CHAPTER NINETEEN

Roland George called at 7:32 the next morning and said, "NYPD owns a guy named Walter Lee Balcom. Busted him seven weeks ago on two counts of murder and one count kidnapping and about two dozen ancillary counts. Most of them smut and sex crimes."

"Do the DeLucas run porno?"

"No. That's the DeTillio family. But Waiter's not mob. He's just been around for a long time and knows people who know people who know people. He's been singing up a storm to try to cut a deal, and Charlie DeLuca's name has come up a few times."

"Can I talk with him?"

"Ten o'clock at the Hall of Justice, downstairs, room B28. I'll meet you there."

"Right."

Rollie hung up.

At a quarter before ten I pulled into the parking garage next door to the Criminal Courts Building on Centre, just north of Foley Square in Chinatown, then walked across and down to subbasement B. A fat cop sitting behind a narrow table asked my business. I told him I was looking for Roland George in room B28. The fat cop looked through a little box, took out a pass with my name on it, and jerked a thumb to the right. "That way."

Subbasement B of the Criminal Courts Building looked like a breeding ground for cops with green cement walls and tile floors that were maybe a thousand years old and the faraway smells of disinfectant and urine. Cops of both sexes moved through the halls, uncomfortable in spotless, starched uniforms, called in by prosecutors to rehearse before appearing in court. Defense attorneys on their way into or out of interview rooms glared at the cops with angry eyes that were looking to cut a deal for clients everyone knew were guilty. The lawyers looked like chronic gamblers. The cops looked like drunks.

When I got to B28, Rollie George and a fireplug-shaped guy with a blond crew cut were standing outside the door. Rollie said, "Elvis, this is Sid Volpe. Sid's with the Justice Department, and he's the guy who's letting us see Balcom."

We shook. Volpe's hand was dry and hard. He said, "I got you sandwiched in between the IRS and the feds. You can have him for twenty minutes starting now, so let's not waste time."

We went in.

Walter Lee Balcom was a pale man in his late forties with fine, straw-colored hair that was thinning on top. He was sitting at a narrow wooden table, chain-smoking Lark cigarettes and wearing gray prison fatigues. A boxy Nagra reel-to-reel tape recorder sat to his side on the table, along with a couple of gray legal pads. There were four metal chairs scattered around the table, but there weren't any pencils or pens or other sharp things.

Walter Lee Balcom gave me a nice smile as we walked in. "Hello, Mr. Volpe, hello, Mr. George, is this the gentleman you told me about?" His voice was soft and papery.

Volpe said, "This is him, Walter." Volpe sat in one of the chairs and turned on the Nagra. "Don't let Walter's manner fool you, Cole. Walter recruited a sixteen-year-old male prostitute named Juan Roca to help him kidnap a nineteen-year-old nurse's aide named Shirley Goldstein. They took her over to a tank farm outside Newark where Roca raped her and tortured her to death with a butane torch while Walter here got it all on videotape. Then Walter walks out in front of the camera in a Groucho Marx nose and shoots Roca four times in the chest and back with a.45 automatic butt-packed with hollow points."

Walter Lee Balcom sat impassively while Volpe said it, using the stub of one Lark to light another. The air smelled of pipe tobacco from the Larks.

Volpe said, "There's no business like show business, right, Walter?"

Walter said, "That wasn't me in the videotape, Mr. Volpe. That was someone made up to look like me." A voice like whispers.

Volpe said, "Shit," then grinned at Rollie. This asshole is so fucking perverted even the goddamned DeTillio family wouldn't touch half the smut he handled."

Walter shrugged, as if this were all part of a meaningless conversation he was having with strangers at a bus stop.

I said, "Do you know many organized-crime figures, Walter?"

Another shrug. A deep puff. "A few. I've been in the industry for quite a long while. It has always been profitable."

"Do you know Charlie DeLuca?"

"Not personally. I know who he is, of course."

Rollie said, "We're told that DeLuca's name has come up a few times in the songs you been singing."

Shrug. A whisper. "You hear things."

Rollie crossed his arms and sat back in the chair. "Your kind of business, they've got to be dirty things."

Walter made the nice smile again. "One man's garbage, Roland."

Sid Volpe leaned across the table and hit Walter Lee Balcom in the face with the back of his left hand. Walter went backward out of the chair and landed on the floor. The broken Lark landed on the table next to the pack, its coal still red and smoking. Walter Lee slowly got up, righted his chair, and sat again. There was a trickle of blood from his right nostril.

Volpe said, "It's Mister George, Walter."

Walter made an embarrassed smile. "Yes, of course. My apologies." Walter took a fresh Lark out of the pack and lit it with what was left of the coal. Volpe took a white handkerchief out of his pants and tossed it onto the table next to Walter. "Get your nose."

Walter dabbed at his nose.

Roland watched without moving, then said, "Thanks, Sid. I think we can take it from here."

Volpe said, "Whatever you want," then got up and left.

When he was gone, Rollie turned off the Nagra. "You want some ice for that, Walter?"

"No. Thank you."

Rollie said, "When I was starting out, we used to call these rooms the garden rooms. Can you guess why?"

Walter shook his head the slightest bit, made the gentle smile.

"We called'm the garden rooms because this is where we took out the hoses. You see?"

"Ah." The smile.

"I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now, but I don't like you, either. I just can't abide beating on a man when he can't fight back. Even a piece of trash like you."

"Ah."

"Just so we understand each other."

Walter nodded and took more of the Lark. Rollie crossed his arms and settled back.

I said, "I'm looking for a handle on Charlie DeLuca, Walter. Do you have any ideas?"

"As I said, I don't know him."

"But you hear things."

"Yes. But none of it has been of particular interest to my friends with the Justice Department."

"I don't have to worry about building a case or following the rules of evidence. This is private. I have reason to believe that Charlie might be involved in something that he doesn't want the rest of the family to know about." Rollie's eyes shifted over to me when I said it. "You got any idea what that might be?"

Walter shook his head. "No. I'm sorry. I know quite a bit about what the DeTillios are into, and the Gambozas, but really very little about the DeLucas."

"Could be anything, Walter. Maybe he's cheating one of the other capos. Maybe he's ripping off Sal."

Walter shook his head. "I'm sorry."

I sat back in the hard chair and crossed my arms and looked at him. "Okay, forget that angle. I'll take any dirt you can give me."

Walter closed his eyes and drew in deep on the Lark. "There are maybe other people who might help you."

"Like who?"

The smile. "Mr. DeLuca often used an intermediary to acquire films featuring young women of color. I'm told that he had a taste for black hookers, especially those who had appeared in films and videotapes."

Rollie said, "Who told you this stuff?"

"A fellow named Richie. A sometime customer of mine. He spoke of Mr. DeLuca with great familiarity. He said they were associates."

I said, "Does Richie have a last name?"

Walter gave me sad and shook his head. "I'm sorry."