“He does,” agreed Flor.
“I’ll be up in a minute.”
“What’ll it be?” he said, turning to Tatiana.
“I hope you don’t mind my askin’, Sweetie. What kinda name is ‘Tatiana’. Russian?”
“Yes.”
“You must be Russian, right?” Flor laughed.
“What a brain you got,” Tony laughed loudly. “You think I stay out of trouble for nothing, Counselor? With Flor and you lookin’ out for me, I got it made.” He laughed exuberantly. “What’s it gonna be?” he said to Tatiana with laughing impatience.
“Vodka.”
“How would you like that?”
“Straight up.”
“Ho, ho. A two-fisted girl,” said Tony Balls. “I got just the stuff.” From a freezer he took out a bottle of Sterling vodka.
“Good choice,” said Tatiana.
“See. Do I know what I’m talking about or what?” he said toward Flor. He pushed a pony glass into shaved ice for a moment. “What’ll it be, Counselor?”
“The same.”
Tony Balls nodded, pursing his lips. “You two hang out together a lot, I see.” He chilled another glass. “Flor. You want to try a shot of straight vodka?”
“You crazy? You’d have to carry me home.”
“I probably gotta carry you home anyways.” He burst with more laughter, amused with himself. He filled the two chilled glasses with vodka and poured some Chivas Regal for Flor and himself. “Drink hearty,” he said, raising his glass.
“Na zdomvia,” said Tatiana.
“Oh, I like that,” said Flor. “Say the Russian again, so I can hear.”
“Na zdorovia.”
“Na derova,” said Flor, laughing. “I love it. Na drovia? Did I say it right?”
“Just right,” said Tatiana. They all sipped their drinks. “Can you tell me where the ladies’ room is?” she asked.
“I’ll take you, Sweetie. It’s dark back there.” Tatiana followed Flor toward the back of the restaurant.
“Nice lady, Sandro, real nice,” said Tony Balls.
“Thanks, Tony,” said Sandro. He was silent for a moment. “Tony, not for nothing, but what the hell were you doing out there with Sally Cantalupo when I drove up?”
“What do you mean, Counselor? I was talkin’ to him.”
“Tony. You still there?” Enzo’s voice floated up from below.
“Yeah, we’re here.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Okay.”
“I saw what was going down,” Sandro said to Tony. “You know you’ll be in hot water, and I don’t only mean with the law. Billy Legs finds out what you’re doing, especially with his son, you’re in big trouble.”
“Counselor—”
“Tony. I’m not the D.A., not even a priest. I’m your lawyer, and I don’t care what you do. But, let me put it this way. One, I don’t need another case. And two, for sure, you don’t either. Especially if it involves Billy Legs’ kid.”
Tony Balls shrugged. “You’re sharp, Counselor. That’s what makes you great. The best.”
“I’m not that sharp, Tony. If I could clock it, so could the spiru. And if they do, Tony, you’re in a lot of trouble. They’ll violate you in a minute. And what about Billy Legs? That’s more trouble than I can get you out of.”
“You could sit down with the best of them, Counselor.”
“Not on that, I couldn’t.”
Tony Balls shrugged. “It’s tough out there these days, Counselor. Tough. I can tell you—I been tellin’ you everything for a long time. The old days are all gone. I gotta make a couple of bucks. I just do it with friends, but …”
“Let me put it bluntly. There are no friends when you fool around with that shit. Especially not with the sons of friends of ours. You’ll be between the devil and the deep blue.”
“What can I do? I can’t do no nine-to-five like a sucker. Over here, this guy is good to me. But, you know—my wife, my house, Flor—I got expenses.”
“So does everybody.” They sipped their drinks silently. “You know what, Tony, the reason I came over, one of the reasons, is that I could use your help in a case I have.”
“My typin’ is terrible,” Tony laughed.
“Not in the office. I have to investigate in a neighborhood where a lot of the people are Spanish. You can come with me and talk Spanish with them.”
“Hangin’ around with Flor all these years, I do speak the old Espanol pretty good.”
“That’s exactly what I need, somebody who can speak Spanish and protect me at the same time.”
“You don’t need no one protectin’ you, Counselor. You’re plenty tough yourself.”
“It’d only be for a couple of days, but I’ll pay you.”
“Hey, Counselor. I owe you my life. You can’t pay me nothin’.”
“We’ll talk about that. You willing to go to work for a couple of days?”
“Whatever you want. You know that, Counselor.”
Enzo came forward toward the bar.
“Enzo. I want you to meet Sandro Luca. The best lawyer in New York.”
“Glad to meet you,” said Enzo, shaking Sandro’s hand. “Tony’s told me a lot about you.”
“I hope he didn’t tell you the truth.”
“All good things, Counselor, all good.” Tony Balls poured a drink for Enzo.
Flor and Tatiana returned from the ladies’ room.
“Enzo. This is Tatiana, a friend of the Counselor’s.”
“Piacere,” said Enzo, taking Tatiana’s hand, bowing slightly.
“Il piacere e mio,” said Tatiana.
Enzo’s face fell open with surprise. “Lei parla Italiano?”
“Un poco. Habito in Italia per due anni.”
“Bella figlia,” said Enzo, kissing Tatiana’s hand again.
“Don’t start none of that oily stuff with my Counselor’s girl. I’ll have to clock you,” said Tony Balls. They all laughed.
“What kind of accent is that?” asked Enzo. “It’s not Italian.”
“Russian.”
“Beautiful—the accent, that is,” Enzo laughed, looking at Tony Balls.
“Be careful. I’m warnin’ you.”
“I think I’ll go and finish up downstairs,” smiled Enzo. “Good meeting you, Counselor, and you, Miss. I hope I don’t need you, but give me your card,” he said to Sandro.
Sandro took a card from his wallet and handed it to Enzo.
Flor and Tatiana returned to a conversation that must have begun in the ladies’ room.
“Hey, Flor. How do you think I’d do as a paralegal, working with the Counselor? That’s the right word, paralegal?”
“Exactly right,” said Sandro.
“You kiddin’?” said Flor.
“No. Ask the Counselor.”
Sandro nodded.
“I always wanted to go out with a professional man,” Flor laughed.
“Let’s have another drink,” said Tony Balls. “I don’t know I can handle it, but what the hell, we’ll have another drink anyways.”
Carlisle Barracks, PA : August 4, 1996 : 6:30 P.M.
Red Hardie sat on a couch in the ‘Rec’ room of a converted barracks on the far end of Carlisle Barracks, the Army complex that is the home of the Army War College in Pennsylvania. The barracks, previously used for training Special Forces, had been built far from the other facilities on the base, surrounded by dense woods, with only a single dirt road sliced through the forest canopy giving access to the outside world. Inside the barracks, everything was painted a light green. Leading from the Rec Room, a corridor was lined with doors, each one of which opened into quadruple sleeping quarters with two steel bunkbeds. Mattresses were folded in half on the steel coils of the unused beds. Marty Geraghty slept alone in the first room; Mulvehill slept in the second, as double insulation of Red Hardie from the outside world. Red slept in the third room. Castoro was installed in a room on the other side of Hardie. At nigh
t, Mulvehill locked Red’s door, sliding a heavy couch in front of the door for good measure.
At the moment, it was late afternoon, and Red was sitting on the couch, watching TV.
“What say, we go for pizza?” said Castoro, always wanting to eat.
“We had pizza last night,” said Geraghty.
“Your point being?”
“I’m sick of guinea food,” murmured Mulvehill, who sat at a small, square table, watching the television screen raptly. He was a devoted Trekkie, and had brought a half-dozen Star Trek tapes, which he watched daily.
“You more sick of guinea food or staying in this green box?” said Castoro.
“We can’t all go. Who’s going to stay with the drug trafficker and eat cold takeout?” said Mulvehill.
“We could take Red with us,” said Geraghty.
“Not a terrible idea,” said Castoro. “He has no intention of running anywhere—do you?”
“No.” Red shook his head.
“Wha’ do you think?” Geraghty said to Mulvehill.
Mulvehill pursed his mouth for a moment’s reflection. “I guess it’d be okay,” he said. “You’re right. He’s not going to run anywhere—although maybe I wish you would,” he said, half-malevolent, half-joking, gripping the handle of the pistol that was sticking out above the holster at his waist. There was no doubt that Mulvehill despised baby-sitting Hardie only slightly less than he despised Hardie himself.
“No place much to run in the middle of the woods,” said Red. “Besides, you boys might shoot those guns of yours in my direction and accidentally hit me.”
Geraghty and Castoro laughed.
“Hardly miss,” said Mulvehill seriously.
When Supervisor Becker put Mulvehill in charge of Hardie’s temporary custody, he eased Mulvehill’s reluctance to babysit Hardie by assuring him that the assignment was only temporary, very temporary, put together for the shock effect it would have on the drug world and the supply of drugs in the streets of New York and environs. He also assured Mulvehill that the Bureau of Prisons was in the process of arranging more permanent, more traditional quarters for Red.
Unknown to the other two Agents, or to anyone else in the D.E.A., Supervisor Becker had authorized Mulvehill to handle Hardie’s confinement with a loose rein; Hardie wasn’t going to run anywhere, and if he did, Becker had given Mulvehill a green light to kill Hardie’s drug—pushing ass.
“We can’t go for too long,” said Mulvehill. “Supervisor Becker said he might be coming for a visit tonight or tomorrow morning.”
“You mean if we’re not here when he arrives, he might think we’re out having a hell of a time, dancing with the cows?” said Castoro.
“The time-frame you suggest,” said Geraghty, “narrows the choice for tonight to pizza. It’s the closest joint.”
“Okay, we’ll go to the pizza shithouse,” said Mulvehill. “Get your act together, Hardie.”
“Now we’re talking,” said Castoro, rubbing his hands together.
The four men sat in a small booth in the pizza restaurant. Hardie sat inside on the bench, Mulvehill’s bulk squeezed beside him, blocking him from the outside. Castoro sat across from Hardie; Geraghty across from Mulvehill. A red checkered oil cloth covered the table. The waitress came over. She wore glasses. Her hair, brown at the roots for three inches, the rest blonde, was pulled into a ponytail.
“Have you boys decided yet?”
“You know what you want, John?” Geraghty smiled at Hardie. For security sake, Becker instructed them to call Hardie, ‘John Herman’.
“You have a wine list?” Hardie said to the waitress.
“Fraid not.” She shook her head. “We have burgundy red and a nice white wine by the glass.”
“Both California?” said Hardie.
“Mmmhnmm,” she nodded. “The white’s really nice. Had a glass myself a little while ago.” She giggled.
“If it’s really, really cold, give me a glass of the white. You guys going to have some wine?” said Hardie.
“I’ll have a glass of the white, too,” said Geraghty.
“None for me,” said Mulvehill. “Give me a bottle of Bud—I don’t need a glass.”
“Make mine a beer too,” said Castoro.
“We’ll have one large pizza, half pepperoni, half regular, right?” Mulvehill said. The others nodded. Mulvehill handed the menu back to the waitress, who turned and walked back toward the counter. “Christ, I can’t wait till we get this tour over with.”
“It’s not so bad,” said Geraghty. “Better than playing Bumper Lock with Galiber in the Bronx.”
“Joe Galiber?” said Hardie. “You guys following Joe Galiber around?”
“Can it!” Mulvehill said abruptly, giving Geraghty a hard look.
Hardie smiled as he shook his head. “You guys really enjoy playing cops and robbers, don’t you?”
“We’re not playing cops and robbers,” Mulvehill said sternly. “We are cops, the good guys, and you’re really a robber, a bad guy. And Galiber’s almost as bad, wanting to legalize drugs like an asshole. You’re just lucky, Mister, that I want to give the men a break from being locked up with you all day and night. Otherwise, your ass’d be locked behind closed doors in a little green room back there.”
“I appreciate your kindness,” said Hardie.
“Don’t be a wise-ass.”
“I’m not, believe me,” said Hardie.
Hardie had been studying his keepers since they left New York. Geraghty was the most intelligent, and the most relaxed, laid back. He liked to have a couple of drinks, wasn’t really opposed to Hardie having drinks, as long as there was no trouble, no waves. In one way, Castoro was more laid back than Geraghty—when it came to eating or drinking—but, at the same time, he was less confident, more concerned with Mulvehill and the boss having a favorable impression of him. When Mulvehill was watching, he strictly enforced D.E.A. protocol to the letter. When Mulvehill wasn’t watching, however, Castoro’s interest in his own comfort overrode his concerns for D.E.A. ‘Regs’. He was happy as a clam at hightide when Red would give them money to buy extra food and drink in the local stores. Because this was a rather unorthodox and temporary arrangement, cobbled together rather quickly, and because Becker was loathe to take money from his office budget or the pockets of his Agents to babysit an enormously wealthy drug-dealer, Hardie had been permitted to take walking-around money with him. In Hardie’s case, walking-around money was at least $5,000.
Mulvehill was direct, never hesitating to voice his loathing of Hardie, drugs, and drug-dealers. As far as Mulvehill was concerned, his time, and perhaps his life, and the time and lives of the other Agents, were on the line for a no-good-piece-of-drug-dealing-shit, who, if dead, would relieve the three Agents, in particular, and the world, in general, of a cancer.
Since the small party had arrived at the base, the weather had grown considerably cooler. During the day, even with a warm sun overhead, the shade of the surrounding forest kept the sun from penetrating the area around the barracks, keeping the building cool. At night, the uninsulated, rickety wooden building was actually cold. Since it was summer, Air Force regulations required the heat off, the air conditioning on. To keep those who might be housed in the barracks from tampering with the temperatures, the Base staff had wired the systems in such a way that it was not possible for anyone except Authorized Personnel to adjust the thermostat. When Geraghty griped about the barracks being too cold—Mulvehill was enough of a government worker to accept the ‘Regs’ and discomfort without question—the Base Superintendent said that because of the way the barracks was set up, it would take a week to get the air-conditioning turned off, and the heat back on. By that time, the Superintendent opined, the temporary cold spell would probably pass, so he was going to wait and see what weather next week brought.
Meanwhile, Hardie was freezing every night (which fueled Mulvehill’s resolve to show the fortitude of good guys). Red had always suffered the cold, from the
days when his mother, his three brothers and two sisters, lived in the two-room tenement on 143rd Street, Harlem. Their blankets were too thin, and the little heat that came through the radiators, too sporadic, to ward off the New York cold. The landlord—whose title Red’s mother always chanted as jewsonofabitck—was impervious to the complaints of the tenants, rarely responding when the boiler was broken, which was often. Red’s memories of those cold nights were suffused with thoughts of being alone with his brothers and sisters—his mother was a char woman at night—and nightly visits by his ‘Uncle’ Ray, the Superintendent of the building, who lived two flights down, in the basement.
After The Brotherhood started to thrive, when money became no object, something to burn, literally, to light cigarettes, Hardie always slept with an electric mattress cover and a luxurious down comforter, cozy, warm as a … he could never figure exactly what he wanted to be warm as—but it was warmth that he wanted, enveloping, relaxing, warmth. Thus, sleeping on a thin, uncomfortable barrack’s mattress, on a metal mesh excuse for springs, with an Government issue blanket that smelled like musty horsehair, something thick, coarse, and stiff, he shivered and tossed in the fetal position all night. And even that did not ward off the cold.
“I’ve got to get to the john, John,” said Mulvehill, thinly smiling at Hardie. “Watch him! Actually, don’t watch him. Let him run away. Then shoot him.”
“That man needs a hug,” said Red as he watched Mulvehill walk toward the men’s room. When Mulvehill was out of earshot, Red turned toward the other two Agents, speaking more directly to Castoro. “Listen, Lou, Marty, I’ve got a proposition.”
“Uh, oh,” said Geraghty. “How come the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up?”
“At least we could give the man an opportunity to make a proposal,” said Castoro lightly. “What do you propose?”
“How about, if tomorrow, we go, you guys go, I don’t care who goes, to a mall and buy some warm electric blankets—my treat.”
“Now that’s a proposal I like,” said Castoro. “I’m freezing my ass off with that shitty little blanket.”
Hardie reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of hundred dollar bills.
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