by Mike Bogin
“It’s our game,” Liam insisted, but Casey rushed in with the other younger children and the game turned into a melee with water balloons and Tremaine in the middle like a big sopping oak tree with happy children climbing up his trunk, his head, and out onto his arms. Tremaine loved it.
He lived by himself in a neatly updated townhouse and kept his own family away at a long arm’s length. Any call from the Bull family was bound to be about money; money for rent, for food, money to get a car running, or for help making bail. He had been there way too many times.
Owen took an old sheet of plywood out from his shed and dragged it to the top of the shared driveway between the houses as the daylight faded. The school-age kids up and down the street were already spelling out the letters of their names in the air with red and green sparklers..
Tremaine disappeared for a minute, and came back from his car trunk with the heavy artillery to add to the pinwheels, Chinese pagodas, and the fountains that rose up with cascades of burning colors. Like the biggest kid there, he sent three mortars hundreds of feet up into the sky, and they exploded in fifty-foot-wide displays.
Two uniforms pulled up onto the brown patch of front lawn before Owen could stop Tremaine from setting off another round. One of the officers shone his flashlight into Tremaine’s face while he stood at the top of the driveway, holding the long barbecue lighter in his hand as the sparks came down. Tremaine dropped an F-bomb about the flashlight, which prompted the closest officer to reach for his service weapon. Tremaine outdrew him, bringing out his gold shield from his pocket and an apology from the cop.
“I’m sorry, Detective Sergeant,” the uniform stammered, “I didn’t think a…”
“A police officer would be living around here,” Tremaine said, finishing the officer’s thought. “Shit…I live in Brooklyn. That tall carrot top over there lives here. Why he does is another story.” Tremaine pointed out Owen. “He’s my lieutenant.”
“My bad, Detective Sergeant.”
Tremaine responded with his big warm smile. “Brother, don’t worry about it. Put in a 10-63. There’s plenty of food in back. You and your partner go grab yourself some plates.”
Fourth of July, North Corona, Queens, New York City, USA. Thirty minutes west to Manhattan, twenty minutes east to Sands Point.
* * * * *
Offshore to the north of Sands Point, a row of yachts a quarter-mile long anchored off Sands Point in still-bright evening sunlight. The smallest of these, at seventy-two feet, was manned by a captain/engineer along with one steward/maintenance crewman. Three of the largest boats were well into the two hundred foot mega-yacht class with full-time crews of up to sixteen strong, who stayed with the ship year-round. Each of these carried helicopters.
Servers drew bottles of iced champagne out from brand-new hundred-gallon ice chests along the dock, rushing to meet the guests with a freshly-poured glass as they were assisted out of the shuttles. Levy’s planner had instructed the servers to serve with a “rising head.” She’d said: “Never let a glass go flat. Fine Champagne is drama!”
Helicopters dropped down along the south lawn where the lawn was grass in appearance only, being actually an artificial turf carpet set upon a solid eight-inch deep concrete landing pad. Golf carts were at the ready to ferry them across the lawns and around to the front entry.
A police vessel quickly intercepted paparazzi attempting to position themselves in a boat offshore for photographing from long distance. Their insistence that they were within their rights dissipated quickly as the captain of the police boat pulled out the Coastguard checklist and shined his high beam into their skipper’s face, advising him that each safety violation could bring a fine of up to $1,000. They were already inside the safety area where the barges carrying pyrotechnics were readied for the birthday show. They could begin with $1,000 for that. “Fuck this,” the skipper acknowledged, turning his twenty-two foot inboard north toward open water for a fast run back his marina at Manhasset Bay.
Outside the gilt-tipped iron gates, a thousand feet of limousines stretched along both sides of the roadway nearly to Vanderbilt Lane. A few drivers stood outside their cars, but most remained inside watching movies on their iPads, gaming, or talking on their cell phones.
The party was in full swing. The foie gras that was such a hit at Leon Black’s sixtieth birthday was being served two ways: with brandied tart cherries acidic enough to pierce through the rich fat goose liver and with a maple chestnut glaze that was pure indulgence. Three cases of chilled, golden-hued 1942 Chateau d’Yquem was served with the foie gras. No less than a dozen toasts were given to compliment their host, with Krug Champagne flowing in abundance, handed in crystal flutes to each guest as they arrived. Levy was thoroughly enjoying himself, holding hands with his famous rock star and walking around table to table, making introductions. For his main courses, tournedos of beef with Béarnaise, and stuffed and fried zucchini blossoms were served along with an alder-smoked cedar plank white king salmon that came accompanied by fiddlehead ferns and bright orange salmon caviar.
Levy’s butler oversaw the servers signing out every full bottle and returning each empty bottle. For the fish, Levy switched out the Montrachet for Haut Brion Blanc 2001, keeping his wines regionally consistent.
Dom Perignon, being lighter than the more assertive Krug, would be served with the birthday cake. Cutting the cake was Levy’s son’s cue for the toast that he been practicing for a month. Levy had considered forbidding the toast, and then determined to follow with a speech of his own; better to follow his insipid son with his own reliable delivery.
Cake and Sauternes, then proceed with the fireworks display. Levy tugged at his event planner’s arm to find out who had not arrived. He was very specific that she should get the updated list from the security staff ninety minutes along. Eight guests had failed to arrive as planned. Levy noted every name.
Of the sixty-eight billionaires living in New York City, fourteen were present for his birthday. Thirteen of them were fellow Jews. Morris Levy, the child who had survived the Holocaust in a Belgian convent disguised as a girl so that no one would be prompted to check his circumcised penis, Levy who had been able to give two wings to the Hadassah Hospital, to have his name standing beside Chagall’s fabulous windows, surveyed the crowd with satisfaction, but reviewed in his head the name of every guest who failed to arrive.
* * * * *
He used Schmidt and Bender mini-optics with non-reflective lens to scan for security patrols: four rovers, eight stationary positions, plus however many additional security people were on the south side, out of view where the main body of guests arrived. The six Israelis stood out from the others; two were keyed on Levy, four worked in floating mode. Distinctive ear and microphone devices, but none of these necessary to identify them from the others. He could tell that these men were running scenarios, anticipating, choreographing; each one assigned to primary, secondary, tertiary tasks. Ex-Mossad. Secret Service on steroids. But no night vision; they had made the error of sacrificing efficacy for discretion. Keeping the party planner happy delivered him the advantage of darkness. No mounted floodlights on the waterfront. He coiled himself small and waited.
Hyper-aware of his breathing, he counted heartbeats. Reaching under the gloves, he felt for palm and wrist moisture and came back satisfied at his galvanic skin response. The adrenaline was there again, feeling so right, as right as the context. The captain was there, hovering at the edge of his consciousness.
Four targets followed by eight seconds to reach the waterfront, then get clear during the initial chaos.
Lawrence Perlman- 1. Branderman- 2. Fleish- 3. Levy-4. Four was harder. More variables.
Remington MSR, 20-inch barrel, .300 Win Mag, quick-detachable silencer. The choice of bolt action was debatable. Accuracy over speed. All within five degrees of plane, thirty degrees of field. While f
ocus is on Levy, Perlman is outside the primary field of attention. These people would react by looking; only professionals reacted by moving first. Branderman next table left. Fleish further left. Levy right center.
Emerson Elliot, the shock jock, stood in sharp contrast to the mayor, who was to his right. The lanky Elliot his tuxedo jacket off and had his purple silk formal shirt unbuttoned to his stomach, making the mayor’s starched dinner jacket and black bow tie look extremely uptight. Elliot flitted like a butterfly between guests, remaining only as long as his limited attention span before spying another famous face. Elliot had skipped his meds; he knew that audiences reacted differently to him when he took them. With this crowd, he wanted to be in top form even if that might mean having no capacity to predict or control whatever he might get up to. As the paid MC, he played the fool, overtly admiring the newest boob jobs and happily goosing booty.
Shaking out his curly locks for effect, Elliot waved into a spotlight and began to croon “Blue Moon,” capturing all attention before shading his eyes to locate Levy twenty feet away.
“Bubby! Sweetheart! Baby! Come here and let me love you!” he called to Levy. A tall, dark-haired beauty walked in front of his view wearing a deep blue full-length evening gown open high up her long legs and entirely backless, cut to offer just a hint of her lush backside. “I know it’s your birthday,” Elliot quipped, “but can you get me one of those?”
When Levy came within reach, Elliot grabbed both Levy’s cheeks and bent down from a foot above to plant a wet kiss onto Levy’s five-foot-six bald forehead, bringing the crowd to applause. H spun Levy around back to his guests. The mayor had hardly taken the microphone and Elliot’s eyes were already darting for anything new and interesting.
“Senator, and so many friends,” the mayor began. “I am honored tonight to wish two very happy birthdays to dear friends, friends of mine and friends of Eretz Yisrael. Here, on the birthday of the United States of America, we come to celebrate a great American, Morris Abraham Levy. It is not my place to be making a speech here tonight, but let me say absolutely and without reservation, that the commitment Morris Levy has made as a leader amongst you all has produced a better and wiser New York and a stronger and more secure State of Israel. His generosity, his personal involvement, his counsel, his friendship; these are rare and special traits of a great man. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the honorable Morris Levy.”
* * * * *
Breathe. Relax. Aim. Sight. Squeeze. BRASS. One. A narrow spray of red spread for an instant before Perlman’s head thumped to the table. The other people at the table looked on without comprehension as the tablecloth ran red. Bolt slide and fire. Branderman flopped against the woman beside him just as the collective gasp rose from Perlman’s table. The woman beneath Branderman screeched at him to get off of her. Seven degrees to the left, Fleish dropped next, hit in his temple. He flopped out from his seat onto his side, his eyes staring blankly at the manicured lawn. Two bodyguards tackled and smothered the mayor beneath them, opening a clear shot at Morris Levy, who was held in place by Elliot’s hands clenching both his shoulders. Elliot’s hands suddenly held only air as Levy’s head jerked to the side. Levy slumped backward between Elliot’s legs, leaving Elliot standing straddled over the dead host. The .300 had passed through Levy’s right earlobe directly into his brain. Elliot looked down without comprehending. His hands remained frozen in place where they had just been positioned upon Levy’s shoulders.
A series of deep, powerful growls penetrated through bangs and clanks emitting from the chaos of upturned tables, scattered silverware, shattering glasses, screams. Dogs. No kennels, no handlers, no scat signs anywhere. Where the fuck were the dogs? He knew that they would zero right onto the scent from his spent ballistics. Men shouting. Hebrew. English.
Dogs. He had not accounted for dogs. Total op error. Fuck. Dogs changed everything.
Breathe, he told himself. Center. Collect focus. Pick up shell casings. One. Two. Three. Four.
Then he was moving. Quickly, in control. BPM<100. Breathe. No value to listening for the dogs. Brushing along outer limbs that gave way easily. Through the trees to the waterside. Fire motor, run north, looping west. No light. Moving at full throttle, he quickly left the shore far behind.
* * * * *
Four Nassau County PD officers heard the screams. The collective panic was distinct from the booms and fizzles coming from miscellaneous fireworks shooting up along the shoreline. They banged their boat into the dock the rushed down the temporary boardwalk. The mayor’s security force was already deployed in the correct direction; twenty sets of feet tromped the outer grounds within five minutes, their immediate priority set on destroying any potential evidence.
Guests overturned tables and chairs, all rushing in a wave to get inside the mansion. Once behind locked doors, they frantically dialed cell phones, calling for their personal security details, their helicopters, and for help from 911. Others jumped inside the first cars available, paying no attention to ownership and packing inside ten and twelve people to each car. After the first limousine ran past the single police car with its lights flashing, every chauffeur followed suit in excess of seventy miles per hour, passing opposite as police cars and ambulances flew down Sands Point responding to the 911 calls.
* * * * *
Emerson Elliot got on the air within forty minutes. Before any specific information was even reported, he was broadcasting stream-of-consciousness style. At the best of times, his self-regulating mechanisms were pathetic. Now, with his adrenalin running off the charts, he had no measure to understand that he was deeply in shock and still speaking to a quarter-million listeners.
He had been there, man. The slap of that bullet was in his ears like a walnut cracking. He described the mushy pulp and the exact sound of a plunger punched down into the toilet bowl. That was what he heard. How he had sprinted across the lawn and commandeered somebody else’s helicopter to get him into the city was awesome and much a blur. The helicopter later turned out to belong to Ari Fleish. Fleish wouldn’t need it. At that moment the pilot cared less about his job than about getting the hell out of there. He was scooting as soon as Elliot said, “Go!” and didn’t pause to question who was giving the orders.
Crazy Thumbs, Elliot’s producer, gulped down a sixteen ounce Rock Star to dilute the effects from four shots of Patron consumed with friends, and jumped into a cab. No explanations, but something big was happening; in five years, Emerson Elliot had never come into the studio off his routine schedule. All Thumbs knew to do was to warn the studio to preempt anything else in the time slot.
EE came in running, snatched his headphones and mic, and was talking at warp-speed before he hit the chair.
“Oh my God, New York. I’m sitting here shaking. I could pee in my pants, I swear. Maybe this is on the news or maybe you’re hearing this first from me, I don’t know? My God! I just flew in off a helicopter from Long Island and now I’m here and I’m talking to you. I have to catch my breath. People, I just now had my hands on a man’s shoulders and his head cracked open like an egg. My hands were on his shoulders, Morris Levy, and he was shot in his brain. I can still hear that sound, the crack and then splot and brain slopping out like some ostrich egg.”
Elliot saw that Crazy Thumbs had hit the lamp. Thumbs, always trying to keep him grounded, like he was really going to listen and break for a commercial now! There was Thumbs, reeling his back into the fold. But not this time. Hey, this was real; Thumbs wasn’t going to regulate him.
Elliot ignored the red bulb and continued. “Big fancy party. Yachts. Helicopters. The whole schmear. People screaming. Next to me, standing right against my shoulder, the mayor went down. Morris Levy is dead. His birthday. Oh my God! Did I hear a shot? No. People were being shot but there wasn’t any noise. I don’t think there was any noise. I don’t know!”
Elliot pressed his fingertips i
nto his eye sockets, shaking his head. “What happened?” he asked himself as his audience listened. “It’s like there was Arab ninjas. One second everybody is fine, and then my God! Did they assassinate the mayor? It was like one second. What the fuck?”
Thumbs barely caught and bleeped the f-bomb. Just as EE abruptly stopped speaking, the producer switched over to recorded programming. Did he just hear Emerson say that a man he was holding in his arms had been shot by Arabs?
Emerson Elliot went silent, leaned back in his chair, and scanned the familiar surroundings. A primeval moan overwhelmed him coming from the depths of his soul, a tortured sound that moved across New York and out to the world. After, EE pulled his heels up onto his chair, wrapped his arms around his legs, and buried his face in a tight bundle into his knees, rocking side to side.
CHAPTER TWO
Owen and Tremaine read the texts simultaneously and concentrated to shake off the beer buzz. Muster orders went throughout Department Intel Division. They had one hour to get in to DID with game faces on. Callie saw both of them reaching for their phones and scowled.
“We’ll help clean up,” Mike and Shelley offered her. Owen didn’t need to think about that; he was already back into work mode.
Tremaine drove them both in, Owen leaving his car at home. They had already heard the helicopters overhead. Now they were speeding toward Division HQ, The Bunker. Fluorescent lighting, no exterior windows. Ground zero for NYPD response to any terrorist event.
