The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [64]
“He was a good fighter. Thank you.” Parker leaned forward until his elbows were on his knees. His legs and arms seemed too long for his body. There was a gracefulness in the way he moved, though. Stefanovitch thought he remembered that Parker had been a track star once upon a time.
Parker was serious and quiet as he lit up a cigarette. His eyes continued to make contact with Stefanovitch’s. He seemed to be searching for some hint of recognition; something that would tell him who the Homicide lieutenant was, where he was coming from.
Finally, Parker folded his arms. He started to speak in a soft, calm voice, almost as if he were telling a story to a friend.
“Three police detectives hit Alexandre St.-Germain, Lieutenant. I was one of those men. I also hit that scum Traficante. I was the one who got to Oliver Barnwell about a week later. Sorry to say, I don’t think I have any regrets about it.” Parker took a long pull on his cigarette.
“I need to talk now. I need to talk about a lot of things that have happened lately, including what did and didn’t happen in Atlantic City.”
The small office in Police Plaza seemed very still suddenly. Outside, there was the usual clamor of police business: phones ringing, typewriters and copier machines going at it.
Stefanovitch noticed a few things about Isiah Parker. Parker was a large man, even more physically impressive than his brother had been. He had workingman’s hands and muscular arms, the physique of a construction worker, or maybe even a coal miner.
Stefanovitch knew about Isiah Parker by reputation. His brother’s boxing career had drawn attention to him, but before that, Parker had been an item around the N.Y.P.D. Stefanovitch remembered that Parker had led Manhattan in arrests a couple of years back. He was known as a hard-ass. Supposedly he was an honest street cop, too. He was arrogant and bullheaded, but maybe with some good reasons.
In some ways, his career in the department matched up with Stefanovitch’s. In other ways, they were worlds apart—about as far from one another as 125th Street in Harlem was from Main Street in Minersville, Pa.
“I think I need to back up a little, for you to understand some of this,” Parker said. His voice was still pleasant, as if the two of them were swapping department stories at a Blarney Stone.
Stefanovitch nodded. “I was going to suggest something like that. I’ll try not to get in the way too much. You go ahead and talk.”
63
“LET ME TRY TO GO all the way through this one time. Then you can ask questions…I investigated my brother’s murder against strict orders not to from upstairs. That’s a serious problem I have. I don’t obey orders real well, Lieutenant.”
“I can understand that. I’ve had similar problems a few times.” Stefanovitch broke into a smile. “Maybe more than a few times.”
Whatever Isiah Parker might have done, Stefanovitch liked him. Cop to cop, he was feeling a kinship. There was something down-to-earth about Parker. Maybe he was giving him points because of what had happened to his brother, but Stefanovitch didn’t think so.
“My brother got his title shot by playing along with the New York mobs. It was the only way to go, he told me. Maybe he was right, I don’t know. They wanted a lot of special favors in return.”
“What kind of favors?”
“They wanted to control Marcus. Own him. Say who he would fight. Where he would fight. After a while, he said no. Marcus didn’t take other people’s shit too well.”
“Your brother didn’t seem like the type.”
“This went on for maybe a year. Most of the best fights in the fight game don’t happen in the ring, Lieutenant. One day they brought him down to the Bowery. A place called the Edmonds Hotel. They murdered him there. The street law. In the newspapers, on TV, my brother supposedly died shooting up smack.
“Marcus had always been the people’s hero. He was living their dreams, showing them the dreams were real. I don’t know if you can understand? The people in Harlem dream a lot. They have to dream.