Lawyers, Guns and Money

by Bob Mayer

  “Geez, Will. Coulda told me that up front.”

  “I just did.”

  “Hold on,” Conner said as it sunk home. “Someone tried to blow you up? Nathan didn’t say nothing about that.”

  “I didn’t tell Nathan or it would have involved a long conversation I didn’t have the time for. What did Nathan tell you?”

  “He talked to a guy he knows in harbor patrol and the guy said it’s a possibility, but odds are the body or debris wouldn’t make it through the Narrows. Probably get washed up on Staten Island or Brooklyn before the Bridge. Not many bodies from Upper Bay make it to Lower. But Lower, if the tide is going out, they’re gone.”

  “Thanks,” Kane said.

  Conner sighed and nodded toward the bar. “We gotta be careful. Lots of hot-heads in there. What do you expect to find out?”

  “I don’t know,” Kane said. “But in all my ops, we never infiltrated anywhere without the locals eventually discovering we were there. Even in the deepest jungle where we didn’t think anyone was within miles.” He indicated the tavern. “This is the locals. If the IRA is in town, someone knows. We listen, see what’s going on.”

  “Don’t seem like much of a plan,” Conner complained.

  “As you noted,” Kane said, “just walking in is going to upset someone. We’ll see what happens.”

  “All right, but let’s be careful.” Conner opened the door to the sound of a man accompanied by several others on instruments singing an Irish ballad about long lost unrequited love in the green, green hills of the Old Country. A simpler fantasy time if one ignored little bumps in the road like famine. The kind of song Kane’s dad would sing around the house every so often, especially on the rare occasions he had a drink or two. Not that Kane’s dad had ever been to the ‘Old Country’, having been born in Manhattan, but both his father’s and mother’s parents had been immigrants.

  The bar was crowded and Conner had to push his way through to find a spot that had arm’s access to the bar between a couple of stool squatters. He waved to catch the bartender’s attention and indicated he wanted two of something.

  Kane didn’t bother to tell his uncle he didn’t want to drink. He was scanning the crowd, mostly older, white men in various stages of inebriation. There were NORAID jars for Widows and Orphans on the bar and scattered on tables. All had small bills and change in them. Kane imagined a fiver would be a massive donation for these people. At one table were a couple of out of place college students, probably from Manhattan College which was just to the west, uphill from the tavern, a location in the Bronx which didn’t match the name of the school, a contradiction most never questioned.

  Conner managed to retrieve two mugs. Kane shouldn’t have worried as his uncle shot-gunned the first, fortifying himself. Kane spotted a table open up in the corner near the front window and made for it, assuming Conner would follow. He claimed the real estate, sitting with his back to the wall, the dark window to his left.

  A long bar dominated the side of the tavern opposite the door. Over thirty tables were jammed in the open space. The lighting was hodgepodge with several spotlights focused on the stage and a scattering of cheap semi-chandeliers hanging from the twenty-foot ceiling. The walls were brick with faded painting on the exposed portions. Some were old advertisements for horse feed. The band was directly to Kane’s front, on the other side of the door. The stage consisted of a plywood platform built up five inches from the floor. There was no space for dancing as tables crowded right to the edge. Dancing wasn’t the point of the music.

  There were some women in the place, a few wives with husbands, but not many. Several older ladies, most likely widowed as divorce wasn’t in the Catholic lexicon, trolling for replacements for the lost paycheck. There were several bar flies who’d given up caring what others thought of them years ago, and were at that next to last stage before drinking alone in their one room apartment.

  Conner hadn’t followed. He was talking to a white-haired gentleman sporting a cap. There was a fancy cane lying across the top of the table the man commanded in the opposite corner.

  The ballad was picking up pace and some of the crowd joined in, stomping their feet and singing the refrain.

  “You a copper?” A middle-aged man, broad-faced, widely built, and wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt leaned over the table, crossing the invisible line into Kane’s personal space which caused him to lean back. The interloper spoke with a slight brogue, but mostly New Yorker, which was the predominant dialect in here. He had a mug of beer in his hand, half empty, or, Kane mused, half full depending on the mood.

  “No.”

  “You’re with Conner,” the guy said. “He’s one.”

  “He’s my uncle.”

  “Shit for family then,” the man said, grinning as if he didn’t mean it but not pulling off the negation.

  “We don’t choose them,” Kane said.

  “No, we don’t, but we’re stuck with ‘em.” The man grabbed a seat, but it hit the back of another chair at the next table. “Move the fuck outta the way,” the man snarled at the occupant.

  The chair’s owner complied with alacrity, not just shifting the chair, but vacating it and heading across the tavern with his three comrades.

  “I’m Patrick,” the man said as he sat down, thumping the mug a bit too hard and not offering his hand.

  “Kane.”

  “Haven’t seen you in here before, Kane,” Patrick said.

  “We’d stop in after races across the way in Van Cortlandt when I was in high school.”

  “That’s a while ago for you, weren’t it?” Patrick noted.

  “It was.”

  “But you haven’t been recently.”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re not drinking.”

  “I usually don’t.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I’m imbibing the ambiance.”

  Patrick pressed. “You look like a copper. And not a copper like your uncle. You look like a serious man. Your uncle is more of a joke in these parts given his various vices.” Patrick gave the same non-smile. “Are you a serious man?”

  “When the situation warrants.”

  The ballad came to an end with a rousing chorus and many mugs and shot glasses lifted, but Patrick wasn’t participating. He was focused on Kane. The band took a break, which lowered the volume a bit. A woman claimed the vacated table, sitting in the chair away from Patrick, and turning toward the stage.

  “If you’re not a cop, why are you carrying a gun?” Patrick demanded.

  “I’m wearing one. If it was in my hand, I’d be carrying it.”

  “You’re a serious man yet a smart-ass,” Patrick said. “Not an engaging combination.”

  Kane saw Conner glance this way, get nervous and start to get up, but the white-haired man put a hand out, tapping Conner on the forearm and shaking his head. Conner obediently sat.

  Patrick also saw the exchange. “You gonna try to muscle me for your Uncle? The fucking degenerate gambler? That why he brought you?”

  “He has the money. Six thousand.”

  Patrick laughed and shook his head. “That’s what it was yesterday. Today it’s seven large.”

  “I never understood how that works,” Kane said. “What’s it called? The vig? Seems odd it would go up that much in one day.”

  “’Vig’? That’s what the wops and the Jews call it. For us good folk, it’s interest, pure and simple and fair, for a loan. Your uncle’s not keeping you up to speed. He bet on today’s Yankees game in Seattle. Know who won?”

  “Not a baseball fan.”

  “Lots of non-fans gamble,” Patrick said. “It’s not about the game. It’s about the betting. There’re folks who will bet on whether it’s going to rain tomorrow. Catfish Hunter got bombed in Seattle and they lost by seven. So that’s another five hundred. And it went up another five hundred since I sat at this table and decided I didn’t like you.”

  “Bad first impr
ession, eh? I get that sometimes. Not Conner’s fault.”

  “You came with him. You’re not drinking, you’re not mixing with people, just sitting here giving everyone the cold eye,” Patrick said. “If you aren’t a copper, then you’re something else, but whatever it is, I don’t like it.”

  “Then it’s six thousand, five hundred,” Kane said.

  “Seven.”

  “Bad business model. Take the six point five and don’t accept his bets anymore.”

  Patrick poked a finger toward Kane, stopping six inches short of his face. “See? That’s what I don’t like. Being told what to do.”

  “Did Conner tell you he’d be here this evening to pay?”

  “Only reason I took today’s bet,” Patrick said. His eyes shifted.

  Kane had spotted Patrick’s associate, a hulking young redhead with a smashed nose edging toward them, twenty seconds ago. “He a boxer?” Kane asked, keeping his attention on Patrick.

  Patrick nodded. “Aye. His ring name is Magnus. Means great in battle.”

  “Optimistic,” Kane said. “He any good?”

  “The lad’s good enough to get seven large off ya.” Patrick laughed. “Not like you’re gonna pull that gun, are you? Your uncle isn’t the only cop in here and most of them are my friends.”

  “’Friends’?” Kane said. “But you’re right. Gun play is not likely. And not necessary.”

  Magnus was to Kane’s right, looking down at him and looming over the woman at the next table. She scooted the chair away from his presence.

  “Is that his mean look or his ugly look?” Kane asked Patrick. He looked up at the boxer. “How you doing, Magnus?”

  Magnus glanced at Patrick, searching for direction. “Okay,” he said for lack of any witty repartee.

  Kane forced a smile, doing his best at appearing reasonable but it was lacking in his own repertoire. “I’ve reconsidered, Patrick, since you’ve made this a negotiation rather than a simple business transaction. Let’s make it five large. A little something taken off for your rudeness. We can all go home happy.”

  Patrick got up, his chair bumping hard against the empty chair behind him. It hit the table and slopped beer out of the woman’s mug. Kane had already figured out his angles of attack and was tensed to move, but the situation paused when a life-weary waitress in black slacks and a stained white blouse and apron, her age somewhere between a bitter twenty-five or a hanging on forty, tapped Patrick on the shoulder. “Not in here, will ya, Patty? Walsh has told you how many times? Take your nonsense outside, the lot of you.”

  “Sure thing, my dear,” Patrick said, keeping his eyes on Kane.

  “Ma’am,” Kane said, nodding at the waitress. He pulled out his money clip and peeled off a twenty. “For the lady’s beer.” He looked at the woman. “Apologies.”

  The woman twitched a narrow smile in appreciation.

  Patrick indicated the door. Kane got up, Magnus shadowing him as they made their way out. Conner was watching and the white-haired man gave a slight point, releasing him. Conner joined the procession. They exited the front door onto Broadway.

  “Keep going,” Patrick said. “The alley to the left.”

  “I’ve got the money,” Conner said. “No need for—“

  “Shut up,” Patrick said. They moved into the alley, out of sight of the street. The odor of rotting garbage, spoiled milk, vomit and urine filled the air.

  “I’ve got the money,” Conner repeated, stepping between the bookie and Kane.

  Patrick put a hand on Conner’s chest and pushed him out of the way. “You’re late to the negotiations.”

  “He wants seven thousand,” Kane informed his uncle. “I think that’s unreasonable.” He faced Patrick, the boxer hovering to the left. “But I’ll offer you a better deal. Let’s make it ten thousand.”

  Patrick frowned. “How so?”

  “Throw in some information.”

  Patrick folded his arms, waiting.

  “There’s a story floating about that some fellows from the old country are in the city,” Kane said. “Calling themselves the Swords of Saint Patrick? I’m trying to track them down. Heard a rumor they’re looking for certain equipment. I can make the right connections for them with some of my old army buddies. Everyone will be happy.”

  Patrick spit, hitting the toe of Kane’s boot. “You’re a lousy liar, you fucking eejit. You’re a rat Fed. You smell of it. We’ve had your kind ‘round here before. Sent ‘em running with their tail between their legs.”

  “My grandfather used to yell that at me when he watched us as kids,” Kane said. “Never liked the term. Eejit.” He glanced at Conner. “Did he call you that too, when you were growing up?”

  “Yeah, he called everyone that,” Conner said. “Listen, Patrick. I’ve got the six thousand. I don’t see what the problem is.”

  Patrick poked Kane in the chest. “The problem is this piece of shite you brung around, Conner. And the Yanks lost today so that’s another five hundred.”

  “He’s my nephew,” Conner tried to explain. “A veteran. He’s not a cop. We’re just here to pay what I owe. You know I always pay up.”

  “No,” Patrick disagreed, “you don’t always pay up, Conner Riley. Mostly I let you skate, because you eventually pay what you can but you’re always behind. And I give you rope because you’re a cop. But don’t lie to me and say you’ve paid up all. You’ll never pay all. That’s what makes you degenerate. You’re always chasing the action.”

  “Ten thousand,” Kane said.

  “Paying is what I’ve got in mind for both of you,” Patrick said. He stuck out his hand toward Conner. “The money.”

  “Don’t give it to him,” Kane said, but his uncle ignored him and passed over the envelope.

  “Now,” Patrick said as he slid it into his pocket, “another grand.”

  “Got the math wrong,” Kane said. “By the way, were the names of the FBI guys Tucker and Shaw? Tall black guy and short white guy with bad skin? Trying to dress like they weren’t Feds?”

  “I knew you were another one of them,” Patrick said.

  “My government days are long past,” Kane said. “I imagine Tucker didn’t fit in at all. Surprised he could even get in the door.”

  “We run ‘em off easy enough,” Patrick boasted.

  “I’ve told you why I’m here,” Kane said. “I’ve made a reasonable business proposition.”

  “An extra thousand for my troubles,” Patrick said. “Perhaps I’ll let both of you walk away and not get hauled off in an ambulance.”

  “There’s two ways this is going now,” Kane said. “Either I give you another four for the information I requested or you give us a grand back and call it even with my uncle and we all go on our merry way.”

  Patrick nodded toward the boxer, which Kane had been patiently waiting for. Magnus launched a sucker punch aimed for the side of Kane’s head.

  He struck air because he was big, but not fast, which the smashed nose was prime evidence. He had all the marks of a brawler, not a true boxer, one who traded punishment and counted on his size and stamina to be the last one standing, but that required some degree of rules of the ring, and this wasn’t a ring.

  Kane ducked, ignored the boxer and hit Patrick just under the right ribcage with a savage uppercut jab, angling it, driving the fist with not just his arm but his legs like a steel coil exploding, knocking the air out of the lung on that side and cracking the lowest rib.

  Flowing, Kane wheeled, right arm folded, and slammed the elbow into Magnus’ solar plexus as the boxer was rearing back to punch again. That had minimal effect, the young man was used to absorbing blows, but did delay the punch long enough for Kane to bring his own hands up in a defensive posture. He used a right arm high-block to deflect the punch aimed for his face and jabbed three times with his left, hard, directly into the crumpled nose. There wasn’t much left to break, but what little cartilage remained gave way and blood started flowing.

  Magn
us took two steps back, re-assessing the fight and shaking his head, snot and blood flying.

  Kane used the opportunity to turn back to Patrick who was reaching under his shirt. Kane lifted his left leg up, knee high, then snapped it parallel to the ground with a side kick, just above the spot he’d punched, breaking the already cracked rib. Patrick screamed in agony and staggered several steps back.

  Conner, meanwhile, was fumbling for his gun, so Kane accelerated to prevent this from escalating to deadly force. He half-curled the fingers on his left hand into a modified crane beak, used his right forearm to hook Magnus’ punch as it went by, pulling the large man toward him, and struck the ‘beak’ of fingers into Magnus right eye, not hard enough to rip it out, but enough to elicit a yelp of pain from the attack on a part of his body that could never be reached in the ring by a gloved hand. Kane continued into Magnus, close to him, jerking his knee up into the boxer’s groin, then stepped back. Basic, retro move, but always effective.

  Magnus went to his knees, one hand on his bruised eye, the other covering his smashed testicles, moaning in pain.

  “Easy,” Kane said to his uncle as Conner finally cleared his revolver from the holster.

  Kane went to Patrick, who was hunched over. “Your rib’s broken, but it’ll heal. My offer is still good. Ten thousand?”

  “Fuck you,” Patrick gasped.

  Kane pressed the wounded side, eliciting a yelp of pain. “Really?” He slid his hand across Patrick’s body, found the gun, a cheap .38 revolver and tossed it into the darker end of the alley.

  “Fuck off.” Patrick stepped away from Kane. The bookie stood hunched, pain rippling across his face. “You made a big fucking mistake. I got connections.”

  “Damon?” Kane asked. “Heard from him lately?”

  Patrick didn’t reply. Magnus slowly got up but the fight was gone.

  “I’m going to ask one last time,” Kane said. “Anyone come around looking for weapons? Explosives?”

  “I’m going to kill the both of you,” Patrick threatened.

  “I despise empty threats.” Kane pushed his right hand into the bookie’s busted side, eliciting a squeal of pain.