Payback

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “I figure no one in your office knows who you’re handing over that amount of cash to,” I said. “Other than you and Bobby.”

  “It’s an undercover operation, and I don’t need to disclose the name of the one going deep,” Dee Dee said. “But I better get the cash back, one way or another.”

  Dee Dee got up from her chair and walked to a small fridge, opened it, and pulled out three bottles of Snapple iced tea. She handed one to me, one to Chris, and then went back behind her desk. “Didn’t think either of you wanted coffee,” she said. “And that’s all I keep in the fridge.”

  “I wouldn’t have minded a coffee,” I said.

  “Drink your tea,” Dee Dee said, giving Chris a smile and a nod. “And let me hear about this favor.”

  “This firm will be sending heavy hitters my way,” I said. “It puts my team and me in jeopardy. Now, we can handle a few, but not a full onslaught if it comes to that. So I need to bring in some of our own.”

  “Your own what?” Dee Dee asked.

  “Guys who can help take down whatever gets sent our way,” I said. “Some of them will be from Carmine’s old ranks. They can be a help, no doubt, but I was looking for more. Younger, stronger, and dangerous.”

  “Which leaves us where?”

  “With Alban,” I said.

  Dee Dee looked at me for a few moments and then sat back in her chair. “It’s a major risk,” she said. “You get Alban and his band involved and there will be bloodshed. A lot of it.”

  “There’s going to be bloodshed whether they’re in it or not,” I said.

  “Has he agreed to help?”

  “I’m meeting with him soon,” I said. “Wanted to run it by you first.”

  “If they go in—and there’s no guarantee they will—it will cost money,” Dee Dee said. “Alban doesn’t make any move that doesn’t end with cash in his pockets.”

  “Anything he gets comes out of the firm’s dirty stash,” I said. “That is part of the offer. But only one part.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  “You know a family member is part of my crew,” I said.

  Dee Dee nodded. “The psychic,” she said. “She helped you take down that dealer a few months back.”

  “That she did,” I said. “Brought in some of her friends and relatives and they did some major damage.”

  “But she didn’t bring in Alban and all he comes with,” Dee Dee said.

  “She didn’t need them then,” I said. “But we need them now.”

  “And you think she can convince him?”

  “She needs to tell him a story,” I said. “That will convince him.”

  “What kind of story?” Dee Dee asked.

  “My mom and dad weren’t the first people these guys have had killed,” Chris said. “They’ve killed a lot of people, hurt a lot of people.”

  “Give me an example,” Dee Dee said.

  “Two years ago, a woman named Sasha Buttera was found in an alley in Lower Manhattan,” I said. “She’d been raped, beaten, and left for dead. It was one of those stories that gets buried in the Metro section of the Times and is a page-one tabloid story for a day, maybe two.”

  “I remember reading about it,” Dee Dee said. “A few leads, a few suspects, no arrests. The girl lived, as I recall.”

  “If you call it living,” I said. “She’s home, with her parents, needs full-time medical supervision. She doesn’t remember much about the night, only that she was working at an early holiday party and left when things were starting to wind down. Her supervisor told her she could leave, that they would handle the cleanup.”

  “She was followed out of the party by a man, an older man. He rode down with her in the elevator,” Chris said. “He wished her a great holiday when they got out of the building.”

  “That was so nothing suspicious would pop up on any surveillance cameras the building might have in place,” I said.

  “The cops still would have questioned him,” Dee Dee said.

  “They did and came away with nothing more than a guy leaving a party same time as Sasha,” I said. “She headed in one direction. He walked off in another.”

  “But you don’t think that’s how it ended?”

  “I think he doubled back and followed her,” I said. “The streets down this part of the city are dark at night—you can’t even see shadows, let alone someone walking close behind you. I think he dragged her into one of the alleys on a side street, attacked her, and left her there to die.”

  “Two days after the girl was found, one of the partners at the firm of Curtis, Strassman, and Randolph left the country,” Chris said. “He worked out of their London office for three months.”

  “Which partner?” Dee Dee asked.

  “Strassman,” Chris said.

  “How does he connect to the girl?”

  “The apartment where the party was held is a condo owned by an LLC based in the Channel Islands,” I said. “A place that, as you know, is famous for laundering money.”

  “The LLC is in the name of a real estate executive in Nevada,” Chris said. “That, in turn, is owned by a banker in St. Louis.”

  “Peel the onion for me,” Dee Dee said.

  “Go back far enough, which is what me and Bobby did, and the condo is owned outright by Curtis, Strassman, and Randolph,” Chris said.

  “How do you know Strassman was at the party?” Dee Dee asked.

  “The condo is used only for business and party purposes,” I said. “That night’s event was for junior associates, secretaries, and interns. One of the partners is required to attend. That night it was Strassman’s turn.”

  “And Sasha Buttera was working as a waitress for the catering firm hired to serve food and drinks at the party,” Chris said.

  “And what makes you so sure Strassman was the one who raped and beat Sasha?” Dee Dee asked.

  “Strassman has a drinking problem,” I said. “He’s had three DUIs in the last six years. And he thinks of himself as a ladies’ man. A rough kind of ladies’ man. A deep dive into his background does not paint a pretty picture.”

  “And the only thing Sasha does remember is an old man grabbing her from behind and dragging her into an alley,” Chris said.

  “Would you call Strassman an old man?” Dee Dee asked.

  “I wouldn’t call him young,” I said.

  “And how does Alban fit into all this?” Dee Dee asked.

  I leaned in closer, resting my Snapple on Dee Dee’s desk. “Sasha is Alban’s wife’s sister,” I said. “He’ll want money to step into this skirmish, you’re right on that score. That he’ll take from the firm. He’ll also want their blood. It might make him a nightmare for you. But it makes him a perfect partner to have on my side.”

  33.

  INWOOD HILL PARK

  LATER THAT NIGHT

  EDDIE KENWOOD LEANED AGAINST THE side of a large oak tree, hands thrust inside the pockets of a worn pair of blue jeans. He watched quietly as three men in dark clothing dragged a bloodied and beaten J. J. Livingstone closer to him. They were just off the park entrance on West 215th Street and Indian Road. It was dark and the park was deserted, the lights from the street shrouded by the thick leaves from the many low-hanging branches that circled the area.

  Inwood Hill Park is where, according to city legend, Peter Minuit purchased Manhattan Island from Native Americans for an armful of trinkets and beads. It is also said to be the last remaining primeval forest on the island. But neither of those factors mattered much on this night.

  “Lift him up,” Kenwood said to the three men, “and rest him against the tree. The two of us need to have a little chat.”

  J.J. was hoisted, and his large body was slammed against the side of a massive tulip poplar tree. One of his eyes was swollen, and blood streaked down the
sides of his face. His right hand was broken and dangled by his side. His left arm hung at an angle. He had trouble breathing, his nostrils crusted with dried blood, and both lips were swollen. Eddie Kenwood walked over to him and stood inches from his battered face.

  “You got caught, J.J.,” Kenwood said. “That’s what happened. You tried playing one side against the other and you got caught. All this time, all these years, I figured you were one of the ones I could trust, and then you go out and burn me.”

  “I don’t know who’s been filling your head with that bullshit,” Livingstone managed to say, blood spurting out of his mouth as he spoke. “I’m not playing on any side but yours.”

  Kenwood shook his head. “That’s not what they’re saying on the street, J.J. They’re saying you’re playing ball with Tank and Pearl. If that’s true, it puts you up against me.”

  “I wouldn’t play you that way,” J.J. said.

  “But you did talk to Tank,” Kenwood said. “Or is that part bullshit, too?”

  “He came to talk to me,” J.J. said. “Stopped and asked a few questions. None of them had to do with you.”

  “Who did they have to do with?” Kenwood asked.

  “That kid from back in the day,” J.J. said. “Randy Jenkins. The guy they said killed Rachel.”

  “The same guy Tank is looking to set free,” Kenwood said. “He knew you and Jenkins used to run together?”

  “That ain’t no secret,” J.J. said. “We was from the same neighborhood, same street. Who else you gonna run with other than the ones you know? That don’t mean I knew jack shit about what happened that night.”

  “If Tank knew you were running pals, then he also put two and two together and figured you had the hots for Randy’s squeeze,” Kenwood said. “The girl he killed.”

  “I knew her, that much he could zone out on his own,” J.J. said. “But there wasn’t no love between me and Rachel. She was with Randy. At least some of the time. You don’t mess with another man’s lady. No matter how you might feel about her. You keep that shit to yourself.”

  “Then how does Tank move from you to Little Napoleon, do you figure?”

  “Tank and Pearl were cops,” J.J. said. “Like you. Doesn’t take much to piece us all together. And if they couldn’t, maybe one of their street connections pointed them in his direction. It sure as shit wasn’t me. I swear it to you, Eddie.”

  Kenwood nodded and stepped away from J.J. “I would like to believe you,” he said, glancing at the three men waiting off to the side. “I really would. It would make it so much easier if I could. But I have to be honest. The fact is, I don’t. Sorry to say, J.J., but that’s really bad news for you.”

  “I’ve been true to you all these years,” J.J. pleaded. “Why would I go and turn you out now? I don’t owe Tank and Pearl. They haven’t done shit for me. But you have. You covered for me, got me a job, and put me on your roll. And I earned the cash you sent my way. My information was tight, that you have to admit.”

  Kenwood glanced at J.J. and smiled. “That is on the money, no doubt. If it weren’t, you would have been long gone by now. I would have pinned a homicide on your ass faster than you could flex a muscle. But it still doesn’t mean you aren’t double-dipping, collecting from both me and Tank in return for telling what you know and hear.”

  “I’m on your side with this shit that’s about to go down,” J.J. said. He smelled an opening, a last chance at a way out, a long shot at making it to another day.

  “Do you know, J.J., what will happen to you if one word of that turns out to be smoke?” Kenwood said.

  “Bet your ass I do,” J.J. said. “And I’m not playing you. No way I even think of going down that street. What I said, I mean.”

  Kenwood walked around, head down, hands still in his pockets. The three men stood nearby, arms folded across their chests, awaiting instructions. Kenwood stopped, turned, and moved closer to J.J. “I think I figured a way you could prove it to me,” he said. “It would show me whose side you’re really on. If you’re up to it, that is.”

  “Anything, man,” J.J. said. “Just name it.”

  “I mean, the fastest way would be for my three amigos here to drag your ass to their warehouse and drop you into a vat of acid,” Kenwood said. “That gets you out of my hair and me out of yours quick, easy, and—for me, at least—painless. The other option is a bit more complicated and I would need to set you free, give you the time and space to get it done.”

  “Just tell me what it is,” J.J. said, his voice cracking from strain and fear. “I swear to you, whatever it is, it will get done.”

  “Are you sure, J.J.?” Kenwood asked.

  “A hundred and fifty percent,” J.J. said.

  “But you don’t even know what it is I’m going to want you to do,” Kenwood said. “How can you be that certain you’ll get it done?”

  J.J. swallowed hard and looked straight at Kenwood. “I’ll do anything for you,” he said. “Anything.”

  Kenwood stayed silent for several moments and then nodded. “All right, then, J.J.,” he said. “I’m going to go out on a limb and trust you. I’m going to give you a chance to prove yourself to me. A final chance.”

  “Great,” J.J. said. “That’s great to hear. Now, tell me, what do you need me to do?”

  “I want you to kill Tank and Pearl,” Kenwood said.

  J.J.’s eyes were moist from the heat and the beating, and his body tensed when he heard Kenwood’s request. He kept his focus and tried to maintain some form of composure.

  “I saw a little hesitation there, J.J.,” Kenwood said. “If you’re not up to it, no worries. We’ll go the other way, be easier on everybody.”

  “No,” J.J. managed to say. “I’ll get it done.”

  “Get what done?” Kenwood asked. “I want to hear it from your lips.”

  “I’m going to kill Tank Rizzo and Pearl Monroe,” J.J. said, the words coming out in a rush.

  “Plan it out the right way, think it out before you move on it,” Kenwood said. “I got a surprise in store for my old pal Tank, and I want to lay that on him before you go and take him and his crippled pal out.”

  “What sort of surprise?” J.J. asked.

  “One that will rock Tank’s world,” Kenwood said. “One that’s going to rip him apart and show everyone who he really is.”

  “But you still want me to kill him, right?” J.J. asked.

  “You bet your ass I do,” Kenwood said. “And after I hit him with my news, he’ll probably welcome the bullet.”

  “So, I wait on you,” J.J. said. “I’ll scope the job out and then sit back until you give the word.”

  Kenwood nodded. “We’ll be on our way. Wait ten minutes and then move your ass out of here, as well. You got important work you need to get started on.”

  “I won’t let you down,” J.J. said.

  Kenwood looked at J.J. and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me either way. If you kill them, you get to live. If you don’t, you die in their place. It’s a win-win for me.”

  J.J. stood against the tree and watched Kenwood and his three accomplices disappear into the darkness of the surrounding woods. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. “Win-win for you,” he whispered to himself. “But a lose-lose for me.”

  34.

  SEVENTY-SECOND STREET IRT STATION

  THE NEXT DAY

  ALBAN LOOKED OUT AT THE subway tracks as we approached. He was wearing dark glasses and had a German shepherd by his side, the handle of the leash resting casually in his right hand. I walked between Chris and Alexandra, checking out the few passengers awaiting the next downtown train. It was late in the morning and rush hour had long since faded. Alban stood with his back against a poster of an upcoming Denzel Washington movie, hands at his side, his massive and muscular body relaxed and at ease. He was in his late f
orties and had been running his crew going on two decades now, having replaced his father in the leadership role.

  They made a chunk of their money out of the many psychic parlors found throughout the city. The rest they earned through theft and scams. They were the finest pickpockets to be found and cleared a good five thousand dollars a week lifting wallets and purses. Alban owned at least three dozen chop shops in Queens and Brooklyn and parts of Nassau County, where a dozen cars a day were lifted off the streets, stripped bare, and then crushed into storage metal. The parts would then be sold off for cash, good for a total yearly six-figure haul for his crew.

  They lived by a code of silence and secrecy. It is difficult to determine how many members of the gang there are. I’ve heard as many as six hundred and as few as a hundred working out of New York City alone. There are hundreds of members in every major city in the States and hundreds more spread throughout Europe, as well. And they are all, men and women, among the deadliest fighters anyone could encounter, a sharp blade their weapon of choice. “Nobody, and I mean nobody, is better with a knife than Alban’s bunch,” Carmine once told me. “The Sardinians are a close second, but even they would take a step back. It would be one of the only times I would bet on a knife over a gun.”

  I had worked with a few of them some months back. Alexandra recruited a handful to help me take down a major Washington Heights drug dealer. They were fearless and were often hired out to help settle gang disputes. In return, they would be given a piece of the winner’s street action and free rein to work on his turf.

  They kept a low profile, living on the outer edges of the city’s five boroughs. They worked under a blanket of darkness and anonymity. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for money, but they always kept their word and never betrayed a trust.

  I had known Alban for many years, going back to before I became a cop. He started hanging around the neighborhood when we were both still in our teens, even though I knew he didn’t live anywhere near there. His aunt ran a psychic parlor a few blocks from where I lived, and his father sent Alban there in the late afternoons to help clean up and then get her home safe. He usually had some free time, since his aunt liked to keep the parlor open late, and he often made his way to the playground, watching us playing either basketball or softball. He always stood on the other side of the fence and never once asked if he could join in. The other kids in the neighborhood ignored or shunned him.