Mirage Man

by Trace Conger

  Porter led me down a hallway and the man in the suit followed. In his office, Porter sat behind a desk thick enough to catch a bullet. I eased into a padded leather chair. The man in the suit stood next to the door with his hands on his hips.

  "You don't need the extra security," I said. "I'm just here to talk."

  "Actually, I do. It's been a bit savage around here lately. With Sontag in the poke, shit’s escalating.”

  "That's why I'm here. Someone tried to put me down the other day."

  "How?"

  "Sent a triggerman to my house."

  "It's a cold trade we're in, my friend. But he obviously didn't succeed."

  "I got lucky."

  "And you're here because you think I had something to do with it?"

  "Did you?"

  "No," he said, looking sincere.

  "You know Alfie O'Bannon?" I asked.

  "Of course, I know him. He's the one who sent a man after you?"

  "That's right. He said it came from you guys."

  "He told you that?"

  "Yeah. After I put a slug through his leg."

  "You shot Alfie O'Bannon? Jesus Christ, Connor. Not good."

  "He wouldn't talk otherwise. Said your crew called it in."

  "Well, I didn't do it. I got no beef with you."

  "What about Sontag? I thought we were square when I left. He have a change of heart?"

  "No change of heart as far as I know. Your terms are still good."

  I glanced back toward the office door. If Porter had wanted me dead, the muscle in the gray suit would have already blown my head off.

  "O'Bannon wasn't acting on his own," I said, turning back to Porter.

  "He told me you guys were behind it. Maybe Sontag put the contract out and didn't tell you."

  "He didn't call it in. He'd tell me. You got another theory?"

  "Maybe someone is acting on their own to protect him. They want to take me out and keep whatever information I have quiet."

  "I'd know about it if that were the case." He folded his arms. "Truth is, Connor, you're just not important enough to kill."

  "That doesn't change the fact Alfie O'Bannon sent someone after me, and he told me Sontag's crew ordered it."

  Porter didn't say anything, and for the first time, I thought he knew something he wasn't telling me.

  "What about Nicky?" I said.

  Nicky Sontag was on my shortlist. He didn't like that I left New York with his father's blessing, was always vocal about me being a liability, and he'd have the authority to utilize the clan's assets to take me out.

  "When all this happen?" asked Porter.

  "Yesterday."

  Porter shook his head. "Nicky's got his own problems. It wasn't him."

  "What kind of problems?"

  "That's privileged information. Employees only."

  "Look, the way I see it, you've got a real problem here, and it'll be better if we work together."

  "How is someone gunning for you my problem?"

  "The issue is that someone is moving on me, and probably other associates too, and you don't know about it. And if you've still got Sontag's ear, then you should know about it. That means someone is tapping into the clan's assets and signing contracts without the proper authority."

  I watched as Porter connected the dots in his head.

  "You've got a rogue agent on the payroll, Porter."

  He pointed to the man in the gray suit and ordered him out of the room.

  "It's not Nicky," said Porter, his voice lower than before. "He's not concerned about you at the moment."

  "How do you know?"

  "He's not calling anything in. He's been in hiding for weeks."

  "Why?"

  "If Sontag goes to prison, Nicky takes over the family. Some people don't want to see that happen."

  "Someone move on him?"

  "Car bomb. It detonated early. Nicky wasn't even close to it. Took out a bodega and part of a library in Alphabet City. Nicky disappeared before they got a second chance."

  "They've got to be connected, the hit on him and me."

  "Maybe they are, maybe they aren't."

  "You looking into it?"

  "I'm focused on dismantling the feds’ case and making sure Sontag never goes to trial. If I do my job, Sontag gets released, Nicky won't need the promotion, and this all goes away."

  Porter didn't have to explain that with Sontag on the inside, a power struggle was brewing in the clan. Someone was looking to take over the operation, and Nicky, who was the rightful heir to the throne, had to go.

  "With Sontag gone, I'm trying to keep this whole operation from crumbling down, and I don't have the resources to figure out who's aiming to be the last man standing."

  "You don't have that many names in the hat. If it's not you or Nicky, that leaves Victor, Frank, or Collin."

  "Who says it's a manager? Could be any hothead in the organization. Shit, it could even be one of the other clans trying to dismantle us from the inside."

  He folded his hands, rested them under his chin, and stared through me.

  "Maybe we can help each other, Connor. I don't have any leads to give you, except for the news on Nicky. Do what you do, and see what you can find out. If you get anything solid, let me know and I can put a stop to it."

  "You're giving me the authority to investigate the operation?"

  "I'm saying I won't kill you for asking questions about your situation. I won't kill you. That doesn't mean someone else won't. I suspect you understand what you're walking into here."

  "I need to start at the top. I want to talk to Sontag."

  "You have newspapers in Boston, right? Did you forget about the part where Sontag's in jail awaiting trial?"

  "You have to have some line of communication with him."

  "It's sporadic at best. He's got some privileges at MCC, but I can't just dial him up at will."

  "Then get me inside."

  "The only way you're getting inside a federal detention facility is to drive to the FBI field office and surrender to Uncle Sam under the RICO statute. Maybe they'll put you in the cell next to Sontag and you can ask him anything you want. Otherwise, my reach stops at that barbed wire fence."

  "Then I'll have to start knocking on other doors."

  "Be careful, Connor. This ain't no Agatha Christie novel. Start rattling trees and you'll have to deal with whatever falls out. And remember, not everyone appreciated the way you left things around here. I always liked you, but you won't get a warm reception outside this office."

  "Noted."

  "And there's something else. The feds are still building their case against Sontag. If you're in town rattling bushes, you're going to get their attention."

  "This just gets better and better."

  "You're the Mirage Man. You'll figure it out."

  “Any suggestions on where to start?"

  "While I can't connect you with Sontag, maybe his attorney can. Lyle Messner. You'll find him in Union Square."

  "Lyle Messner," I repeated. "I hate that guy."

  Porter pounded his desk twice. The office door opened and gray suit returned. Two meaty hands grabbed my shoulders and lifted me out of the chair.

  "So, we're through here?" I said.

  "I'm sorry about what happened, Connor. Let me know how I can help."

  I thanked Porter, and the big man ushered me down the hallway where he returned my .45, minus the magazine and the spare round. He dropped those into his suit pocket. Then he nudged me down the spiral staircase and through the crowded bar to the front door.

  "I've heard of you," he said, opening the door.

  "That right? What have you heard?"

  "That you get things done. And that you're an asshole."

  "True on both counts," I said. "But you forgot the part about my razor-sharp wit. Some say it's my best quality."

  He dropped the magazine and extra round into my jacket pocket, slapped me on the back hard enough to blur my vision, a
nd pushed me out the door.

  "Try not to get shot," he said.

  9

  The Lawyer

  I left KORK and returned to my car. Lyle Messner wouldn't be at his office until tomorrow morning, which meant I had time to kill. I drove through Central Park and headed to the Hotel Beacon on the Upper West Side. I parked the Jeep in the Beacon's underground parking garage and swapped out my license plates for my old set of New York plates I kept under the back seat. They weren't legal, but if anyone was looking for a Jeep from Massachusetts, they weren't going to find it here. I wasn't too concerned about anyone scoping out my vehicle, but someone did try to launch Nicky Sontag into the stratosphere by way of a car bomb, so I figured I'd err on the side of caution.

  Whenever I needed a hotel in the city, I always stayed at the Beacon. It was in a quiet part of town, which was hard to find in Manhattan, and it was close to a subway station in case I had to make a quick escape and couldn't get to my car. The Beacon was also one of the few hotels that still used physical keys, not key cards. Today, anyone can pick up an RFID card reader and writer on the dark web for less than fifty bucks. With the right tools, all you have to do is swipe a used key card from a hotel's trash, spoof a master key using the card writer, and you've got instant access to any hotel room. It's surprisingly simple, and I didn't want anyone poking around my room while I wasn't there.

  I checked into the hotel under an alias and requested a room with a king bed on the third floor away from the elevator. Inside the room, I unpacked my belongings and slipped a door wedge underneath the door. The wedge looked like a miniature high-heeled shoe, but instead of a heel, it had a thumbscrew that tightened against the floor rendering the door nearly impossible to open from the outside.

  After a long shower, I laid in bed and thought about my conversation with Porter. At first, I thought Lucky Walsh came to kill me to shut me up—a preemptive strike to silence me before the feds pumped me for evidence they could use against Sontag during his trial. After talking with Porter, I realized the situation was more complicated.

  Some eager beaver in the Sontag camp, or possibly in one of the other New York City clans, was exploiting the power vacuum Sontag's arrest had created.

  Either someone inside the clan wanted to claw their way to the top of Sontag's organization, or someone outside the family wanted to bring down the organization from within so they could move in and take over Sontag's territory.

  I didn't think someone outside the organization sent Lucky Walsh after me, because I was too far removed to be a threat. It made sense they might want to start an internal coup by taking out Nicky Sontag, but it made no sense to look for me. I doubt the other clans even remembered who I was.

  That left someone on the inside. Nicky was in hiding, deciding self-preservation was more important than company business. And from the looks of Porter's increased security, he was concerned for his own safety. I didn't know enough about the remaining managers’ leadership ambitions to begin to place odds on who was the shot caller. Porter was also right when he mentioned it could be anyone in the organization, not just one of the other managers. Right now, there were too many possibilities to begin to create a game plan. I hoped talking to Sontag would provide additional direction, but before I could get to him, I'd have to talk to Lyle Messner.

  I woke up at eight thirty, grabbed a cup of coffee in the hotel lobby, and hopped a cab to Messner's law office on East 14th Street near Union Square.

  Lyle Messner had been Sontag's attorney for decades. He was a prick, but commanded a certain level of respect for his ability to keep Sontag out of prison for so long, at least until recently.

  I entered the building's lobby and took the elevator up to the seventh floor. Messner's lobby resembled an English hunting lodge. The walls were covered in dark walnut, and three of the four walls had brass stag heads mounted on them. In the center of the lobby, two dark-brown leather sofas faced one another with a glass table between them. The vacant eyes of a ten-foot tall stuffed brown bear watched over the lobby from the corner of the main room. To the right of the bear was the receptionist's desk, and next to that was a double door that led to Messner's office. Off to the side was a large conference room with a long, shiny conference table surrounded by thick leather chairs, the kind with high backs and brass rivets.

  I approached the desk and a young woman in a white blouse and navy blue suit jacket asked if she could help me. According to the brass nameplate on her desk, her name was Tabitha.

  "I'd like to see Messner."

  "And do you have an appointment?" She looked me up and down.

  "I think we both know I don't. Let him know Connor Harding is here."

  "He's with a client right now."

  "I thought his client was in jail."

  She adjusted her glasses. "He has several clients."

  "Good for him." I motioned to the bear. "Are there a lot of grizzly bears in the city?"

  "It's a Kodiak, not a grizzly. Mr. Messner killed it while on a hunting trip in Alaska and had it stuffed and shipped here."

  "I'm sure the bear appreciates the change of scenery," I said. "I'll wait over there on that expensive couch."

  "Your name again?"

  "Connor Harding."

  She picked up the phone as I sank into the leather cushion.

  Twenty minutes later, four men, all wearing navy blue suits and short haircuts, walked out of the double doors. They glared at me as they passed, looking concerned, as though I was lowering the sofa's value by sitting on it.

  After they loaded into the elevator, Messner approached. He wore a tailored light gray suit, orange tie, and a white shirt that was so crisp you could cut a finger on the collar.

  "I thought you were dead," he said.

  "You mean like the bear over there? What makes you say that?"

  "Because one day you're here and the next you're not. And no one seemed to want to talk about it, so I just assumed they sealed you in a barrel and dropped you in the East River."

  "I'm retired."

  "No one in Sontag's outfit retires."

  "I guess I'm bucking tradition. All I had to do was promise not to come back."

  "Yet here you are." Messner motioned me back toward his office but stopped me next to Tabitha's desk. He gestured to her and she sprang out of her comfy office chair, walked behind me and pushed me against the desk, kicking my legs apart.

  "What's with the third degree?"

  "Just a precaution," he said.

  She took my cell phone and weapon from inside of my jacket. The way she handled the .45 told me she did more than answer phones and file paperwork. After tossing the items into her top desk drawer, she ran her hands down the sides of my torso and legs but didn't find anything else of interest.

  "You'll get these back on your way out," she said.

  "Thanks," I said, following Messner into his office.

  "Why are you back now?" He sat down at his desk. "And why come to my office?"

  "I need to see Sontag. Porter said he's in MCC and that you might be able to get me in."

  "If he believes that, Porter's drinking more than his customers. I can't help you, Connor. Sorry you wasted your time."

  "You don't understand. Someone took a shot at me, and I need to talk to Sontag to find out why."

  "Wait. You deserted the mob and then someone took a shot at you?" He shook his head. "What a crazy upside-down world we live in."

  "Cut the bullshit. Can you get me in to see him or not?"

  "You understand he's locked inside a big concrete box, right? They don't have an open-door policy."

  "You're his lawyer. You have to meet with him."

  "Twice a week. Schlepping my ass down to Park Row is just one of the many perks I enjoy as Joseph Sontag's attorney."

  "Take me with you to your next meeting. Tell them I'm your paralegal or something."

  "It doesn't work that way, Connor. You can't just walk into MCC. You've got to be cleared by the Burea
u of Prisons. They fingerprint you and confirm your credentials with the New York Bar." He slapped his hands on the desk and then raised them like a blackjack dealer ending his shift. "Are you registered with the New York Bar?"

  I didn't say anything.

  "I assume that's a no then."

  "That's a solid legal deduction, asshole. I can see why Sontag keeps you on retainer."

  "Piss off."

  "There has to be a way to get me inside that facility."

  "Except for a shovel or parachute, there isn't." He stood up. "Look, since you've been gone for a while, let me clue you in on something. The feds are still building their case against Joseph, and that means they're watching his entire organization. So what do you think is going to happen once they realize you're back in town sticking your head where it doesn't belong?"

  "Funny, Porter warned me of the same thing."

  "I guess he's not as stupid as I thought then. If you're not going to listen to me, then listen to him. Don't get wrapped up in this. You're just going to create more problems for yourself, and me."

  "I'm not worried about the feds."

  "Then you're a moron. I'm working every angle I can think of to get Sontag out of this shit, and I don't need you fucking anything up."

  "I'm just asking for a meeting."

  "Ain't gonna happen."

  "What about a phone call? Can you get him on the phone with me?"

  "No. Those conversations are recorded. You talking to Sontag is a fantasy. Let it go and move along. Go scurry back to whatever shithole you crawled out of."

  Messner had a bad case of the hard-ass. Maybe he thought Tabitha confiscating my .45 in the lobby gave him the opportunity to talk all the shit he wanted. He was wrong.

  His shoulders tensed as soon as he realized his tough talk wasn't sending me packing. I waited a moment and then charged the desk. It was heavier than I thought, but I threw my weight into it, sliding it across the hardwood floor and pinning Messner’s legs between the desk and the volumes of leather-bound legal tomes on the built-in bookcase behind him.

  He screamed and I slammed my right fist into his solar plexus. I didn't want to break anything, but I wanted to hurt him. The punch contracted his diaphragm, knocking the wind out of him. He fell forward onto his desk gasping for air and clawing his fingernails into the cherry top. He rose up, his legs still pinned against the bookcase and drew in all the breath he could. It sounded like he was choking on something. I'd taken a few of those shots myself, and it's one of the most intense pains you can experience. One shot would ruin his afternoon; two hits might send him to the hospital.