The Cross: An Eddie Flynn Novella

by Steve Cavanagh

  “Eddie, thanks,” he said. He held out a hand. I turned and walked out of the house. Vinnie had made a lot of money from human misery, and I wanted no part of him. Vinnie would go on the record about the Morgue Squad, and once IAB were sure they’d cleaned up all the loose ends, he could re-enter the world.

  I called a cab and waited outside on the lawn. The night had turned cold, and I welcomed it. Every inch of it. It reminded me that I was still alive, when so many were not.

  The cab arrived, and I told the driver to take me to Queens.

  Traffic proved light, and I told the cabdriver to stop by the river. I needed a minute. It was out of my way, but I needed to do something right then. It couldn’t wait. I got out of the cab and strolled to the water. The river came right up to the railing. I leaned over and took the memory card from my shirt pocket. I’d ejected and palmed it before I’d handed the camera over to McAllister.

  There was a gap between the bracket and the rail; I jammed the card in and twisted until it snapped. As I watched the two halves float away on the river, I thought of Maria. Maybe McAllister was right. Maybe it should’ve come out in the open. All the cops who’d been involved were dead. The men who were wrongfully convicted would soon be released, thanks to Vinnie’s sealed testimony to the DA and his accounts.

  I didn’t want Maria to watch her husband’s murder. She had a chance now. I couldn’t see her hurt anymore. Her last memory of Chilli should not be his body falling from Marzone’s grip. Sometimes the truth is too painful to watch.

  I got back in the cab and told the driver to take me home. While we drove, I checked my phone. There was a message from Jack. Maria’d had a little boy. Mama and Chilli Junior were doing just fine.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Over the next six months, twenty-six men had their convictions overturned by the district attorney. The official line was that an internal review of a deceased officer’s cases had raised serious concerns about the investigations and that evidence had come to light conclusively proving another man, also now deceased, had been responsible.

  Thanks to early tip-offs from McAllister, we signed up quite a few of those ex-cons and settled wrongful conviction cases with the city quickly and quietly. If Halloran and Flynn ever had a golden period, this was it. The money was coming in, finally. The only problem was that Jack began spending it. He wasn’t the same after the Hernandez case; his poker game went to shit, he came into the office less, and his drinking escalated. He told me one night that he’d lost it. Whatever courage, or nerve, he once had at the table just wasn’t there anymore.

  Before the year was out we were almost broke again.

  Then things started to pick up. I came into the office one morning to find Jack already at his desk.

  “Either your apartment’s on fire or you got evicted. Which is it?” I said.

  He laughed and said, “Neither, my friend. We’ve got a new client. I’m on my way to meet him.”

  A half bottle of Jim Beam went into his pocket. He lifted his keys from the bowl on his desk and stopped. Put the bottle back in his drawer and fixed his top button.

  “You’re meeting a client sober? Who is it? The President?”

  “Funny. It’s the Russian mob. You remember that hit on the Italian guy? They caught the shooter in the apartment with the dead man about ten minutes after he killed him.”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “It was a mob hit by the Russians. They’re shopping for lawyers. They’ve been through a couple of firms already. I got the call last night to meet them for breakfast. I need you to cover my cases this morning.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got jury selection in the Berkley case.”

  “Shit. I’ll call Volchek, tell him I’ll take him to lunch.”

  There was a strange energy in Jack that morning. I hadn’t seen him so animated in a long time. I thought that maybe we had hit rock bottom, and between the attempted kidnapping trial for Ted Berkley and the promise of a long, drawn-out mob murder, we were crawling back to the top. We could catch up on our rent, pay off a few debts, and even lower the overdraft. This was another turning point for Halloran and Flynn, and I had a feeling that morning that everything would be all right.

  I was wrong.

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks, as ever, to my amazing wife, Tracy, and my friends and family for all their support. This novella would’ve been much poorer without the expert guidance and suggestions of my editor, Jemima Forrester, and my agent Euan Thorneycroft. I’m immensely grateful to all at Orion Books for placing this in your hands.

  My biggest thanks for this novella goes to the Northern Ireland Arts Council, for supporting me, and other writers and artists like me. May they continue to do so for many years to come.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Do exactly as I tell you or I’ll put a bullet in your spine.”

  The accent was male and Eastern European. I detected no tremors or hints of anxiety in his voice. The tone sounded even and measured. This wasn’t a threat; it was a statement of fact. If I didn’t cooperate, I would be shot.

  I felt the unmistakable electric pressure from a handgun pressed into the small of my back. My first instinct was to lean in to the barrel and spin sharply to my left, turning the shot away from my body. The guy was probably right-handed, which meant he was naturally exposed on his left side. I could throw an elbow through that gap into the guy’s face as I turned, giving me enough time to break his wrist and bury the weapon in his forehead. Old instincts, but the guy who could do all of those things wasn’t around anymore. I’d buried him along with my past. I’d grown sloppy. That’s what happens when you go straight.

  Without pressure on the faucet, the patter of water falling on porcelain faded. I felt my fingers shaking as I raised my wet hands in surrender.

  “No need for that, Mr. Flynn.”

  He knew my name. Gripping the sink, I raised my head and looked in the mirror. Never saw this guy before. Tall and slim, he wore a brown overcoat over a charcoal suit. He sported a shaved head, and a facial scar ran vertically from below his left eye to the jawline. Pushing the gun hard into my back, he said, “I’ll follow you out of the bathroom. You’ll put on your coat. You’ll pay for breakfast, and we’ll leave together. We’re going to talk. If you do as I tell you, you’ll be fine. If you don’t—you’re dead.”

  Good eye contact. No blushing of the face or neck, no involuntary movement, no tells at all. I knew a hustler when I saw one. I knew the look. I’d worn it long enough. This guy was no hustler. He was a killer. But he was not the first killer to threaten me, and I remembered I got clear last time by thinking, not panicking.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  He stepped back a pace and held up the gun, letting me see it in the mirror. It looked real : a snub-nosed, silver revolver. I knew from the first second the threat was genuine, but seeing the short, evil weapon in the mirror set my skin alive with fear. My chest began to tighten as my heart stepped on the gas. I’d been out of the game too long. I would have to make do with thinking and panicking. The revolver disappeared into his coat pocket and he gestured toward the door. The conversation appeared to be over.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Two years of law school, two and half years clerking for a judge, and almost nine years as a practicing attorney, and all I managed to say was okay. I wiped my soapy hands on the back of my pants and ran my fingers through my dirty-blond hair. He followed me out of the bathroom and across the floor of the now-empty diner, where I lifted my coat, put it on, slid five bucks under my coffee cup, and made for the door. The scarred man followed me at a short distance.

  Ted’s Diner was my favorite place to think. I don’t know how many trial strategies I had worked through in those booths, covering the tables with medical records, gunshot wound photos, and coffee-stained legal briefs. In the old days, I wouldn’t have eaten breakfast at the same place every day. Way too risky. In my new life, I enjoyed the routine of break
fast at Ted’s. I’d relaxed and stopped looking over my shoulder. Too bad. I could’ve used being on edge that morning : I might have seen him coming.

  Walking out of the diner into the heart of the city felt like stepping into a safe place. The sidewalk bustled with the Monday-morning commute, and the pavement felt reassuring under my feet. This guy wasn’t going to shoot me in New York City, on Chambers Street, at eight fifteen in the morning in front of thirty witnesses. I stood to the left of the diner, outside an abandoned hardware store. I felt my face reddening with the pinch that November brings to the wind as I wondered what the man wanted. Had I lost a case for him years ago? I certainly couldn’t remember him. The scarred man joined me at the boarded-up window of the old store. He stood close so we couldn’t be separated by passersby. His face cracked into a long grin, bending the scar that bisected his cheek.

  “Open your coat and look inside, Mr. Flynn.”

  My hands felt awkward and clumsy as I searched my pockets and found nothing. I opened the coat fully. On the inside I saw what looked like a rip, as if the silk lining was coming away from the stitching. It wasn’t a rip. It took me a few moments to realize there was a thin black jacket inside my coat, like another layer of lining. I hadn’t seen it before. This guy must have slipped the jacket sleeves into my coat when I was in the bathroom. Slipping my hands across my back, I found a Velcro seam for a pocket that sat low down, just above my waist. Pulling it around so I could get a look at it, I tore open the seam, put my hand inside, and felt a loose thread.

  I pulled the thread from the hidden pocket. But it wasn’t a thread.

  It was a wire.

  A red wire.

  My hands followed it to what felt like a thin plastic box and more wiring, and then to two slim, rectangular bulges in the jacket that sat on either side of my back.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  I was wearing a bomb.

  He wasn’t going to shoot me on Chambers Street in front of thirty witnesses. He was going to blow me up along with God knew how many victims.

  “Don’t run, or I detonate the device. Don’t try to take it off. Don’t attract attention. My name is Arturas.” He pronounced it Ar-toras through his continuing smile.

  I took in a sharp gulp of metallic air and forced myself to breathe it out slowly.

  “Take it easy,” said Arturas.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “My employer hired your firm to represent him. We have unfinished business.”

  My fear subsided a little : This wasn’t about me. It was about my old law firm, and I thought I could palm this guy off on Jack Halloran. “Sorry, pal. It’s not my firm anymore. You’re talking to the wrong guy. Who do you work for, exactly?”

  “I think you know the name. Mr. Volchek.”

  Oh shit. He was right. I did know the name. Olek Volchek was head of the Russian mob. My former partner, Jack Halloran, had agreed to represent Volchek a month before Jack and I split. When Jack took on the case, Volchek awaited trial for murder—a gangland hit. I never got to look at the papers in the case or even meet Volchek. I’d devoted that entire month to defending Ted Berkley, a stockbroker, on an alleged attempted kidnapping charge—the case that broke me, completely. After the fallout from that case, I’d lost my family and then lost myself in a whiskey bottle. I got out of the law almost a year ago with what was left of my soul, and Jack had been only too happy to take my law firm. I hadn’t set foot in a courtroom since the jury delivered their verdict in the Berkley case, and I hadn’t planned on returning to the law anytime soon.

  Jack was a different story. He had gambling problems. I’d heard recently he planned to sell the firm and leave town. He probably split and took Volchek’s retainer with him. If the Russian mob couldn’t find Jack, they would come looking for me—for a refund. Cue the strong-arm routine. With a bomb on my back, what does it matter that I’m bankrupt? I’ll get him the damn money. It was going to be okay. I could pay this guy. He wasn’t a terrorist. He was a mobster. Mobsters don’t blow people up who owe them money. They just get paid.

  “Look, you need Jack Halloran. I’ve never met Mr. Volchek. Jack and I are no longer partners. But it’s okay; if you want your retainer refunded, I’ll gladly write you a check right now.”

  Whether or not the check would cash was another issue. I had just over six hundred dollars in my account, my rent was overdue, and I had rehab bills I couldn’t pay and no income. The rehab fees were the main problem, but with the amount of whiskey I was putting away, I would’ve died if I hadn’t checked myself into a clinic and gotten help. In counseling, I’d realized that there was no amount of Jack Daniel’s that could’ve burned away the memory of what happened in the Berkley case. In the end, I’d gotten clean of booze and I was two weeks away from securing a final agreement with my creditors. Two weeks away from starting all over again. If the Russian wanted more than a few hundred bucks, I was screwed—big-time.

  “Mr. Volchek does not want his money. You can keep it. After all, you’ll earn it,” said Arturas.

  “What do you mean earn it? Look, I’m not in practice anymore. I haven’t practiced law for almost a year. I can’t help you. I’ll refund Mr. Volchek’s retainer. Please just let me take this off,” I said, gripping the jacket, ready to heave it off.

  “No,” he said. “You don’t understand, lawyer. Mr. Volchek wants you to do something for him. You will be his lawyer and he will pay you. You’ll do it. Or you will do no more in this life.”

  My throat tightened in panic as I tried to speak. This didn’t make any sense. I felt sure that Jack would’ve told Volchek that I’d quit, that I couldn’t hack it anymore. A white stretch limousine pulled up at the curb. The shining wax finish carried my distorted reflection. The rear passenger door opened from the inside, sweeping away my image. Arturas stood beside the open door and nodded at me to get in. I tried to settle myself; I deepened my breathing, slowed my heart, and tried desperately not to puke. The limo’s heavily tinted windows spread an intense darkness over the interior, as if it were brimming with black water.

  For a moment everything became remarkably still—it was just me and that open door. If I ran, I wouldn’t get far—not an option. If I got into the car and stayed close to Arturas, I knew he couldn’t detonate the device. At that moment, I cursed myself for not keeping my skills sharp. The same skills that had kept me alive on the streets for all those years, the same skills that helped me to con million-dollar-salary defense attorneys before I’d even been to law school, the same skills that would have spotted this guy before he got within ten feet of me.

  I made my decision and climbed into the rabbit hole.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I felt the bomb pressing into my flesh as soon as I sat down.

  There were four men in the back of the limo, including Arturas, who followed me inside, closed the door behind him, and sat on my left, still wearing that disconcerting smile. I could hear the engine purring, but we remained parked. The smell of cigar smoke and new leather filled my nose. More tinted glass separated the luxurious rear of the vehicle from the driver.

  A white leather gym bag sat on the floor.

  To my right, two men in dark overcoats filled a seat built for six people. They were freakishly large, like characters from a fairy tale. One had long blond hair tied up in a ponytail. The other had short brown hair and looked truly enormous. His head was the size of a basketball, and he easily dwarfed the big blond guy next to him, but it was his expression that frightened me the most. His face appeared to be bereft of all emotion, of all feeling, the cold, dreaded look of a half-dead soul. As a hustler, you rely on being able to spot a “tell.” You rely on your ability to manipulate emotions and natural human responses, but there’s one class of individual who’s immune to the usual moves, and every hustler can spot them and knows to stay the hell away from them—psychopaths. The giant with the brown hair looked like a textbook psycho.

  The guy opposite me was Olek Volchek.
He wore a black suit over a white shirt, which lay open at the neck. Graying stubble covered his face, and the same coloring ran into his hair. He might’ve looked handsome if it weren’t for a simmering malevolence in his eyes that seemed to temper his good looks. I recognized him from newspapers and TV; he was a mob boss, a killer, a drug dealer.

  But he sure as hell wasn’t going to be my client.

  I’d dealt with people like Volchek my whole life, as friends, enemies, and even as clients. Didn’t matter if they were from the Bronx, Compton, Miami, or Little Odessa. Men like this respected only one thing—strength. As shit scared as I was, I couldn’t let him see it or I was a dead man.

  “I don’t work for people who threaten me,” I said.

  “You don’t have choice, Mr. Flynn. I’m your new client,” said Volchek. He spoke with a thick Russian accent in slightly broken English.

  “Sometimes, as you Americans say, shit happens. You can blame Jack Halloran if you like,” said Volchek.

  “I blame him for most things these days. Why isn’t he representing you? Where is he?”

  Volchek glanced at Arturas, and for a second he mirrored Arturas’s indelible smile before he looked back at me and said, “When Jack Halloran took on my case, he said it was impossible to defend. I knew this already. I had four different law firms look at the case before Jack. Still, Jack could do things other lawyers could not. So I paid him and I gave Jack a job. Unfortunately, Jack couldn’t hold up his end of the bargain.”

  “Too bad. Nothing to do with me,” I said, struggling to keep the nerves from my voice.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Volchek. From a gold case beside him, he removed a small chocolate-colored cigar, bit it, lit it, and said, “Two years ago I ordered a hit on a man named Mario Geraldo. I ask Little Benny to do it for me. Benny did his job. Then he got caught and he talked to FBI. Benny will give evidence at my trial that I ordered the hit. All the lawyers I spoke to said that Benny would be the prosecution’s star witness. His evidence will convict me. No doubt about it.”