by Trace Conger
Except me.
I surveyed the back of the building. Modern businesses typically connect their fire alarms into wireless networks. The alarm goes off and the system either sends a signal to an alarm monitoring company that dispatches the fire department or it sends the signal directly to the firehouse. Either way, it's a wireless system and there isn't much you can do to stop that signal from going where it's supposed to go. The Busted Knuckle didn't have a wireless system. I saw the two fire alarm pull stations mounted to the wall inside, and neither had an antenna. They did have wires running up the wall though. That meant they were connected into the phone line. The result is the same, a direct line to someone paid to put out fires, except the signal goes through the phone line instead of a wireless network. And phone lines can be cut.
I followed the phone lines down the side of the Busted Knuckle's exterior wall where they fed into a junction box. I jerked on the beige wires and all six tore free from the junction box, the jagged bare ends each pointing in a different direction.
Taking a deep breath, I checked the back door. Had it been locked, my plan would be dead on arrival. Luckily, the busboy didn't lock the door when he came back in from his garbage run. I opened it slowly and slipped in. O'Bannon and his two bodyguards had their backs to me. Keeping my eyes on them, I felt my left hand across the wall until I found the pull station and yanked. A piercing alarm shot through the restaurant and two bright lights flashed above each pull station. It took a few seconds for the first customers to stand up and begin to evacuate through the front door, but as soon as the first few got up, the rest followed their lead. The kitchen staff even walked out with their aprons still tied around their waists.
O'Bannon's bodyguards stood up to help him out of his chair, but I closed the gap between the back door and the table.
"Sit down," I said, removing the .45 from underneath my coat.
O'Bannon saw the weapon and motioned his men to sit down. I grabbed the empty chair next to O'Bannon, slid it about five feet back from the table and took a seat, my .45 propped up on my right thigh. He probably knew I wasn't there to kill him. There's no chitter-chatter in a mob hit. They're fast and furious. Had I been there to murder him, I'd have walked in, emptied my magazine into all three of them, and disappeared out the back door within fifteen seconds. The fact I sat down had already set him at ease.
"This isn't how sit-downs are supposed to work, son," said O'Bannon, practically yelling to speak over the fire alarm. "What you want?"
"Information."
"Then go buy a newspaper."
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket with my free hand and slid it to the middle of the table. Lucky Walsh's lifeless grin stared up at him.
"He blutered or dead?"
The fire alarm siren stopped, but the two lights kept flashing. No large red trucks were going to respond thanks to the severed phone lines, but I figured I had five minutes or so before the patrons wandered back in realizing it was a false alarm.
"He's dead," I said.
"That's not good for you."
The bodyguard closest to me gripped the sides of his chair, his forearm muscles tensing. He was prepping to lunge at me. When he slid his legs further underneath his seat so he could spring out of his chair, I pulled the trigger. The slug went through his shin, shattering his tibia. The blow knocked him backward and he fell to the ground screaming. The other bodyguard stood up, but I raised the .45 toward his chest and he sat back down.
"Am I supposed to just let ya come into my place and start killing people?"
"I haven't killed anyone. Yet." I moved the weapon toward O'Bannon. "Tell me who put a contract out on me and I'll go away."
"I don't even know who you are, son."
"Connor Harding."
The old man adjusted his glasses, studied my face, and nodded. "I got nothing else to say to you," he said.
"Since you sent someone to kill me, I won't feel bad handicapping you, Alfie. You're going to tell me who called it in."
"Fuck off. You don't have the balls."
I fired again, this time blowing a hole through O'Bannon's calf. He fell out of his chair. The remaining bodyguard jumped up, reaching for a weapon he had tucked inside his jacket. My third shot tore through his shoulder, dropping him to the ground. His piece slid across the floor toward the bathroom.
"You made a terrible mistake," said O'Bannon, pressing a white linen napkin against his bleeding leg.
"Someone's already out to kill me, Alfie. Anything I do here isn't gonna make my situation any worse." I pressed the .45 into his side. "I'm going to ask you one more time. Who authorized the hit?"
He didn't say anything.
I pulled the hammer back. "Three seconds, Alfie."
Nothing.
"Two. One."
"Alright. Sontag's crew called it in."
"Joseph Sontag?"
"Yes!"
The first few patrons returned to the restaurant. I pulled the .45 back, grabbed my cell phone off the table, and slipped out the rear door. Half the kitchen staff was probably armed, and I didn't want to be anywhere near the place when they found O'Bannon and his bodyguards. I ran down the back ally, climbed into my Jeep, fired the engine, and pulled into traffic.
Joseph Sontag was bad news. He ran one of the three New York City crime clans. And if he wanted you dead, you didn't have much time left. I should know. I used to work for him.
7
Joseph Sontag
Joseph Sontag was one of New York City's most feared mob bosses. He ran the Sontag Clan from the early nineties until his arrest three months ago. The FBI took him into custody outside his headquarters on the Upper East Side. According to the papers, they used twenty-two agents armed with flak jackets and assault rifles. Sontag was alone.
All the major networks ran segments on the aging mob boss, who had attained a kind of mythical status. The Boston Herald ran a four-page spread on his life in the NYC underworld. Don't get me wrong, the arrest should have been headline news, but not because of who Sontag was or what he'd done from atop NYC's criminal food chain. What was more appealing, to me anyway, was that the FBI was finally able to take down the head of one of the most ruthless crime clans in recent memory, a man whose reputation for evading capture was as notorious as his appetite for violence.
Sontag's longevity was due to his willingness to do anything to expand his territory and stay in power, as well as the unprecedented loyalty he had from his men. I'd seen looser lips in military intelligence than I had in Sontag's operation.
The old man structured his organization similar to other Mafia families, with one key difference. While other outfits used an underboss to manage the day-to-day activities of the family and serve as a buffer between the boss and the capos, Sontag preferred to run things himself.
Underneath Sontag were five individuals he called "managers." They were: Nicky Sontag, his son; Declan Porter; Victor Tan; Frank Astassi; and Collin Roth. Each of these managers ran a crew of twenty men, no more, no less, and reported directly to Sontag. The individuals under the managers were known as "employees." Managers could socialize with one another but were forbidden to discuss business with other managers, so no one knew what anyone else was doing. Sontag believed if managers and employees were only privy to their individual twenty-man operation and not the workings of the clan as a whole, there was less chance they could provide the authorities with enough detailed information to bring him down.
So, where did I fit in? I worked for Sontag for six years, but you wouldn't find me on any formal org chart. I didn't have a specific title, but Sontag referred to me as his Mirage Man. That's the sexy description, but mostly I was a freelance problem solver, a repairman. Someone who put the pieces back together when things fell apart.
Sontag kept me employed because my background in MI gave me a skill set he required, but only from time to time. So it wasn't unusual for me to disappear for weeks at a time. I didn't associate with many others in the orga
nization when I was off the clock, but I was always on call.
I reported to Sontag personally, and while I kept my business separate from the other managers, I did work with them on occasion, usually to mop up after one of them, or one of their employees, fucked up.
Most of the managers didn't like having me around. They regarded me the same way most cops looked at the internal affairs division. A necessary evil, but someone they'd rather not encounter too often. They didn't like the idea I was a freelancer who was not as committed to the clan as everyone else. They also didn't like that I wasn't a "made" man. I never swore allegiance to the family, and I never looked at my role as a lifetime position. Sontag trusted me, and that's all that mattered, even if the other members of the organization didn't.
Trust and secrecy were priority one for Sontag. Over the years, he'd seen the feds surgically dismantle several criminal organizations for making stupid mistakes.
He'd been an up-and-comer in eighty-nine when the feds took down the heads of all the Italian families. Those storied organizations crumbled quickly after the purge, creating a void that opened the door for new bosses and clans that had no Italian affiliation. Eager criminals flooded the market, and over time they fought it out. The dominant, more violent and organized groups rose to the top, and then crushed their competition until there were only three clans left to control the five boroughs.
Sontag knew what the FBI was capable of, and while fear and intimidation kept his men in line, it did little to deter the FBI from looking into his activities. He knew the feds could monitor any electronic conversation, so Sontag never communicated by telephone, email, or text. Sontag conducted all of his discussions in person, meeting with his managers each morning at an ever-changing location to prohibit any rooftop or park bench surveillance. He'd talk about the business of the day, return to his headquarters, and then do it all over again with the next manager. New man, new location. Unless the FBI blanketed the entire island of Manhattan with field agents, there was no chance of getting a clear peek into Sontag's operation.
These precautions kept the FBI on the outside for decades. When they finally cuffed him that Tuesday morning three months ago, everyone assumed someone on the inside of his organization had cooperated with the feds. But who?
I left my position as Sontag's Mirage Man with the boss's blessing, retiring to Boston two years ago. But good terms can turn bad real quick, especially if when Sontag got popped he thought I had something to do with it. O'Bannon implicated Sontag's crew as putting out the contract on my life, but that didn't mean the old man called it in. If it wasn't Sontag, then it was one of his managers. My operating theory was that someone was tying up loose ends, eliminating anyone who might be able to testify against Sontag. It's a solid strategy.
Mob hits usually go smoothly. This one was an utter clusterfuck. That didn't mean it was over. Once it got back to the shot caller that things didn't go as planned, they'd regroup and come again, but it would be worse this time. Thanks to my necessary stunt at the Busted Knuckle, the next wave wouldn't be as civilized as two shots to my head. They'd try and take me alive, strap me to a chair in a musty basement, and start cutting things off. I wasn't going to let that happen, which is why I had to go the NYC and see Sontag.
My plan was to contact Sontag and find out if he called it in. If he did, and Sontag was the type of person who'd tell you to your face if he wanted you dead, then I'd have to talk him out of it, get him to call it off. Given everything I'd done for him over the years, I was confident I could convince him I wasn't a threat. I could make a deal with him.
The other possibility was someone in his organization was mopping things up, with or without Sontag's knowledge. If that was the case, Sontag still had the authority to cancel the hit.
Regardless who was behind it, I needed to get to NYC and talk to Sontag in person. And that meant seeing the one person who might be able to arrange such a meeting. Declan Porter.
Porter was one of Sontag's managers and one of the few people in the city I trusted. Talking to any of Sontag's managers could be dangerous, because it was likely one of them was responsible for shutting me up permanently. But it wasn't Porter. Before Declan Porter became one of Sontag's managers, he was his top enforcer, responsible for more deaths than I can count. If Porter was running point on taking me out, he wouldn't have farmed it out. He would have done it himself.
And he would have succeeded.
8
Declan Porter
The last time I saw Declan Porter, he was holding a gun to my head. He didn't pull the trigger then, and I hoped he wasn't looking to pull it now. Aside from Nicky Sontag, Porter was one of Joseph Sontag's longest-standing managers. He'd been a part of the organization for as long as I could remember, and if someone was out to shut me up, he'd likely know about it.
In addition to running a variety of rackets for Sontag, Porter also operated KORK, a wine bar on the corner of 83rd and 3rd on Manhattan's Upper East Side. He sold overpriced wine to investment bankers and other types who like to buy expensive things.
Porter was the kind of person other people wanted to be around, even if they were aware of what he did for a living. That was his appeal. Much like O'Bannon holding court at the Busted Knuckle, Porter drew crowds, and sometimes Sontag's ire, at KORK. Sontag had remarked to me on multiple occasions that he thought Porter was too flashy, too arrogant, and too committed to his side business. Porter got a pass though because KORK is how Sontag laundered most of the clan's money. As long as Porter kept the money clean and flowing, Sontag would let him get away with almost anything.
It took me four hours to drive to New York City; the lump formed in my throat somewhere near Hartford. I found a parking spot on Third Avenue and walked the three blocks to the bar. Porter always parked his car directly outside the front door next to a bright white reserved sign. Manhattan didn't allow reserved parking spaces on public streets, with this exception. Before I retired, Porter was driving a black Mercedes, much like the one I nearly used to crush Mouse's head. It looked like Porter drove a silver Jaguar now.
I was walking a delicate line by going to see him, and our conversation could go a few different ways. One, he'd tell me he didn't know anything about the contract. They teach you a variety of skills in MI, and spotting a liar is intelligence gathering 101, so I'd see through any bullshit he slings my way. Two, he's aware of the contract but can't, or won't, feed me any details. Three, he tells me who called in the hit and why. This was as likely as Lucky Walsh tap dancing on the Great Wall of China. Or, four, he'd shoot me on the spot and everything else was moot.
Porter was a loyal soldier and didn't owe me a damn thing, so on the one hand there wasn't much reason to believe he'd tell me anything. I had nothing to hold over his head for leverage, but we did have history, and sometimes history is all you need.
KORK hadn't changed much. A long, cherry bar lined the left wall. Along the right side were two dozen tables, each with a single votive candle and two plush black-and-white chairs. Large, gilded-framed oil paintings, like those you'd find in a museum, hung on the maroon walls. The stone busts were new since last I'd been here. Under the eight crystal chandeliers, the bar and tabletops shined like a cadet's shoes. Men in expensive suits and women in short dresses filled the place, talking about whatever beautiful rich people talked about.
I crossed the lobby, no one paying me any attention in my dark-green military jacket and jeans. At the hostess stand, a woman with shoulder-length blond hair cut in the straightest line I'd ever seen adjusted her tight, black sequined dress. I rapped a knuckle on the wooden stand and she whirled around so quickly on her thin stilettos she almost lost her balance.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't see you there. Can I help you?"
"I'd like to see Declan Porter."
She took a step backward and searched her brain for whatever canned response they told her to say when someone like me asked to see Porter. After a moment, she found it.
&
nbsp; "Mr. Porter isn't here right now."
"Isn't that his Jag outside?"
She fidgeted with the maroon, leather-bound menus in front of her.
"It's okay," I said. "We're old friends. He'll see me."
The woman turned and walked to the back of the bar, her hips swaying back and forth like a metronome. After a few minutes, a man in a gray suit approached from the left. I made him as soon as he stepped out of the side room that flanked the front door. He moved behind me, but I sidestepped and turned to keep him in front of me.
"Something I can do for you?" He didn't smile.
"The lovely lady is helping me," I said.
"And now I'm helping you."
"I'm here to see Porter."
"He's not—"
"Of course he's here. Tell him Connor Harding wants to speak with him."
"Who?"
"Connor Harding." I spoke slower this time.
"Who are you with?"
"At the moment, I'm with you. But I'd rather not be."
The man grinned, backed away, slipped a cell phone from his pocket and dialed.
After clicking off the phone, he signaled me to follow him and we started toward the back of the bar. He led me up a wrought iron, spiral staircase to the second floor, where another large man, this one wearing a black hoodie instead of a suit, patted me down. He slipped the 1911 Springfield Armory .45 out from my shoulder holster, ejected the magazine and the chambered round like it was routine, and set it on a table.
"You're not coming to kill me with that are you?" said Declan Porter, emerging from a door behind me.
"I hadn't planned on it."
"What are you doing back in New York? That's not how exile works." He smiled.
"I'm not in exile. I'm retired."
"The forty-five says otherwise." He looked me up and down. "What do you want?"
"Is there someplace more private we can talk?"
