Payback

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “Bobby helped me follow the money trail,” Chris said. “He had a working list of one hundred and sixty-five names, which we narrowed down to the ones on the list.”

  “Is the firm funneling money without their knowledge?” Pearl asked.

  “We don’t know yet,” Chris said.

  I rested Gus on the wood floor and flipped through the pages, scanning both the names and the large sums of money attached to them. “Some Russian mob, some Italian,” I said. “A couple of cartel guys, and the rest are high-end business types not eager to share their wealth with Uncle Sam.”

  “Which means nobody on that list is going to run and spill their guts to the cops,” Carmine said.

  I got to the last page and froze when I saw the name on the bottom. I looked at Chris, who stared back and then lowered his head. “One of them was thinking of doing just that,” I said. “And, as we know, all it takes is one.”

  “Who?” Pearl asked.

  I reached for Chris and brought him to my side and held him close to me. “You want to tell them?” I asked.

  Chris nodded. “My dad’s name is on the list,” he said in a low but strong voice. “And next to his name is the amount the firm invested for him.”

  The room stayed silent for several moments.

  “How much?” Pearl finally asked.

  “One and a half million dollars,” Chris said.

  “You think he knew about it?” Carmine asked.

  “No, I don’t,” I said. “Not at first, anyway. But he was good at what he did. Maybe he started sniffing around, found the same list Chris and Bobby dug up and saw his name on it, right next to the mob guys and the cartel bosses. And that might be when he started thinking of making a move against the firm.”

  “So it’s dark money,” Pearl said. “Not to be seen until the heat is on. Then they open the books and point to guys like Jack. Make it look like they were the ones skimming money. Gives them a chance to skate away clean.”

  “Unless they decided Jack could no longer be trusted,” I said. “Carmine’s right. The names on the list are not going to go running to the cops. It’s not in their interest. But Jack’s a whole different story. He could go to the cops and lay it all out for them.”

  “And that makes him a threat,” Pearl said. “And that’s not something these guys can risk. Especially from one of their own.”

  “So, to keep that list buried…” Carmine said.

  “They needed to bury Jack,” I said.

  48.

  BRYANT PARK

  THE NEXT DAY

  I GOT THE CALL AS I was heading out for an early-morning run. Ray Connors was on the other end. The chief didn’t waste time or words. “Get up to Bryant Park soon as you can,” he said. “Pearl, too.”

  “What’s there?” I asked.

  “A crime scene,” the chief said, and then he ended the call.

  Less than thirty minutes later, me and Pearl were gazing down at the battered and bruised body of Zeke Jeffries. He was facedown under a park bench. The upper half of his body was resting on the cracked pavement, his legs stretched out under the slabs of the bench, his sneakered feet at rest on the edges of a small pile of mulch. His body was rigid and thick; dark patches of blood had formed under his head, chest, and stomach. A paperback copy of Pimp by Iceberg Slim rested a few inches from his right hand.

  There was yellow police tape closing off the area around Zeke’s body and a full boat of cops, CSU technicians, and detectives scanning the area. Chief Connors stood next to me and Pearl, a cold container of coffee clutched in his right hand.

  “He was beaten to death,” I said, my eyes still on Zeke. “It had to have happened at night, when he was alone. Zeke had too many friends in these parks for anybody to come at him in daylight hours.”

  “That’s my guess, too,” the chief said. “The medical examiner will make the final call, but it has all the markings of a beatdown.”

  “And it had to be more than one primary,” Pearl said. “Zeke might have slowed up some, but one-on-one he could be a handful. Bad knees and all.”

  “He always had a cane with him,” I said. “Had a switchblade hidden at the base. All Zeke had to do was tap on a button near the handle to flip it out. That turn up anywhere?”

  The chief nodded. “One of the techs found it in the brush, past that tree to your right. The blade was out and there was blood on the knife and the lower portion of the cane. We had it bagged and sent to the lab.”

  “This doesn’t have the feel of a mugging gone south,” I said. “Go up a few blocks and you have your pick of the tourists heading to a Broadway show. Go down and you got a sold-out concert going on at the Garden. The pickings in this park, especially at night, are pretty slim. Even for a street junkie looking for a quick score.”

  “Zeke was targeted,” Pearl said. “And they didn’t come looking to warn him. They came to kill.”

  “And who would ‘they’ be, if you don’t mind my asking?” the chief said.

  I glanced at Pearl and he nodded. “Eddie Kenwood and his crew,” I said.

  “You got anything to back that up?” the chief asked.

  “We talked to Zeke a few days back,” I said. “Asked him to keep an ear out for anything worth a listen. You know how plugged in he was to what was going down on the street. It’s not a stretch for Kenwood or one of his bunch to get wind of that.”

  “You’re going to need more than that for me to send two cops knocking on his door,” the chief said.

  I gazed out at the crime scene. “You’re not likely to find any of Kenwood’s prints around here. Even the blood results won’t come back pointing in his direction. But Zeke’s murder has his mark on it. I’d bet my life on it.”

  Pearl nodded his head toward the paperback. “He wouldn’t touch Zeke,” he said. “Kenwood’s too smart for something that stupid. But he might have grabbed that book. Be a good idea to have the techs bag it and check it for prints.”

  The chief flagged down one of the CSU technicians and pointed at the book. The young man pulled a clear bag from his gear and picked up the book with gloved hands. He placed it in the bag and zipped it shut.

  “I need those prints soon as you can get them,” the chief said to him.

  Pearl looked at me and then back down to Zeke. “Seeing that book brings back many memories,” he said. “It was old Zeke here that turned me and Tank on to it in the first place.”

  “How so?” the chief asked.

  “There was a brief time, in between our stints in narcotics and homicide, that me and Tank got assigned to the vice squad,” Pearl said.

  “It was known as the ‘pussy posse’ back then,” I said. “And me and Pearl had no idea how to tackle the job. We weren’t looking to bust hookers. They have it tough enough as is. We were eager to take down some of the higher-volume pimps. But those guys had their own lingo, you know? And it was one we didn’t know.”

  “We were talking to Zeke about it one night, and he thought the best way to learn the language was to read Iceberg Slim,” Pearl said. “Slim was a pimp himself. And the book not only had the terminology down, it had the street lingo me and Tank needed to make us sound like we knew what the hell was what.”

  “How did he get the name Iceberg Slim?” the chief asked.

  “That’s a story in itself,” Pearl said. “Seems Iceberg was sitting in a bar late one night, knocking back a few, when a guy stepped up to him and held a pistol to his head and put a bullet right through his skull.”

  “And Iceberg didn’t even flinch,” I said. “Instead, he sat on that barstool and he finished his drink.”

  “Of such tales, legends are made,” Pearl said. “Iceberg was one. Zeke was another.”

  “Did Zeke give you anything about Kenwood?” the chief asked.

  “He gave us a name,�
� I said. “A muscle head working as a bouncer at a club in the Meatpacking District. We talked to him already. He’s got ties to Kenwood and has agreed to snitch for us. He hears anything worthwhile, he’s to bring it our way.”

  “You figure him for this?”

  I shrugged. “He might have been called in on it,” I said. “But it’s not something he would have done on his own. He’d only be here if Kenwood told him to.”

  “What’s his name?” the chief said.

  “J. J. Livingstone,” I said.

  The chief looked at me and then at Pearl. “I know you would love for me to bring in Kenwood for questioning,” he said. “But I don’t have an inch of proof he was involved in this, and, let’s not forget, he’s a decorated ex-cop.”

  “Nothing would make me happier than to see that bastard sweating under the lights of an interrogation room,” I said. “But I know it’s a tough call. I got him to cop to one murder. And if his prints pop on Zeke’s book, then we got him on a second. That would be reason enough to slap cuffs on him and haul his ass downtown. If he’s still alive by then, that is.”

  The chief stayed silent as he stared at both me and Pearl. “I hate the prick as much as you do,” he said. “But death isn’t what a guy like Kenwood fears the most. In fact, if given the choice, hard time or a coffin, the easy money puts him under the ground.”

  “I’m not looking to end him, Chief,” I said. “If it comes down to him or me, then that’s a choice I’ll have to make. But I agree, behind bars is where he belongs and where I’d like to put his sorry ass.”

  “He won’t be lacking for company on any of those prison tiers, that’s for damn sure,” Pearl said. “All those young guys he put away long ago are now hardcore convicts. They’ll welcome him with wide smiles and open arms.”

  “Not to mention a few of those hand-carved wooden knives and knuckle-wrap bed springs,” I said.

  “Nothing would please me more,” the chief said.

  I bent down and rested one hand on top of Zeke’s bloody head. I reached for his left hand with mine and held it tight. I stayed that way for several moments. The chief and Pearl circled closer to Zeke’s body, the three of us mourning the loss of an old and trusted friend. “The ones who did this will pay, Zeke,” I said, my face streaked with tears. “That’s not a promise. It’s a blood oath. They will pay.”

  49.

  THE BROWNSTONE

  THE NEXT DAY

  THEY WERE ALL THERE. PEARL. My entire team. Carmine. Connie. Chris. Chief Connors. Bobby. I didn’t leave anyone out. The time had come for me to confront them with my past, expose my deepest-held secret. The moment had arrived for them to see me for who I truly was.

  A murderer.

  I poured myself a glass of Brunello and took a long sip. I gazed at the faces gathered around me and took a deep breath and a second sip of wine. “I have something I need to tell all of you,” I said. “Something I should have told you long before today. I don’t know what you’ll think of me after I’ve said my piece. Whatever way you may end up feeling, I want you to know this: Everyone I love and respect is in this room. Nothing that happens today will ever change that. Nothing.”

  “The same goes for me, partner,” Pearl said. “No matter what you have to tell us. The way it was between us yesterday will be the way it is tomorrow.”

  I smiled at Pearl and faced the room. “When me and Jack were kids, my parents would rent a cabin in Maine every August. To get us out of the city, breathe some fresh air, go sailing, ride canoes, hiking, mountain climbing, all the things we didn’t have much chance to do here. It was in a great little town called Rockport, near Camden. My dad loved it for the fishing, my mom loved the fresh lobster and the relaxed way of life. Me and Jack loved the nearby pools we could swim in and the lakes we could take boats on. It was a week we always looked forward to. A great time for the four of us to get away.”

  “I remember you guys taking those vacations,” Carmine said. “Your pop would come back and talk about all the sailing he did, the fish he caught, the mountain trails you all hiked. Every August it was like I was talking to Jack London instead of your old man.”

  “It was a great place,” I said. “For each of us. Until that last summer we went up. I was fifteen, Jack was twelve. We always rented the same cabin. But it didn’t really matter. They all looked alike and were all bunched together. Small two-bedroom places with outdoor grills and front porches. You could sleep with the windows open, that’s how cool it would get at night. And how safe the area was. For a few years, the same couple came up with their kids from someplace down South and we would spend some time with them. All of us driving to Miss Plum’s for ice cream or down to the lobster pound for the Friday night special.”

  I reached for my glass and took another sip of wine. I looked around the room as I did. They all sat or stood in place, eager to hear the heart of the tale, knowing as well as I did that what they had just heard was merely the setup. I held the glass cupped in my hands and noticed the slight tremble of my wrists and fingers. The vision of what I was about to relay now coming into sharp focus in my mind.

  “That last summer, that other family didn’t make the trip up for whatever reason,” I continued. “Their cabin, just down from ours, was rented instead by a single man in his late thirties, maybe a little older. He was brawny, sullen, and stayed to himself. Whenever we crossed paths with him, he would barely acknowledge my parents, but he made a point to smile or wink at me or at Jack. I noticed he left the cabin early in the morning, usually about sunup, and returned in the midafternoon. He drank a lot and there were bottles of bourbon or scotch, usually empty, tossed around the porch. There were no TVs in the cabins, but he brought along a cassette recorder and played heavy-metal rock all hours of the day and night. My father wanted to go over and ask him to turn it down a couple of times, but my mom always talked him out of it.”

  I put my glass on the coffee table and felt the sweat running down the back of my button-down shirt. I took a deep breath and continued. “This one day, Jack wasn’t feeling well, coming down with a cold,” I said. “My folks headed into Camden to pick up food and supplies and asked us to stay close to the cabin. I was specifically asked to keep an eye on Jack. We were between the two cabins, ours and our neighbor’s, playing catch, when the neighbor showed up earlier than usual and seemed to be drunk and angry. He stared at us for a few moments and then went into his cabin. After a bit, me and Jack took a break from the game. He wanted to go down to the lake, cool off. I went to the cabin to change while Jack waited outside, bouncing a ball against the wall.”

  The crowded living room was still and silent, as if they were sitting through a horror movie, waiting for the killer to emerge. No one ate, no one drank, no one moved. I watched as Connie refilled my wineglass, her right hand trembling slightly.

  “I was back out in ten minutes,” I said. “Maybe less. I spotted Jack’s glove in a thick patch of grass, the ball resting against it. His Little League bat, the one that had his name stenciled on the barrel, was up against a tree that stood between our cabin and the next one, where the neighbor was staying. I looked to my left and to my right and didn’t see him. I called out his name a few times, each one louder than the last, and got no reply. I knew he wouldn’t have gone down to the lake without me. Jack wouldn’t have gone anywhere without me. I glanced over at the next cabin and noticed the screen door flapping. I grabbed Jack’s bat from the tree and held it in my right hand. To this very moment, I have no idea what made me reach for the bat. Instinct. Luck. Nerves. But grab it I did, and I held it against the side of my leg and walked toward the neighbor’s cabin.”

  I looked at Connie and saw tears running down her face, as if she knew what I was about to say and couldn’t bear to hear it. All the others in the room sat and listened, each one hanging on to my every word.

  “I was about five feet or so from
the screen door when I heard Jack’s voice,” I said. My throat was dry and my voice was cracking. I closed my eyes for a moment, the scene from long ago now as vivid as if I were there once again. “Then I heard something fall to the cabin floor and shatter, a lamp or a bottle. I stepped up to the screen door and looked in. Jack was lying facedown on the filthy floor, the man’s left hand gripping the back of his neck, holding him in place, ignoring the kicking and writhing. The man’s breaths were coming in spurts as he attempted to undo his pants with his free hand. I stood there, drowning in sweat, my heart racing, my hands clutched around the bat, gripping it as tightly as I could.”

  Connie reached out a hand for mine and I took it, holding it as tight as I had held the bat. “The sight of the man unbuckling his belt and lowering his jeans around his thighs, his white bare skin visible in the sharp sunlight, snapped me out of my frightened pose. I swung the screen door open and stepped into the room. ‘Get the fuck off my brother’ were the only words I said to him. He turned the minute he heard me and caught the first swing of the bat hard across his face. He toppled onto his back, falling off Jack, the pants bunched around his upper legs. Jack turned and looked at me. I will never get that look out of my head, no matter how many years pass by. It was a look of fear and terror, and seeing it shook awake something in me I had no idea was even there. ‘Let’s go, Tank,’ Jack said to me. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  “I heard the words, but they were lost on me. I moved past Jack and stood over the fallen man. He had a glazed look in his eyes and blood streaming down the front of his face and neck. I raised the bat and hit him on the side of his head. I could feel the weight of the bat crack through bone and slice flesh. I lifted the bat and swung it down again. And again. And again. And again. I swung the bat until I could no longer lift it.”

  I took several deep breaths, my body coated with sweat, my hands shaking, my legs weak. I leaned against one side of the couch and wiped my forehead with the back of my right hand.