by Don Winslow
“I just want to make sure that everyone has skin in the game,” Berger says, “and that if either or both of you leave your current positions, my client is still protected.”
“Agreed,” Weintraub says. “We have no desire to hurt families.”
“Nevertheless you manage to do it on a daily basis,” Berger says.
“Do we have a deal?” O’Dell asks.
Malone nods.
“Is that a yes?” Weintraub asks.
“My client agrees,” Berger says. “What do you want, his blood?”
“I want him to say it.”
“I speak for my client,” Berger says.
“Well, let your client know,” Weintraub says, “that if he decides to go Rafael Torres on himself to get out of this, the deal is off—his wife doesn’t leave flowers on his grave for five to eight.”
“We’ll need his proffer now,” O’Dell says.
Malone tells them all about the Pena bust, the theft of the cash and the heroin, and the subsequent sale of the heroin.
He doesn’t tell them that the killing of Diego Pena was, in fact, an execution.
Malone and Berger walk out of the building together.
“This is why you called me,” Berger says, “so that you walk out.”
“Will you be there to walk me in?” Malone says. “When I surrender myself at the federal lockup?”
“We’ll work on getting you Allenwood,” Berger says. “It’s a three-hour drive, your family could come visit.”
Malone shakes his head. “They’ll put me in seg, for ‘my protection.’ I won’t get visitation for years. Anyway, I don’t want my kids seeing me in prison. Going through all that, sitting around with skels’ families in the waiting room. When the frequent fliers find out that they’re visiting a cop, they’ll be harassed, maybe threatened.”
“It won’t be for months, maybe years,” Berger says. “A lot can happen in that time.”
“I’ll go get your money.”
“We need to arrange a drop,” Berger says. “It would hardly do to have you seen going into my office.”
Malone almost laughs. “What do your rat clients usually do?”
Berger hands him a card. “It’s a dry cleaner’s. I have my little jokes.”
“What about the rest of your fees?” Malone asks. “These forfeitures . . . I was counting on that money to pay you.”
“Let me be very clear,” Berger says. “I am first in line. The federal government is last. What can they do, collect money you don’t have?”
“They can take my house.”
“They’re going to take that anyway,” Berger says.
“Great.”
“What do you care?” Berger says. “You’ll testify for several years, so you’ll be living on a military base. Your family will be in the program. When you get out, you’ll join them. You can buy a lot more house for your money in Utah, I’ve heard.”
“You have a condo on Fifth Avenue.”
“And a house in the Hamptons,” Berger says, “a cabin in Jackson Hole, and I’m looking at a casita on St. Thomas.”
“You need someplace to dock your boat.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Berger says. “This is a business, Detective. Justice is a business. I just happen to have done very well at it.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
“Would you like to know what the downside is?” Berger asks.
“Sure.”
“Nobody ever calls me when things are good,” Berger says.
Chapter 29
There’s heat and there’s New York City heat.
Sweltering, simmering, steaming, filthy, fetid heat baking off the concrete and the asphalt, turning the city into an open-air sauna.
Hot time, summer in the city.
Malone woke up sweaty and was sweaty again thirty seconds after he stepped out of the shower.
It’s better down here in Staten Island as he sits in Russo’s backyard and sips from a bottle of Coors. His denim shirt is loose over his jeans and he wears a pair of black Nikes.
Wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, and sandals over white socks, Russo flips the burgers on the grill. “Fourth of July. I love this country.”
Monty’s wearing a white guayabera shirt, khaki slacks and a blue trilby. Puffs on a big Montecristo.
The Russos’ Fourth of July cookout, always held the weekend shift they have off nearest the Fourth.
A team tradition.
Attendance mandatory, a family day.
Wives, significant girlfriends—kids.
John is in the pool playing Marco Polo with Monty’s boys and the Russo brothers. Caitlin sits with Sophia getting her makeup done, a major case of hero worship. Yolanda, Donna and Sheila are at the patio table, sipping sangria, their heads together in girl talk.
The announcement of Monty’s impending retirement has been the talk of the barbecue. Yolanda is thrilled out of her mind to get her husband away from the risks of the Job and her kids away from the city. Seeing her happiness breaks Malone’s heart.
“See those little idiots in the pool?” Monty says. “They’re smart. College smart.”
“They’re black,” Russo says, “they’ll get a scholarship.”
“They have a scholarship,” Monty says. He chuckles. “The Pena Scholarship.”
He touches his beer bottle to Russo’s.
“The Pena Scholarship,” Russo says. “I like that.”
Malone feels his soul shrink inside him. Here at his best friend’s house, with the man’s family, making a tape that will take it all away from him.
But he does it anyway. Looking around to make sure none of the wives or kids are eavesdropping, he says, “We have to move on Castillo. If he gets busted before we get to him, he’s going to say there was fifty kilos of heroin missing from the Pena voucher.”
“You think they’d believe him?” Russo asks.
“You want to take the chance?” Malone asks. “Fifteen to thirty, federal time? We have to take him out.”
He looks pointedly at Russo, who takes a sausage off the grill and puts it on a plate. “In the words of the immortal Tony Soprano, ‘Some people gotta go.’”
Monty’s busy rolling his cigar to get an even flame. “I have no problem putting two in Castillo’s head.”
“You ever feel bad about it?” Malone asks.
“Pena?” Russo says. “I took that baby killer’s money and made something good out of it? My kids have a future? They’re not going to carry loans around on their backs their whole lives. They get out of college free and clear. Fuck Pena, I’m glad what we did.”
“Concur,” Monty says.
The boys come to the edge of the pool and yell for their dads to come in and play. “In a few minutes!”
“You always say that!”
“You don’t worry about their bone density in the water?” Russo asks.
“I worry about their brain density,” Monty says. “So much young pussy around these days and they give it away for an iTunes download. I’m retiring down in North Carolina. I don’t want any grandkids for a long time.”
“Carolina’s expensive,” Malone says. “I’m looking at, fuck, Rhode Island. Where does the money go? The Pena money, the lawyer money, the other rips. I mean we have to have made, I dunno, a couple of million each over the years?”
“The hell are you today, Merrill Lynch?” Russo asks.
Malone says, “We don’t know when we’re gonna get another real payday. All we might get is our salary, maybe a little overtime.”
“Monty,” Russo says, “Malone wants to sell you some municipal bonds.”
“We always knew it wouldn’t last forever,” Monty says. “Every good thing comes to an end.”
“Maybe it’s time I pull the pin, too,” Malone says. “I mean, why take the chance some junkie skel throws a lucky shot. Maybe it’s time to pick up my chips, step away from the table while I’m still a winner.”
Malone says, “The beer, I gotta piss.”
Donna collars him in the kitchen, puts her arm around his shoulders. She juts her chin at Sheila sitting outside and says, “This is nice, the two of you together, the family. Sheila told me she took a few days away to think—you getting back together again?”
“Looks like it, huh.”
“I’m proud of you, Denny,” she says. “Coming to your senses. Your life is here with them, with us.”
Malone goes into the bathroom, turns on the tap to hide the sound, and cries.
The fourth beer slides down smoother than the third, the fifth easier than the fourth.
“You want to slow down a little?” Sheila asks him.
“You wanna not tell me what to do?” Malone asks. He walks away from her, over to the pool, where the annual “kids versus dads” game of water polo is going on.
John is having a great time and yells, “Dad! Come in and play!”
“Not right now, Johnny.”
“Come on, Dad!”
“Get in here,” Russo says. “They’re kicking our butts.”
“I’m good,” Malone says.
Russo’s had a few beers himself. Starts to get a little hostile. “Get your ass in here, Malone.”
“No thanks.”
It gets quiet at the party. Everyone’s watching; the women pick up this is a little more tense than something about getting in the pool.
“Why not?” Monty asks. He’s managed to play the game without getting his cigar wet.
“Because I don’t feel like it,” Malone says.
Because I’m wearing a wire.
“You shy now?” Russo asks.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Malone says.
“Ain’t nothing we haven’t seen before,” Russo says. “Get in the goddamn pool.”
He and Malone are glaring at each other now.
“I didn’t bring a suit,” Malone says.
“To a pool party,” Monty says. “You didn’t bring a suit.”
Russo says, “I’ll lend you one. Donna, go get Denny a suit.”
But he don’t take his eyes off Malone.
“Jesus, Phil,” Donna says. “The man said he doesn’t—”
“I heard what the man said,” Russo says. “Did you hear what I said? Go in the goddamn house and get the man a goddamn bathing suit.”
Donna storms into the house.
“Is there a reason you don’t want to get undressed, Denny?” Monty asks.
“What’s it to you?”
“You’re coming in the pool,” Monty says.
“You gonna make me?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Malone explodes. “Fuck you, Monty! Fuck you, Phil!”
Sheila says, “Jesus, Denny!”
“Fuck you, too!” Malone yells.
“Denny!”
“Fuck all this!” Malone yells. “I’m out of here.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Russo says.
Sheila grabs him by the arm. “You shouldn’t be driving.”
He wrenches his arm away. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you’re fine!” she yells after him. “You’re an asshole, Denny! You’re a real asshole!”
He raises his middle finger as he walks away.
If Pirus and Crips all got along
They’d probably gun me down by the end of this song
Seem like the whole city go against me . . .
Malone has the sound system pounding Kendrick Lamar as he takes 95 back up to the city.
They know, he thinks.
Russo and Monty, they fucking know.
Jesus Christ.
He’s doing ninety now.
Thinks about just steering into a light pole. It would be so easy. Drunk driving fatality, no skid marks. No one could ever prove it wasn’t. Out fast and hard, the tape of your friends goes up in flames with the car.
With you.
Viking funeral right at the crash.
One-stop shopping.
Scatter my ashes over Manhattan North.
That would piss ’em off, I’m still there. Denny Malone, blowing around with the garbage.
Getting in people’s eyes, their noses.
Snort me like coke, like smack.
Black Irish tar.
Do it, ace, don’t be a pussy. Hit the gas pedal, not the brake. Jerk the wheel to the right and this is over.
For everyone.
Like Eminem says:
So while you’re in it, try to get as much shit as you can
And when your run is over just admit when it’s at its end.
Malone tightens his grip on the wheel.
Do it, bitch.
Do it, rat motherfucker.
Judas.
He jerks the wheel.
The Camaro goes flying across four lanes. Horns blare, brakes shriek, the steel posts of the sign come large in the windshield.
At the last second he swerves back.
The Camaro goes into spins, crazy 360s that whip his head around, the Manhattan skyline flashing off and on in his face.
Then the car slows and steadies, Malone hits the gas, steers back into a lane and heads into the city.
YAWK, YAWK, YAWK, YAWK
Malone rips the medical tape off his stomach and slams the recorder on the table. “Here it is. Fuck you. Here’s my partners’ blood.”
“Are you drunk?” O’Dell asks.
“I’m high on Dex and beer,” Malone says. “Add it to the charges. Pile the fuck on.”
Weintraub says, “I have to leave the Hamptons to come in and listen to this shit?”
Malone yells, “My partners know!”
“Know what?” O’Dell asks.
“That I’m the rat!”
He tells them about the swimming pool incident.
“That’s it?” Weintraub asks. “You wouldn’t get in a fucking pool?”
“They’re cops,” Malone says. “They were born suspicious. They can smell guilt. They know.”
O’Dell says, “It doesn’t matter. If you have them cold on this tape, we take them tomorrow, anyway.”
They listen to the tape.
“They’re black, they’ll get a scholarship.”
“They have a scholarship. The Pena Scholarship.”
“The Pena Scholarship. I like that.”
“We have to move on Castillo. If he gets busted before we get to him, he’s going to say there was fifty kilos of heroin missing from the Pena voucher.”
“You think they’d believe him?”
“You want to take the chance? Fifteen to thirty, federal time? We have to take him out.”
“In the words of the immortal Tony Soprano, ‘Some people gotta go.’”
“I have no problem putting two in Castillo’s head.”
“You’ll have to testify to corroborate,” Weintraub says.
“I know.”
“But it’s good,” Weintraub says. “You did a good job, Malone.”
He turns the tape back on.
“You ever feel bad about it?”
“Pena? I took that baby killer’s money and made something good out of it? My kids have a future? They’re not going to carry loans around on their backs their whole lives. They get out of college free and clear. Fuck Pena, I’m glad what we did.”
“Concur.”
“Well, that’s that,” O’Dell says.
“I’ll get indictments started on Russo and Montague,” Weintraub says.
“You can’t wait, can you,” Malone says.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Weintraub says. “You’re not Serpico, Malone! You were taking with both hands, everything you could grab. Fuck you.”
“Fuck you, too, asshole!”
“Let’s go for a walk,” O’Dell says. “Get some air.”
They go down in the service elevator and walk out onto Fifth Avenue.
/>
“You want to know what I think, Denny? I think you’re feeling guilty. I think you feel guilty about everything that you’ve done, and I think now you’re feeling guilty about betraying other cops. But you can’t go both ways—if you’re truly sorry for what you’ve done, then you’ll help us put a stop to it.”
“The fuck are you, my priest?”
“Sort of,” O’Dell says. “I’m just trying to help you get past your own emotions and see this thing clearly.”
“I’ve got a rat tag on me,” Malone says. “I’m done. I’m no good to you anymore, anyway—you think any cop is going to talk with me now? Any lawyer?”
Malone stops walking. Leans against a wall.
“You’ve done a great thing,” O’Dell says. “You’re helping to clean up this city—the court system, the police department . . . we’re grateful. You’ve quit protecting the ‘brotherhood’ that’s out there shielding dope dealers, selling drugs themselves but who won’t do anything to protect the people out there dying from overdoses, kids getting killed in drive-bys, babies dying from—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“This city’s about to explode,” O’Dell says, “and half the reason is dirty cops, brutal cops, racist cops. There aren’t many of them, but they cover all the good ones with their shit.”
“I can’t stand it!”
“What you can’t stand is the shame, Denny,” O’Dell says. “It’s not informing on other cops—what you can’t bear is that you betrayed yourself. I get it, we both come from the same church, the catechism classes. You’re not a bad person, but you’ve done bad things and the only way, the only way you’re going to feel all right is if you come clean.”
“I can’t.”
“Because of your partners?” O’Dell asks. “Do you think if they were in this jam, they wouldn’t give you up?”
“You don’t know those guys,” Malone says. “They won’t talk to you.”
“Maybe you don’t know them as well as you think.”
“I don’t know them?” Malone says. “I put my lives in their hands every damn day. I sit for hours with them on stakeouts, I eat shitty food with them, I sleep on cots next to them in the locker room. I’m the godfather of their children, they’re the godfathers of mine, you think I don’t know them?!
