by Don Winslow
“Then Monty,” Sheila says. “Something going to happen, Denny?”
“No,” Malone says. “I just wanted to check you know what to do.”
“Okay.” But she looks at him, worried.
“I said I’m just checking, Sheila.”
“And I said okay.” She starts laying out candy bars, packages of cookies and granola bars. Then apples and bananas and juice boxes. “Some of the mothers want us to have kale. How the hell we supposed to put out kale?”
“What’s kale?”
“Exactly, huh?”
I guess, Malone thinks. He really doesn’t know what kale is. “So how is Caitlin?”
“I dunno, what time is it?” Sheila says. She focuses on laying out her counter as she adds, “She might be by here later, depending on when they get up.”
“That would be nice.”
“Yeah, depending on when they get up.”
Malone feels lost for conversation but doesn’t think he should walk away yet. “Everything good with the house?”
“Do you care, Denny?”
“Yeah, that was me who just asked.” It takes nothing, freakin’ nothing for them to get into a fight.
“You could have the guy come over and check the water heater,” Sheila says. “It’s making those funny noises again. I’ve called him like three times.”
Goddamn Palumbo, he’ll jack the wives around, like the noises are just in their heads. “I’ll take care of that.”
“Thank you.”
It annoys her, though, he can tell, that she still needs the “husband” to get the attention she should get just being her. If I were a woman, Malone thinks, I’d probably be out there with a machine gun, spraying the streets and screaming.
“Sheila, you got any lids?”
She tosses him one.
After a suitable silence, Malone wanders off to the bleachers across the fence from the first-base line. A few parents are already seated, some of the women with blankets over their laps. A few of them have thermoses and doughnut boxes from Dunkin’. The fuck, Malone thinks, they can’t spend a buck at the stand, support the kids?
He knows most of the parents, nods hellos, but sits by himself.
He used to be at PTA meetings and talent shows and shit with these people. Pizza Hut after games, backyard barbecues, pool parties. He still goes to the school events but isn’t invited to the extracurriculars. I guess I tore up my suburban dad card, Malone thinks, or they did. It’s not like they’re hostile or anything, it’s just different.
They’re playing the national anthem from a tape. Malone stands up, puts his hand over his heart and looks out at John in line with his teammates.
I’m sorry, John.
Maybe someday you’ll understand.
Your fucked-up father.
The game starts. John’s team is the home team so they start in the field and Malone watches John trot out to left. He’s big for his age so they put him in the outfield. Profiling, Malone thinks. Actually, he’s got a pretty good glove, but not a lot of bat. Will swing at anything, and the opposing pitchers know it so they throw him garbage. But Malone ain’t gonna be one of those jerk-off dads who screams at his kid from the stands. The fuck difference does it make? No one here is going to the Yankees.
Russo sits down next to him. “You look like shit.”
“That good?”
“We went to Levin’s last night,” Russo said. “Two in the morning, I thought the kid was going to piss his pants. The girlfriend wasn’t too thrilled either.”
“And?”
“Money was in a suitcase in the back of the closet,” Russo says. “I told him, kid, you have to do better than that.”
“So he checked out,” Malone says.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Russo says. “Maybe they have him playing a longer game. Maybe they’re after the Pena rip. Denny, we have to move that shit.”
“I did,” Malone says. “You’re a million and change richer than you were last night.”
“Jesus. On your own?” Russo don’t like that.
Malone tells him about selling the smack to Savino, and about Carlos Castillo and the Dominicans.
“You sold them back their own smack?” Russo asks. “Denny freaking Malone.”
“It ain’t over,” Malone says. “This Castillo wants to get us back for Pena.”
“Shit, Denny, half North Manhattan wants to whack us,” Russo says. “This is no different.”
“I dunno. The Ciminos, the Domos . . .”
“We have to have a talk with Lou,” Russo says. “That’s not right, springing them on you like that.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“The fuck, you the Lone Ranger lately?” Russo asks. “I feel like you’re keeping me out of things.”
A kid hits a ball to deep left and they watch as John tracks it down, snags it and holds it up for the umpire to see.
“Way to be, John!” Malone yells.
They’re quiet for a while, then Russo asks, “You okay, Denny?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I don’t know,” Russo says. “If there was something bothering you, you’d tell me, right?”
The words are there but they’re caught in his throat.
Everything changes at that moment.
His old priests might have told him that there are sins of commission and sins of omission, that it’s not always the things you do, but the things you don’t that cost you your soul. That sometimes it’s not the spoken lie but the unspoken truth that opens the door to betrayal.
“What do you mean?” Malone feels like shit. This is the one guy he should be able to talk to, to tell. But he can’t do it. Can’t bring himself to tell Russo that he’s become a rat. Unless Phil is trying to feel him out; maybe he’s starting to believe what Gloria Torres said.
Because it’s true.
Trust your partner, Malone tells himself.
You can always trust your partner.
Yeah, but can Russo?
Some motion in the parking lot catches Malone’s attention. He glances over and sees Caitlin get out of a Honda CR-V. She leans back in to wave good-bye, and then Malone watches her walk to the concession stand, get up on her toes and kiss her mom on the cheek.
Russo notices, but Russo notices everything. “You miss that?”
“Every damn day.”
“There’s a fix for that, you know.”
“Jesus, you too?” Malone asks.
“I’m just saying.”
“It’s too late,” Malone says. “Anyway, I don’t want it.”
“Bullshit, you don’t,” Russo says. “Look, you can still do what you want on the side, but keep the center the center.”
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Va fangul.”
“Watch your language, my kid’s coming over.”
Caitlin climbs up the bleachers. Malone reaches his hand down to steady her and pull her up. She snuggles up against him. “Hi, Daddy.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” Malone kisses her on the cheek. “Say hi to your uncle Phil.”
“Hi, Uncle Phil.”
“Is that Caitlin?” Russo asks. “I thought it was Ariana Grande.”
Caitlin smiles.
“What’s new, honey?” Malone asks.
“I had a sleepover. At Jordan’s.”
“Did you have fun?”
“Yes.”
She jabbers on about all the fun little-girl stuff they did and then asks when he’s coming to visit them again and when can they come stay with him and then she sees a couple of friends down by the fence in back of home plate and Malone says, “It’s okay, Cait. You can go be with your friends.”
“But you’ll say good-bye, right?”
“Of course.”
He watches her go to her friends, then picks up his phone and finds Palumbo on the speed dial.
“Let me speak to Joe, please,” Malone asks.
“He’s on a call.”
> “He’s in the men’s room jerking off,” Malone says. “Put him on the phone.”
Palumbo gets on. “Hey, Denny!”
“‘Hey, Denny,’ my ass,” Malone says. “The fuck, Joe? My wife has to call you three times, you still don’t show up? What’s that?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Is that right?” Malone asks. “So maybe next time you get a truck impounded for fistfuls of tickets, I’m busy.”
“Denny, how can I make this right?”
“When my wife calls, you get over there.” He clicks off. “Fuckin’ mook.”
“Do you love how when these guys do show up,” Russo says, “they never got the right tools? Whole truck in your driveway, they ain’t got the one tool they need to do the job. Donna, she don’t play. One time she told Palumbo, ‘I’d give you your check, but I don’t have the right pen.’ He got the message.”
“Yeah, that ain’t Sheila.”
“Italian women,” Russo says. “You want money from them, you get the job done.”
“We still talking plumbing here?”
“Sort of.”
“How are your kids?”
“The two boys are assholes,” Russo says.
“Anyway, you got their college taken care of now.”
“Pretty much.”
“So, that’s good, huh?” Malone asks.
“You kiddin’ me?”
They know what they’ve done and why.
If I go down, Malone thinks, my kids can feel bad about their criminal father, but they’ll feel bad from college.
But I ain’t goin’ down.
The game goes on for what feels like forever. A real low-scoring defensive battle, Malone thinks sarcastically, like 15–13, and John’s team wins. Malone goes down to talk to him. “You played good.”
“I struck out.”
“You struck out swinging,” Malone says. “Which is the important thing. And how many outs did you make in the field? Those are as good as runs, John.”
His kid smiles at him. “Thanks for coming.”
“Are you kidding?” Malone asks. “I wouldn’t miss it. The team going to Pizza Hut?”
“Pinkberry,” John says. “It’s healthier.”
“Well, I guess that’s good.”
“I guess so,” John says. “You want to come?”
“I gotta get back to the city.”
“Catch the bad guys.”
“There you go.”
Malone hugs him but doesn’t kiss him so as not to embarrass him. He says good-bye to Caitlin and then goes over to Sheila. “You didn’t come sit.”
“Marjorie never showed,” Sheila says. “Probably too hungover.”
Russo’s waiting for him in the parking lot. “Do we need to talk some more?”
“About what?”
“You,” Russo says. “I’m not an idiot. You haven’t been yourself lately . . . distracted . . . a real moody fuck. You been off the radar odd times. Couple that with this stuff behind Torres offing himself . . .”
“You got something you want to say, Phil?”
“You got something you want to say, Denny?”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s true,” Russo says. He’s quiet for a minute, then he says, “Look, maybe you got jammed up. It happens. Maybe you saw a way out. I can understand that, you got a wife, kids . . .”
Malone’s heart hurts.
Cracking like a stone in fire.
“It wasn’t me,” Malone says.
“Okay.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Yeah, I heard you.”
But he looks at him like he don’t know if he believes him. But he says, “Thanks, huh? For handling that thing.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
On Staten Island, it’s an expression of affection.
Chapter 23
Late on a Saturday afternoon, Malone has a pretty good idea where to find Lou Savino.
The old Italian coffee shops where Lou would like to hang out on the sidewalk sipping espresso like Tony Soprano don’t exist anymore, so Savino likes to go into Starbucks, get an espresso and sit outside in the little fenced-in patio off 117th Street.
It’s pathetic, Malone thinks. There’s Lou sitting out there in his dumbass tracksuit with one of his soldiers, an unmade wannabe named Mike Sciollo, holding forth and checking out the ass strolling by.
Don’t underestimate him, though, Malone tells himself. You did that last night and it could have gotten you killed. Lou Savino didn’t become a capo by being stupid. He’s a smart, ruthless motherfucker, Malone thinks as he goes in.
Even smart ruthless motherfuckers have to piss. Savino lives all the way up in Yonkers, so he’s going to use the john before he gets back in the car. Sure enough, Malone sees Lou get up and come inside and times his approach just as Savino steps into the john and starts to close the door.
Malone sticks his foot inside, pushes it open and shuts it behind him.
“Denny,” Savino says, “I was going to give you a call.”
It’s tight in there, close.
“You were going to give me a call?” Malone asks. “Did you think about maybe giving me a freakin’ call before you turned me over to Castillo?”
“It was business, Denny.”
“Don’t give me that Sollozzo bullshit,” Malone says. “You and I have business, too. You should have told me, Lou. You gave me your word you’d take that smack away from my turf.”
“You’re right. You are,” Savino says. “But you were wrong, doing Pena like that. You know that, Denny. You should have let him walk away.”
“Where do I find Castillo?”
“You don’t want to find him,” Savino says. “He wants to cut off your fucking head.”
“I’m going to shrink his and put it in my pocket,” Malone says, “so his smart mouth is always sucking my balls. Where is he, Lou?”
Savino laughs. “What are you going to do? Pistol-whip me like I’m one of your moolies? Come on.”
Savino looks over Malone’s shoulder, like he’s expecting Sciollo to bang on the door, ask if he’s okay. “We’re hearing things about you. Some people are very concerned.”
Malone knows “some people” means Stevie Bruno. And he’s “concerned” that I’m a rat because I have a lot to give up on the Cimino borgata.
“Tell those people they got nothing to worry about,” Malone says.
“I vouched for you,” Savino says. “I’m responsible for what you do. They’ll kill me, too. I’ve been invited to a sit-down, you know what that means.”
“I wouldn’t go if I were you.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve been invited too, asshole,” Savino says. “Half past twelve tomorrow. La Luna. Attendance is not optional. Come alone.”
“And get a bullet in the back of the head?” Or something worse, Malone thinks. A knife in the spine, a wire around the throat, my dick stuffed in my mouth. “Pass.”
“Look,” Savino says, “I’ll vouch for you if you keep me covered on the heroin.”
“You didn’t tell Bruno about that?”
“It must have slipped my mind,” Savino says. “The greedy fuck would want twenty points. You and me, we take each other’s backs, we can both walk out of this meeting, Denny.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Sciollo knocks on the door. “What, Lou, you drown in there?”
“Get the fuck outta here!” He looks at Malone. “You think you can take on the whole world?”
Yeah, I do, Malone thinks.
The whole fucking world, it comes to that.
He’s driving back downtown, all of a sudden he feels like he can’t breathe.
Like the car is closing in on him.
Fuck, like the whole world is closing in on him—Castillo and the Dominicans, the Ciminos, the feds, IAB, the Job, the mayor’s office, God only knows who else. He feels this tightening in his chest and wonders if he’s
having a heart attack. He pulls the car over, reaches into the glove compartment, takes out a Xanax and pops it down.
This ain’t you, he thinks.
A fucking, what, a panic attack?
It ain’t you.
You’re Denny freakin’ Malone.
Malone puts the car back in drive and heads down Broadway. But he knows there are eyes on him. From the sidewalks, the windows, the buildings, the cars. Eyes in black faces, brown faces. Old eyes, young eyes, sad eyes, angry eyes, accusing eyes, junkie eyes, skel eyes, the eyes of children.
There are eyes on him.
He drives to Claudette’s.
She’s high.
Not neck-drooping, head-lolling high, but grooving to the music high. Cécile McLorin Salvant, someone like that. Claudette opens the door and dances away from it, waving him in with her fingers.
Smiling like the world is a bowl of cream.
“Come on, baby, don’t be a drag. Dance with me.”
“You’re high.”
“You’re right,” Claudette says, turning around to look at him. “I’m high. You want to climb up here where I am, baby?”
“I’m good.”
And it’s never going to be any better, he thinks. She’s never going to get any better. But you can’t always be there and the smack can.
The smack you just put on the street.
She moves back across the room and wraps her arms around him. “C’mon, baby, I want you to dance with me. Don’t you want to dance with me?”
The trouble is he does.
He starts to sway with her.
She feels warm against him.
He could stay like this forever but they don’t dance for long because the heroin starts to take hold and she starts to nod. But as she does, she murmurs, “You didn’t answer when I called.”
There’s that old saying about being “crazy about” someone. And I am, he thinks, I’m crazy about this woman. It’s crazy to love her, crazy to stay with her, but I do and I will.
Crazy love.
He carries her to bed.
Chapter 24
Sunday comes like it always does for Malone, with a vague childhood unease at not going to Mass.
Malone dozed more than slept, his waking thoughts about Claudette.
Now he makes two coffees, goes back into the bedroom and wakes her up. She opens her eyes and he sees it takes a second or two for her to recognize him. “Good morning, baby.”
