Felix stirred in the passenger seat beside him, and now even Felix checked his watch. 3:56. Charley knew nothing was going to happen tonight-in his soul, he knew it, and knowing it made him hungry.
"You want a sandwich?" Felix said he'd have a roast beef if there was one left. He said he was tired of eating cucumber sandwiches. The chef was English. Charley found one that looked like roast beef and gave it to him. The thin sandwich was tiny in Felix's hand, all out of scale.
"How come"-Felix chewed-"he always cuts off the crusts? I never understood that."
"'Cause he's English. The English are more civilized than us. Margaret was always saying that."
"Why is cutting off the crusts civilized?"
Charley considered. "They feed the crusts to the pigeons so the pigeons don't have to eat garbage. The English eat a lot of pigeons, see."
"That doesn't sound civilized to me. I wouldn't eat pigeon."
"Hell, I don't know. What'd you used to talk about when you did stakeouts?"
"Getting laid. The Mets. How come the English cut the crusts off their sandwiches. That was a big topic of conversation."
Voices crackled over the police scanner. "Ten-sixteen, holding one. New York, one-five-six, Oscar Peter Bravo." Felix said they were checking a license plate. "Ten-ten, pick up aided case, Twelfth and Avenue D. Send a bus."
"Bus," said Charley. "What's that?"
"Ambulance."
"Aided case?"
"Someone needing assistance, alive or dead." The thought took form simultaneously between them: the blue skin, the open jaw.
Felix said, "We used to play this game. The boundary between the Ninth Precinct, where I was, and the Thirteenth is along Fourteenth Street, right down the median strip. Some guys from the Thirteenth would find a body on their side of the line. These bodies, they could be real unpleasant, so they'd haul it across the street and put it on our sidewalk and call it in as one of ours. We'd get there, and you could always tell if it had been moved, so we'd haul it back across the line and call it in and say: No, uh-uh, it's one of yours. And they'd come and haul it back and say: No, it's yours. Sometimes this went on for hours, back and forth, these poor stiffs getting dragged back and forth, back and forth."
"That's a terrible story," said Charley.
"Yeah, but now you're not thinking of her anymore." Felix sat up. "Here we go."
Charley said into the radio, "Uncle Bob, Uncle Sam." They were using NYPD radio codes: "uncle" for undercover.
"Uncle Bob."
"Stepping out."
"Roger."
Two men came out of number 316, walked down the stoop and turned east on Eighth Street, toward Avenue C. One of them was Ramirez. "Shit," said Felix.
"Who's that?"
"I don't know," said Felix. "Better let him go."
"No," said Charley. "I'm not sitting here another night." He said into the radio, "Uncle Bob. Go." Felix opened the door.
A blue van was parked in front of the abandoned Chevy. The side door slammed open and two men of considerable size jumped out, one with a Remington pump, the other a nickel-plated.357. They were wearing blue windbreakers painted with large yellow letters: DEA.
Ramirez and the other man turned and ran the other way but found themselves looking at Felix, also in a DEA jacket, pointing a Smith amp; Wesson Model 59.
"Federal agents," he said. "You're under arrest." The two DEA men took them from behind and spread-eagled them over the remains of the Chevy that once braked for whales.
"Toss 'em," said Felix. The DEA men frisked them. They pulled a Tando knife out of Ramirez's boot and a packet of tinfoil out of the front pocket of his jeans. Inside were two dozen tiny plastic Ziploc bags of crack.
"Hey, man," Ramirez said, "these aren't my pants." Amazing, the things they would say.
One of the DEA guys laughed. "Those aren't your pants?"
"No, man, swear to God."
"He says they aren't his pants."
Felix said, "Are you Emiliano Ramirez?"
"No."
"But those are Emiliano's pants. You're in violation of USC 841-3-1. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law you have the right to a lawyer if you cannot afford a lawyer one will be appointed for you do you understand these rights? Comprende sus derechos?"
"Yeah yeah, man. Look, these aren't my fuckin' pants, man. I was up there, I put on the wrong pants."
"You put on the wrong pants?" Felix stared. "I'm going to have to talk to your valet, then." He turned to the other man. "What's your name, my man?"
"Ramon."
"What's your problem, Ramon?"
"I got no problem with you, man."
"I think you do. You been hanging out with my man Emiliano. I think you got a serious problem."
"No, man, no problem. I ain't hanging out with him."
Ramirez said, "These are his pants, man. He loaned me his pants."
"Hey, fuck you, man!"
"Friendship," said DEA. "It's a beautiful thing."
"Okay," said Felix, patting Emiliano's shoulder, "this one into the choo-choo. We're going down to the federal lockup, Emiliano. I hope whoever's pants those are put a toothbrush in them." One of the DEA men handcuffed Ramirez and put him inside the van.
Felix said, "Okay, Ramon." Ramon lifted himself off the hood. His hands were shaking. "I don't want to see you again, Ramon. Ever, do you understand?"
"No problem, man."
"If I ever see you again, I'm going to be unhappy."
"No problem."
"Go."
Ramon started walking west, toward Avenue B. Felix got in the car and pulled out into the street. "I think my man Ramon made a ca-ca in his pants."
He looked in the rearview for the van. It hadn't pulled out yet. Felix stopped. "What's going on?" They couldn't see.
Ramon had reached the corner by the church when the bullet hit him, a good shot at that distance with a pistol. He fell forward onto his face, blood spurting out of the tiny hole in the center of the back of his skull.
The van pulled out into the street and caught up. They had the light and got on the FDR northbound at Twenty-third Street.
8
It was going on midnight. He was at the corner of University Place and Thirteenth, about to cross, when he heard his name being called. He turned and saw the limousine at the curb. At first he thought it was Bernie's, then he saw Felix in the driver's seat.
"Charley?" He peered into the open window, saw the glow of a cigar.
"Well, don't just stand there," said Charley in a friendly way. "Get in."
"Actually, I'm on my way to a meeting."
"A meeting? At this hour?"
"Yeah."
"Well, get in anyway. I'm cheaper than any cab."
"I don't want to take you out of your way."
"Out of my way?" Charley laughed. "I got no meeting to go to. Come on, it's cold."
"You sure?" Tim got in. The glass partition was down. He said, "How are you, Felix." Felix did not return the greeting, which struck Tim as a little rude, frankly. Tim never liked Felix, the way he looked at him.
"Been trying to reach you," said Charley.
"I know. I'm sorry. It's been crazy. You heard about the show?"
"I did. I think it's great."
"I should have called."
"Don't apologize for being a success. I'm just happy I ran into you like this. What a coincidence, huh? In a city this size."
"Yeah. So, you… doing all right?"
"Fine. You?"
Tim sighed. "I'm doing all right. Industry is the enemy of melancholy."
"I like that. Is that Shakespeare?"
"Just a saying. It means-"
"I think I grasp it. I like it. I think I'll put that in our little newspaper. My company has a little in-house newspaper. Sayings of Chairman Charley sort of thing. I like to put inspirational things in it. I'll put that in. Don't you like that, Felix?"
/> Felix didn't answer. Charley whispered to Tim, "Don't mind him. Cuban, you know. Moody. I think it's all that sugar in the blood."
The streets were going by the wrong way. "Actually, I'm going uptown," said Tim.
"No problem," said Charley. "What time's your meeting?"
"Well, now. I mean, it's my meeting. It starts when I get there."
Charley chuckled. "It's good when they become your meetings. I remember when it got to the point they were my meetings. You know how I made my first serious money? Landing craft. I was coming home from the war-I'd been in the infantry-I was coming home from the war, getting on a ship, and I saw all these landing craft, miles of landing craft, sitting there with nothing left to invade, and I said to myself: I bet those could be had for a song. All I had to do was come up with the song. Now, Margaret's daddy, he was a terrible drunk, that's the only reason he would have let her marry someone like myself, first mate on a charter fishing boat. I never told you about how I married Margaret, did I?"
They were going into the tunnel. "Brooklyn?" said Tim.
"You know, when I first saw Brooklyn, there was ships fighting with each other trying to get space at the piers. Now look at it. Unions. Look back there," he said, toward Manhattan. "That's where Herman Melville first sailed from. You know what he wrote? He wrote something beautiful and true: 'Our souls are like those orphans whose mothers die in bearing them; the secret to our paternity lies in their graves, and we must there to learn it.' I didn't know it until someone explained it to me, but did you know Moby Dick isn't about whales."
"No."
"It's about orphans. I'm an orphan. That's why my family was so important to me."
"Charley, where are we going?" They were driving through an abandoned area of waterfront, into a warehouse on a pier. Tim saw an RV parked in a far corner. They pulled up alongside of it.
Felix opened the door for Charley. Charley got out. Tim stayed inside. "Come on," said Charley, "got someone I want you to meet."
"That's okay."
"Well, I can't introduce you if you stay inside the car."
"I can't."
"You can't? What do you mean?"
"I have agoraphobia."
"What?"
"Fear of spaces."
"Felix," said Charley, "we got anything in the first aid for agoraphobia?" Felix stuck his head in the door; Tim got out. What he saw inside the van gave him a bad start. Ramirez was sitting scrunched on a settee between two large men. One of the men was reading Architectural Digest, the other House amp; Garden. He saw another, similar-looking man by the kitchen area taking apart a coffee-making machine. He looked up at Tim in a way that was frightening for its apparent lack of interest.
Charley said, "I believe you know Mr. Ramirez there. That's Mr. McNamara on his left and Mr. Bundy on his right. And over there is Mr. Rostow. You making coffee, Mr. Rostow?"
"I'm trying to make cappuccino, but these instructions are in Italian."
"Plain coffee would be fine. Sit down, son," he said to Tim. "Mr. Ramirez has made certain allegations. He's said you called him around four-thirty on the day my granddaughter was killed in a state of some excitement and threatened to give his name to the police as the supplier of a certain gram of cocaine unless he met with you immediately."
"That's completely-"
"Hold on, hold on, I want to hear your side of it, but hear me out. He says you told him to meet you at this bar on Spring Street and made him stay with you until seven-thirty, when you both went to this place, Gulag, until after two."
"That's absurd. That wasn't it at all."
"Okay. The floor's all yours."
"I think I know why he's saying this, though. Yeah, it makes sense. He's probably the one who gave Tasha the coke."
Ramirez exploded. "You lying piece of shit. He's lying."
"I don't like that language, Emiliano."
Tim whispered, "Charley, what's going on here? This guy's a coke dealer."
"I know. We been watching him."
"Well?"
"That's why I'm curious why you'd be spending time with him. Successful person like yourself."
Tim sighed with relief. "Jesus, is that it? It was research."
"Research?" said Charley.
"You know the character in the play, Jose? The dealer? We want to change his part a little. One of the stage people told me about this guy here, works as an usher sometimes at the theater, only so he can sell coke. That interested me, so I decided to interview him and see what I could find out about the dope business. That's why we went to that place, Gulag."
"I see."
"He's fucking lying!" Ramirez shouted. Bundy swatted him on the head with Architectural Digest.
But Ramirez went on. "He called me on my beeper and told me she's dead, man, she fucking died and I'm gonna tell the cops it was you if you don't do like I say."
"Charley, please-"
"It's all right, son. I know it couldn't have been you anyhow. The medical examiner said she died between eight and midnight, and you were in that club with him then."
"Right."
"And you left her place at four-thirty."
"Right."
Charley grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pushed him against the wall. The Winnebago shook. "You son of a bitch."
"Charley, you've got me confused. I wasn't at her place." Charley reached under his arm and drew his old Army Colt.45 and put it to Tim's forehead. He said, "Talk."
"She called me. She was upset about the review. She said she'd bought cocaine from this usher at the theater. She said she was going to do the whole gram until she had the role authenticated. I pleaded with her not to do it. I told her it was dangerous. She said she didn't care. Christ, Charley, you know how she was. I rushed over, called her from the phone booth, that was the first message I got on the machine. She let me in. By the time I got there she was already flying. She'd done like half the gram. She was gone. Then she just keeled, dead."
"Why didn't you call for help?"
"She was dead, Charley. There was no heartbeat. I gave her CPR. She was dead."
"You should have called for help."
"She was dead. Either your heart is beating or it's not beating. Hers wasn't beating. I panicked, okay? I'd just heard the show might be moving uptown, my first real break, and, and I panicked, okay? I'm guilty of panicking. But that's all. The medical examiner doesn't know what he's talking about. She was dead at four-twenty or four-twenty-five. By the couch."
Charley threw open the door and went outside. He put his head against the metal side of the RV and pressed it there. Felix went to him. Charley moaned, "They found her in the bathroom. He left her to die."
Felix started up the steps. Charley stopped him.
Five minutes passed before the door opened and Charley reentered the RV. Tim was sweaty and pale. Charley said somberly, "I will not drag her good name through the papers. It's done. You'll have to live the rest of your life with this and I pray to God it drives you screaming off a cliff someday. Now get out."
"Charley, I feel badly-"
"GET OUT."
Tim closed the door behind him and breathed in the cold night air, still trembly. Felix said, "I'm supposed to take you back. Get in."
"I'll walk, that's all right."
Felix stared. "You wouldn't last two minutes in this neighborhood. Get in." Tim climbed in back, Felix in the front. He started the car. The glass partition slid up. Tim was grateful for that. He heard a hissing coming from beneath the seat. It seemed a little too loud for heat. He looked. Two streams of white smoke. He reached for the door handle; it was locked. It was a chemical smell, like, actually it was-Jesus-wonderful. He felt great. He'd never felt this great. It was so incredibly great, like a great opening night, only more… great.
Charley and Ramirez spoke in Spanish. "Who gave you the cocaine you sold to Tim?" Ramirez had not quite grasped the essence of his situation and was now demanding his lawyer and phone call. Finally Charley
said to Ramirez that he could discuss the matter either with him or with the two men bookending him.
Ramirez said, "If I give you his name, he will kill me."
"No." Charley shook his head convincingly. "I promise you that will not happen. And I will pay for the information."
"How much?"
"Five thousand dollars."
The prospect of money seemed to relax Ramirez. "Fifty," he said.
Charley considered. "No."
"Forty-five."
"Ten."
"Forty."
Charley said, "Ten. And my offer is good for ten seconds. After that"-he nodded in the direction of McNamara-"our negotiation will proceed to another phase."
Ramirez gave a name and address in Hunts Point. Charley pointed to the crucifix around his neck.
"Are you Catholic, Emiliano?"
"Si si. Muy catolico."
"Hold the cross in your hand." Puzzled, Ramirez held the crucifix. "Repeat after me: I swear by the Holy Cross of Jesus and by His Holy Mother, the Virgin, that what I've just said is true, and if it is not true, then may I spend eternity in hell and may my grandmother, mother, aunts and sisters spend eternity in hell."
"No problem, man." That wasn't quite the right answer. Charley was disappointed in Emiliano. He cocked his.45. Ramirez produced a different name and address, and a phone number. Charley dialed the number on the cellular telephone and handed it to Ramirez, the.45 aimed at his head. "Prove it," he said. Ramirez called Uguarte and said he needed more "oranges." Amazing, the codes they used like someone listening in wouldn't know what "oranges" was.
Charley said, "Who do you want to get the money?" There were some awkward moments as Ramirez figured it out. He began to cry and that didn't help. He said to send the money to his mother, Rosa, and gave her address. Charley cocked his.45 and urged him to be a man. At which point Ramirez began blubbering. "Por el amor de Dios, un cura. Por el amor de Dios, un cura." Charley lowered the gun. Felix caught the stricken look.
"What's the problem?" he whispered.
"He's asking for a priest."
"Yeah. So?"
"Well, I can't shoot a man who's asking for a priest."
"Why?"
"You know why."
Wet Work Page 6
