by Don Winslow
“Nothing personal,” Malone says. “But you don’t take money, we have to wonder what you’re about.”
“I just want to be a cop.”
“Be one, then,” Malone says. “You just fined DeVon Carter three grand.”
“That’s the way it works?”
“That’s the way it works.”
Levin picks the money up and counts it. “It’s short.”
“The hell you mean?” Russo asks.
“Fifteen thousand divided by four is three thousand seventy and change,” Levin says. “This is three thousand flat.”
They laugh. Russo says, “Well, we got us a real Jew on the team now.”
“One share goes to expenses,” Malone says.
“What expenses?” Levin asks.
“What,” Russo asks, “you want a line-item account?”
“Take Amy out to dinner,” Malone says, “don’t worry about it.”
“Buy her something nice,” Montague says.
“Not too nice,” says Malone.
Russo takes out a thick manila envelope and a pen. “Address this to yourself, mail it. That way you don’t have it on you.”
They get back in the car, swing by a post office, then drive up to Dyckman.
“What if Teddy warns them?” Levin asks.
“Then we’re fucked,” Malone says. But he gets on the horn to Sykes and advises him to get some backup units over to Highbridge Park. Gives him the make, model and registration of Fat Teddy’s car.
Levin is nervous as a whore in church.
Malone doesn’t blame the kid—it’s a huge score, a huge bust, the kind that makes careers, gets you a gold shield. And it was his motherfucking genius idea that put it together.
Teddy’s phone rings.
Monty answers. “Where you at?”
“Coming west on Dyckman.”
“I see you,” Monty says. “Yellow Penske truck?”
“That’s us.”
“Bring it on in.”
The rental truck pulls into the alley.
A biker type—long hair, beard, leather cut with an ECMF rocker—gets out the passenger side with a pump shotgun. Swastika tat on his neck and an 88—numeric code for the Nazi salute Heil Hitler.
Win-win for this motherfucker, Malone thinks—make some cash and hand the “mud people” tools to kill each other.
Monty gets out of the liquor truck with his left hand raised and a briefcase in his right hand. Malone and Russo come out behind him, standing in back and to the side for open shooting lanes.
Malone sees the biker get hinky. “I didn’t expect white.”
“We just wanted to make you comfortable,” Monty says.
“I don’t know about this.”
“Oh, there’s a lot of black around you,” Monty says. “You just don’t see them because it’s night.”
“Hold up.” The biker calls Teddy’s number. Hears it ring in Monty’s pocket and relaxes a little. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Monty says. “What you got for me?”
The driver gets out, walks around and opens the back of the truck. Malone follows Monty and looks inside as the biker starts to open crates. There are enough guns in there to keep Homicide busy for two years—revolvers, automatics, pump shotguns and automatic rifles—an AK, three AR-15s, including a Bushmaster.
“It’s all there,” the biker says.
Monty swings the briefcase onto the tailgate and opens it. “Fifty large. You want to count it?”
Yeah, he does—he counts the stacks of marked, registered bills. “On the money.”
Malone and Russo start to off-load the guns and carry them back to the liquor truck.
“Let Mantell know,” Monty says, “we’ll buy as much as he can send.”
The biker smiles. “As long as you’re using them on other ‘people of color.’”
Monty can’t help himself. “And maybe cops.”
“Works for me.”
Yeah, does that work for you? Malone thinks. We’ll see how it works for you when some CO is beating your kidneys into Jell-O, you meth-smoking, jerky-eating, cousin-fucking shitkicker. I’d do it right now for you if I didn’t want to hand this bust to Sykes and Da Force.
They finish off-loading.
“You need directions?” Monty asks the driver.
Monty thinks of everything. Sykes has the location covered from all compass points, but this will give him a heads-up on which way the truck is likely to head.
“Back the way we came, I guess,” the driver says.
“Or just go straight up Dyckman here to the Henry Hudson, south to the GW Bridge, then 95 back to Dixie.”
“We’ll find our own way,” the biker says.
“Motherfucker,” Monty says, shaking his head, “if we was going to rip you, we’d do it right here, not chasing you down the highway.”
“Mantell will be in touch.”
“Heil Hitler.”
The Penske truck backs out and true to paranoid form, turns right onto Dyckman to drive all the way across the city before it can get back on a highway.
Malone gets on the horn.
“Suspect is coming east on Dyckman.”
“We have a visual,” Sykes says.
Levin’s grinning.
“Wait for it,” Malone says.
Then it goes off—sirens, yelling. Malone and Levin walk out on the street and see the red flashers as the sector cars move in.
“Well,” Malone says, “there are two mothers, at least, who won’t be getting fucked tonight. Levin, that was some real police work you did.”
“Thanks.”
“Seriously,” Malone says. “You saved some lives tonight.”
A sector car comes down and Sykes gets out of the backseat. Full uniform, freshly shaved, camera-ready. “What do we have, Sergeant?”
“Come on.” He leads Sykes back to the truck.
Sykes looks at the weapons. “Jesus Christ.”
“You call McGivern?” Malone asks. Sykes doesn’t bring McGivern in on this from the jump, the inspector will cockblock his career until he pulls the pin.
“No, Sergeant, I’m an idiot,” Sykes says. “He’s on his way.”
He’s still looking at the guns.
Malone knows what it means to him. Sure, it’s great for his career, but it’s more than that. Like the rest of them, Sykes has seen the bodies, the blood, the families, the funerals.
For a few seconds, Malone almost likes the man.
And for himself, he feels like a cop again.
Instead of a rat.
A cop taking care of his business, taking care of his people. Because of tonight, there’ll be less death and suffering in the Kingdom of Malone.
Another car rolls up and McGivern gets out.
“This is fine work, gentlemen!” he hollers. “Fine work, Captain! It’s a great night to be a New York City police officer, isn’t it?!”
He walks up closer to Sykes. “You seized the buy money, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Sykes says.
More cars roll in. Crime Scene people, Task Force guys. They start taking photographs and vouchering the seized weapons before they take them into the house, where they’ll be laid out for a morning press conference.
After the paperwork is done, Sykes surprises everyone by announcing that the first round down at the Dublin House is on him.
First implies second, which implies third and after that, who’s counting?
Somewhere between five and six Malone finds himself sitting next to Sykes at the bar.
“If someone asked me,” Sykes says, “to name the best and the worst cops I’ve ever worked with, I would answer Denny Malone.”
Malone lifts his glass to him.
Sykes lifts his and they toss them back.
“Never seen you out of uniform before,” Malone says.
“I did three years UC in the Seven-Eight,” Sykes says. “Would you believe that?”
“No. Can’t
see it.”
“I had dreads.”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
“Hand to God,” Sykes says. “That was good work tonight, Malone. I hate to think what would happen if those guns hit the street.”
“DeVon Carter ain’t gonna be happy.”
“Fuck Carter.”
Malone starts to laugh.
“What?” Sykes asks.
“I was just thinking about this time,” Malone says, “Monty and Russo and Billy O and me and about six other off-duty detectives are sitting at this bar and this black kid . . . no offense . . . walks through the door with a gun, yells it’s a holdup. World’s dumbest stickup guy, right? Must have been a first-timer because he looked about nineteen and he’s scared to death. So he points the gun and Mike, behind the bar, just looks at him, and all of a sudden this poor kid has probably twelve guns pointed back at him and all these cops are laughing and yelling ‘Get the fuck outta here’ and the kid spins like he’s in a cartoon and runs out the door, we don’t even follow him. We just go back to our drinks.”
“But you didn’t shoot.”
“He was a kid,” Malone says. “I mean, what kind of dumbass sticks up a cop bar?”
“A desperate one.”
“I guess.”
“Difference between you and me?” Sykes says. “I’d have gone after him.”
A party is going on around them. Monty is dancing to the music all on his own, Russo and Emma Flynn are trading shots, Levin is table-surfing, Babyface is trashing a bunch of plainclothes at beer pong.
Malone’s heart is breaking.
He’s going to betray these people.
He’s going to give them cops.
Laying a twenty on the bar, Malone says, “I’d better go.”
“Denny ‘Last Call’ Malone?” Sykes asks.
“Yeah.”
I’d better go before I get any drunker, start talking, spilling my guilty guts, slobbering all over the bar and telling everyone what a piece of shit I am.
Levin sees him get up. “Malone! You can’t leave yet!”
Malone waves to him.
“Malone!” Levin yells. He raises his beer mug. “Everyone. Everybody. Hey, y’all motherfuckers! Listen up!”
“He’s going to feel this tomorrow,” Sykes says.
“Jews can’t drink,” Malone says.
Levin looks like the freakin’ Statue of Liberty with his mug raised above his head like a torch. “Ladies and gentlemen of Da Force! I give you Sergeant Denny Malone! The best motherfucking, ball-breaking, perp-busting badass on the streets of our fair city! The King of Manhattan North! Long Live the King!”
The cops take up the chanting, yell, “Long Live the King! Long Live the King! Long Live the King!”
Sykes smiles at Malone.
“You’re an all right guy, Captain,” Malone says. “I don’t like you very much, but you’re an all right guy. Take care of these people, okay?”
“That’s my job,” Sykes says, looking around the bar. “I love these fucking people.”
Me too, Malone thinks.
He walks out.
He doesn’t belong there anymore.
Doesn’t belong at Claudette’s either.
He goes back to his apartment, polishes off what’s left of a bottle of Jameson’s by himself.
Chapter 17
The press conference looks like Open Mike Night at the Chuckle Hut.
Classic, Malone thinks.
The weapons are laid out on tables, carefully labeled, looking lethal and beautiful. A line of suits and brass stand on the dais waiting their turn at the microphone. In addition to Sykes, who doesn’t even look hungover, and McGivern, you got Neely, the chief of detectives; Isadore, the chief of patrol; Police Commissioner Brady; the deputy commissioner; the mayor; and for reasons that passeth Malone’s understanding, the Reverend Cornelius.
McGivern says a few words of departmental self-congratulations and then introduces Sykes, who speaks in technical terms about the operation, the weapons seized and how proud he is of the many Task Force personnel who worked together to achieve this outcome.
He yields the mike to the commissioner, who broadens the congratulations to include the entire department and makes a point of going on for a while just to make the mayor wait.
When Hizzoner finally gets the mike, he stretches the credit out to include every suit in or around City Hall, especially and including himself, and talks about how the department and the administration working together makes this a safer city for everybody, and then he introduces the good reverend.
Malone already felt like throwing up, but now he really feels like throwing up as Cornelius preaches about the community, nonviolence and the root economic causes of said violence and how the community needs “programs not pogroms” (and nobody knows what the fuck that means) and then dances a tightrope as he tries to urge the police to do more while warning them not to do too much.
All in all, Malone thinks, it’s a great performance.
Even U.S. Attorney Isobel Paz, representing the Southern District of New York, which has done so much to combat interstate weapons trafficking, seems to enjoy the show.
When Malone’s phone rings, it’s Paz, and he can see her across the crowded lobby. “Don’t think this is going to help you, shitbird. I still want cops.”
“Now more than ever, right?” Malone asks, looking at her. “The commissioner was looking very mayoral, I thought.”
“Cops. On tape. Now.”
Click.
Torres confronts him in the locker room at Manhattan North.
“You and me need to talk,” Torres says.
“Okay,” says Malone.
“Not here.”
They walk outside and across the street, into the treed courtyard outside St. Mary’s.
“You motherfucker,” Torres says.
Good, Malone thinks, the angrier the better. Anger makes Torres careless, he makes mistakes. He gets right up on Malone.
“Get out of my face,” Malone says.
“I should kick your fucking ass.”
“I’m not one of your girls.”
Torres’s voice goes to a rasp. “The fuck you doing, hitting that shipment? On Dyckman? That’s my turf. You were supposed to stay out of the Heights.”
“Carter made the deal from my turf.”
“You just gave your turf to Castillo, asshole,” Torres says. “What’s Carter supposed to do without guns?”
“Die?”
“I had a piece of that deal, Malone. A finder’s fee.”
“What, we give refunds now?”
“You don’t fuck with my money, Malone.”
“Okay, okay,” Malone says. Then, feeling like a piece of shit, he makes his pitch. Get Paz what she wants. “What’s it going to take to make this right? What was your piece?”
Torres calms down a little. Then he sticks his neck in the noose. “Fifteen. Plus the three Carter’s not paying me this month now that we fucked him.”
“You want the sweat off my dick, too?”
“No, you can keep that,” Torres says. “When do I get my money?”
“Meet me in the parking lot,” Malone says.
Malone goes back there, takes $18K out of the console and puts it in an envelope. Torres shows up a few minutes later and slides into the passenger seat. In the closeness of the car, Malone can smell the man—the stale coffee breath, the cigarette smoke on his clothes, the too-strong cologne.
Torres says, “So?”
It’s not too late, Malone thinks. Not too late to back off from hurting a brother cop, even a low motherfucker like Torres. Until he takes the money, they got nothing on Raf, just him talking some bullshit.
You cross this line, there’s no going back.
“Yo, Malone?” Torres is asking. “You got something for me, or what?”
Yeah, I got something for you, Malone thinks. He slides him the envelope. “Here’s your money.”
Tor
res puts the envelope in his pocket. “Do me a favor? Jerk yourself off, lose this hard-on you got for Carter. Believe me, Castillo is worse.”
“Carter is history,” Malone says. “He just don’t know it yet.”
“Don’t cross me again, Denny.”
“Kiss my skinny Irish ass.”
Torres gets out of the car.
Malone opens his shirt and checks the recording device. It’s on, it got the exchange, Torres is a walking dead man.
And so are you, Malone thinks.
The man you used to be doesn’t exist anymore.
Then he drives downtown to deliver the tape to O’Dell. Fifteen, twenty times on the way he thinks about just dumping the tape and driving away. But if I do, he thinks, I just drop Russo and Monty into my shit. So if it’s a choice between them and Torres . . .
Weintraub pops it into the machine right away and Malone listens to—
“The fuck you doing, hitting that shipment? On Dyckman? That’s my turf. You were supposed to stay out of the Heights.”
“Carter made the deal from my turf.”
“You just gave your turf to Castillo, asshole. What’s Carter supposed to do without guns?”
“Die?”
“I had a piece of that deal, Malone. A finder’s fee.”
“What, we give refunds now?”
“You don’t fuck with my money, Malone.”
“Okay, okay. What’s it going to take to make this right? What was your piece?”
“Way to be, Malone,” Weintraub says. “You’re getting the hang of this.”
“Fifteen. Plus the three Carter’s not paying me this month now that we fucked him.”
“You want the sweat off my dick, too?”
“Nice touch,” Weintraub says.
“No, you can keep that. When do I get my money?”
“Did you give him the designated bills?” Weintraub asks.
“Yeah.”
“We got him,” Weintraub says.
O’Dell says, “Good job, Malone.”
“Fuck you.”
“Our boy’s feeling all guilty because he flipped on a drug-dealing cop,” Weintraub says. “Torres deserves everything he gets.”
“Which is what?” Malone asks.
“We’re going to take him to a nice farm in the country where he’ll be happy playing with all the other crooked cops,” Weintraub says. “The hell you think is going to happen?”
