by Mark Dawson
He looked back at the car. Carter would give Rhodes his real education, show him a little at a time, demonstrate the benefits that would help put a little extra weight in his pay packet, make his shifts more comfortable and more interesting. Getting him to take a drink on the job was where he would get things started.
17
The drama of the game meant that Freddy was almost able to forget the fact that his father had let him down. The Cowboys were up by six as the game moved into the fourth. Dak Prescott was having an efficient game, and Dez Bryant was feasting on the secondary no matter how many defensive backs were assigned to cover him. The crowd was still in the game, but every Giants’ three and out and every punt was greeted with a dip in the intensity of the noise and the growing acceptance that the Cowboys were going to hold on.
The seat to Freddy’s right was empty, a reminder that his father should have been there with him and was not. There was a big guy on Freddy’s left. He was with his wife and, Freddy gathered from overhearing their conversation during half-time, he was a firefighter based at one of the firehouses in Lower Manhattan. He was huge: well over six feet tall, solid muscle, and with tattoos visible on his throat and on the top part of his chest that was visible because he wore his jacket half unzipped, despite the bitter cold.
He must have noticed that Freddy was looking at him; he glanced down at him, shook his head, and said, “Ain’t looking good, is it?”
Freddy said that it wasn’t.
“What would you do now, kid?”
“Get the ball to Odell.”
“They got Carr and Scandrick on him most snaps,” the man said. “Can’t get him the ball if he ain’t open. He’s good, but he ain’t that good.”
“Sure he is,” Freddy said. “They just gotta throw it up to him and let him do the rest.”
The big man laughed. “If you say so, kid.”
Freddy felt defensive on behalf of his favourite player, who was, he was sure, more than good enough to beat a couple of halfway decent corners even if they doubled him. He turned back to the field, self-consciously awkward about talking to someone he didn’t know, and was saved from having to make any further excuse by the ringing of his phone. He took it out of his pocket and checked the display. It was his father. He pressed “accept” and jammed the phone against his ear.
“Dad?”
“Where are you?”
His father’s words were slurred, one tripping over the other, each emerging with effort. Freddy could picture his face: his eyes would be heavy-lidded, every blink slow and ponderous; he would be licking his lips, as if they were dry; his cheeks would be flushed. He knew what his old man looked like when he was drunk, and he was definitely drunk right now.
“Freddy?” he said again. “Where are you?”
“At the game.”
“Oh shit. It’s tonight?”
“Of course it’s tonight!”
“I forgot,” he mumbled. “Goddamn it.” He coughed. “You went anyway?”
“I wasn’t gonna waste both tickets,” he said. “I been looking forward to this for weeks, Dad. I waited until six thirty. What did you think I was gonna do?”
There was no reply. Freddy could hear the sound of voices, a raucous background of shouted conversations and laughter, with music playing across everything.
“What happened to you?” Freddy said, keeping his voice down so as not to be easily overheard by the firefighter or the other fans around him.
“I forgot,” Manny repeated.
“What do you mean you forgot?” he said, unable to keep the heat from his voice. “We spoke about it this morning. We were gonna leave at six.”
“I’m sorry, son. I’m…”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m… I’m…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Freddy heard the hum of the background noise and the staccato interruption of a woman’s high-pitched holler, and he knew. He knew exactly where his father was and what had happened to him: Manny had gone to Mike’s Pub, got drunk and forgotten him. It used to happen all the time—it was the reason that his mother had left them—but he had been making an effort lately, and Freddy had started to wonder and hope that he might have got it under control. It made the disappointment of hearing him like this so much worse.
“Did you…” Manny started to say. He cleared his throat and started again. “I’m sorry, Freddy. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Bye, Dad,” Freddy said.
He ended the call and put the phone away.
He swallowed. He felt a tightness in his chest and had to blink to keep back the tears that were welling in his eyes.
Freddy had been distracted from the game by the call and, as he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and looked out at the gleaming green field, he noticed a streak of motion arcing up from the line of scrimmage. There was a collective groan as Manning was crushed by a defensive end but then an intake of breath as the crowd saw that he had been able to toss the ball up. It curved up through thirty yards and then started back down to earth, racing from its apogee, picking up pace and converging with the flanker who had won separation from the cornerback who had failed to cover him. There came a deafening explosion of noise as the receiver hauled the ball in and high-stepped into the end zone.
Freddy was caught up in the roar of noise and the sheer, untempered joy of the moment, the fans around him surging out of their seats and pressing up against the railing, their hands and voices raised in communal celebration. The receiver was Odell Beckham; Freddy could see the flash of his blond highlights as he tore off his helmet and tossed it high above him. He trotted into the centre of the end zone and launched the ball at the crowd. For the second time, Freddy watched it laser through the air, losing momentum and falling down toward him. He knew that he was going to catch it even before its momentum declined and it started to fall. It was as if Beckham had thrown it to him out of all the thousands of others who had just witnessed his excellence. Freddy reached out his hands, his fingers splayed out and pointing up, and felt the ball slap against his palms. He tightened his fingers around it, feeling the rough texture of the pigskin and, as he drew it down to his chest, he caught the smell of the leather.
He felt hands on his shoulders, a whoop of joy, the firefighter clapping him firmly on the back. He clutched the ball tightly, suddenly worried that someone would try to take it from him, but, as he saw a man in his early twenties turn around and reach up for him, the firefighter reached out a warning paw. The younger man grinned, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and turned back to watch the teams as they set up for the extra point.
“Keep it close to you,” the man said. “You got guys here who’ll grab it off you and stick it on eBay.”
“Thanks,” Freddy said.
“‘Get the ball to Beckham,’” the man said, repeating what Freddy had suggested. “What do I know?”
Freddy grinned.
“And good catch, kid,” he added with a broad smile. “Those are nice hands.”
18
It was nine and Detective Aleksander Polanski was still working. He had been investigating a sergeant down in the Seven Seven who had demanded that a patrol cop have a threesome with him and his wife and had then accused her of falsifying her time sheets when she refused. The patrol cop had resigned from the NYPD and was bringing a ten-million-dollar lawsuit against the city. Polanski had been given the case and told to see whether there was anything in it. He had discovered, very quickly, that the sergeant was a sleazebag with a previous history that made the allegations look very credible indeed. Polanski had just finished interviewing other cops from the precinct and had compiled a list of behaviour that made for depressing reading: crude sexual remarks during roll call and propositions to other female cops, who had switched to the graveyard shift to get away from him. Polanski had enough dirt on the man to bring his investigation to a close and recommend suspension and formal charges.
He was taking a break
from the paperwork when his phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and saw a number that he didn’t recognise.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
It was González.
“What’s up?”
“I gotta get out, man. Tonight. Right fucking now.”
“Hold on.” He pushed away from his desk and went out to the stairwell.
Polanski climbed halfway down the stairs so he could be sure that there was no one on the landing below him.
“I’m here,” he said.
“Didn’t you hear me? I gotta get out, man.”
He was frightened.
“Calm down, José. Take a breath. What’s the matter?”
“It’s too hot. He knows. I’m telling you, I gotta get out.”
“All right,” Polanski said. “Tell me. What do you mean he knows?”
“I can tell. The way he’s been looking at me, the things he’s been saying—it’s like he can see right through me.”
“You’ve seen him tonight?”
“He came by the shop and he never comes by the shop. He’s gonna kill me, man, I swear.”
“Okay,” Polanski said, reaching for a pen and paper. “Where are you now?”
“The payphone on Pitkin near Van Siclen. You gotta bring me in. You promised. You said if I did what you said, you’d get me the fuck out of Brooklyn.”
“I did. And I will. You’ll give evidence?”
“You make sure I don’t get capped, I’ll give you chapter and fucking verse, man. Everything.”
“What about the cops?”
“They came in last week—well, one of them did. Took his pay-off, just like always.”
“You feel like giving me some names?”
“No,” González said quickly. “Not until I know you can get me out of here. You do that tonight and I’ll give you everything.”
That was the deal. Polanski had no interest in pushing González for more right now, especially when he was close to getting what he needed. “You taped him?” he asked.
“Sure I did. Just like you said.”
“Got the recorder with you?”
“It’s safe. It’s in the shop.”
Polanski felt his stomach churn with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness. The sexual harassment case was nothing compared to the investigation he had been running in the Seven Five. This was big: corrupt cops on the payroll of a serious player in the local drug market. It was the closeness of it, the culmination of months of careful, diligent police work. He was almost there. Almost. He just had to stick the landing.
He made sure that he had a little assurance in his voice. “Okay. Well done, José. Let’s meet.”
González was right on the edge. “Not in Brooklyn. I don’t want it to be anywhere near here.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest Brooklyn,” Polanski said, as measured as he could manage. “We’ve got a safe house in New Brunswick. An apartment. It’s miles away and no one knows about it. I’ll give you the address—you ready?”
Polanski recited the address and checked that González had noted it down correctly.
“You gonna be there?” González asked.
“I’m on my way. Are you leaving now?”
“You want the tape or not?”
“Yes,” Polanski said.
“So I gotta go back. It won’t take long.”
“Be careful,” Polanski said. “In and out, that’s it.”
“I just want this to be over,” González said.
“It’s almost done, José. Get moving. Get the tape and then get over to the safe house. I’ll see you there.”
Polanski put his phone away and climbed the stairs again to the second floor. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the open door to Sergeant Haynes’s office.
“Sarge,” he said, “you got a moment?”
Richard Haynes was Polanski’s supervising officer and had been responsible for his transfer to the bureau. He had been partners with Polanski’s father and had been a friend of the family for almost as long as Polanski could remember. He had visited the family home in Irvington for Sunday lunch every week after his first marriage had blown up.
Haynes had served thirty years on the force, and—at least the way he told it—had been drafted into Internal Affairs against his own will by a district commander who hadn’t taken kindly to a prank that went wrong. Despite an initial reluctance, he had thrived in the bureau. He had quickly risen to a position of seniority, stressing that his officers must be unimpeachable and encouraging their integrity with incentives that made them less vulnerable to the temptation of what could be had on the street. When Polanski had run into the trouble that had isolated him within his precinct, Haynes had stepped in and offered him a transfer and the chance to do what he called ‘good work’.
Haynes looked up. “Sure,” he said. “What’s up?”
“I need the safe house in New Brunswick.”
“When?”
“Tonight. I’m bringing in a CI.”
“Which investigation are we talking about?”
“The Seven Five.”
Haynes raised an eyebrow. “You better shut the door.”
Polanski did as he was told.
“I don’t know anything about this, do I?” Haynes asked him.
“No, sir. That’s deliberate on my part. I thought it was a long shot. I thought the CI was gonna flake on me and I didn’t want to bother you with it until I knew it had potential.”
“Who’s the informant?”
“José Luis González. He’s got a stereo shop on Atlantic.”
Haynes shook his head. “Don’t know him. And you think he does have potential?”
“Yes,” Polanski said. “For sure. He’s been looking for a way out for weeks. He’s convinced Acosta is through with him—they had a falling-out; my guy doesn’t think Acosta trusts him any more. And you know what Acosta is like when that happens. We’ve seen it before.”
“Yeah,” Haynes said. “Those people end up in the river with their throats cut.”
Polanski nodded. “And those are just the bodies we find. González knows what’ll happen to him. I said I’d help him get away if he helped me.”
“And what does he have?”
“He’s been acting as Acosta’s bagman. Acosta gives González the money to pay off the cops that Acosta’s been running.”
“Do we know who they are?”
Polanski shook his head. “He won’t name them until he’s sure he’s safe. But he said one of them came in for his money last week and that he’s got him on tape. So long as González isn’t full of shit, I might have the way to get into that precinct. You know what they’re like down there, sir. We’ve been looking for a way to get inside for months. Maybe this is it. González says he’ll bring the tape in with him. I’ll listen to it and make a call. Maybe we can make a move on the bad guys tonight or tomorrow.”
“You speak to me first, all right? The commissioner’s gonna hate this. I’m old enough to remember what it was like down here in the eighties. The Seventy-Fifth was overrun back then. If the press run with this, say it’s getting back to how it used to be, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”
“I know. And I will—call you, I mean.”
“Where you meeting him?”
“The safe house in New Brunswick. I just need you to clear it for me.”
“All right,” Haynes said. “I’ll call ahead. You go bring him in.”
19
Carter’s phone rang as they were waiting for a red light on Belmont. He took it out of his pants pocket and looked at the display. It was Shepard. He accepted the call and put it to his ear.
“What’s up?”
“We’ve got a problem,” Shepard said, his voice throbbing with tension.
“Calm down. Take it easy.”
“I can’t calm down. We got a big fucking problem.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s Gonzál
ez. He’s speaking to IAB.”
“Hold on.”
The light was green. Carter pushed down on the gas and slid the car over to the side of the road.
“You okay?” Rhodes asked him.
“I’ve just gotta take this,” he said, holding up his phone. He gave an exaggerated shrug and mouthed, “My wife.”
Carter opened the door, stepped outside, and closed the door again. He turned his back to the car.
“I’m back,” he said. “What about González?”
“He’s a rat.”
“What are you talking about? What do you mean?”
“I’m telling you, that fucking spic just called Internal Affairs. No kidding. He said he taped you when you went to get paid last week.”
“What the fuck? He taped me?”
“I just heard. Polanski’s bringing him off the street. There’s a safe house in New Brunswick. González’s going there tonight. He’s taking the tape.”
Carter felt a shudder of panic.
González could fuck them.
“Shit,” he said. “Shit. How long’s this been going on?”
“I don’t know.”
Shepard found a little assurance to balance Carter’s rising panic. “We can fix this. It’s not too late. I went straight to the shop. I’m outside. González is here. He just went in. Where are you?”
