by Trace Conger
She hesitated.
“Zoe, I don’t have a lot of options here.”
“It seems like I’m your only option. For everything. Ever since you came back here, all you've done is take shit from me." She smacked my cell phone across the table, sending it into the metal napkin dispenser. "You're even using my goddamn cell phone!"
Two other families turned to watch us.
"I'm beginning to think you're a bad investment, Connor. You're not paying off."
"I'll get you the money back, plus interest. This is the last thing I'll ask from you."
"I doubt that." She crossed her arms. "You know, we used to have a symbiotic relationship; I help you, you help me, and everything is cream and caramels. But now you're more like a parasite. You just take, and take, and take."
"I'm good for the money, Zoe."
"You're in way deeper than the million. You're also paying me for the club. If you hadn't come back, it would still be standing. You're covering the renovation, plus interest."
"So you're loaning me the money?"
"I'll loan you the money, Connor, but you need to listen very carefully." She took off her sunglasses and leaned over the table so we were face-to-face. I had seen Zoe’s eyes before, but never this close up. They were gray with a tinge of olive green. They were bloodshot, but only on the right side. She looked tired and alert at the same time. I couldn’t look away, and after a few seconds it was uncomfortable. I blinked hard and refocused on her face.
"Don't misinterpret my kindness for weakness. You'll pay me back everything you owe me, or I'm going to do some terrible things to you, and then I'm going to fold you up and put you someplace they'll never find you. Do you understand?"
"Got it. How quickly can you get the cash?"
"Pick it up tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. Back of my club. What's left of it."
"Thank you."
She drilled her index finger into my chest. "And this is the last favor I do for you, understand? Don't ask me for anything else. Anything."
"I won't."
She stood up. Her eyes retreated back behind her mirrored sunglasses and she left the diner, walking faster than she'd come in.
After finishing my meal, I returned to my Jeep to make a call. Three people wanted me dead, at least three that I knew about. The only thing that was going to stop Victor was the bullet I planned to put in him. That left Alfred Spiro and Armand Napoli. Witnessing a mob assassination isn’t good for anyone’s health and they were likely relying on Victor to punch my ticket, but I wasn’t going to let that happen. I needed to make sure they weren’t going to call up someone else to do it, someone I might not be looking over my shoulder for.
Spiro wasn’t difficult to find. He operated out of a restaurant on the west side of the city. It took a few phone calls, but I finally got through to someone who connected me to Spiro.
“What do you want?” said Spiro.
“I’m on my way out of New York, and I’ve got a deal for you and Armand.”
“Go ahead.”
“Two million to let me walk away. And I keep my mouth shut about what I saw at The Gramercy Park Hotel. One million each.”
He thought for a moment.
“You got that much cash?
“Yes, I do.”
He thought again.
“I’ll clean your slate, kid, but I can’t speak for Armand. You’ll have to broker that deal yourself.”
“He’s my next call.”
“Victor owns your contract,” said Spiro. “You can buy your way out from under me, but he’s another story. And I don’t think he’s gonna let you walk. For any price.”
“I’ll deal with Victor, but you and I, we’re good?”
“We’re good as soon as I get that money.”
“I’ll set up the drop after I talk to Armand.”
“Make it happen, then.” He hung up.
Organized crime runs on two things, fear and money. You’ll go far if you’ve got both, but one will do in most situations. I’ve seen people buy their way out of mob contracts all the time. It’s not something most people know about, but it’s there. And it’s a lucrative practice.
I needed to give Zoe enough time to organize the million dollars before I set up the drop with Spiro. Finding Victor and Nash was my next priority.
27
Going On the Record
Victor Tan was committed to seeing me dead. At least, he should be. I was the only outsider who was present for Nicky's death at the Gramercy Park Hotel, and that alone should secure my death warrant. Victor had me at a disadvantage when it came to resources. He had more trigger fingers than I did, and I'd wager a few of those resources were focused solely on bringing me down. While he might have me beat in sheer numbers, he had a weakness I could exploit. He had an operation to run, which meant his ability to keep a low profile was limited. He had to meet with his men, schedule sit-downs, and get Sontag's operation, now his operation, back on track.
I had the upper hand in one aspect though. I could outmaneuver him. I could go under, disappear for any length of time I wanted, locate him, wait him out, and then strike whenever it suited. I was like a shark. As long as I was underwater, I had the advantage. But as soon as I surfaced, I'd lose the element of surprise and risk taking a harpoon to the gills.
I didn't plan on surfacing too often, but I had to come up to see Porter. He was the only person who might have information on where to find Victor and Nash, and my survival depended on getting to them before they got to me. Stepping out in the open was a risk I was willing to take.
I didn't know if Victor's crew would be staking out Porter's club, but it made sense to enter through the back door, just in case.
Porter's wine bar opened in about an hour, but his white Jag was already sitting in his private spot. I drove around the block, parked, and walked to the back door.
The sign next to the entrance read KORK KITCHEN DELIVERIES ONLY. I knocked on the door. A moment later, a young man wearing a suit opened the door. I knocked him to the side and moved through the kitchen. The kitchen staff didn't notice me; they moved about focused on getting the place ready for the first customers of the night.
It didn't take me long to navigate the back of the house and make it to the iron spiral staircase that led to Porter's private office. I took the steps two at a time until I reached the top, where one of Porter's bodyguards grabbed me. He wrapped me in a bear hug, twirled around and flung me into the wall. A second man appeared, this one brandishing a 9mm Beretta.
"I'm here to see Porter," I said.
"No shit," said the one with the weapon. He nodded to the other. "Call him."
The bald man in the suit pulled a cell phone from his inside pocket and dialed. "You've got a guest." He looked at me.
"Connor Harding," I said.
"Connor Harding," the man repeated. Porter said something and the man with the phone grimaced, as if pissed that he wasn't going to get to kill right then and there.
"Arms against the wall," he said.
I did as he told me. He searched me and dropped my .45 and cell phone on the table at the top of the stairs. "Go on. You've got five minutes."
Convinced I wasn't going to be any trouble, the man with the 9mm returned the weapon to the shoulder holster under his jacket. Sensing my chance, I tucked my chin against my breastbone and exploded into him, striking his nose with the top of my head. The cartilage crunched. I withdrew and repositioned to attack him again. He stumbled backward, and blinded by the blood pouring into his eyes from his shattered nose, he collided with the other bodyguard and they both fell down the spiral staircase.
I grabbed my phone and weapon from the table and charged Porter's office. I kicked the door with so much force that it flung open, bounced off the doorstop, and snapped closed after I'd stepped in.
Porter jumped to his feet behind his desk as I leveled the .45 at his chest.
"Call them off, or I'll Norman Bates ya right here."
&n
bsp; A moment later the door opened again, but Porter waved his men off before they crossed the threshold. He told them to take a walk, and I listened as their heavy frames lumbered back down the hall.
"What in the hell is this all about?"
"It's about you working with Victor Tan to overthrow Sontag, killing Nicky, and more importantly, coming after me."
I slipped one hand in my pocket and kept the one with the gun pointed squarely at Porter.
"You're only part right, Connor."
"Enlighten me."
He breathed deep and sat on the corner of his desk, his hands folded in his lap. "Listen, after Sontag got picked up, Victor came to me and said if it looked like Sontag was going to go away for good, then he wanted a chance to talk to Nicky about taking over. I told him to hold off. Sontag has beat this shit before, and I thought he could beat it again. But they didn't grant him bail, and with him inside, Spiro and Napoli were getting anxious. Victor came to me again wanting to know my intentions. I told him to cool off and wait it out, to see what happened with Sontag. It was obvious he wasn't getting out, and they were going to take their time going to trial. Sontag was going to be off the street for a long time, maybe permanently.
"Victor approached me a third time and said he was getting word from his men one of Spiro's crews was moving into our territory, just to poke us a bit and see how we'd react. I heard the same from my men. The other clans sensed weakness with Sontag out of the picture and no clear successor. We had to do something to hold them off."
"What about Nicky?"
"I don't care who runs things. I liked Nicky; never had a problem with him. If it were up to me, I'd gladly fall in line behind him, but the rest of the clan didn't have faith in him. Sontag was a killer and he commanded respect. Nicky didn't have that. He was a joke and was in over his head. Even if Sontag did want him at the top, the rest of the men weren't going to go for it. And with Sontag in prison, what's he going to do about it?"
"So you encouraged Victor to take Nicky out?"
"No. Victor came to me and said he was going to talk to Nicky to get his buyout. Victor thought with his father looking at life in prison, Nicky might want to walk away."
"You didn't sanction the hit on him?"
"How could I? I wasn't in a position to sanction anything. I simply told Victor that I wouldn't stand in his way and that I wasn't going to make a play for the top spot myself. That I'd back him when the dust settled."
I was quiet.
"Look around you, Connor. You know as good as I do the only way to survive all this is to walk away. While you can still walk. I'm on my way out. I've got a five-year plan. Five more years of this shit and I'm out. I don't care who takes over for Sontag, as long as it doesn't affect my operation here."
"Why did Victor come after me?"
"I have no idea."
"I find that hard to believe. You seem to know everything else about Victor's plan."
"I've always been honest with you, Connor, and I'm not bullshitting you when I say I had nothing to do with the hit on you or Nicky. That didn't come from me, and had I known about it, I would have stopped it. It's reckless and unnecessary."
"Reckless and unnecessary? You mean like snatching an FBI agent off the street and torturing him for information?"
"That's different."
"How so?"
"Sontag and I both thought someone on the inside was working against him. Messner said he was getting paranoid sitting in that cell. The only thing he had to think about was who turned against him. I wanted to know too, because they could still be in the organization, feeding the feds information on all of us. Trying to take us all down. Then I got a call from one of my men who had a contact inside NYPD. He gave me the name of an agent who was part of the organized crime task force. I paid him a visit and got him to tell me all about his source inside the organization."
"And the agent, he fingered Messner?"
"No. He fingered you. That agent gave you up in less than a minute. I kept torturing him, convinced he had more than one informant, but nope. Just you."
"If you knew it was me, why did you give up Messner?"
"Because I didn't want to give you up."
"Sontag crushed Messner's skull with a chair. Right in front of me."
"Better him than you."
"Why?"
"Because I never liked that slimy son of a bitch, and because Messner knew enough to put us all away. So that should convince you that I had nothing to do with the hit on you. If I wanted you dead, I would have told Sontag the truth and they would have wheeled you out of MCC on a gurney, not Messner."
"Why not kill us both then? Why let me live knowing I talked to the feds?"
"I wasn't ready to give you up yet. Maybe I thought there was still some use for you around here. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."
I didn't say anything.
"I explained myself," said Porter. "Now it's your turn. Why are you working with the FBI and what did you tell them?"
"I'm not working with them." The .45 was getting heavy in my hand. "They approached me years ago looking for information. I told them to fuck off, but they threatened to put my father away. I didn't have a choice."
"What did you tell them? And who did you implicate?"
"I didn't implicate anyone. I convinced them I only did odd jobs for Sontag. I gave them an idea of how he worked, what businesses he was in, and who was in his organization. Most of that, they already knew. They just needed confirmation. I intentionally kept things vague, just enough to keep them interested, but not enough to affect anything here."
"That's a fine line to walk."
"Yes, it is. I'm no rat, but I also wasn't about to watch my father get yanked into prison for whatever years he has left."
No one likes a snitch in this business, and I didn't realize why Porter had spared me until he mentioned he might have use for me. Now it was clear. He was going to hang this over my head just like the FBI held my father's possible incarceration over me. Porter would use it for leverage. Do what he says, or he tells everyone I cooperated with the feds. Then every criminal in the city would want me dead. I'd have a contract on my head so big you could see it from space. Normally, I'd consider blowing Porter's head off, but criminal politics are complicated around here. He was still a high-ranking member of the Sontag Clan, and killing him would trigger a chain of events I wasn't yet prepared to deal with.
The trick was to remove his leverage, which is exactly what I planned to do. But, I had another, more urgent issue, so Porter would have to wait. I had to deal with Victor Tan and Eddie Nash, and while I wasn't willing to go to war over Declan Porter, I was willing to do it for them.
"Where can I find Victor?"
"He splits his time between a place in Greenwich Village—215 Mercer Street, apartment 7B—and Gretchen's bed at The Plaza. You find Victor and Nash won't be too far behind." He smiled wide. "Better hurry though. You'll want to find him before he finds you."
"I plan to."
I left Porter's office. At the end of the hall, one of Porter's bodyguards was sitting in a chair with an icepack on his face. The other was blotting up blood from the floor. I ordered both men onto the floor and then disappeared down the spiral staircase and out the back door. On my way to my Jeep, I pulled Zoe's cell phone from my pocket, closed the voice recorder app, and emailed the file to three different email addresses.
28
215 Mercer Street
Criminals tend to stay up late and sleep in the next day. That's why federal agencies usually apprehend high-value targets in the morning. They're still in bed, unaware of what's happening and less likely to put up a fight. This was one of the reasons I decided to move on Victor the next morning. The other reason was I was dead tired, and I wanted my wits about me when I arrived at 215 Mercer Street.
Up until now, my investigation was like setting up dominoes. Slow and methodical. Now it was time to knock them down. I mentioned earlier that offing Por
ter in his office would put a neon bullseye on my back. I didn't have the authority to go after Victor any more than I did Porter, but in NYC crime circles, I was justified. Victor had issued an unsanctioned hit on me and payback was allowed. I was also counting on Sontag still having enough clout to protect me from inside his cell.
On Friday morning, I parked two blocks away from Victor's Greenwich apartment. A doorman was standing in front of the building. He wore tan slacks, a gray sweater and a camel, cashmere overcoat. A trendier look than the old-fashioned red and gold uniforms. He opened the door as I approached and I motioned him to follow me in. He did.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
"You've got a fugitive in apartment 7B and I'm here to bring him in." I flashed a pair of handcuffs that I kept in my glovebox.
"Mr. Tan?"
"That's right."
"You law enforcement?"
"No. I'm a skip tracer. Mr. Tan jumped a $250,000 bond." I held up an empty white envelope. "I have arrest authority through Midtown Bail Bonds."
"You're a bounty hunter?"
"Skip tracer, but yes." I returned the envelope to my inside jacket pocket before he had a chance to ask for it.
I was surprised he knew a skip tracer and bounty hunter were the same things. Most people don't, but I was betting he didn't know the legal limitations of what a skip tracer can and can't do. Those details are often overshadowed by the romanticized depictions of bounty hunters. Even if I was legit, the doorman had no legal obligation to let me into Victor's apartment. Had I been the real deal, I would have brought a uniformed police officer with me. He would have the authority to enter the premises, and I'd take the bail jumper into custody and return him to lockup. Of course, none of that was going to happen, because none of this was real.
In my experience, no one cares about the law in situations like this. I was hoping the doorman, and the property manager, if the doorman decided to call him, was more concerned that they had a fugitive at their luxury apartment complex than whatever legal right I had to apprehend him.
