Mirage Man

by Trace Conger

  "Sir, step over this way and place your briefcase on the table, please."

  I did as he asked.

  The guard slid the briefcase closer, popped open the brass locks, and opened it. He tilted it to the side and slowly jiggled it so all the items—including folders, pens, a notepad, an audio recorder and a takeout bag from a local Mexican restaurant—slid gently onto the table in front of him.

  Shit.

  I looked for some sign from Not-Gerry that everything was okay. A wink or a signal that expressed, don't worry, this is just for show. We're all good. That never came.

  The guard ducked his head closer to the case as he felt around the inside seams where the bottom met the sides. Satisfied the case was solid, he began examining each item as if it was the first time he'd ever seen them. He thumbed through the legal pad and placed it back into the case. Then he picked up the Mexican takeout, smelled it, and looked up at me.

  A lump the size of a mechanical bull crawled into my throat, and it got twenty degrees hotter in that hallway.

  "My lunch," I said.

  He was fidgeting with the knot on top of the bag when a door to a side room opened and an older guard stepped out, still zipping up his navy blue slacks. I checked the laminated ID pinned above the left breast pocket of his neatly pressed shirt. Gerry Hopkins.

  "Thanks, John. I'm all good now. Too much coffee this morning."

  John nodded, stepped out from behind the table, and disappeared through the same door Gerry had just closed.

  "I'm glad to see you, Gerry," I said, staring at the briefcase.

  "I bet." Gerry pointed to the sign on the wall behind him. You are not permitted to bring these items into this facility: Mobile phones, cameras, video cameras, cigarettes, tobacco, drugs, weapons, tattooing materials, lighters, matches, glass bottles, food or drink.

  Gerry picked up a pen from the table and tapped the sign next to food or drink.

  "Sorry," I said.

  He tossed the white bag into the garbage can next to him, carefully reorganized all of the other items inside the briefcase, and handed it back to me.

  I was curious how Gerry could take possession of God knows how much heroin in full view of a security camera. He just tossed it in the garbage can. That was the drop. Either he or an accomplice would probably mark the trash bag, drop into the garbage bin and wait for someone else to come by and lift it. Who knows how many people were in the supply chain.

  The bull in my throat was gone.

  "Carolyn," shouted Gerry. "Where's this young man headed?"

  "Sontag," she shouted back. "Room seven."

  "Follow me, sir," said Gerry.

  I followed him to a door at the end of the hallway directly below the security camera. He removed a set of keys from his front pocket and unlocked and opened the door. He ushered me through the door to another guard.

  "Sontag, room seven," said Gerry.

  The other guard nodded and told me to follow him. About thirty steps later, he unlocked another door and led me into a small interview room. In the middle of the room was a table about six feet long. On each side of the table sat three chairs evenly spaced apart. A whiteboard hung on one wall. Two video cameras mounted in opposite corners monitored the room.

  "Have a seat," said the guard. "He'll be here in a minute."

  I heard Sontag before I saw him. His leg shackles clanked down the hall like some Dickensian ghost. The silver doorknob turned and a guard escorted Sontag into the room.

  Even in his seventies, my old boss looked as intimidating as ever. He was balding now, and what hair he had left had turned white. He was still a solid man, with hands the size of Easter hams. He wore a white T-shirt underneath a tan short-sleeved button-up shirt, tan sweatpants, white socks, and tan slippers. From the faded tattoos that ran up both forearms, you'd think he'd been in prison for decades, but as far as I knew, this was the only time he'd been behind bars.

  "This way, Joseph," said the guard, who led Sontag to the table and pulled out one of the chairs.

  Sontag sat down slowly and held his arms out in front of him. He didn't speak, but stared through me as if I owed him six figures and was late on payments. The guard unlocked one of Sontag's wrists, ran the restraint behind the chair and then snapped his wrist back in the cuff. The shackle clicked as the guard ratcheted the lock tight around his wrist.

  "Sorry about the irons, Joseph," said the guard. "Rules is rules."

  Sontag nodded, not breaking his gaze at me.

  The guard left the room and closed the door behind him. Sontag still stared at me, looming over the conference table as if it were a piece of furniture in a child's playroom.

  As far as criminals go, Joseph Sontag was as violent as they come. He started up through the ranks in his early twenties working for the Rosenthal Clan as a bagman, collecting racket payments and running errands. A few years later, Rosenthal made him a soldier and put him in charge of overseeing the narcotics business in Brooklyn's Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood. That's where he made the reputation that still shadowed him today.

  In the 1970s, selling heroin and crack cocaine replaced the rackets, gambling, and prostitution as the mob's main moneymaking operation. Drugs brought in more money than all those other activities combined, but unlike those other lines of business, narcotics required a complex distribution network—a sophisticated pipeline to get product from the manufacturing centers to the street.

  Rosenthal set up this New York supply through one man, a Columbian they called The Buffalo. The demand for narcotics in Bed-Stuy grew larger than anyone expected, and Rosenthal was making millions. The Buffalo, seeing how profitable the narcotics trade had become in Brooklyn, took it upon himself to renegotiate his contract, doubling Rosenthal's costs. When Rosenthal refused to pay, The Buffalo shut down the pipeline. As the supply dried up, Rosenthal's customers started going elsewhere for product, into neighborhoods controlled by Rosenthal's competition. Rosenthal knew he had to do something to reopen the supply line and sent Sontag to negotiate with The Buffalo.

  No one knows exactly what happened when Sontag sat down with the Columbian because he went alone. What is known is that when Sontag walked into that warehouse in Hoboken, New Jersey, The Buffalo had two hands. When Sontag left, he only had one. Sontag had also renegotiated a new contract with The Buffalo, one that lowered Rosenthal's costs by twenty-five percent.

  Sontag's management style earned him the nickname The Money Getter.

  Within a year, Sontag was a lieutenant running a dozen crews and generating tens of millions for the Rosenthal Clan. Two years later, Sontag saw another opportunity. Not content with running a quarter of Rosenthal's operation, he decided to make a move.

  It was a rainy Monday morning when Sontag met Rosenthal at the Black Sheep Cafe for their weekly breakfast meeting. During that meeting, Sontag told Rosenthal he was taking over the operation, and if Rosenthal didn't agree to turn over the reins and retire, he'd be dead before nightfall.

  What Rosenthal didn't know was that Sontag already had the backing of the other lieutenants. The Money Getter had shared his expansion plans and convinced them they'd make more green under his leadership than with Rosenthal. Unlike with The Buffalo, Rosenthal didn't need to be persuaded to take the offer. He retired to Florida, where he died of natural causes a decade later.

  And those grand expansion plans Sontag promised his clan? He delivered in spades. Within two years of taking over the top spot, the Sontag Clan had quadrupled its territory in New York, and Sontag enjoyed a forty-year reign as the most ruthless organized crime boss the city had ever seen.

  That was then. Now, according to the white patch on Sontag's tan shirt, he was merely Prisoner #1053.

  Sontag leaned forward as far as his restraints would allow. "Are you here to make a go at me? I'm not going to make it easy."

  "I'm not here to kill you."

  "Well, you sure as shit aren't part of my legal team. Why are you here, Connor?"

  "Thre
e days ago someone came into my home and tried to kill me. Alfie O'Bannon said someone from the Sontag Clan called in the hit."

  "And you believed him?"

  "I had a gun to his head. He didn't have cause to lie."

  Sontag didn't say anything.

  "Did you order it?"

  "You give me a reason to send a man after you?"

  "I don't know. Maybe you're tying up loose ends with your trial coming up."

  "Are you a loose end, Connor?"

  "No."

  "You talk to anyone about me? What you used to do for me? About your time in New York?"

  "No."

  "Then I got no reason to send a man after you." He smiled for the first time since entering the conference room. "Besides, if I was going to come after you, I wouldn't go through Alfie O'Bannon. I'd send Porter to do it right. Blow you in half with a shotgun, and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

  "What about someone else in your organization?"

  "You suggesting I don't have control over my own people?"

  "I've heard things. That with you on the inside, someone's making a play for your job. Maybe they're taking out anyone who might stand in their way. Anyone they perceive to be a threat."

  "You've been talking to my people then."

  "I'm trying to get to the bottom of who tried to kill me, so yeah, I've been talking to your people."

  "You heard about Nicky? About the bomb?"

  "I heard that. That's why I'm thinking someone on the inside is taking out threats. Making a clear a path for themselves."

  "Probably." He sat back in his chair, the shackles dancing on the table in front of him. The gears were turning in his head, and I could tell he was trying to piece together a plan. "I need you to do something for me."

  "I'm not here to get back in the game, Joseph. I just want to know who came after me."

  "I need you to find Nicky. He disappeared after the attempt on his life."

  "I'm not here to find Nicky. Or do any favors. I'm just here for me."

  He slammed his hands on the table, snapping off a piece of particle board about six-inches long. We both looked at it recognizing the sharp, knifelike edge. I reached for it, but Sontag flicked it away with his hand. It slid across the floor, stopping in the corner of the room.

  "You'll do this for me, Connor. You owe me."

  "How do you figure?"

  "Because when you lobbied for retirement, I cast the tie-breaking vote that kept you alive. If it wasn't for me, Porter would have splattered your gray matter all over that dining room wall. So here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna find Nicky and get him to a meeting. I'll have Messner schedule a sit-down with Spiro and Napoli. Nicky'll meet with them, and with my blessing, establish himself as the head of the Sontag Clan. And because I sanctioned the transition, the heads of the other clans will have to abide."

  "How is that going to stop whoever is trying to take over your crew?"

  "They're only trying to take it over because they see me as ineffective, and they're right. There isn't much I can do from in here. The Spiro and Napoli clans are just waiting. They won't get involved until a new leader rises to the top. But if I put Nicky in that spot, they'll help him root out whoever is trying to take things over and put a stop to it."

  "Why would they do that? What allegiance do they have to Nicky?"

  "Because no one likes chaos, Connor. We all want things running smoothly because that's how we make money. Hiccups like this draw too much attention and threaten all of us. Spiro and Napoli are already going to be on edge with me on the inside, probably thinking they could be the feds' next target. Nicky takes the reins, and with their help, he can reestablish some form of order. Get back to normalcy. Everyone else will fall in line under him. That's how this shit works."

  Sontag's logic was sound. With him in federal custody, there was a leadership vacuum in his organization, and the heads of the other families, if they stuck to the code, would stay out of things until the dust settled and a new leader was in charge. How that leader got into power wasn't their concern. There's a hierarchy in the mob, and most of what the movies portray is inaccurate. When the clans are at peace, everyone is making money hand over fist, and that's the way they like it. If something upsets that balance, it can lead to bad things.

  Even though Sontag was out of commission, he was still the ruling head of the organization, and the other clans would respect that until it was proven he could no longer lead. Since he hadn't gone to trial yet and there was still a chance, albeit a slim one, that Sontag could get back out on the street, they would abide by his position. But if Sontag went to prison for a stretch and there was no one sitting on the Sontag throne, the code goes out the window and you get a turf war, which even though it could serve as a means for the other clans to expand their territory, isn't a good situation. It disrupts the status quo and shit goes downhill fast. People die and the police take notice.

  If Sontag could officially install Nicky as the head of the clan, then the other families would support him, and more importantly, they wouldn't back any rogue element in Nicky's organization trying to start a coup. Whoever was behind the takeover would recognize this too and back off, effectively righting the ship and returning operations to normal. It was an ambitious plan, but it had one massive hole.

  "Even if that works," I said, "it all hinges on me finding Nicky."

  "Then go find him. That's what I pay you for, to do the shit that can't be done."

  "You seem to be forgetting I don't work for you anymore."

  "And you're failing to see how you're connected to all this. If you're right and someone in my organization came after you, then Nicky is the key to making it go away. He takes control of the clan, restores order, and your little problem disappears. It's one thing to mount a takeover with me waiting for trial, but overthrowing Nicky once he's in power, the other clans won't stand for it. No one inside this organization will be able to move on Nicky without the heads of the other families giving them permission. And they won't give permission because they want peace and order.

  "But if you don't find him, or if the rogue finds him before you do and puts a bullet in his head, then it doesn't matter. We're all dead. With Nicky in place, all the extracurriculars cease, things go back to normal, and you get to keep breathing. Everybody wins."

  Sontag was playing me. He wanted me to find Nicky and was pushing the right buttons to convince me why I should help him. The last thing I wanted to do was get involved in somebody else’s problem, but Sontag was right. This was all connected, and to solve my problem, I had to solve his problem. And that meant I'd be back in the NYC underworld.

  "Messner will be here soon and I'll tell him to put Spiro and Napoli on alert. As soon as you find Nicky, you call Messner and have him set up the meeting. Then you get Nicky to the sit-down and this all goes away."

  Something told me this picture wasn't as smooth as Sontag painted it.

  "Any idea where to start with Nicky?" I said.

  "No idea. He almost sat on a bomb. Could be anywhere."

  "You think he's still in New York?"

  "I don't think he's gone far, but he won't be staying at any of the clan's safe houses. He'll be on his own, lying low until the dust settles."

  I nodded and stood up, already considering the starting points for the Nicky Sontag leg of my investigation. Nicky was on my shortlist anyway, so Sontag wasn't asking me to do anything I wasn't going to do already. Sontag may be convinced his son is innocent in all this, but I still see a scenario where Nicky is behind the attempt on my life. I'd have to find him, but I'd also have to be damn cautious doing it.

  Sontag's eyes burned through the back of my head as I knocked twice on the interview room door.

  "Connor," said Sontag.

  I turned around.

  "Don't misinterpret our friendship as weakness. If you walk away from this without finding Nicky, I'll have you killed. I might not be able to do much from in here, but I
can still do that."

  The guard opened the door and I stepped into the hallway. I was headed toward the lobby when a familiar face stopped me.

  "When I checked in, they said my colleague had already arrived," said Lyle Messner. "I thought they mixed me up with another attorney." He looked at the briefcase in my hand. "You used my name to get in here?"

  "I gave you the chance to help me, and you told me to piss off."

  "I think what I said was go fuck yourself."

  "That's about right."

  "What's to keep me from marching back there and telling them to arrest your ass for impersonating an attorney?"

  "Is that a crime?"

  "It is in New York state."

  "You could do that, but considering your client just hired me to find his missing son and quell the hostile takeover brewing in his organization, I'd say that would be a mistake on your part."

  His fist tightened around his briefcase and he turned and continued down the hall.

  13

  Yea or Nay

  If you believe Hollywood, you'd think no one ever left organized crime. That's not true. It's difficult, and the more you know the more of a liability you are, making it harder to cut the cord. But it's still possible. I'm proof of that.

  Typically, those who leave the mob retire to some warm climate and live out their days on a beach resort, like Rosenthal did when Sontag edged him out. No one thought he'd be a problem. Just like some corporate CEO, he had served his purpose and was replaced by someone the organization thought would be more effective.

  My situation was different. I left Sontag's organization voluntarily. Also different was, unlike Sontag's other associates, I wasn't an official member of the clan. I was more of a designated hitter, brought in when they needed me and riding the bench otherwise. I did project work, but my part-time status didn't exclude me from one of three scenarios that awaited if I continued with this lifestyle. One, I do something to piss off someone who had Sontag's ear, or even Sontag himself, and they turn on me. Two, a rival organization takes an interest in not wanting me around anymore and uses some painful means to remove me from the NYC crime scene. Or three, the feds or NYPD pick me up for services completed on Sontag's behalf and lock me away in a cage for forty years. Old, alive, and free are mutually exclusive in this business.