Houston Hall is lower Manhattan’s go-to watering hole for the under-thirty crowd. The cavernous building still has the exposed rafters, weathered brick walls, and nuts-and-guts architectural charm of the parking garage it was in a past life.
On weekends, the line to get in is around the block, but on a Wednesday at 10:00 p.m., Reitzfeld and I were able to walk right in and circulate among the raucous crowd of revelers who were hoisting steins of craft beer and munching on traditional fare like wings and sliders, as well as on the less predictable pastrami Reuben spring rolls and spicy sashimi tuna tacos.
“Christ,” Reitzfeld said. “There must be five hundred people in here, and I’m old enough to be their father—every last one of them.”
“I know,” I said. “Did you see the red sign that flashed when you walked through the door? It said GEEZER ALERT.”
“Kiss my ass, rookie. But thanks for doing this. Not everybody at the PD would go this far out on a limb for a retired cop.”
“Then they’re myopic,” I said. “Eventually we’re all retired cops, and sooner or later we’re going to need help from the inside. Let’s get a couple of beers so we look like we fit in.”
The vast wide-open beer hall had row after row of massive mead-hall tables and benches. I ordered two pitchers of lager and five glasses from the bar, and we found a spot that was midroom with a clear sight line to the front door.
The plan was simple. As soon as Jessup and Jewel identified C.J. as the mastermind behind the robbery, we’d let them go. Then I’d leave, and Reitzfeld could take it from there.
“You definitely can’t be around when I ask for the money back,” Reitzfeld said. “It’s one thing for you to help me track down a couple of perps, but if you’re in the room when I try to collect the eight hundred grand, IA will nail you for being a bagman.”
“The funny thing is that Shelley cares less about getting the money back than you do.”
“I’ve got more skin in the game than Shelley does,” Reitzfeld said.
We nursed our beers and kept our eyes on the people coming and going. At 10:55, Jessup and Jewel walked through the front door and looked around. It was definitely not their world. More frat party than bar scene, and while there were black faces in the crowd, it was more East Hampton than South Bronx.
I dialed Jessup’s number and watched him answer.
“On the right side,” I said. “There are numbers painted on the wall over the light fixtures. I’m at the far end of the table under number nine.”
“Are you sure you want to do this here?” he said.
“It’s the only place I’ll do it,” I said. “If you don’t like it, you’re free to go back the way you came.”
He hung up, and I watched him launch into an animated conversation with Jewel. Then they made their way cautiously to our table—actually, my table: by now Reitzfeld was standing off to the side.
“Thanks for coming,” I said, filling two clean glasses.
They sat down. Jewel took a swig of the brew, but Jessup wasn’t in a drinking mood.
“I counted maybe six brothers from the front door to here,” he said. “Did we have to be so conspicuous?”
“First of all, none of the white people took a second look at you, and if you remember, I was in the minority last night at Rattlesnake. Suck it up. Now where’s your inside man?”
Jessup looked at his Apple Watch. “It’s four minutes shy of eleven, Fly Boy. I don’t suppose that’s enough time for the three of us to get in a round of darts with Biff and Chad over there?”
The joke caught Jewel middrink, and he did a spit take into his beer glass.
“Fun and games are over, fellas,” I said. “It’s time to get serious. Now listen carefully, and whatever you do, don’t get up or even think about going for your piece, because there are four—count ’em, four—cops behind you.”
There weren’t four cops. Just one retiree who worked security at Silvercup Studios. But from where they were sitting, imaginary cops were as menacing as real ones.
“What the fuck?” Jessup said.
“And there’s one cop in front of you,” I said.
“Shit. I knew you were a cop,” Jessup said.
“No you didn’t, or you wouldn’t have showed up. But here’s the good news. Our beef isn’t with you. As soon as C.J. sits down, and you finger him for the Mark hotel robbery, you both win a Get Out of Jail Free card. Just walk out the door. No questions asked.”
“Who’s C.J.?” Jewel said.
“Don’t be stupid, Garvey,” I said. “All you have to do is point out your inside man at the poker game, and you’re free to go.”
“Happy to do it, officer,” Jessup said, “but he didn’t say his name was C.J.”
“Fair enough. And my name isn’t Fly Boy.”
Jessup’s phone rang. He looked at me. “He’s here.”
“Tell him where to find you, then stand up and wave. If you warn him and he bolts, you’re in cuffs.”
Jessup followed orders, and I stood off to the side with Reitzfeld until a man in a black Windbreaker and a black baseball cap walked over to the table and shook hands with his partners in crime.
Only it wasn’t C. J. Berringer.