamented the necessity of state-sponsored violence; yet his treks into the Afghan wilderness had brought him a sense of peace. His eyes were faraway in those moments, and glassy like an eagle’s, intent upon some small prey it might like to kill.

  “The dude’s head? Where did that go?”

  “Bobbing around on the reservoir until some trout fisherman snags it.”

  “Related question—what’s the motive for chopping off his hands?”

  “The killer may have a fetish. Or he’s harassing the pathologist. No dental records, no fingerprints, no quick ID.”

  “He left the victim’s wallet in his pants,” Lionel said. “Doesn’t square with a calculated act of subterfuge. Unless it’s next-level clever. Can’t decide.”

  “Are you suggesting the body might not be who the authorities, and my grieving client, think it is? For the sake of my sanity, I’m going to assume the corpse belongs to Harry Lee, until he pops out of a cake or somebody persuades me otherwise.”

  “I’m spitballing. I ponder the bad and then imagine how it might be even worse. There’s always something worse. My bottom dollar is on Curtis guest-starring as the worse thing in this episode.”

  “Mankind dwells in a wilderness, red of tooth and claw. I tend to classify him as the devil I know.”

  “It’s what the devil knows that should worry us. Curtis is sandbagging. Weigh the evidence: Lee freelanced, which nixes mob vengeance or retaliation on his behalf. Even if retaliation were on the table, Curtis has goons who handle this stuff. Only, he hires a washed-up hitman in secret—”

  “Retired hitman,” I said.

  “You’re retired the way Brett Favre was retired from 2008 through 2011. I get that you’re chummy with Capone Lite. Doesn’t mean you have to do business with the dillhole.”

  “Man, you have a hate-on for Curtis.”

  “I really don’t like anybody. Present company excepted.”

  “This is entirely a business decision. To date, the local mob suffers my existence. It would be nice to stay in the black. You’re right, though. The plot has indeed thickened.” I relayed Bellow’s brief concerning how an average schmuck named Morris Oestryke might also be an infamous serial killer and an even more infamous hitman.

  Lionel digested this information.

  “How’s Bellow?”

  “Cool.”

  “And he’s serious about this Croatoan character?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  He scowled.

  “Curtis knows who we’re looking for, doesn’t he? He’s playing coy. Why is the fucker playing coy? Why not tell you what’s what and turn you loose?”

  “There are numerous possibilities,” I said. “One of those possibilities is that we’re wrong and he’s on the level. We’ve been wrong before. Another possibility is we’re being set up for a fall. I dislike that possibility.”

  “No shit.”

  “Sounds far-fetched. The Croatoan theory. Curtis may be asshole buddies with Oestryke, except the more I think on it, the less it matters. Simply doesn’t jibe that Oestryke is active. A coincidence or a copycat is the smart money. Oestryke, nah.”

  “Ask yourself why FBI bosses are derailing the investigation.”

  “Two problems.” Lionel raised three fingers. “First, people don’t just walk away from explosions and assume brand-new identities—”

  “This won’t be much fun unless you try being a tiny bit credulous. Play along—how does Oestryke assume a new identity after faking his death? The Outfit has people who can arrange it, but not easily and not for cheap.”

  “Inventing a past is within the realm of possibility. I’ll grant you that. Especially in the ’80s. Being a sneaky SOB was simpler. Bellow said the DoD h
as an interest? Intelligence agencies whipped up canned identities for their assets at the drop of a hat. More than fake IDs and papers. Spooks designed Cadillac backgrounds. Deep, granular stuff. Plastic surgery, false memories via hypnosis; cloak-and-dagger to the max. I don’t buy any of that in this instance. Government redacts his military service for what, black ops hijinks? Guy doesn’t have a college degree; he was a raw recruit. Years later, he does mob hits and fakes his own death via a fireball? Then, in his dotage, retires to a quiet life of butchering hookers? And, for an encore, he’s icing former colleagues to honor some vendetta we haven’t the first idea of what the fuck over. Riiight. Nope, here’s the reality: he died, somebody liked his style and picked up the reins.”

  “And problem two?”

  “Problem two is the point I made a second ago. Oestryke pulls off the impossible black ops stuff? Black ops cowboys are all twenty-five and gymnasts. Bellow’s dude would be in his late sixties. At least.”

  “You ageist bastard,” I said. “My dad can still whip my ass. I’ve known a hitter or two who kept punching tickets into their golden years. Assassination doesn’t require agility, stamina, or black belt reflexes. It requires viciousness. Our very own Harold Lee was fifty-nine and doing the good work.”

  “Unlikely some glycerin-addicted senior citizen is creeping around the Hudson Valley making like a ninja, cutting off heads with a knife while the victims are alive. Man, that’s hard work. Younger man’s work.” He flapped his hand dismissively. “Harold Lee? Motherfucker broke cue sticks over the heads of two-bit debtors. Let’s not compare that action with some world-class massacre artist.”

  “Over-the-hill baddies are full of surprises,” I said. “It pays to assume a snake can and will bite until the day it slithers into the afterlife.”

  “For the sake of argument, there’s a geriatric hitter run amok in Upstate New York. He’s stabbing prostitutes and evening up scores with former criminal associates. Super-duper far-fetched.” He cracked the bottle, took a long swallow, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “And for the sake of argument, let’s assume Harold Lee and that other bozo, Ray Anderson, were done in by the same person, this Oestryke, this Croatoan motherfucker. Oestryke whacks them because . . . why?”

  “Could be for any reason. Pick one you like. They’re lowlifes. Falling-outs among lowlifes are often calamitous. The trio had unsettled business together.”

  “Curtis has an agenda, is all I’m sayin’.”

  “Evil agendas and Machiavellian plots are in the job description of mob captain.” I peeled three bills from my wallet and slipped them into his breast pocket. Driving-around money. “Eyes wide open. This goes pear-shaped, we tuck tail and scamper.”

  “We always scamper after it’s too late.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lionel took the Kingston off-ramp and threaded his way across town to a neighborhood characterized by rock-bottom property values. He parked on a wooded street lined with shabby houses. A third of the yards were posted with FOR SALE signs. I tried Nic Royal’s number on the off-chance he’d save us the hassle of breaking in. The machine picked up and a man’s voice said, Your dime, leave a message. I said, “Hi, sorry to miss you, we’ll do lunch one day soon.”

  I pocketed the phone, combed my hair with my fingers, and surveyed the effect in the side mirror. Gray crept through the black. The first hint of snow in the mountains—termination dust, we’d called it in Alaska.

  “Coleridge, you handsome devil.”

  Lionel snorted.

  “South end of a northbound mule.”

  I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

  He lit a cigarette as a radio analyst lamented the grim contemporary saga of New York professional sports. Dynasties were artifacts of antiquity—an oddsmaker couldn’t even trust the Yankees anymore.

  “You look like Conan the Barbarian’s, um, thicker, angrier cousin stuffed into a Men’s Wearhouse special.”

  “Movie Conan or comic book Conan?”

  “The Frazetta version.”

  “Give me a notched broadsword and a naked princess wrapped around my thigh and I’m the spitting image.” I checked the action on my revolver. Today it was the .357. I feigned a double take. “Lionel, you’re a closet paperback sword-and-sorcery nerd? Not judging. I had a 1985 to 1991 run of The Savage Sword of Conan in my adolescence.”

  “Closet nothing.”

  “There’s room in your cabinet for writers other than Shakespeare? Color me amazed.”

  The quickest way to tell if Lionel was three sheets to the wind? He’d quote extensive passages from the Bard’s plays on his way to the floor.

  “Verily, I dig Bill. Read the complete bibliography, forward and back. The undisputed master of Elizabethan potboilers. I reckon he would’ve grooved on dime novels and superheroes.” He tucked a 9mm under his shirt. “Two of my uncles received a deferment from the Vietnam draft. Thick glasses and flat feet. Both of them read three or four novels a week. Way too smart for cannon fodder.”

  “More like canon fodder,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Bookworm, you say?”

  “Bookworm like you ain’t ever seen. Winters were long on the ranch . . . Ready?”

  “Ready.” I paused with my hand on the door lever. “By the way, I’m not Conan or any other Cimmerian. Every Halloween and costume party of my youth, I went as Doc Savage. One shredded dress shirt and I’m done.”

  “Doc Savage is a white dude.”

  “Technically, he’s a bronze dude.”

  “White dude, bronze tan. Buzz cut, chiseled jaw, ripped to shit and back. You’re . . . swarthy. And your hair is too full and kinky, and you don’t have a six-pack.”

  “This is a fairly conservative haircut—”

  “You aren’t particularly apt with regard to technology. Or science in general, to be honest.”

  “Gee, thanks. Who do you go as?”

  He didn’t miss a beat.

  “Race Bannon. Driver, pilot, and bodyguard for the Quest family.”

  “I know who he is. I watched cartoons when I was a kid. You can’t be him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Race Bannon is a good driver.”

  Lionel made a point of consulting the sun.

  “Wow, it’s not even 10 and my balls are aching.”

  “Let’s move, Crocodile Dundee wannabe.”

  * * *

  —

  WE LOCKED THE CAR and proceeded uphill toward a wooden sign that read CLAYTON PARK VILLAGE, EST 1975. Nobody had retouched the sign since the reign of disco. Shoebox condos clustered among stands of erratically pruned elms and beeches.

  Clayton Public Park lay at the bottom of the hillside behind a chain-link fence. In the merry month of May, I’d chased a dealer clear around this mulberry bush. He rode with the Storm Kings Motorcycle Club and kept his homies well stocked with E and other party favors. Woe unto him—a preacher’s adolescent daughter OD’d on a bad pill, and the dealer’s commensurate pain and suffering were required, in honor of the Old Testament. A sob story and ten grand will buy this Avenging Angel’s blade for an afternoon’s labor.

  My quarry had weaved among the jungle gyms and swing sets while crows screamed murder. Dull-eyed patrons perched upon cement benches observed our flight with disinterest. The switchblade in my fist lent length to the dealer’s strides. Each flex of his calf caused a vivid piece of ink to ripple—a chaos symbol, its arrows dripping acid. These days, that dried-and-cured patch of skin served as the bookmark of a King James Bible owned by a grieving dad.

  Less than two years in state and I was already making memories.

  Lionel and I left the sidewalk and followed a slightly curved drive. The neighborhood resembled a retro-dystopia film set—clogged gutters, broken windows covered with plastic sheets, defunct satellite dishe
s, and cars on blocks. Clayton Forest stretched north of the ridge, past Esopus Creek, to Highway 87.

  “Is that a beehive?” Lionel glared at a lump in the crotch of a birch tree. “That’s a fucking yellow jacket’s nest, bigger than shit.”

  “The yellow jackets have vacated, I think.” I didn’t see any workers buzzing around. Nights had been chilly.

  “Children play here! Kingston is supposed to be a nice town.”

  “Nicer than Newburgh. Way, way nicer.”

  “There’s a recommendation to hang your hat on. Should be the chamber of commerce pitch.” He made a framing gesture. “Kingston: Nicer than Newburgh.”

  “Way nicer,” I said.

  * * *

  —

  UNIT 215 SAT WELL BACK from the entrance. I scouted the perimeter, peering into windows and trying locks. Lionel took the opposite side. Mainly, I wanted to be sure there weren’t any dogs. I’ve always tried to avoid kicking in doors where dogs abide. Angry wives and girlfriends come in a close second and are arguably more threatening.

  Empty carport and no visible movement within the condo suggested we had the place to ourselves.

  I wrenched the locked doorknob until it gave and bulled my way into the apartment. Exactly what one might expect of a bachelor pad. ST. PAULI GIRL posters, mismatched furniture, and a huge television. The lone nod to class was a large black-and-white photo of a wolf pack prowling through snowy woods above the fake hearth. The photograph’s absolute distillation of predatory spirit gave me a mild thrill. Kitchen trash brimmed with cigarette butts and empty forty-ounce beer bottles sufficient to recoup a small fortune at the recycling depot. Incense diluted the strongest odors of sour beer and cigarette and grass smoke.

  Hanging beads had replaced the first bedroom door. Royal’s domain, affirmed by a high school portrait and later photos of him in combat fatigues. His portable library included 1970s paperbacks on recreational drugs, occultism, medieval witchcraft, and Arlene Fitzgerald’s underappreciated classic, Satanic Sex. He’d tried his hand at art. A binder of medium-sized canvases contained rough charcoal sketches of dilapidated structures amid rural landscapes and what I assumed were the Catskills. Several were studies of nude women, their features half done and obscured by shadow. Royal didn’t sleep much in his neatly made bed. A blanket and pillow on the floor, on the opposite side near the closet, reinforced my assumption. I discovered a baggie of weed and a roll of twenties stashed in his sock drawer. The tang of incense was almost overwhelming. Ashes caked several dishes and a funky little brazier near the bed. He must’ve burned it by the bushel.