Absent Friends
Page 6
“More fun than sex.”
His eyebrows went up. She kissed him. “Go ahead, tell me it doesn't turn you on.”
“That—”
“Not that! This!” She bopped him on the head with his copy.
He smiled and said nothing, and that said everything.
“And this? The way you wrote it?” she went on. “It's Harry Randall. It'll make them move, it'll smoke them out. You can't wait, can you? To see what happens next?”
Harry sighed, as though forced to acknowledge an inarguable, though unpalatable, truth.
“Harry?” Laura's heart was singing. She tried to stay calm, to not let on that she'd seen him struggle to the top of the dry, rocky mountain, and now she knew he could see the ocean, could find his way again. But she had one more thing to offer, a welcome-home gift. “This story will put you back on top, Harry. It'll show the Unbelievers.” Unbelievers was their name for the powers at the paper, Leo and the inner circle.
“Hell with the Unbelievers.”
“People—”
“Hell with people.”
But there must have been someone Harry was not willing to dismiss, because he kissed her, slipped on his robe, and e-mailed his copy to Leo at home. Leo kept the fact-checkers working through the night, and the next morning, the story ran.
BOYS' OWN BOOK
Chapter 4
Complicated Work
September 11, 1978: The Boys (Markie)
He's a mechanic, Markie, same as ever, the ragtop's his, and it's still cherry. He's the first to marry, Jimmy his best man, of course. Markie's nervous: He'll drop the ring. He'll forget his words. He'll stumble walking out of St. Ann's down those stupid steps, trip, knock Sally down and fall on top of her, look like the biggest idiot ever, ever, man.
Jimmy grins. Markie, man, you're the only asshole I know with no troubles, so you got to make 'em up. Jimmy calms Markie down, Jimmy looks after him. Like always.
Nine years old: scrawny and small, but Markie can pitch, and he's even a lefty, in Little League that's hard to find. The game is big: not regular schedule, just midseason exhibition, but the other team's from Manhattan, the Empires. They have fancy uniforms, they have paid coaches at first and third, not dads doing it by the seats of their pants. Late innings, and the Pleasant Hills Panthers are up, but only by one run, and the Empires have two men on. Coach Roberts takes out Eddie Spano, Eddie's been throwing hard but wild, like always, ignoring the calls from Jimmy behind the plate, throwing whatever he wants. It's only the Panthers' fielding, the other kids stepping up, that's kept Eddie out of a hole. Coach watches Jack Molloy crash the right-field fence to steal one from an Empire batter, and that's enough. Coach brings in Markie, says, Shut 'em down. Eddie glares at Markie as they pass, Markie on his way in, Eddie going off.
Markie stands on the mound, looks around: when did this park get so big, how did it get to be so far to the plate? His mouth is dry. His arm hurts, he can't remember why. He fingers the ball, can't get it right, even to throw his warm-ups. The Manhattan kids grin at him, the coaches, too, and he can see they know it: no pitcher.
Jimmy straightens up from behind the plate, where he's been waiting for Markie's warm-up throws. Walks out to the mound, not fast, just like this is what he always does when they bring a relief pitcher in, goes out to talk to the guy before his first windup.
Jimmy, says Markie. He swallows, looks at Jimmy.
Throw me some bullshit, Jimmy says.
What? says Markie. Jimmy's using bad words, so Markie pays attention, but he doesn't get it.
Crap, Jimmy says. Soft, low, inside. 'Bout a dozen. They want to bunt this guy home. Jimmy's eyes move to the Empire kid on third, but he doesn't point, doesn't let the other team know what he's talking about with Markie. He says, Let them think that's all you have. Then when the batter steps up, throw the sizzler. If he connects with a bunt, it'll come right back to you. You and me and Tom, we'll run this guy down.
Markie looks over to third, where Tom seems to know what they're saying, seems ready. Then he looks at the second baseman, then at first, so looking at third won't seem like it was anything special. He looks back at Jimmy, nods. Jimmy jogs back to the plate. When he passes the batter waiting on deck, he flashes him a man-you're-in-trouble-now grin from behind his catcher's mask. Markie throws eight marshmallow warm-ups, he can hear the Empires talking, jeering. Then he nods, he's ready.
The batter steps in. Markie winds up, and he throws the fastball, what he's been working on all season, every day: getting it a little faster, a little more exact. He puts it just where he wants it, the batter shortens up and bunts before he realizes this isn't the pitch he expected, and the ball does just what Jimmy said: goes much too fast, too far, ends up right at Markie's feet. Markie scoops it up, flips it to Jimmy, Jimmy to Tom, and Jimmy and Tom close in on the runner, Markie covering the plate and the second baseman covering third, just in case, but Jimmy and Tom don't need that, they run the guy down like it was a training film.
While this is going on, the first-base runner makes second and the batter lands on first, but Markie doesn't care, doesn't care one bit, because Jimmy's behind the plate calling for the pitch he wants, and Markie knows whatever pitch Jimmy wants he's got it, and it'll work. All he needs is one more out to end the inning. He gets it easily on a soft pop. The game goes on, Markie even singles. The Panthers beat the Empires, and the kids from Manhattan slink home on the ferry.
So at Markie's wedding, Jimmy grins and says, Markie, man, with Sally up there in that white dress, who the hell you think's gonna be looking at you? Markie walks up the aisle without tripping, slips the ring on Sally's beautiful hand just like he knows how, like he's practiced for this for a long, long time.
All the guys are there, at Markie's wedding, hair slicked back, shoes shined, elbows digging into each other's ribs, big grins in the church and bigger ones over beers at the reception. They dance with Sally, and they dance with their own girls and each others'. They lean on the wall and twist the tops off beer bottles, look around at the balloons and the candles, the crumbled pieces of cake. Jack says, Look at Markie, man. Guy who smiles like that, he's in shock, don't know what hit him.
Maybe that's true, maybe not. Markie keeps smiling; a year later he's smiling even bigger, handing out cigars: he has a son.
Markie's happy.
From the New York Tribune, October 29, 2001
FUND REJECTS CONTRIBUTION
QUESTIONS SURROUND HERO FIREFIGHTER'S
DEALINGS WITH CRIME FIGURES
by Harry Randall
The Tribune has learned that, claiming concern for “our responsibility to our other contributors,” Marian Gallagher, director of the McCaffery Memorial Fund, has rejected a $50,000 contribution offered by Edward Spano, a Staten Island developer with reputed underworld ties.
Capt. James McCaffery, 46, commanded Ladder Co. 62 and died on September 11 in the World Trade Center's north tower. The McCaffery Fund was established within days by Thomas Molloy, a Staten Island civic leader and childhood friend of McCaffery's. To date the Fund has topped $500,000. Contributions and pledges are flooding in daily from around the country.
Asked about the Fund's actions, Ms. Gallagher told the Tribune, “Some people are saying we could do a lot of good with this money and should accept it. But until the absurd rumors floating around have been put to rest, we will continue to err on the side of providing our contributors with the comfort level they have a right to expect.”
Thomas Molloy said he and the Fund's board of directors “fully supported” Gallagher's decision to turn down Spano's offer.
Marian Gallagher, who, along with Molloy and Spano, grew up with McCaffery in Pleasant Hills on Staten Island, is executive director of the More Art, New York! Foundation, a Lower Manhattan–based arts-funding organization. In that capacity she is the chosen representative of Lower Manhattan's cultural community to the Downtown Redevelopment Advisory Council, a citizens' watchdog group.
The rumors circulating about McCaffery center on events that took place more than two decades ago.
A 1979 shooting in Pleasant Hills resulted in the death of Jonathan “Jack” Molloy, 25, half-brother of Thomas Molloy. Mark Keegan, 23, admitted shooting Molloy but claimed he did so in self-defense. According to Keegan's statement, Molloy, who had a record of arrests on minor charges, threatened him with a gun and fired two shots. Keegan returned fire, killing Molloy with a single shot. No homicide charges were filed, but Keegan pled guilty to possession of an unlicensed handgun. He was sentenced to 16 months in prison, where he died after a fight with another inmate.
According to Keegan's widow, it was McCaffery who urged her to file a wrongful death lawsuit holding New York State responsible. Sally Keegan claims the suit was filed but withdrawn when the State offered a settlement under a policy compensating the families of prisoners injured or killed in custody. Six months after Keegan's death his family began to receive monthly payments of $1,000. In 1990 this amount jumped to $2,000. Payments continued until Keegan's only child, Kevin, now a firefighter, turned 18. They were made through Phillip Constantine, the attorney who had handled Keegan's criminal trial in 1979.
However, the Tribune has learned that New York State has no such family compensation program, nor did it ever have one.
Reached at his Lower Manhattan office, Constantine, a prominent criminal attorney, refused to comment on the payments' source. Asked whether a lawsuit was filed against New York State, he would only say, “Lawsuits are public record.” The Tribune failed to find any suit filed against the State on behalf of any member of the Keegan family.
Constantine refused further comment on such questions as the object of the deception or why it was taken to such lengths.
Asked whether Sally Keegan would have accepted money if she had known its source was a reputed crime figure, Victoria Molloy, former wife of Thomas Molloy, said, “Never.”
Sally Keegan refused to comment. Kevin Keegan would not answer a reporter's questions except to say, “Jimmy McCaffery was my godfather and my father's best friend. There's no way he was involved in anything dirty, with Eddie Spano or anyone else.”
Spano, reached at his office at Chapel Pointe, a luxury development going up on Staten Island, denied any knowledge of where or why the payments to the Keegan family originated. Asked about his relationship with McCaffery, Spano said, “I knew Jimmy when we were kids, that's all. Always admired the guy. A real hero.” Pressed about his motivation for contributing to the McCaffery Fund, Spano would only say, “I just wanted to help out.”
Spano called allegations of his own ties to organized crime “ridiculous.”
It is a matter of public record that Spano has been indicted twice, once on charges of extortion and once for racketeering under the state RICO law. He was paroled after serving 10 months of a 30-month sentence under a plea bargain on the extortion charge. The racketeering charge was dismissed for lack of evidence after a key witness disappeared.
Spano's role, if any, in the deception remains unclear, as does the exact role McCaffery played. Based on witness accounts, Constantine, who remained close to the Keegan family, had continuing contact with McCaffery over two decades, though the men claimed to dislike each other.
The Fund director, Marian Gallagher, also stayed close to the Keegan family, although she claims to have “lost touch” with McCaffery. Asked about McCaffery's actions at the time of Molloy's and Keegan's deaths, she would say only, “They were Jimmy's friends. He was devastated when they died.” On the question of McCaffery's relationships with Constantine and Spano, she refused to speculate. Asked about her own part in the deception, she vigorously denied any participation.
No criminal activity is alleged against any party at this point.
By rejecting Spano's contribution, Gallagher seems to have staved off a movement within the FDNY to shut down the McCaffery Fund, at least on a temporary basis.
“This is crap about Jimmy, that's all it is—the purest crap,” said retired firefighter Owen McCardle, who served with McCaffery at Staten Island's Engine 168. “Jimmy was one of the finest members of this Department it's ever been my privilege to work with.” Nevertheless, sources say elements of the FDNY leadership, under pressure from the Mayor's office, have suggested freezing the McCaffery Fund until an investigation into McCaffery's relationship to Spano is complete.
“You've got to understand, firefighters are big heroes now, not just here but all over the country,” FDNY Deputy Assistant Chief Gino Aiello told the Tribune. Aiello was promoted last week in the Fire Department's effort to replace high-ranking officers lost on September 11. “Schoolkids are sending us pennies. But that could turn around. You saw what happened last week.” This was a reference to the October 25 melee at Ground Zero, when firefighters, protesting the Mayor's order to cut the number searching for remains, clashed with police officers. Seventeen firefighters were arrested and charged with disorderly conduct.
“Look, no one believes every man or woman in this Department is pure as the driven snow,” said one Fire Department source, asking to remain anonymous. “But McCaffery was famous. Long before 9/11, people heard of him, he was a hero. Since they set up the Fund, he stands for the Department in a lot of people's minds. If it turns out he was mixed up in anything, that could hurt us. It could hurt a lot of the positive things going on.”
“September 11, we lost 343 guys,” Chief Aiello told the Tribune. “But also 92 vehicles. Equipment—radios, oxygen tanks, all sorts of things. Right now a lot of guys are putting in tremendous overtime in the search. That's all got to come out of the budget somewhere. The McCaffery Fund could be a big help, but not if it blows up in our faces.”
The investigation is continuing.
PHIL'S STORY
Chapter 2
How to Find the Floor
October 31, 2001
It was going to be a busy day.
Halloween. In his field, they used to joke it should be a national holiday. This year made-up horrors were redundant. Not a lot of Freddie or Jason masks around this year.
And all days were busy, now as before. Phone service still spotty, even the cell phones went in and out. Some offices, courtrooms, chambers still closed, judges and ADAs needing to be hunted down and mostly on foot because of the damn phones. The building where Phil had his office had reopened, but it was inside the perimeter, making many people vastly confused about whether they were allowed to go there, and if so, how.
You might have thought, given the staggering nature, the breathtaking scale, of the crime of September 11, that criminals of lesser ambition, weaker imagination, would have paused in their pursuits, even if only from embarrassment. And for the first week or so, they had. A week when the muggers, stickup artists, con men, drug dealers, and gangbangers gave New York's stunned citizens and exhausted cops breathing room.
Then the Mayor—in the New Normal, everyone's hero, which, according to Phil, showed you how far this really was from normal—the Mayor told New Yorkers to do their patriotic duty: live their lives, get back to work.
And the city found out that crooks were as patriotic as anyone else.
For Phil, that meant new clients, new interviews, and new bullshit stories to get past: I can't help you if you're going to jerk me around. And the old clients still needed him to stand up with them at their arraignments, their bail hearings, their days in court.
The Tribune story hadn't changed this, not y
et. The people Phil defended were criminals. (Aloud, Phil would have insisted on “persons charged with criminal activity.”) If the odor of improper, possibly illegal, behavior swirled around their lawyer, in their minds that only made him more likely to understand. Those of his clients who even knew, who even read the papers. Most of them were hypnotized by their own troubles. Their minds were locked on the desolation of the futures they faced the way you'd stare into a bloodred sunrise, unable to take your eyes off the storm clouds massing.
So until it came to the ethics investigation, the disciplinary committee review—and it would, oh yes; already there were conversations that stopped when he walked into a room, invitations to go get a beer that he didn't have to duck because they'd stopped coming—Phil could stay busy. His clients, as before, would be desperately glad to see him, though what he was able to offer them was, compared to their hopes, a leaf in a windstorm. Until the Feds called, or the State, whichever won the fight over who got to try to take Phil Constantine down—and they would have called already, if everyone on that side wasn't scrambling, madly searching tips and phone taps they'd ignored for years to see if they should have seen this coming, if they could see anything else coming now—Phil's life could go on, no different and completely changed, like everything else.
And if he found himself now, on occasion and without warning, seized with an urge to grab a client's collar and shout, “That's it? After all this, this is still who you are and what you want?” he roped himself back under control each time, and just went on. He wasn't really sure who it was that he wanted to shout at.
Phil had been caught in the cloud on September 11, running like hell with everyone else.
His eyes burned, his lungs were crazy for air. A woman next to him staggered, so he reached for her, caught her, forced her to keep going, warm blood seeping onto his arm from a slash down her back as he pulled her along, later carried her. Somewhere, someone in a uniform took her from him, bore her off someplace while someone else pressed an oxygen mask to his face. He breathed and breathed, and when he could speak, he asked about the woman, but no one knew.