Secret Isaac Read Online Free PDF Page A

But I don’t want you on the damn streets.”
    â€œMister,” she said, “I don’t need an uncle, thanks. I already have a pimp.”
    Could he tell Annie Powell that she was torturing him and his rotten worm? That he’d bump any john who went near her corner? He was jealous, stupidly jealous, of a girl he hadn’t even slept with. That scar had gotten him crazy.
    â€œWho’s Dermott?” he said.
    She ate a mouthful of fish.
    â€œI asked you about Dermott Bride.”
    She got up from the table, put her napkin down, and walked out of the restaurant. Isaac was left with three corks and his little bottles of champagne. He phoned his office. A limousine was outside the Vinaigrette in seven minutes. The waiters at the restaurant saw the bum get into that big car. They were wise men. They understood that strange things existed in this world. The very rich often preferred to dress like cloches . They wouldn’t forget this bum with the scarred beauty, the limousine, and the splits of champagne.
    Isaac’s deputies had located Martin McBride, who lived with a fat wife in eight rooms near Marble Hill. Martin had emphysema. But he had to suffer August in New York. He collected money from the pimps of Manhattan and heard their complaints. He was known in mid-town as “Bagman Martin.” He’d been a petty crook for over half his life. Poor Martin didn’t have much of a record: arrested as a vagrant two or three times. Short spills in the Tombs. But that was twenty years ago. He’d prospered in his old age.
    Isaac’s men kidnapped him out of his apartment in a three hundred dollar suit. The old bagman was bewildered. Centre Street was completely black. Why was he being shoveled through the halls? He didn’t believe Isaac’s deputies were cops. But this was the old Police Headquarters. They deposited him in a back room on the third floor. The room was dark except for the lamp in his face. Who in Jesus was behind that desk?
    â€œScumbag, is Annie Powell yours, or not?”
    â€œSir,” the old bagman said, “I don’t know who that sweetheart is.”
    â€œBut she happens to know a lot about you … How’s Dermott these days?”
    â€œWho, sir?”
    Isaac reached over his desk to twist McBride’s two ears.
    â€œAh, the nephew. He’s doing fine.”
    â€œCould it be that you’re working for him, Martin McBride?… that the nickels you collect from every whore’s purse goes to little Dermott?”
    â€œThat’s impossible, sir. Dermott’s a Yale man, swear to Christ. Helped put him through that college. He was training for the bar … but he never got to be a lawyer, sir. The nephew tired of his studies.”
    â€œWhere is he now?”
    â€œI haven’t a clue.”
    Isaac was tired of twisting ears. He was readying to bang Martin’s head against the wall. But Martin suddenly had a coughing fit. It wasn’t contrived. Isaac could see the awful blue and yellow of emphysema on him. He had his deputies send Martin home. He learned nothing from the old bagman. He didn’t get one bit closer to Dermott Bride.

5
    T HE pimps wouldn’t talk to him. The black whores couldn’t even pronounce Dermott’s name. Annie would run from him soon as Isaac appeared. She’d have no more lunches or dinners with the old bum. He walked into a pornography shop managed by a friendly Russian Jew. The Jew was smart enough to read under Isaac’s disguise. He knew about the legendary First Deputy of New York.
    â€œSidel, don’t play the schmuck with me. Ask me a question, and I’ll answer it, but only if I can.”
    His name was Lazar. And he carried a pistol under his counter, wrapped in a handkerchief.
    â€œThe girl with the scar on her face, who is she? She wasn’t here a month ago.”
    â€œThe gorgeous one?” Lazar said, making perfect breasts with his hands.