“I felt relieved,” I said. “Never figured I would have to face up to it. And I never counted on somebody like Kenwood being the one to bring it to the open. That one knocked the wind out of me.”
I looked at Connie and Chris and then slid out of the booth. I stood in front of them, my left hand resting on the table. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have told you. Should have trusted you, the team, Carmine, Pearl. I was scared about…well, about a lot of things. Most of all, I didn’t want to lose anyone I loved. And I was afraid knowing about what I did and how I did it would lead to that. It had already cost me a brother. I didn’t want to lose anyone else.”
I gazed down at the puppy, still curled and asleep, his limbs occasionally twitching. “It was wrong,” I said. “And I should have known better.”
“Go do what you need to do, Tank,” Connie said in a soft voice, her eyes misty with tears. “And know that no matter what, we will always be here. Always.”
I smiled at both of them and turned to leave the restaurant. As I did, I was aware that my past was entangled in the two cases that needed to be closed. Jack’s murder, and the death of a young girl I had never met.
The past never leaves us. It hovers over us, hidden by the passage of time, waiting to strike when we least expect it. It can do damage or ease suffering, its path never truly known until it confronts us.
56.
PRINCE STREET
THE NEXT DAY
I WAS WHEELING PEARL OUT OF Vesuvio Bakery, between Thompson Street and West Broadway, when I saw the two familiar faces step out of their double-parked Chevy sedan and walk toward us. We had both seen them before. They were part of Kenwood’s crew, flunky cops who dishonored the badge while still on the job. They walked across the street from us, looking for an opening to make their move. The pedestrian traffic on both ends of the sidewalks was light this early in the afternoon, but it wouldn’t prevent Kenwood’s guys from risking collateral damage to get to their intended targets—me and Pearl.
“I hope to hell those tarallis you wolfed down were enough to satisfy your craving,” I said to Pearl. “We got ourselves serious company.”
“I see them,” Pearl said. “They’ve been down these roads before, I imagine. Makes them stupid but not crazy. They won’t try to take us on the sidewalk. Most likely wait until we get to a light.”
“If they come at us blasting, we have no choice but to do the same,” I said. “You bring your piece with you?”
“No worries on that front,” Pearl said. “Since you signed on to two cases, I’ve been taking my drop gun with me, as well. I’m packed and loaded.”
“You got a drop gun, too?” I asked. “I know where you keep one gun. But how the hell can you hide two?”
Pearl smiled up at me. “I’m not handicapped, partner. I’m handi-capable.”
“Good to know,” I said. I kept my eyes on the men across from us, the corner only a few feet away. “I figure they’ll both cross toward us soon as we get to the light.”
“They come at us blasting, innocent folks are going to take hits,” Pearl said. “And if we fire back, good as we are, we’re going to take some of them down, too.”
The two men reached their corner before we reached ours. They turned and began to cross the street, heading in our direction. They had their guns out, held low against their legs. They were halfway across the street when a black Impala came careening toward them and then braked with a squeal to a sudden stop, inches from hitting them.
“What the fuck, you blind?” one of the men yelled at the driver.
The driver jumped out, a gun aimed at the two men. “No,” Bobby said. “I saw you. I screwed up. I hit the brakes too soon. I was looking to hit you both. I ended up with a gutter ball, not a strike.”
“How about we go and see what’s going down?” I said, wheeling Pearl toward the idle car and Bobby.
“Make it fast, partner,” Pearl said. “Can’t let the fed have all the fun.”
I crossed into the middle of the street and stopped in front of the two men. “I forget which one of you is Arthur and which one is Pete,” I said. “All you corrupt cops look alike to me.”
“The tall, ugly one is Arthur,” Pearl said. “The short, dumb one is Pete.”
“Fuck you both,” Pete said. “And your new friend here, too. We could haul the three of you in, if we wanted. Charges won’t matter. We’ll make them up on the ride to the precinct.”
“But you won’t,” Pearl said. “Arresting us is not what Kenwood sent you here to do.”
I looked over at Bobby and then at Pete and Arthur. “We going to Wild West this situation?” I said. “Or are we going to be smart about it?”
“You and your pal behind the car door can both drop your guns,” Arthur said, “and we all take a ride far away from here. We go that way, then the only blood gets spilled is yours. None of these nice people out here minding their business get hurt.”
The traffic light had changed to green, but any angry drivers tempted to honk their horns or yell out their car windows stayed quiet, silenced by the presence of men armed with guns. I locked eyes with Pete and Arthur, their guns against the side of their legs, looking from me to Bobby. They were ignoring Pearl, clearly having decided he wasn’t a threat.
I knew it was only a matter of minutes before an RMP would pull up to check on us. So, if we were going to make a move, now was the time.
I looked down at Pearl and noticed he had both hands wedged behind his back. Bobby had his arms over the open flap of his car door, gun held tight with both hands.
“You don’t have to die,” I said to Pete and Arthur. “Not here. Not today and not this way. Especially not for a piece of trash like Kenwood.”
“Neither do you or your crippled partner,” Pete said. “And whoever the fuck this guy is by the car. You can drop your weapons as easily as we could.”
I glanced at Arthur and caught the twitch in his eye and the clenching of his jaw, and I knew that on this day, at least, we would not be spared bloodshed.
Arthur lifted his weapon and aimed it toward me and Pearl. I shoved Pearl’s wheelchair closer to the front of Bobby’s car and pulled my weapon from its hip holster. I fired at the same time as Arthur did. His slug landed to my left, chipping away a piece of the pavement. Mine caught him in the right shoulder, just above his vest, and sent him sprawling to the ground, the weapon slipping from his hand and sliding under the front of Bobby’s car.
Pete seemed caught off guard. He lifted his weapon and hesitated, looking to hit me but conscious of Bobby. He let off two rounds, firing first at Bobby, who dodged the bullet by jumping into the front seat of his car. The second round came my way and missed by several inches, hitting a mailbox on the street behind me. I lifted my weapon but didn’t need to get off a second shot: Pearl swung his wheelchair to the left, a gun in each hand, and fired twice, both bullets finding their mark. One hit Pete in his right leg and the second grazed his gun hand, sending him down on his knees. He dropped his weapon and clutched at his bleeding leg with both hands.
Bobby stepped out of the car, his shield hanging on a chain around his neck, and walked toward the wounded men, his gun aimed down at them. I’m sure sirens were raining down at us from all directions and people were screaming and running for cover. But when you’re in the middle of a gunfight, even one that took as little time as this one had, every sound is drowned out. You are so focused that you can’t feel the wind on your face or the heat of the sun on your back.
I walked up next to Bobby, Pearl right behind me. His guns were now back in their safe place and he had both hands on the wheels of his chair. “Shooting at me and Pearl is bad enough,” I said to Pete and Arthur. “That might get you a spin in the can. But Bobby here, he’s a federal agent, and pegging a shot at him carries some serious weight.”
“We didn’t come for h
im,” Pete said, still on his knees, trying to stem the blood oozing out of his right leg.
“Go with that,” Pearl said. “Might play well in court.”
“He’s not going to stop, you know?” Arthur said. “Kenwood. He’s not going to stop until he puts you down.”
I shrugged. “You’re free of that worry,” I said. “The both of you. What happens next is between me and Kenwood.”
Two RMPs pulled to a stop and four uniformed officers got out. They had their guns drawn and spotted Bobby and the shield hanging off his neck. “Cuff them and bring them to NYU Medical,” he told them. “They’re on the job still, but that gets them shit. I want them under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Nobody sees them but a doctor. I’ll file the charges soon as I get statements from these two witnesses here.”
Pete and Arthur were cuffed and hauled into the backseats of the two RMPs. Bobby holstered his weapon and looked at Pearl. “Where did you dump your two guns?” he asked.
Pearl smiled. “What two guns?”
57.
TRAMONTI’S
THAT SAME DAY
I SAT ACROSS FROM CARMINE, PLATTERS filled with food spread out across the table for four. I was halfway through a bowl of linguini with white clam sauce and a side order of broccoli rabe. Carmine was chowing down on a mixed platter of zucchini with eggs and eggplant rollatini. We were sharing a tomato, basil, and red onion salad and a loaf of semolina bread. We kept the drinking light—ginger ale with crushed ice for Carmine, an Arnold Palmer for me.
“Word got out to Massamilio pretty fast,” I said.
“When it comes to money, that guy’s got ears like sonar,” Carmine said. “He treats his money like family, and, if nothing else, Massamilio is very close to his family. Mario, too.”
“And I have to hand it to you,” I said. “Smooth move sending Dee Dee a platter of ziti and some wine.”
“Everybody’s gotta eat, am I wrong?” Carmine said. “Besides, she did us a solid and helped get our foot in the door. It was the least I could do.”
“Still, it’s nice to see you getting all chummy-like with the feds,” I said, smiling.
“More the exception than the rule,” Carmine said. “Anyway, this time they’re on the hunt for real thieves—bad accountants and dirty cops. It was a pleasure to lend a hand. Not that I’m saying I did, mind you. In case anyone should ask.”
“Back when I was first on the job, there was a story about Massamilio and coffins,” I said. “A few of the older cops mentioned it. Any of that true?”
Carmine rested his fork against the side of his platter and smiled. “The double-deckers,” he said. “You have to hand it to the guy. It was a brilliant idea—in my book, right up there with the guy who came up with Uber.”
I shook my head. “How did it work exactly?”
“Like all great ideas, it was as simple as it was beautiful,” Carmine said. “Your old Aunt Nunzia dies, God rest her soul. Before the wake, they slip in a second body under hers. The two bodies are sealed in together. Come the day of the funeral, they’re carried out together and buried in the same plot. No fuss, no muss, and, key to the whole endeavor, no body.”
“That explains why every pallbearer working a double-decker looks like an offensive lineman,” I said. “The body in the top bunk weighs less than a hundred pounds.”
“But not the one on the bottom,” Carmine said. “Most of the ones who bite the bullet hover around two hundred, if not more. Last thing you need in a crowded church is to have the bottom drop out. That would be a real crime.”
“The accounting firm’s not long for this world,” I said. “Bobby and his crew are ready to make their move. And I’m ready to make mine.”
“I can’t wait for that,” Carmine said. “It’s been a long time coming.”
“None of this would have happened without Chris,” I said. “Without him, we wouldn’t have been looking anywhere near this firm. He did the legwork, broke down the police reports, checked out the car, connected the dots. They would have gotten away with it and would still be riding high and raking in millions.”
“That part’s more than true,” Carmine said. “But he’s still a kid, let’s not lose sight of that.”
“This will help give him closure,” I said. “He’s come a long way since we first met him. I didn’t think the two of us would last a week, but he’s found his place with us. And in a way I can’t explain, he’s made me feel as if I got my brother back, too.”
Carmine looked and me and nodded. “That’s nice to hear,” he said. “And that dog has helped Chris in a lot of ways, as well.”
“I heard you fed Gus lasagna yesterday for dinner,” I said. “Didn’t know that was anywhere close to what a dog should have in his diet.”
“He might be an olde English bulldogge by birth,” Carmine said, smiling, “but he’s living with the Italians now.”
“Great,” I said. “I can see platters of cannoli in Gus’s future already.”
“Good move on bringing Alban and his crew in with you,” Carmine said. “Those guys can make bodies disappear faster than fog in sunlight. By the time they’re done, Dee Dee may be sitting in a courtroom by herself with nobody left to charge.”
“I doubt it would keep her up at night,” I said. “She gets credit for bringing down a dirty firm. The rest of it she can write off as the price for stealing money from the mob.”
We sat back and waited as a waiter cleared away the remains of our meal and then brought over two double espressos and a small plate of biscotti. Carmine stirred his coffee and seemed momentarily lost in thought.
“Go ahead and ask,” I said to him.
“When you get your hands on the guy who rigged the car,” Carmine said, “what then? You hand him over to the chief?”
I stared into my coffee for a few moments before I answered. “I was there once when my brother was in danger and I killed a man to protect him, to save him from harm. I wasn’t there the second time he needed me. And that man got away with what he did. But not for much longer.”
“For a lot of people, twenty years in a cell is worse than dying,” Carmine said. “You walk him in and pin the murder rap on his sheet. He’d be just as good as dead.”
“Is that what you would do if it had been Connie?” I asked.
“No,” Carmine said, shaking his head. “But I was never a cop, which means my rule book has a whole different set of instructions.”
“I’m not a cop anymore,” I said. “Besides, there’s one rule that can never be broken, no matter whose book it’s written in.”
“Which is?”
“You touch family and you die,” I said.
58.
161 MADISON AVENUE
THE NEXT DAY
BOBBY LEANED ON A WALL and gazed down the crowded hall. He was standing next to the door of the accounting firm of Curtis, Strassman, and Randolph. The hall was filled with federal agents wearing FBI windbreakers, all poised to enter the offices and execute the warrants Bobby held in his right hand.
He looked at the two young agents holding a small battering ram and glanced at his watch. “It’s time,” he said to them. “Smash that door open.”
“It’s not locked,” a young agent said. “We can just walk in.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Bobby asked. “Now, ram the damn door.”
It took two hits to pop the door off its hinges. Bobby rushed in, a swarm of agents in his wake. “FBI!” he shouted. “We have warrants to confiscate hard drives, laptops, printouts, folders, memos, and ledgers. We also have arrest warrants for the three partners of the firm. If you all cooperate, we’ll be out of here in about an hour, maybe less.”
A young secretary stood in front of Bobby, her hands shaking and on the verge of tears. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she stammered. “I only file wha
t they tell me to file. I don’t want to go to jail.”
Bobby placed a hand on her arm. “You got nothing to worry about,” he said. “But you can be a big help to us.”
“What do you need me to do?” she asked.
“Show my men where all your files are,” Bobby said. “And get yourself a fresh cup of coffee.”
The agents flooded into the room and began to take computers off desks and toss files and paperwork into empty cardboard boxes. Bobby waited, then signaled to a tall man in a windbreaker to follow him. Alban eased past several agents and made his way to Bobby.
“Is he here?” Alban asked.
“His office is in the back,” Bobby said.
They turned at a set of cubicles. The offices were plush and well furnished, with expensive art on the walls and light fixtures that cost more than Bobby earned in a year. “I should have brought some of my men with me,” Alban said. “They would have cleaned this place out without making as much noise as your crew. The art alone is worth in the seven figures.”
“Maybe next time,” Bobby said.
A middle-aged man in a Brooks Brothers suit came up to them, his face flushed red with anger. “What the hell is all this?” he demanded. “Who authorized this charade? And what the hell do you expect to find?”
Bobby opened the warrants and placed them in front of the man’s face. “It’s all there for you to see. Legal and signed by a judge and everything. I’m taking a guess here. You must be Peter Strassman.”
“You bet your ass I’m Peter Strassman,” he said, looking from Bobby to Alban. “This is my firm, and I will not allow it to be treated like some backdoor brothel.”
Bobby turned and gazed at the chaos around him—agents clearing out desks and carting off computers, searching through desks for anything that could be carried away. “I’ve never executed a warrant on a brothel, Mr. Strassman. But if I ever do, I doubt I’ll need as many agents on the team.”
“I’m calling my attorney,” Strassman said. His thick gray hair was razor cut, and a thin beard covered his jawline. He had a pair of glasses hanging off a chain and was wearing a shirt with his initials embroidered on the pocket.
Payback Page 24
