by Norman Green
“All right, Al,” he said. “Down to business. The boss wasn’t too forthcoming about the exact nature of his agreement with you. I don’t think he really wants to talk about it. All I know, he wants me to make sure you’ve got everything you need.”
“Very kind of him, but it’s a little early for that. How can I get in touch with you if I do need something?”
“I’ll give you my cell number,” he said. “You can get me there anytime, day or night. Did Himself give you a retainer?”
“We have an informal arrangement,” she said.
“All right,” O’Hagan said. “Alessandra, your finances are none of my business, but I want to give you a short course on doing business with Daniel Caughlan. You go to Staples and you pick up one of those invoice books. Wednesday nights, you write up a bill for Pennsylvania Transfer, put down whatever he owes you for professional services rendered, and you put the dates for that week. Handwritten is fine. You give me the bill on Thursday morning, I’ll get it to Himself on Friday, and I’ll get you your check for Monday. It’s important you do it this way. If you don’t keep up with it, if you let him get into you for a couple of weeks, you could bring his son back from the dead, he’d love you until the day you died, but he’d never pay up. Know what I mean? He’ll never give you the money. I been with Caughlan a while, I know how his mind works. You give him the bill every week, he won’t care. Well, that’s not true. He’ll care. He’s gonna call you Friday night or during the day on Saturday, he’ll bust your chops like you won’t believe, but at least you’ll get paid.”
“What do you mean, bring his son back from the dead?”
“Oh, shit,” O’Hagan said. “He didn’t tell you about Willy? I mean, I just assumed . . .”
“Never assume,” Al said, leaning her elbows on the table. “Tell me about Willy.”
“Ah, Jaysus. Well, it happened about six months ago. Sean William Caughlan, everyone called him Willy. He was a good kid, but, you know, I guess he had the problems rich kids have. His mudder give him everything he ever wanted, he never had to work for a thing, but I guess he warn’t a bad kid for all that. A couple of years ago he got into music. Not the shit kids listen to these days, though. Stuff the blacks did, back in the nineteen fifties, stuff I never heard of. Bought himself a guitar, spent days on end up in his room, copying this guy or that one. He got so he was pretty good, so his mudder said. Anyhow, he got hooked on this one guy a year or so back. Guitar player named TJ Conrad. Willy said Conrad was the second coming of Keith Richards. Of course, I know who Richards is, but I never thought he was any damn good, myself. A goddam dope fiend, just like every musician I ever met. Anyhow, Willy bought everything this guy Conrad ever recorded, went to every concert he played, even grew his hair out so he’d look like the son of a bitch—although there’s no way, the kid would have had to hire someone to beat him with an ugly stick. But you get the idea. He even met Conrad a few times, I guess the guy was nice enough to the boy. Anyhow, what happened, Conrad was playing for this group called BandX, he got himself in a jam, wound up in rehab. The rest of the band knew Willy, knew he could play every song Conrad ever done, so they hired him. Nothing would do but he had to drop out of college and go move in with these dirtbags. They were all living in some hole they rented up in the Bronx.”
“What did Caughlan think of that?”
“Oh, he had a bloody cow, ranted and raved, sixty grand a year he pays to send Willy off to Columbia and the ungrateful little sod drops out to get high and get laid, all of that. Made threats, I’ll throw you out, cut you off without a nickel, but Willy had his mind made up, and he went.”
“BandX,” Al said. “Never heard of them. How’d it work out?”
“Well. You ever hear of this girl singer, calls herself Shine?”
Alessandra shook her head. “No.”
“Are you kidding? Where you been, in a cave? She’s all over the TV.”
“I don’t watch a lot of TV, Gro.”
“She’s the latest sensation. The next big thing. Her first album went platinum last year. She’s got a movie in the works, and a cartoon show. Got reporters following her around every time she goes out. Famous picture of her on the Web, one of her tits fell out of this dress she wore to the MTV awards. Anyhow, she heard Willy playing somewhere, the next thing you know she signs BandX to open for her. She’s doing six shows out at Jones Beach next month. That’s all it took, now BandX has record companies offering them the world.”
“So what happened to Willy?”
“The old man bought him a studio,” he said. “Over on the east side. Four hundred grand the old man spends on this fookin’ Manhattan shoebox, can you believe that? But he didn’t want Willy living with a bunch of crack smokers. Anyhow, when Willy didn’t show up for a gig, they went looking for him. Found him dead in the apartment. Nobody could believe it when the reports came back he overdosed.”
“What did you think, Gearoid? He seem like he was using?”
“Ah, how the hell you gonna know? I thought he was a good kid, you know, maybe a bit spoiled, is all. But nowadays that shit is everywhere.”
“I see. How did Caughlan take it?”
“Never said a thing about it. Him and Willy was never, you know . . .”
Fathers, Al thought. “I know.”
“So that’s the whole sad story. Will you be needin’ a ride out to the party this afternoon?”
“No,” she said. “Will I see you there?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “Jack of all trades, master of none. Nothing happens without me.”
“Can I have a word with you?”
Alessandra tried not to look startled. It was Marty Stiles. He had stepped out of the shadows of the entrance to the St. George, the ancient hotel across the street from her building in Brooklyn Heights.
“Hello, Marty.” The guy knew his business, she had to give him that. If someone held a championship for skulking, Marty would definitely be a contender. She wondered how long he’d been waiting for her.
“I know you’re a busy woman.” He smirked, not a great look for a red-faced fat guy. “Now that you’re out on your own, with a big-shot client and all.”
Al opened her eyes wide. “What are you talking about, Marty? I was under the impression I was on loan, here.”
“Quit playing around. You’re sharper than that. I’m just not so sure you’re quite as smart as you think you are.”
“I still work for you, Marty, until you tell me otherwise.”
“Caughlan didn’t hire you?”
“Quit fucking around, Marty. I know it goes against your nature, but square up with me here, okay?”
Stiles nodded. “Okay. I just needed to hear it from you.”
“You’re working the grand jury angle, am I right?”
“Among other things,” he said. “But I just need to know where you stand.”
“Like I said. Until I hear otherwise . . .”
“All right.”
“That means you’ll send my check to the house. Am I right?”
He looked like he smelled a fart. “Yeah, all right. But look, you got to be goddamn careful, here. Lemme buy you a cup of coffee.”
He didn’t actually pay for her coffee, he stood in front of her at the line at Starbucks, bought his, left her standing there. It irked her to pay four bucks for something she could make for herself, if she wanted it, and it irked her that Stiles would offer to pay and then conveniently forget. But that was Marty, that was the way he moved. You could never be sure Marty would pay off until you had the money in your hand.
The place was crowded, but Marty snagged a table inside the place, not out on the sidewalk. It was over in the corner, next to the side door. You could see up and down the block from there without being too noticeable yourself. And if you had to get out fast, you were right on the doorstep. No matter what you think of him, she thought, the man doesn’t miss much.
“It’s a dull life, over at West Houston Secu
rity,” he said, his porcine eyes boring into her.
“So?”
“Lookit,” he said. “I know corporate clients are not exciting. And I know you’re not interested in catching barkeeps and waitresses, got their hands in the till. Well, it don’t exactly thrill me, neither, but you know what? That kinda business keeps your door open. It’s dependable, and it pays the overhead.”
“You trying to keep me humble, Marty? You trying to make sure I don’t get a fat head? ’Cause I appreciate that, really.”
His eyes narrowed, and he leaned across the table at her. She willed herself not to recoil. “I’m tryina help you, you silly little bitch,” he hissed.
“That’s better,” she said. “That’s the Marty I’ve grown to know and love.”
“Listen to me! Daniel Caughlan would steal the pennies off his dead mother’s eyes. I know that bastard for a long time. Longer than you been alive. Now, I seen you in action, Al, I know what you can do. But Caughlan has buried better men than you. And when he does it, they never see it coming. Never.”
“Why would Daniel Caughlan wanna bury me, Marty?”
“Maybe he don’t,” he said. “Not yet, anyhow. You just take care that you don’t wind up knowing more about him and his business than he’s comfortable with.”
“Come on, Marty. You know I can handle Caughlan.” He didn’t come out here because he was worried about me, she thought. She wondered what it was he really wanted.
“Yeah? You think so? Daniel Caughlan was hijacking trucks in the garment district when he was fourteen years old, okay? And he was breaking kneecaps for the loan sharks not long after that. There ain’t a damn thing about hurting people that he don’t know. He’s so far from caring about anybody that he don’t even know what that looks like anymore. You ever hear of the black Irish? Well, they don’t come no blacker than Mickey Caughlan.”
Mickey. Stiles had called Caughlan that before. Al had noticed how Caughlan stiffened when he heard it. “What’s black Irish?”
“Ain’t you listened to a goddamned word I said?”
“I heard you, Marty.”
“All right. I don’t wanna see nothing bad happen to you. Believe me, Al, I’m on your side in this one.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“You do that. Listen, I gotta ask you a favor. When you’re not too busy, take a run by the office for me, will ya? I hadda get a new girl, she can do a half-assed job of the invoices, okay, but apart from that, she don’t know shit. You know I ain’t no fucking good with paperwork. I just need you to show her the ropes a little bit. Can you do that for me?”
There it is, girl, she told herself, her stomach rolling. You really did it this time. “She just filling in while I’m out?”
“You ain’t kidding, are you?”
“If you’re gonna kick me to the curb, Marty, man up and tell me about it.”
He leaned back, picked up the oversized pecan roll he’d bought, and bit into it. She watched his face change as he chewed. “All right,” he said. “All right. If you’re still on the payroll, I’m gonna bill that son of a bitch for your hours. And you call me, you keep me up to speed on what you’re doing. I don’t wanna hear about you flying off somewhere, chasing a ghost.”
“Did you know about Caughlan’s son, Willy? Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Yeah, I know about him. But the kid ain’t got nothing to do with us. Leave it alone, ’cause Mickey’s touchy as hell about it. Leave it be. You and I are looking for someone who’s moving opium base into the country using Caughlan’s trucking company. Do yourself a favor and remember that.”
“All right,” she said.
He looked at her, doubt in his eyes. “I mean it,” he said.
“I said okay, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. Just like last time. And don’t forget, swing by the office and talk to the new girl.”
“Yeah,” she said, thinking that she ought to tell him to go shove his paperwork up his ass. “Yeah, sure, Marty. No problem. I’ll get over there in a day or so.”
Six
She held her cell phone in her hand, regarding it with mixed emotions. It’s senseless to hate the telephone, she told herself. It’s a connection. You can’t go through your entire life keeping everyone at arm’s length. You push them all away and then bitch because you’re alone . . . How stupid is that? She flipped the thing open and dialed Tio Bobby’s home number.
“Hello.” It was Anthony. She had expected to get the answering machine, but he surprised her by picking up. She was slightly disappointed not to hear her uncle’s voice on the recording.
“Hi, Anthony. How are you?”
“I’m tired,” he told her. Anthony had little regard for rhetorical questions. You asked him how he was doing, he told you. “I haven’t had to spend this much time on the subway in ages. I think I’d sleep in the chair in Roberto’s room if they’d let me. And my back is killing me. I think it’s those damned plastic seats on the train. I’ve got half a mind to sue the MTA.”
“Well, why not?” she said. “Maybe they’d give you some money if you promised not to ride on their trains anymore. Why don’t you take a room up there somewhere? I could ask my father if he knows—”
“Heaven forbid,” Anthony said. “Leave us not trouble your father with our little difficulties. Besides, I’m just complaining. I do think sleeping in some strange bed would only make things worse.”
“I understand. Listen, do you think it would be all right if I borrowed Tio Bobby’s van?”
“Of course you can have the van. You know the only thing I hate worse than being seen riding in that thing is being seen driving it. And Roberto would have wanted you to have it anyhow.”
She wasn’t ready to start down that road yet. “I just need it for a day or so, Anthony.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s yours.”
“Thanks. Listen, Ant, I know that you and I haven’t always—”
“Nonsense, darling,” he said. “In my own sick way, I have come to appreciate the value of your company. But it does go against my nature, sweetie, to confess to a woman that I feel something for her.”
“I’m not like all those other girls, Ant.”
He laughed at that, and she thought she could hear sorrow in it, but she couldn’t be sure. “You know something, Al?” he finally said. “You’re right about that. You are nothing like the other girls.”
Tio Bobby belonged to the “Drive ’em till they drop” school of automotive theory, and Alessandra stood with the keys in her hand looking at her uncle’s battered Chevy Astro. The thing had spent its first lifetime in the service of the phone company. Bobby had acquired it at auction, and in the years he had owned it, he had personalized it in accord with his own whimsy. It still looked plain-jane on the outside, but on the inside, the cargo compartment had dark purple fur on the floor, walls, and ceiling. There was a fridge, a television with a DVD player, and a black couch that could be taken out when Bobby needed the van to pick up or deliver a motorcycle. The windows Bobby had cut in either side were so dark you could barely see out, and nobody could see in. The thing had more horse power than any truck its size needed. In a strange way, the van was the complete opposite of her uncle. It looked normal enough on the exterior, it kept its weirdness hidden out of sight. Tio Bobby, on the other hand, with his tattoos, his jewelry, and the beads and other assorted junk he wove into the braid on his chin, wanted you to know right up front that he was no ordinary cat. Al had never completely figured Tio Bobby out, but no matter where she went, it seemed that he had already been there, and had thought more deeply about the trip than she.
Problem was, Tio Bobby could generally fix anything, so he didn’t pay much attention to the niceties of vehicle maintenance. You gotta know that this van is gonna stick it to you somewhere, probably in the middle of an intersection . . .
She got into the Astro and fired it up. She gave it a minute to warm up. The
fat Italian guy who owned the lot where Tio Bobby kept the van stood smiling at her the way that guys do when their heads have stayed fifteen long after their asses have turned fifty. She waved to him, goosed the accelerator, thought the thing sounded all right. She said a silent prayer as she dropped it into drive. Please, God, you know I don’t know anything about cars . . .
Typical, Al thought, rich people don’t want ten-year-old Toyota Camrys full of Puerto Ricans driving through their neighborhood, so they lay the streets out in such a convoluted way, nobody comes through unless they live here. You tried to take a shortcut through this place, you could drive around for an hour trying to find your way back out. Shit. You’ve got to be the first Latina driving down this road who isn’t a maid, a cook, or a nanny.
She’d already passed by Caughlan’s house twice, took a look at the imposing façade and the cars parked out front, and kept on going. Friggin’ place looked like a hotel, or a ritzy corporate office center. Glass, stone, and heavy timber; red tile walkway curving up past the stand of weeping birch; the koi pond and the waterfall; and on up to the heavy black wooden front doors, looked like they were designed to resist battering rams.
A Porsche 911 passed her going the other way, probably another one of Caughlan’s friends, she told herself. More Porsches around here than Fords. Earlier in the day she’d thought about washing the van. Yeah, she thought, like that’s gonna help. Lipstick on a pig. She figured she had done slightly better on herself. She owned one outfit that she kept for those rare occasions when jeans and a T-shirt wouldn’t do. It was a pinstriped suit, jacket and pants, and she’d worn it with a plain white blouse. It’s good enough, she told herself. She’d splurged on a new pair of shoes, not that she was going to impress anyone, but if you’re going to be standing around all afternoon, you might as well be comfortable.
She turned down Caughlan’s street again. Come on, Martillo, she thought, where’s your guts? You have to do this, he’s paying you for it. She pulled the van into Caughlan’s circular driveway, opened the door and got out, grabbed the camera bag she used for a purse out of the backseat. A short dark-skinned young man wearing a black suit walked over, tore a red ticket in half, held his hand out for her key. Mexican, she thought, or Central American. “Señorita,” he whispered softly, smiling. Country boy, she thought, up here in the cold north, probably trying to send money home to feed a family he’ll be lucky if he ever sees again. She wondered how much money Caughlan was paying him. Guy wasn’t much more than a boy.
