New York Nocturne by Walter Satterthwait Page A

him?”
    â€œYes. For about fifteen minutes.”
    â€œInteresting.”
    â€œIn what way?” Miss Lizzie asked him.
    â€œHe’s a hoodlum. A rumrunner.” He turned back to me. “How is it your uncle knew him? Did he say?”
    â€œNo.”
    Still stroking the dog, Mrs. Parker asked me, “Did you get to see George Raft?”
    The dog looked up at her, its tiny tongue lolling.
    â€œYes,” I said. “He was amazing.”
    She smiled. “Amazing in a way that makes you wonder how amazing he might be in other ways.”
    â€œYes,” said Miss Lizzie. “All right, Amanda. What happened next?”
    â€œWe went to the Cotton Club,” I said. “In Harlem.” I mentioned the man in the white dinner jacket.
    â€œGood-looking guy?” Mr. Lipkind asked me. “English accent?”
    â€œHe was good-looking, yes. But I don’t know about the accent. I didn’t talk to him.”
    â€œBlack hair, brown eyes, smokes cigarettes? Stands real straight?”
    â€œThat’s him, yes.”
    â€œOwney Madden.”
    â€œAnd who might he be?” Miss Lizzie asked.
    â€œHe owns the place. Also a couple of breweries. Another hood. A Brit. Got sent up for killing a guy about seven years ago. He got sprung last year. Smooth as silk these days, but very definitely a hood.”
    Miss Lizzie turned to me. “Your uncle, it seems, knew some rather colorful characters.”
    â€œBut he was a stockbroker,” I said. “Maybe they had investments.”
    â€œGuys like Owney and Larry,” said Mr. Lipkind, “they don’t need investments. They are investments.”
    â€œYou’re on a first-name basis?” Mrs. Parker asked him.
    â€œI get around.” He shrugged. “Part of the job.”
    â€œGo ahead, Amanda,” said Miss Lizzie. “What happened next?”
    I told them about coming home, going to sleep, and finding John’s body.
    â€œYes, dear,” said Miss Lizzie—wishing, I believe, to hurry me past that horror. “I know it must have been dreadful. So you called the police?”
    I continued with the story. When I came to Lieutenant Becker, Miss Lizzie turned to Mr. Lipkind and asked him, “Who is he, this Becker person?”
    â€œA big deal at headquarters. Got a lot of juice.”
    â€œBy ‘juice’ you mean power? Influence?”
    â€œRight. Word is, he’s the bagman between the mob and the cops.”
    â€œBagman?”
    â€œAccording to the grapevine, Becker’s the guy who carries cash from your criminal element—folks like Madden and Fay and Arnold Rothstein—to the department. Down at headquarters, it’s divvied up among the troops.”
    â€œArnold Rothstein?”
    â€œBig gambler. Runs the richest floating crap game in the city.”
    â€œThe name is familiar. Isn’t he somehow connected to the sports world?”
    Mr. Lipkind smiled. “Kind of. He’s the man who fixed the World Series back in 1919.”
    She nodded. “We are talking, then, about bribes.”
    â€œContributions, the police like to call them.”
    â€œAnd the police can get away with this?”
    Mr. Lipkind shrugged. “New York City. They can get away with whatever they want.”
    â€œThe New York City cops,” said Mrs. Parker, “are notorious assholes.”
    The word, coming out of that tiny frame, spoken in that elegant accent, startled me. I glanced at Miss Lizzie. If she were startled, she didn’t show it. She simply nodded and then turned to Mr. Lipkind.
    â€œBut if Mr. Becker is such a powerful figure,” she asked, “why should he involve himself in this particular investigation?”
    â€œGood question,” said Mr. Lipkind. He shrugged. “I dunno. Unless maybe the cops want to keep Madden and Fay out of it.”
    â€œBut Mr. Becker couldn’t have known, before he arrived at John