The Force

by Don Winslow

  “No.”

  It was always a thing at Christmas, to see what woman Billy would bring over that year.

  A model, an actress, always some hottie.

  “We better get upstairs before they think you’re sucking my joint,” Russo says.

  “How come they won’t think you’re sucking mine?”

  “Because no one would believe that,” Russo says. “Come on.”

  The cannoli is as good as advertised.

  Malone has two of them and sits out a debate about the relative merits of the Rangers, Islanders and Devils, because Staten Island is right in that triangle where you could legitimately root for any of them.

  He’s always been a Rangers guy, always will be.

  Donna Russo catches him in the kitchen scraping his plate and takes the opportunity to ambush him. She’s no fucking bullshit. “So, your wife and kids. You going back?”

  “Yeah, I don’t see that in the cards, Donna.”

  “Get a fresh deck,” Donna says. “They need you. Believe it or not, you need them. You’re a better person with Sheila.”

  “She don’t think so.”

  Malone doesn’t know if that’s true. They’ve been separated for over a year, and while Sheila says she’s good with getting divorced, she keeps dragging her feet on the paperwork. And he’s just been too busy to push it.

  What you tell yourself, anyway, Malone thinks.

  “Give me that plate,” Donna says. She takes it and jams it into the dishwasher. “Phil says you got something on the side in Manhattan.”

  “It’s not on the side,” Malone says. “It’s in the center, I’m not married anymore.”

  “In the eyes of the church—”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

  Malone loves Donna, known her all his life, would die for her, but he’s not in the mood for her housewife hypocrisy. Donna Russo knows—she has to know—that her husband has a gumar on Columbus Avenue and gets strange every chance that comes up, which it does a lot. She knows and she chooses to ignore it because she wants the nice house and the clothes and the kids in college.

  Malone don’t blame her, but let’s keep it real.

  “I’m sending food home with you,” Donna says. “You look thin, are you eating?”

  “Italian women.”

  “You should be so lucky,” Donna says. She starts filling large plastic containers with turkey, mashed potatoes, vegetables and macaroni. “Sheila and I are taking pole-dancing classes, she tell you?”

  “She left that out.”

  “It’s great cardio,” Donna says, filling his hands with the containers, “and can be very sexy, too, you know? Sheila might have some new tricks you don’t know about, buddy boy.”

  “It wasn’t all about the sex,” Malone says.

  “It’s always all about the sex,” Donna says. “Go back to your wife, Denny. Before it’s too late.”

  “You know something I don’t?”

  “I know everything you don’t,” she says.

  He says good-bye to Russo on his way out.

  “She bust balls about you and Sheila?” Russo asks.

  “Of course.”

  “Listen, she busts my balls about you and Sheila,” Russo says.

  “Thanks for having me.”

  “Fuck you, thanks.”

  Malone puts the food in the backseat and calls Mark Piccone. “You got time now?”

  “For you, always. Where?”

  Malone has a wild hair. “How about the Boardwalk?”

  “It’s freezing.”

  “All the better.” Won’t be a lot of people out there.

  It’s empty, all right. The day has turned gray and a fierce wind is coming off the bay. Piccone’s black Mercedes is already there, a couple of cars, people escaping their family dinners, an old van looks like it was dumped there.

  He pulls up alongside Piccone’s driver’s side from the opposite direction and rolls down the window. Malone don’t know why every lawyer has to drive a Mercedes, but they do.

  Piccone hands him an envelope. “Your finder’s fee on Fat Teddy.”

  “Thank you.”

  The way it works—you bust a guy, you give him a defense lawyer’s card. If he goes ahead and hires that lawyer, the lawyer owes you a taste.

  But it gets better.

  “Can you straighten it out?” Piccone asks.

  “Who’s riding?”

  “Justin Michaels.”

  Malone knows Michaels is a player. Most ADAs—assistant district attorneys—aren’t, but enough are that a cop who’s well connected, and Malone is, can get two licks at the spoon. “Yeah, I can probably straighten that out.”

  By slipping an envelope to ADA Michaels, who will find that the chain of evidence got jacked up.

  “How much?” Piccone asks.

  “Are we talking a reduction or a nol pros?” Malone asks.

  “A walk.”

  “Ten to twenty K.”

  “And that includes your cut, right?”

  Why is Piccone busting balls? Malone wonders. He knows as well as I do that I take my taste from Michaels. It’s what I get for being the cutout, so two fucking lawyers don’t have to embarrass themselves by acknowledging to each other they’re for sale. Also, it’s safer for them, because a cop talking to a prosecutor in the hallway is a daily event and doesn’t look suspicious. “Yeah, of course.”

  “Make the deal.”

  New York, New York, Malone thinks—the town so nice they pay you twice.

  And anyway, he owes Teddy for the tips on the gun source.

  Malone pulls out of the parking lot.

  He’s gone three blocks when he sees the car tailing him.

  It ain’t Piccone.

  Fuck, is it IAB?

  The car gets closer and Malone sees it’s Raf Torres. Malone pulls over and gets out. Torres pulls in behind him and they meet on the sidewalk.

  “The fuck, Torres?” Malone asks. “It’s Christmas. Shouldn’t you be with your family, or your whores or something?”

  “You get this straightened out with Piccone?” he asks.

  “Your boy will be okay,” Malone says.

  “That bust should have been over the second he mentioned my name,” Torres says.

  “He didn’t mention your fucking name,” Malone says. “And what makes you think you can provide cover for one of Carter’s people?”

  “Three grand a month,” Torres says. “Carter isn’t happy. He wants his money back.”

  “The fuck I care he’s happy?” Malone says.

  “You have to let other people eat.”

  “Help yourself,” Malone says. “Just dine outside Harlem.”

  “You’re a royal prick, Malone, you know that?”

  “The question is, do you know that?”

  Torres laughs. “Piccone kicking to you?”

  Malone don’t answer.

  “I should get a taste of that,” Torres says.

  Malone reaches to his crotch. “You can have a taste of this.”

  “Nice,” Torres says. “Nice talk on Christmas.”

  “You want to take Carter’s money, that’s your business,” Malone says. “Knock yourself out. But he needs to know he’s bought you, not me. He slings on my turf, he’s open season.”

  “If that’s how you want it, brother.”

  “And you’re betting on the wrong horse,” Malone says. “If I don’t bring Carter down, the Domos will.”

  “Even after losing a hundred keys of smack?” Torres asks.

  “Fifty,” Malone says.

  Torres smirks. “Whatever you say.”

  It’s fucking freezing out.

  Malone gets back in his car and pulls out.

  Torres doesn’t follow him.

  On the drive back to Manhattan, Malone puts Nas on and pumps it up loud. Sings along—

  I’m out for presidents to represent me / Say what?

  I’m out for presidents to represent me / Say
what?

  I’m out for dead presidents to represent me.

  Whose world is this?

  The world is yours.

  It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine.

  If I can hold on to it, Malone thinks.

  If DeVon Carter taps into the Iron Pipeline, he’s going to leave Domo bodies strewn all over Manhattan North. The Domos will retaliate and we’ll be freaking Chicago before we know it.

  That ain’t all.

  Carter was talking about the Pena rip, then Lou Savino, and now Torres is making noise about it?

  It’s too risky now to try to move the Pena shit.

  And the Pena shit could put you right where Jerry McNab was.

  Maybe you’ll luck out and go sudden from a heart attack or a stroke or an aneurysm, but if not, when the time comes you can’t take care of yourself . . .

  Jesus, you’re a morbid piece of shit today.

  Man the fuck up.

  You got a job you love.

  Money.

  Friends.

  An apartment in the city.

  A beautiful sexy woman who loves you.

  You own Manhattan North.

  So they can’t touch you.

  No one can touch you.

  Dwellin’ in the Rotten Apple

  You get tackled or caught by the devil’s lasso . . .

  Part 2

  The Easter Bunny

  Over my forty-year career as a defense attorney, I regularly came into contact with people who lied, cheated, and tried to bend the system so that they would come out on top.

  Most of them worked for the government.

  —Oscar Goodman, Being Oscar

  Chapter 6

  Harlem, New York City

  March

  A dead kid kills an old lady.

  The woman is ninety-one and small.

  Smaller yet in death.

  The entry wound, like most entry wounds, is neat and in the center of her left cheek, below the eye. The exit wound, like most exit wounds, isn’t small or neat—blood, brains and white hair are blown onto the back of a plastic-covered wingback chair.

  “They shouldn’t look out the window when they hear shit,” Ron Minelli says. “But that was probably her whole life. She probably spent her whole day looking out the window.”

  Fourth floor of Building Six in the Nickel, the elderly lady catches a stray round. Malone walks over to the window and looks down. The shooter is in the courtyard, his gun hand outstretched, finger still on the trigger as it was when he fell backward and squeezed off a shot. He was probably already croaked and it was an automatic muscle reaction.

  “Thanks for the call,” Malone says.

  “I figured it was drug related,” Minelli says.

  It is. The DOA down in the courtyard is Mookie Gillette, one of DeVon Carter’s slingers.

  Monty is looking around the small apartment—photographs of adult kids, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. China teacups, a collection of souvenir spoons from Saratoga, Colonial Williamsburg, Franconia Notch—gifts from her family.

  “Leonora Williams,” Monty says. “Rest in peace.”

  He lights a cigar, even though the body hasn’t started to smell yet. The old woman is past minding.

  A sector car rolls up in the courtyard and Sykes gets out. The captain walks over to the dead kid and shakes his head. Then he looks up at the window.

  Malone nods.

  Russo says, “I got the bullet. It’s in the wall here.”

  “Wait for the Crime Scene guys,” Malone says. “I’ll be downstairs.”

  He takes the elevator down to the courtyard.

  Half of St. Nick’s is out there, kept away from the body by uniforms from the Three-Two and yellow crime tape. One of the kids says, “Hey, Malone, it true Mrs. Williams dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That too bad.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He walks over to Sykes.

  Sykes looks at him. “What a world.”

  “But it’s ours.”

  “Four deadly shootings in six weeks,” Sykes says.

  Yeah, your numbers are fucked, Captain, Malone thinks. Monday’s CompStat meeting, they’re going to do a flamenco on your chest. Then he regrets thinking it. He doesn’t like the captain, but the man is sincerely saddened about the deaths in the projects.

  It bothers Sykes.

  Bothers Malone, too.

  He’s supposed to be protecting people like Leonora Williams. It’s one thing when the slingers gun each other down, another when an innocent old lady gets hit in the cross fire.

  The media will be rolling up any second.

  Torres walks over.

  Their arrangement has held for three months. Torres has stayed on Carter’s pad while Malone and his team haven’t let up. But now the tit-for-tat killings in the projects between Carter and the Dominicans, threatening an out-and-out turf war, also threaten the uneasy truce.

  And now a civilian has been killed.

  “Here’s a shock,” Torres is saying. “No one saw anything.”

  “It had to be a Trinitario,” Sykes says. “Retaliating for DeJesus.”

  Raoul DeJesus was gunned down in the Heights last week. Prior to his demise, he was the chief suspect in the murder of a Get Money Boy shot and killed on 135th.

  “Gillette here was GMB, right?” Sykes asks.

  “Born and bred.”

  And GMB slings for Carter.

  “Round up Trinis,” Sykes says to Torres. “Bring them in for questioning, pop them for weed, outstanding warrants, I don’t care. Let’s see if any of them want to talk instead of going to Rikers.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  “Malone, run down your sources, see if anyone’s talking,” Sykes says. “I want a suspect, I want an arrest, I want these killings closed.”

  The circus arrives. Reporters, television news trucks. And with them, Reverend Hampton.

  Of course, Malone thinks—lights, cameras, Hampton.

  Actually, it’s not the worst thing. Hampton at least pulls some of the media off the cops, and Malone can hear him talking . . . “community” . . . “tragedy” . . . “cycle of violence” . . . “economic disparity” . . . “what are the police doing to” . . .

  To his credit, Sykes takes on the rest of the reporters. “Yes, we can confirm two homicides. . . . No, we have no suspects at the moment. . . . I can’t confirm that this was drug or gang related. . . . The Manhattan North Special Task Force will be heading up the investigation. . . .”

  A reporter breaks off from the gaggle and approaches Malone. “Detective Malone?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mark Rubenstein, New York Times.” Tall, thin, a neatly trimmed beard. A sports coat with a sweater underneath, glasses, smart.

  “Captain Sykes is handling all the questions,” Malone says.

  “I get that,” Rubenstein says. “I’m just wondering if there’s a time you and I could get together and talk. I’m doing a series of articles about the heroin epidemic—”

  “You understand I’m a little busy at the moment.”

  “Sure.” Rubenstein hands him a card. “I’d love to talk to you if you’re ever interested.”

  I’ll never be interested, Malone thinks, taking the card.

  Rubenstein goes back to the impromptu press conference.

  Malone walks over to Torres. “I want to sit down with Carter.”

  “You think, huh?” Torres says. “You’re not his favorite police officer.”

  “I’m taking care of Bailey for him.”

  His trial is coming up, the fix will go in.

  “Fucking Dominicans,” Torres says. “I’m Spanish and I hate those greasy cocksuckers.”

  Tenelli comes over. “The GMBs are already talking payback.”

  “Hey, Tenelli, give us a second, yeah?” Malone asks. She shrugs and moves off. “Get me with Carter?”

  “You guarantee his safety?”

  “You think
the Trinis are going to come in when—”

  “Not from the Domos,” Torres says. “From you.”

  “Set it up,” Malone says. He walks back to where Sykes is just finishing with the media.

  A plainclothes cop stands beside him.

  “Malone, this is Dave Levin,” Sykes says. “He just came on the Task Force. I’m assigning him to your team.”

  Levin’s maybe in his early thirties. Thin, tall, full black hair, a sharp nose. He shakes Malone’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  Malone turns to Sykes. “Captain, can I have a moment?”

  Sykes nods to Levin, who steps away.

  “If I wanted a puppy, I’d go to the pound,” Malone says.

  Sykes says, “Levin’s a smart guy, comes out of Anti-Crime in the Seven-Six. Had some good collars, did a lot of heavy jobs, got a lot of guns off the street.”

  Great, Malone thinks. Sykes is bringing his old team over from the Seven-Six. Levin’s primary loyalty will be to Sykes, not the team. “That’s not the point. I have a smooth-functioning team. We work well together—a new guy throws it off balance.”

  “Task Force teams are made up of four people,” Sykes says. “You need to replace O’Neill.”

  Nobody can replace Billy, Malone thinks. “Then give me a Spanish guy. Give me Gallina.”

  “I can’t fuck Torres like that.”

  Torres is fucking you like a prison bitch, Malone thinks. “Okay, I’ll take Tenelli.”

  Sykes seems amused. “You want a woman?”

  Better than a fucking spy, Malone thought.

  “Tenelli just scored very high on the lieutenant’s exam,” Sykes says. “She’s going to be out of here soon. No, you’re taking Levin. You’re shorthanded and, as I might have mentioned, I want these cases closed. Are you making any progress on Carter’s gun hookup?”

  “It’s gone dead.”

  “Easter’s coming,” Sykes says. “Revive it. No guns, no war.”

  Malone walks over to Levin. “Come on.”

  He leads him toward the building where Leonora’s apartment is.

  Was.

  Levin says, “I can’t believe I’m working Manhattan North with Denny freaking Malone.”

  “You don’t need to suck my dick,” Malone says. “What you need to do is listen more than you talk and at the same time not hear anything. You get that?”