by Mike Lawson
“Good Lord,” Emma said, shaking her head. The CIA just amazed her—and terrified her.
“Are they working for you now?”
“No, we haven’t used them since Haiti. Look, these guys are basically hoods, Emma. They could be working for anybody. Now are you going to tell me why you’re asking?”
“Of course not,” Emma said.
“Hussein Halas is trapped in the nine rings of immigration hell,” Neil said.
DeMarco had called Neil after he spoke to Janet Tyler. He wanted to know more about her fiancé and Neil had worked his magic.
“He’s been trying to get his citizenship papers for almost ten years but he can’t because he has a wife back in Jordan. And the fact that he’s a Muslim doesn’t help. But the catch-22 is, he has to go back to Jordan to divorce his wife, but if he does that, they won’t let him back into the U.S.”
“But Immigration could probably deport this guy in a heartbeat if they wanted to,” DeMarco said.
“Oh, you betcha,” Neil said.
Chapter 14
Harry Foster claimed to be a political consultant—it said so right on his office door.
But what Harry really was, was a guy who always knew a guy who knew a guy. If you needed a politician on your side, Harry knew who was for sale. If you wanted a building permit to slide through the system, Harry knew where to apply the grease. Your no-load brother-in-law needs a job? No problem. Harry knew a guy at the union hall. To get things done in New York you could play by the rules, but if you wanted to win you hired an old-time, backroom boy like Harry Foster.
Harry had helped Paul Morelli get elected mayor of New York City.
Harry was sixty-five now and was one of those people who looked better at sixty-five than he had at twenty-five. He was a bit shorter than DeMarco, slim and in good condition. His once black hair was now a handsome shade of silver, receding at the temples, giving him an attractive widow’s peak. His skin was pockmarked from old acne scars, but a good tan maintained in a sun worshiper’s coffin minimized this small blemish. His hands were manicured, his hair perfectly trimmed, and his face was scented with something rich and subtle.
You could still hear traces of Flatbush in Harry’s speech but he had come a long way from Brooklyn. He and DeMarco were seated twelve stories above Fifth Avenue in an office fit for an urban prince, drinking coffee from bone china cups. Below them was Central Park in all its autumn glory, and from their height the view was unmarred by muggers, winos, and the great unwashed.
As DeMarco had told Paul Morelli the night they met, Harry was DeMarco’s godfather. DeMarco’s dad and Harry had known each other as boys—an Italian kid with iron fists and his Irish friend with a silver tongue. DeMarco’s father made a wrong turn somewhere along the twisted road of life and became an enforcer for a mobster in Queens named Carmine Taliaferro. Harry took a different route, going to work for a crooked Bronx borough president, and ending up where he was today, rich and covered in a thin mantle of respectability.
Whatever bond Harry and DeMarco’s father had formed as boys held them together in their later years. Harry would occasionally visit DeMarco’s boyhood home in Queens, and he and his dad would sit there in his mother’s kitchen, drinking coffee, while Harry made jokes about the old days when the nuns used to twist their ears. And while they talked, DeMarco’s mom would glower at Harry, as if it was his fault that her husband worked for the mob. And maybe it was.
Harry and DeMarco’s dad remained friends until the day Gino DeMarco was cut down in his prime by gunmen from a rival gang.
“It’s been a long time, Joe,” Harry said. “What’s it been? Almost two years?”
“About that, I guess. I’m sorry we don’t get together more often.”
“Hey,” Harry said and shrugged. Men were busy.
“I was just visiting my mom,” DeMarco lied, “and decided to stop by.”
“And how is your lovely mother?” Harry asked, a wry smile on his face. They both knew DeMarco’s mother’s opinion of Harry.
“She’s doin’ fine. Hard as a hickory bat.”
Harry laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.” He studied DeMarco for a moment. “You seem a bit antsy, son. Can I assume there’s a purpose to this visit, something more than just dropping in to say hello?”
Though DeMarco’s mother had never approved of him, Harry had been there for DeMarco when his dad was killed. He had sent him money on occasion when he was in college and had been a source of comfort when his marriage failed. Harry was the closest thing he had to a father, and now he wanted a father’s advice.
“I need to ask you something about Paul Morelli, Harry.”
“You want to talk about Paul?”
“Yeah. I like the guy but . . .”
“Well, shit, who doesn’t,” Harry said.
“. . . but I’ve heard something about him and if it’s true . . . Well, then maybe he’s not who everyone thinks he is. You’ve known him a long time and I need your take on this thing.”
“You’re saying you’ve heard something bad about Paul?” Harry said, suddenly less relaxed, sitting up straighter in his chair.
“Yeah.”
DeMarco wasn’t about to tell Harry that he’d heard the bad thing from Paul Morelli’s wife, but he did tell him about Terry Finley’s death and Dick Finley’s speculation that his son had been killed because of whatever he’d been investigating. Harry’s reaction to the names of the three men on the bar napkin found in Terry’s wallet was the same as Abe Burrows and Paul Morelli’s—and John Mahoney’s: what befell those men was nothing more than coincidence and if anything underhanded had taken place, it would have been uncovered by now.
“This isn’t just about the men,” DeMarco said. “There was a woman’s name on the list. She lives here in New York and she worked for Morelli when he was mayor. I’ve been told that Morelli may have attacked this woman. Sexually.”
Harry’s reaction completely surprised DeMarco. “That gold-digging bitch!” he said. “If she thinks she can pull this crap now, I’m gonna make her life a living hell.”
DeMarco didn’t know what Harry was talking about but before he could say anything, Harry added, “You’re talking about Susan Medford. Right?
“Uh, yeah,” DeMarco said. If Harry hadn’t been so angry he might have noticed DeMarco’s hesitation. But Harry was angry.
“It’s her mother,” he said. “Goddamnit, this has got to be coming from her.”
“Harry, what are you talking about?”
“It was New Year’s Eve, an office party, and shit, I don’t know what the hell got into Paul. He had too much to drink and there was the stress of the Senate campaign, and I’d heard that things weren’t going too good between him and his wife at the time. Anyway, for whatever reason, Paul gets sorta shit-faced, gets this little gal in his office, and tries to smooch her or something. I guess she’d never had her tit squeezed before by a drunken wop, and she gets all hysterical and runs out of the party. Her mother says the girl’s blouse was half ripped off, but that was bullshit.”
“He assaulted her, Harry, is that what you’re saying?”
“No, goddamnit, he didn’t assault her! Don’t even say shit like that. Paul just got a little drunk and hit on her. Maybe he groped her a bit, but that’s it.”
“So what happened?”
“So what happened is her mother gets a lawyer. She decides she’s going to sue the mayor of New York for sexual harassment, attempted rape, and any other fuckin’ thing she can dream up. Fortunately, the lawyer she retained knows me and he calls me before the press gets wind of all this. We agreed to settle the outstanding mortgage on the mother’s condo—the girl lives with her—and the girl, we gave her a hundred grand. For damages, her lawyer said, like her tit had been permanently bruised. And then we got the mother and the girl and the lawyer to sign papers that said if they ever, ever discussed the settlement we’d fuckin’ own ’em.”
“Jesus, Harry,” DeMarco sai
d.
“Hey!” Harry said, annoyed at DeMarco’s judgmental tone. “We had to kill the thing. Paul still would have won the election but it would have been just like it was with Schwarzenegger, all that crap about him groping women. So we paid her off. But Paul sure as shit didn’t rape her. And now you’re telling me the gal—it’s gotta be her goddamn mother—is telling people this.
“Well, I’m gonna call that bitch as soon as you leave and I’ll tell her exactly what’s gonna happen to her. That woman, the mother, she loves this place she has—got a view of the Hudson to die for—and I’m gonna tell her that she’s gonna be livin’ out the back of her fuckin’ car if she reneges on the agreement she signed.” Harry shook his head. “The thing is, even though Paul didn’t do a damn thing to the girl, other than maybe try to smooch her, this is the last damn thing he needs right now.”
“Has Morelli ever done anything else like this?” DeMarco said.
“Hell, no! It happened one damn time.” Harry fumed, still agitated. “So who told you about this?”
DeMarco hated to lie to Harry, but he had to. “I can’t say, Harry. You know, it’s a lawyer thing. But what I can tell you is that the woman’s name was just on this list and somebody I talked to, somebody who knew Terry Finley, said that he’d heard some kind of rumor about a sexual assault, but nothing specific, nothing that could be confirmed.”
DeMarco knew that if Harry talked to Paul Morelli, Morelli would know that Susan Medford wasn’t on the list. The twisted tales we weave.
“And so now what, Joe? Where are you going with this?
“I’m not going anywhere with it. I don’t have any desire to cause Morelli a problem. You told me what happened, and that’s the end of it.”
Harry studied DeMarco’s face for a bit before saying, “What time’s your plane leave, son?”
“Four,” DeMarco said.
“Come on. Let’s go get some lunch, then I’ll give you a lift to the airport.”
Harry called for his car and they drove to a restaurant in lower Manhattan. The name of the restaurant was written over the door in letters so faded they were almost illegible, and inside the restaurant, the hardwood floors were scuffed and worn, the tables small and wobbly. The blue checkered tablecloths had been laundered, but the stains of a thousand meals were evident.
A man in his seventies who spoke English with a heavy Italian accent came over and embraced Harry as soon as they stepped through the door. DeMarco noticed the waiters were all men in their late fifties or sixties with Mediterranean complexions. The restaurant wasn’t crowded, only three other tables were occupied, and everyone—the owner, the waiters, the customers—were of a type: working-class Italians in late middle age or older. It was a place that catered to a thin slice of a particular generation, and when that generation passed, it too would pass.
The owner directed them to a table apart from the other diners, and they sat only a minute before they were served a carafe of strong red wine. They never saw a menu. Food just began to arrive, a different course every twenty minutes or so. DeMarco couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten so well.
During lunch, Harry told stories about Paul Morelli.
“He gets things done, Joe, like you wouldn’t believe. Most politicians, they don’t know how to solve problems—they make speeches. But Paul, he’s a genius. You need money to fix something, he finds sources. You need two parties to agree, he brings ’em together. I’m not bullshittin’ you. I’ve never seen a guy that can make things happen like him.”
This conversation was repeated throughout the two-hour lunch. Harry told stories of day care centers built, of old people taken care of, of businesses rejuvenated. He told of blacks and whites working together, of stingy old men donating their fortunes to charity.
As they were leaving the restaurant, the owner came up to Harry, embraced him again, and kissed him on the cheek.
“I just wanna thank you again, Harry, for what you did for my Gina.”
“The only thing I did, Benny, was talk to Mayor Morelli.”
Harry looked at DeMarco and said, “Benny’s daughter needed a bone marrow transplant. The only acceptable donor was her brother, a complete thug, breaking rocks up at Attica. The kid was such a degenerate he wouldn’t help his own sister. I mentioned this to Paul, just in passing, and he personally goes up to the pen and talks the kid into donating. Didn’t promise him squat. After the kid’s paroled, Paul gets him a job with the teamsters. He’s been driving eighteen-wheelers for six years now, keeping his nose clean.”
Saint Paul of the Big Apple.
Harry waited until DeMarco disappeared inside the terminal at La Guardia, then pulled his cell phone off his belt. He flipped open the lid of the phone and his finger descended to punch the buttons, but then he stopped.
He really should talk to Paul about Joe. The fact that he was asking questions about Susan Medford wasn’t good and if it had been anyone other than his godson, he wouldn’t have thought twice about making the call. But Joe was his godson.
He also realized that he’d fucked up. Big time. Susan Medford had just been a name on a piece of paper, and Joe hadn’t really known anything about her until he shot off his big mouth. Paul would really be pissed if he knew what he had done.
But still—he should call Paul.
He unconsciously began to flip the lid of the cell phone open and shut, open and shut, oblivious to the little clicking sound.
If Paul should find out later that Joe had visited him and he’d kept it to himself . . . well, that wouldn’t be good. But what if Paul told him to go see the old man? He didn’t think that was likely, but you could never be sure. Jesus, he didn’t ever want to have to go see the old man about Joe. Joe was like a son to him.
Harry jerked in surprise when someone rapped on his car window, the sound like a man’s wedding ring tapping the glass. It was an airport cop, telling him to get moving, to get off the parking strip. Asshole. What did he look like? Some rag-head suicide bomber?
He closed the cell phone and clipped it back onto his belt.
Joe was a good guy. He wasn’t gonna be a problem.
Chapter 15
The pit boss had been chewing out one of his dealers for showing up late when he saw Eddie. Aw, shit. What was he doing here? He was alone at a five-dollar blackjack table and that’s what he was betting: just five bucks a hand. He obviously wasn’t here to gamble.
Eddie had to be the broadest man the pit boss had ever seen. Not fat, just wide. The damn guy’s shoulders had to be a yard across, and his chest and waist weren’t much smaller. He was like a big, square chunk of concrete on two stubby legs. But it was his hands that were scary: the size of catchers’ mitts, the fingers like mangled sausages, all splayed and bent up funny, crisscrossed with thick, ugly scars. He’d love to know who had been tough enough to fuck up Eddie’s hands that way, but he’d never ask. And he’d also bet—he’d bet every cent he had—that whoever had done it was dead and had died very painfully.
Oh, no. Eddie had just looked at him and moved his head, a little get-your-ass-over-here motion. He wanted to talk. Christ, why’d he have to be on duty tonight?
He walked over to the blackjack table. “Stacy,” he said to the dealer, “go powder your nose. Five minutes, no more.”
Stacy stacked her cards and walked away without a word. She was like most of their female dealers, in her forties, still good-looking enough to turn a few heads but past her prime as a stripper. And like most dealers, the woman was a complete zombie. The cards would fly from her hands, and she’d tell the suckers whether they’d busted or not, and she’d pick up their chips if they lost or pay ’em if they won, but the whole time her mind was a zillion miles away, thinking about whatever these friggin’ gals thought about while they worked.
“Hey, Eddie,” he said as soon as Stacy was gone, “long time no see. What can I do for you?”
Please, please God, let him say he wants a hooker.
“Yo
u see that guy over there?” Eddie said. “At the twenty-five-dollar table, the guy in the green jacket?”
The pit boss turned his head slowly, like he was just casually taking in the room while they talked. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s the doc. He’s in here all the time. Loser.”
“Not tonight,” Eddie said. “I want him to win big.”
Aw, fuck.
“How much?”
“Ten, fifteen grand. That’ll be enough.”
“Okay.” Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full.
The pit boss went back to his station in the middle of the blackjack tables, picked up his phone, and made a call. Five minutes later Ray was there, a man in his fifties, white shirt, little black bow tie like all the dealers wore—and fingers like a concert pianist. Ray was the best mechanic they had. Maybe the best mechanic on the boardwalk.
“Take over Dave’s table,” the pit boss said. “I want the guy in the green jacket to win ten grand.”
“You got it,” Ray said, eyes lighting up like a slot machine that had just paid off. Ray lived for this.
The pit boss spent the next two hours wishing he was someplace else. Anyplace else. He was pretty sure that he had just become an accessory to something, he didn’t know what, but whatever it was, he was sure it wasn’t good.
The doc let out another victory yell. The fuckin’ guy, he thought he was magic tonight. If he only knew.
The pit boss looked over at Eddie. He was still sitting alone at Stacy’s table, still betting just five bucks a hand. His eyes were focused on the doc, watching as the doc’s stack of chips grew taller.
Chapter 16
