Black Water Transit

by Carsten Stroud

  “I’ve been a solid businessman, I’ve paid taxes. I’ve never—”

  “For God’s sake, Jack. Look around. This is federal justice. They don’t give a rat’s ass about you personally. They think you’re dirty, they always have, because of your friendships. They see what they want to see. Greco is sure she can convince a jury you’re corrupt. You go down. You lose. She wins. If you get ruined in the process, too bad. You’re just a speed bump in Greco’s career path.”

  There wasn’t too much to say in response to that. Flannery left Jack with his thoughts for about thirty seconds and then spoke softly.

  “I’m going to have to ask you a difficult question.”

  “Ask it.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me about that container?”

  Jack sat back, rubbed his face, looked at Flannery over the tips of his fingers, and then shook his head slowly.

  “Man, how high can this shit stack? Flannery, I have no idea in the world how those cars got on my ship. I have nothing to tell you about anything. I’m being set up. It’s as simple as that.”

  Flannery nodded.

  “Okay. Any thoughts on who might be doing this to you?”

  “None. Not a damn one—what about Pike?”

  “This goes way beyond Pike. Up until this Wednesday you had never met the man. This is something deeper. If you’re being set up, this thing took planning. Weeks of it. Your fingerprints inside that Cobra, for example. How could that have happened?”

  “I don’t know. I guess somebody could have switched cars on me. Gotten my prints in the stolen one, then changed cars again. That would be … that might be it.”

  “Wouldn’t you know if it was a different car?”

  “Jesus … you’d think so. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t keep a lot of personal stuff in it. I like it to be clean, so I guess you could probably slip it by me for long enough to get my prints in it. I mean, who thinks about stuff like that? I’ve had a lot on my mind. This shit with Danny. The pension fund thing with Galitzine Sheng.”

  “Has the car ever been out of your hands?”

  “The Cobra?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure. Lots of times. Every time I park it somewhere. I use valet parking. It could have been switched on me at any one of a hundred different times. I have it tuned. The engine is cranky. You have to look after the timing. And I had it detailed just this week.”

  “Okay. There’s a place to start. By whom?”

  “By …”

  Flannery’s eyes narrowed as he watched Jack’s face.

  “By whom?”

  “Hudson Valley Fine Cars.”

  “That’s Frank’s dealership.”

  “Yes, but Frank wouldn’t … he’s a friend, Flannery.”

  “Does Frank have any reason to be angry with you?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing you’re holding back here? This is your life they’re fucking with, Jack.”

  “Frank and I are friends. Old friends. It wasn’t him.”

  The old lawyer gave him a long look.

  “You know Creek’s been dealing in classic cars.”

  Jack’s face went tight.

  “I know.”

  “You know he’s selling them to Tony Torinetti? Frank’s kid?”

  “Yeah. He sold Frank a turquoise T-bird, for Claire. So what? Creek didn’t set me up. He wouldn’t. Even if he wanted to, he’s getting hurt by this bust, just as bad as I am. He’s a full partner in Black Water Transit. They take me down, they take him down, too.”

  “Jack, a guy like you, a loner, only a friend is going to get close enough to set you up. You don’t have any idea at all?”

  “Christ. None. And definitely not Creek. Look, when do I get bail? When do I get out of here? I get out, I can make some moves. We can figure this thing out, one way or another. But I want out of this hole right now.”

  Flannery had been studying his hands while Jack was talking. Now he looked at him hard and straight.

  “I have bad news, then. There’ll be an arraignment before a federal judge. But I’m informed it will be pro forma. The word has come down from DC. You’ll get no bail. You’ll stay in custody.”

  “Why? On what grounds?”

  “Risk of flight. Also, Greco says there’s a security element.”

  “Security? For whom?”

  “They’re treating this like a mob thing. Greco has convinced DC that you can be turned, that you’re the tip of a huge conspiracy. Money laundering. Drugs. Weapons. She says they let you out on bail, you’ll be … a target.”

  “Fuck, Flannery. What a farce. The word is whacked. This bitch needs to get out more. She’s seen too many Tarantino films.”

  “She thinks she can use you to nail Frank Torinetti.”

  “Frank’s a car dealer, Flannery. If he’s into anything else, I sure as hell don’t know anything about it! I told her that.”

  “I hear that, Jack. But she’s making a strong case. And your prints in that Cobra, the cash, all of it looks pretty damning. This thing took work, planning. Somebody’s making a project out of you.”

  “Thanks for the bulletin. Maybe it was that bitch herself.”

  “That bitch, and you’re going to have to try not to call her that in court, had no access to your private life, no way to switch your Cobra, no way to get that far inside your head. And she reeks of self-righteous zeal. She knows in her heart that you’re guilty. She has that look. I’ve seen it before. If you’re being set up, it’s being done by somebody inside, a friend. That’s flat. Deal with it.”

  Jack leaned back in the wooden chair, rubbed his face. Flannery studied him under the hard planes of white light from the bulb in the iron cage. Coleman’s face was as hard as Jack’s. When Jack looked at him again, he saw something in there that he had never seen before. He saw suspicion.

  “Flan. Answer me straight. Do you think I’m guilty?”

  “Jack, if you were guilty, I mean actually guilty, of any of these charges, and you were to tell me—to admit to me—then it would make my job very difficult. The canon of ethics allows me to do whatever I need to do for my client, but if I were to be in possession of clear and inculpatory statements … as an officer of the court, it would … limit the scope of our defensive strategy.”

  “Don’t blow smoke at me. I asked you straight out.”

  “Fine … I believe that you are being set up, yes. That you have been set up. I cannot say with absolute certainty that you are without … culpability … in some areas of your business operations. I dislike having to say it, but you pressed me.”

  “You really think Black Water Transit is bent? That I’m bent?”

  “I’ll admit that I—that we all—found it unusual that your troubles with the Teamsters last year seemed to dissipate so easily. They’re not noted for their willingness to accept compromises.”

  “Hoffa’s dead. The Teamsters aren’t mobbed up anymore. I took a hard line with them, and my workers backed me. I made my people a better offer. That’s what the pension fund thing was all about. They chose me over the union. That was all it took. It was a union probe, nothing more. Where’s Creek?”

  “You can’t see anyone until after your arraignment.”

  “Fuck that. I need him here. Where is he now?”

  “He’s sitting outside Greco’s office. He’s exceedingly angry. She’s refused to see him. He says he won’t leave until she does.”

  “Christ. He’s not armed, is he?”

  “I doubt it. They have metal detectors in the entrance halls. Good God, Jack, you’re not serious?”

  “I want to see Creek. I want to see him now.”

  “Jack, I don’t recommend—”

  “Now, Flannery. Make it happen. It’s the only move I have.”

  “I’ll try.” He stood up, began to gather his papers.

  “One thing?”

  Flannery stopped, waited.

  “What … what happens next? To me?”<
br />
  “Well … I’m told they’ll be transferring you tonight. To Allenwood Prison. In central Pennsylvania. For your safety.”

  Jack’s stomach burned and he felt the room lurching to the left. He thought he might pass out. In his throat, his carotid was surging. He could hear the hissing of blood in his ears. His chest was locked up tight. He saw Flannery’s wary expression, swallowed hard.

  “Fine. Okay. Allenwood. Get Creek down here.”

  HENRY HUDSON PARKWAY SOUTHBOUND

  YONKERS, NEW YORK

  1450 HOURS

  It had taken a female Peekskill cop named Moira Stokovich, who looked about fourteen, over an hour to take down all the details of the break-in on their unit in a careful childish script, and when she had finished she told them a bit smugly the chances of getting back their papers were less than zero and really, as police officers, they should try to be more careful about the security of their vehicles.

  Nicky had thanked Stokovich very nicely with his jaw muscles bunched up and his teeth hurting and he signed the report while Casey sat in the passenger seat inside the gypsy cab with her head back and her eyes closed, talking on her cell phone. It was almost three o’clock before they got back onto the Tarrytown road.

  “Who were you talking to?” asked Nicky.

  “Vince.”

  “Yeah. How’d he take it?”

  “Oh, he was impressed. Thrilled.”

  Casey’s voice was flat, the message plain. Nicky was quiet for a while, fighting the traffic. In the distance they could see the midtown towers burning like red-hot iron bars in the dirty sunlight. When they pulled onto the Henry Hudson in Yonkers, he risked another question.

  “What do you figure, Casey? Who did it?”

  “Christ. Some crack-head. Kids. I don’t know.”

  “What was in that briefcase?”

  “Nothing. Case files. Reports. My Rolodex stuff. Contacts.”

  “You said it was your whole fucking life.”

  Casey’s face was hard and flat and she seemed to freeze up.

  “I was upset. You and that prick Zaragosa had just sandbagged me. How the fuck did you think I was going to handle it? You guys made me feel like shit.”

  “Did Vince say anything about Morgan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Care to share it with me?”

  “No. And don’t any of you be stomping around in my head anymore. I’m too tired for any more of this pop psych crap. Okay?”

  She put her head up against the window and closed her eyes and had nothing more to say until they reached Casey’s apartment block on Temple Court in Brooklyn. Across the road the sun was slanting sideways through the trees of Prospect Park and the dusty air was glowing yellow and gold. Nicky pulled up outside the entrance and touched Casey’s shoulder.

  “Casey. We’re here.”

  Casey’s eyes opened. She blinked a couple of times, sat up, shook out a cramp in her shoulder.

  “Thanks, Nicky. See you in the morning.”

  “Okay. What’s next?”

  “Vince says we should start with Pike.”

  “Rocket science. Where is he?”

  “Vince says the ATF has been in touch with Pike’s office in Maryland. CCS tells them Pike is on a business trip. Won’t say where. Told the ATF he’d taken a private charter flight out of LaGuardia around midnight last night. Outfit called Slipstream Jetways. Left on one of their Lears.”

  “And that gives him no time to be the shooter at Red Hook and then make LaGuardia. Neat. Where’s he supposed to have gone?”

  “ATF asked for the flight plan. There wasn’t one. You don’t have to file one if the flight is private. CCS asked the ATF if there was a warrant on Pike.”

  “And …?”

  “ATF said no. CCS said good-bye. Then some macho ATF muscle-head leaned on this poor female behind the desk, threatened her, made her cry, according to Vince. Called her a stupid … I hate the word. Starts with a c and ends with t.”

  “Cat? Coot? Coronet?”

  “Don’t be clever, Nicky. You don’t have the tools. When Vince got involved, the ATF told Vince this was a federal matter. Vince told them that Pike was wanted in connection with the death of an NYPD detective. They said they’d keep him informed, they were the lead agency, and he should keep out of their way.”

  “What did Vince say?”

  “He told them to … you’re Italian, right?”

  “Last time I checked.”

  “What does something man-jah va fa-gool something mean?”

  “Let’s say it’s an eating disorder. Then what?”

  “So then Vince talks to Slipstream himself, asks the clerk very nicely, and the woman is happy to tell him the plane went to Harrisburg.”

  “So?”

  “So he sent Dexter Zarnas to Harrisburg this morning. He’s going to talk to the airport people there, see if he can confirm that Pike was on the plane when it landed.”

  “The ATF will be all over Harrisburg.”

  “Vince doesn’t care. He told Dexter to do whatever he had to.”

  “What about us?”

  “There’s an internal shooting inquiry at One Police. Ten o’clock sharp. You’re picking me up here tomorrow morning.”

  “In what? This piece of shit?”

  “No. Motor pool has a Caprice for us. You’re taking this unit in to them. They’ll give you the keys. Where you staying?”

  “I have a room at the Thunderbird. In Yonkers. What’s Vince doing in all of this?”

  “Planning Jimmy Rock’s funeral. It’ll be a big one. Saint John the Divine. Dress blues all around. We have to be there.”

  “When is it?”

  “Monday. June twenty-sixth. Two o’clock.”

  “Okay. Well, if that’s it, then I’m going to bed.”

  “Good idea.”

  Casey climbed out of the car, started to walk down the path, and then stopped halfway to the door. She turned and came back to the car, leaned down into the window. Her look was harder in some way. She studied Nicky for a moment.

  “Nicky, have you got a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “Come up for a bit? There’s somebody I want you to meet.”

  “Me? Meet who?”

  “You’ll see. Come on.”

  “Casey, I’m dead beat.”

  “So was I, but that didn’t stop you from dragging me all the way up to Peekskill and feeding me through a bark chipper.”

  “Is this about Jimmy Rock?”

  “No. It’s about me.”

  “Am I going to enjoy this?”

  “Not if I work it right.”

  “Jesus, Casey …”

  She held his eyes and it was clear she wasn’t going away. Nicky let out a sigh, nodded once, got out of the cab, made a move to lock it, and remembered the shattered side window. He put the keys in his pocket and followed her into the building. There was an elevator at the far end of a long wood-paneled hallway that smelled of Lysol and bleach and stale cigarette smoke. Casey dragged the mesh gates open and stepped inside. Nicky followed inside and the cab sagged on its cables. Casey said nothing, punched the number-five button.

  They rode up in silence. The cab creaked and groaned and rattled. Nicky looked for the safety permit and saw a blank frame with a gang tag scratched in the old glass. At the fifth floor he followed Casey down a long narrow hallway lit by bare bulbs toward a door at the end. Casey stopped, waited for him to catch up.

  She unlocked the door and opened it. Nicky’s first sensation was the powerful smell of marijuana being smoked. When Casey looked at his face, waiting for a comment, he said nothing at all.

  The apartment was large, done in a forties style, with plaster arches between the rooms, trimmed in gumwood and oak. The furniture was rounded and massive, a huge dark-green leather couch, two armchairs also in green leather, polished hardwood floors, a boarded-up fireplace with a painted art deco screen, an inlaid sideboard with a stereo, low table lamps in s
ome sort of white stone with stained-glass shades in tones of amber, rose, and emerald-green. Music was playing, a big-band sound. Nicky recognized Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.” The light from the setting sun filled the room with a hazy yellow glow. Someone was lying on the couch, a woman. She stirred as Casey came into the room, sat upright on the couch, wrapping a pink satin robe around her body. Cigarette smoke rose up into the yellow light, snaking and twisting in the dead air. She covered her eyes against the shaft of sideways sunlight and peered at them both.

  “Casey, is that you?”

  “It’s me. I’ve got someone from the office.”

  The woman stood up, swayed a little. She was white, so white she looked to be made of candle wax, very thin and gray-haired, her skin dry and her face deeply fissured, as if marked by continuous pain. She looked at Nicky and then back to Casey. When she spoke, her voice was soft, husky, and accusing.

  “Casey. I’ve been calling. I’ve been sick. The television said there were shootings. Policemen were killed. I called your boss. He said you were okay, but he wouldn’t put me through to you.”

  “I know. I’m okay. I’m sorry. They wouldn’t let me call you until the scene had been released. This is Nicky Cicero.”

  The older woman rose to her feet and walked toward Nicky. She was working on a tentative smile, but there was something very wrong with her. She put out her hand and came in close. Her pupils were huge in dark-brown eyes, her cheeks thick with uneven powder, her mascara blurred and indistinct. That she had once been beautiful was there in her bones and in her carriage, which was still erect and poised, but it was layered and hidden by the slackness and dullness in her eyes. When she spoke, her low husky voice was slurred, as if she’d had a stroke, which was what Nicky first thought—she had reached him by now, after a difficult navigation over ten feet of hardwood flooring—she put out her hand like a countess waiting for a kiss on the ring and gave him a smile that was borderline grotesque.

  “Hello,” she said, “I’m happy to meet you.”