Chasers

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “What can I say?” Rev. Jim said, his arms held out, a wide smile on his face. “I was cursed with the gift.”

  “When you get a minute,” Boomer said, returning the smile, “you might consider giving it back.”

  The loud laughter of the group echoed off the walls of the shuttered pizzeria.

  12

  Natalie Robinov watched Tony Rigs toss a baseball into the air and take a hard swing at it with an aluminum baseball bat. The ball flew skyward at the sound of the ping, coming down at an arc toward a young boy in a clean uniform and a worn glove. He was standing on the edge of the infield dirt when the ball landed with a thud inside his open mitt. “Nice way to grab, Joey,” Tony Rigs shouted out to the boy, pointing the head of the bat in his direction. “You see, all that practice time does come with a payoff.” The boy smiled, nodded, and tossed the ball back.

  The fenced-in Little League field was crammed full with teams in full practice, four squads stationed in each corner of the well-cared-for Nassau County grounds. Tony Rigs looked out at his squad, a dozen preteen boys and girls each outfitted in a crisp uniform with “Calhoun Construction Company” stenciled across the front, and turned to Natalie. “You should have seen them two weeks ago, when they first took to the field,” he said. “A couple of them had never even caught a ball before, if you could imagine. Now, they’re rounding out pretty good, starting to get the feel of a team, which is what you need before that first game is even played.”

  “If you’re looking for an assistant coach, look in some other direction,” Natalie said, standing on the other side of the mesh fence, her arms at her sides, her short skirt and tanned legs getting the desired effect. “I know less than nothing about the game, and what little I do know bores me.”

  “That’s too bad,” Tony Rigs said, tossing her a smile and getting ready to lift another ball toward the short end of the outfield. “Knowing this game could help make you even better at your job. I mean, the lessons you take from one field can carry over with ease to the next.”

  “I’m very good at my job,” Natalie said. “I’m even better when I’m allowed to do it. Now, since I did drag my ass all the way out here as per your request, it would be a solid move for you to step up and tell me why.”

  “Way I see it,” Tony Rigs said, handing the bat off to one of his players, “our league is down to three top-tier teams—my crew, yours, and the South Americans. The rest of the bunch are nothing better than second division, if that. So that leaves the open question of who grabs the top prize and—this I know from baseball—it’s not always the best team on paper that wins it all. It’s the one that makes it a goal to work together and pulls in place the best and the smartest moves. With me so far?”

  “On every word,” Natalie said. “And if I understand the direction your conversation will soon be heading down, then the smart move would call for me to do a hookup with you at the expense of the South Americans. I hit that ball out of the place?”

  “Out of the park,” he said, impressed as much with her wit as with her legs. “If that were to happen, how bothered would you be by it?”

  “Not one bit,” Natalie said. “Just as long as my end of the action tallied up to be as big as yours. I know the kind of deal I can get out of the South Americans. I just don’t know if I can trust them to hold to it.”

  “But you trust me to hold to mine?” Tony Rigs said.

  “I don’t trust anyone,” Natalie said. “But I believe it’s in your best interest to stay on our good side. On top of which, the Italians have always let others get a cut of the action, often reaching out to groups other crews wouldn’t go near. The same doesn’t hold true for the South Americans. They want to rule the business, and would very much prefer to do it alone. And if killing either one of us guarantees them that, then they would let fly the bullets and the blood flow. So, while I don’t trust you one iota, it can safely be argued that I have a better understanding of your motives.”

  “We stand on common ground, then,” Tony Rigs said, his eyes doing a roll from the field to Natalie. “And that ground will only get firmer and a lot richer if you stay on the sidelines and let what’s going to play out over the next week or so go the full run.”

  “So long as none of my action gets touched, you won’t hear from anyone that connects to me,” Natalie said. “But if any hand touches profit, those hands will be cut off. No hesitation.”

  “Can’t guarantee that won’t happen, but I’ll do my best to see you’re not bothered,” Tony Rigs said. “But a lot of what’s going to go down I’ll only catch ear of after the fact, same as you.”

  “If it’s not your crew moving on the SAs, then who?” Natalie asked. “And no bullshit, this is one part of the story I need to know, and there’s no deal between us until I do.”

  “You got a Russian name, but an Italian temper and body to boot,” Tony Rigs said, tossing out a smile and waiting for one in return.

  “Save the sweet for your weekend side dish,” Natalie said, not playing along. “Your boring game is going to start soon, and I still haven’t heard anything of interest.”

  “Cops,” Tony Rigs said with a resigned shrug. “Ex-cops, you want the full facts. A small team of hard chargers looking for a taste of the get-even. They’re outnumbered and outgunned, but if they play it smart—and more often than not they do—they stand a puncher’s chance of drawing blood.”

  “And what are they looking to clear?” Natalie asked, digging deeper. “They want the money? The dope? The turf? All three?”

  “It’s not even close to something like that,” Tony Rigs said. “Least not with these guys. They were as stain-free as Mister Clean on the job, even more so once they were shot and stabbed off it.”

  “Which leaves them what?” Natalie asked, looking off into the distance.

  “Not everybody out there’s like us, always looking to bite off a piece and steal it away,” he said. “Sometimes the good guys are really just that.”

  “How well do you know these cops?” she asked.

  “I don’t know the whole team, just the two who call the shots,” Tony Rigs said. “With them I got a history. They stayed on the up-and-up with me, and I did my best to steer any business away from their sectors. If any lines were crossed, they did what they had to do and I did what I needed to do. We each knew the street rules and we followed them.”

  “And what about now?” Natalie said. “They’re not cops anymore. They can’t make arrests, can’t authorize wires, can’t even ask a question and expect to get an answer in return. Which makes them what?”

  “Dangerous,” Tony Rigs said. “You’re right, they can’t run any of that pull-over-and-give-me-your-license bullshit. But they also don’t have to follow any by-the-book fucking procedures, either. They pinpoint their targets and go after them until one of the two sides does a death drop.”

  “And what are we supposed to do while all this is going on?”

  “Give them what little help we can, for starters,” Tony Rigs said. “But, for the most part, the best thing we can do is just stay out of their fucking way.”

  “Is this a cause for them, or is it personal?” Natalie asked.

  “Does it matter?” he asked.

  “Just curious,” Natalie said. “And, for the record, personal is always better.”

  “If that’s the case, then this job is the fucking lotto of personal,” Tony Rigs said. “The priest sent a top-tier team of shooters into a restaurant a while back, no doubt you caught wind of the details. They dropped their targets and got credit for the job. But they also left some mind-your-own-business bystanders dead in the bullet storm. One of them was a blood relative to the lead cop. She was a good kid. Now, they’re going to give it all they got left to make the padre wish he’d never put in his order.”

  “And you think they can pull this off?” Natalie asked, eager to get insights into Boomer’s plans. “Angel has wiped out entire police departments in his home turf; he’s not goi
ng to be off running for the Depends when he gets wind of a small team of retired badges on his ass. And if they toss the G-Men and the rest of the SAs in their scope, then they best put in an early order for one of those big-time funerals cops like to give each other.”

  “Take them all down—not much of a chance on that,” Tony Rigs said with a shake of his head. “But they’ll put a dent in them, guaranteed. These guys don’t work by any cop rules and never did, even when they were cops. They’ll play one against the other, hit them fast and hard, cause all sorts of shit to slap against the fan belt. Even if they only take down fifteen percent of the SAs, let’s just say, then we still walk away from this with a lead. There’s no downside for either one of us. We wait for the dust to settle and the blood to dry and grab what we can of what there is to call our own. Be just like taking candy from a crackhead.”

  “You their only contact?” Natalie asked.

  “We’d like to keep it low,” Tony Rigs said. “Not make it a finger-walk through the Yellow Pages. The SAs get even a sniff of my involvement in the cause, they’ll be looking to spill and splatter my crew. Not to mention how eager they’ll be to do a head butt with your team.”

  “I don’t like watching from the sidelines,” Natalie said. “It never has worked to my benefit, having others do my dirty deeds. Right now, I’ve got no problems with the South Americans, and they seem to be staying away from my coastline. That will change over time, I’m aware, but why should I go looking to shake their cabanas when they haven’t given me cause?”

  “Save the bullshit for a stranger,” he said, a wide smile across his face. “You’ve had eyes for their turf since you first took control of the steering wheel. Same as me—no different, no better.”

  “If that’s true, then I probably have my eyes on yours as well,” Natalie said, returning the smile.

  “Bet your pretty Russian ass you do,” Tony Rigs said. “But that’s a battle for another day. Right now, let’s eat what we got in front of us. Let’s let these guys put a dent in the SA action, much as they can. Once the cocaine powder settles, we’ll see where we’re at.”

  “And until then?” Natalie asked. “What?”

  “All you need to do is just sit back, put your face up to the warm sun, and enjoy the game,” Tony Rigs said. “Sometimes this business is just as simple as that.”

  Natalie nodded. Maybe it won’t be so simple this time, she thought.

  13

  “You don’t know what you’re asking of me here,” Sean Valentine said. “Passing some classified folders over to your side of the table is one thing. Helping to waste a cop is a whole other pot of soup. Not at all what I signed on to do.”

  “You signed up to do what you were told,” Talbot said, flaunting his lack of patience, channeling his anger. “We didn’t rent you, Mr. Valentine. We bought you, and we own you and your services until we determine otherwise.”

  “I’m not going to off another cop,” Valentine said, pounding a hard fist on the Formica countertop. “That’s the plain and the simple of the equation.”

  “First of all, he’s a former policeman, long retired,” Talbot said. “And second and more important to your concerns is you won’t be the one killing him. I wouldn’t ask that of even you. All I require is that you place him in a position where it becomes an easy job for one of my shooters.”

  “From what I know and heard, you don’t need me to do any of that,” Valentine said, sitting back in his chair and reaching a vein-rich hand out for a near-empty tumbler of Jack Daniel’s. “You’ll find him and his crew real easy. That’s because they’ll be either right in front of you or right up your ass. Either way, it’s a no-miss.”

  “Which should make your task all the easier,” Talbot said, his words hot with the contempt he always reserved for those who sell off their honor for cash but still insist on maintaining a certain degree of respect. “You’ll track their activities and then alert me as to the most opportune time to strike. That is, after all, part and parcel of why your esteemed and dangerous benefactor doles out such a hefty cash-filled envelope each and every month.”

  “And if I refuse?” Valentine asked, a hint of a step-back creeping into his voice. “What then?”

  Talbot sat back, smiled, and stared at the corrupt cop in the designer suit. “I really don’t think that’s a question you want me to answer,” he said. “Though I doubt it would be much of a stretch for you to imagine the inevitable reality. Suffice it to say you’re not the only stained cop eager to own a larger home or impress both an older wife and a younger mistress.”

  Sean Valentine took a deep breath and let his gaze drift away from Talbot, taking in the dark wood furnishings of the old-school club the mob middlemen always chose as their meet-and-greet place. Valentine was now in his mid-forties, a respected member of the police commissioner’s hand-selected inner circle, his career marked by a well-timed series of promotional leaps that were accomplished less by his street actions than by his ability to procure the right favor for the right official at the most appropriate time. It was a skill he had mastered in the years since he graduated from an all-boys Catholic high school in Queens, back when the prospect of a career in civil service seemed the fastest and easiest avenue for him to secure a weekly paycheck that brought with it the potential for a number of side benefits. Valentine viewed the Police Department as a stepping-stone to greater riches, knowing full well that the only way to achieve such a goal was to work the corrupt side of the ledger.

  He began his climb up the greased pole with short-change shakedowns and pocket-cash handouts, rousting local merchants into doling out weekly payments in return for the extra spin of a cruiser around the street. He upped the ante soon after locking in an assignment to an élite and eventually disgraced anti-crime unit working the rooftops and hallways of the troubled Hastings housing projects in the Bronx. In his eighteen months of running buy-and-bust operations against the Rain Reynolds crack crew, Valentine proved adept at racking up impressive arrests with minimum work while stripping high-end dealers of both drugs and large sums of cash. Covered by the large shadows of a four-member team of hard chargers, he averaged a low-five-figure graft income each month while still managing to catch the roving eye of police brass impressed with his tactical abilities and polished manner. A bogus arrest highlighted by a tainted shooting did little to damage a reputation he helped fuel by utilizing prearranged testimony from a string of street players whose pockets he helped line. It took Valentine all of seven years to bring to fruition his plan of plunder while working under the guise of a respected member of the NYPD. By the time he put on his captain’s jacket and walked into his first precinct command in Brooklyn, Sean Valentine was a fully purchased and paid for cop, earning a high-six-figure illicit income and at the beck and call of any crime boss with access to a phone.

  In all his years of reaching for bribes and functioning successfully in a tight and well-constructed web of corruption, Valentine had never butted heads with a buyer quite as cunning and ruthless as Jonas Talbot. And more than any drug dealer or crew leader, he had solid reasons to fear Talbot, convinced that the fixer would have his hide wasted as easily as he poured himself a fresh tumbler of bourbon.

  “I’ll work to set it up,” Valentine said. “I would just as soon not be there when it goes down, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Your reluctance will be duly noted and brought to the attention of all parties concerned,” Talbot said. “And I’m sure it won’t be a cause for alarm for anyone involved, so long as the target is within the shooter’s scope.”

  “How soon you looking to get this all done?” Valentine asked.

  “They’ve already begun pecking at our seed,” Talbot said, “which has ruffled feathers. Using that as an accurate gauge, I would say no more than a week at the most.”

  “What makes you so convinced that with one of their own out of the way the other five in the group won’t keep up the fight?” Valentine asked.


  “The one they refer to as Boomer is who leads their charge,” Talbot said. “He is also the one who sustained the personal loss. He has more at stake than the others. Minus his hand at the helm, the rest will soon enough lose their desire for the big fight and scatter back to their previous posts. Perhaps not right away, but soon enough for it to matter.”

  “And if they don’t?” Valentine asked. “If you’re wrong and Boomer going down turns out to be a rallying cry for them and others out there who want to be them? What happens then?”

  “Then you will be one very busy individual, Mr. Valentine,” Talbot said. “And, I might add, an even richer one—which is, I presume, your overall intent.”

  “That and living long enough to spend all of the cash, right down to the very last buffalo nickel,” Valentine said. “In my book, the two go hand in glove.”

  “Then it’s best we get ourselves to the starting gate,” Talbot said with a wave of his right hand. “And bear in mind, do your utmost to place the target in a situation that makes allowances for only a minimum of distractions. We would prefer, at all costs, not to live through a repeat of our recent restaurant adventure.”

  “I wasn’t anywhere near that job,” Valentine said as he eased his chair back, stood, and adjusted the jacket of his blue suit. “The fault there is on the triggers. The setup and timing were all spot on.”

  “I was merely using it as an illustration and not as an outlet to cast blame,” Talbot said. “It is the type of incident that we must all strive to avoid, even if it does send a loud and rather effective signal to our enemies as to the seriousness of our intent.”

  “I could use some spread money,” Valentine said. “I’ll need to coat a lot of palms if I’m going to get this job done the way you want.”

  “First the dead cop,” Talbot said, turning his gaze away from Valentine and concluding the conversation. “Then the dead presidents.”