American Gangster (21 page)

Silence hung in the kitchen along with the scorched smell. The only thing Richie could hear was the distant splashing of the girls outside the window, only that sounded a world away, somehow.

Richie was trying to find a way to say what he needed to say, when Joey jumped in.

“Rich, isn't there some way we can accommodate this situation? Something we can do about you . . . leaving the big guy alone? You know who I mean.”

The elephant in the kitchen, the elephant that was always in any room with Joey and Richie: Joey's uncle Dominic Cattano
.

Richie said, “You know, don't you, that if I don't report what you just said to me, I could be in a lot of trouble. And if I
do
report it,
your
ass'll be in a sling.”

Joey's shrug was an effort to be casual but the tightness in his voice belied the gesture: “I'm hoping you won't do that. A lot of cops make certain accommodations, Richie, a lot of good, underpaid cops who understand that certain things in this world ain't gonna ever change, so why buck it?”

Richie, for the first time, began looking around the kitchen with an eye on where microphones could be hidden: Joey's deck wear wouldn't allow a wire.

Mr. Microphone is right
, Richie thought.

But Joey held up his hands as if in surrender. “I'm not taping anything, Rich.”

Richie just looked at him.

Joey answered the unspoken question: “Because we're friends, Richie, that's how you know I ain't bullshitting you. We're friends and I'm telling you. Nobody's listening but you and me and God, if He's got nothing the hell better to do. This is a real, legit offer.”

“Legit isn't the word I'd use. Who's this from, your
uncle? Or some wise guy insulation?” Richie shook his head, sick to his stomach and it wasn't the awful popcorn smell. “How can you
do
this, Joey? Why would you risk our friendship?”

Joey's gaze was steady. “Because I care what happens to you. I'm hearing things I don't like about what could happen to you.”

Richie let out a single, harsh laugh. “What, a
threat
now?”

Joey raised a peaceful palm. “No. That's a friend telling a friend to watch his back. Officially, I'm just conveying an offer. Which I think you should seriously consider.”

Richie shook his head. “You shouldn't've done it.”

“I had to, Rich.”

“You had to.”

“No choice.” Something desperate came into Joey's eyes. “Neither do you, Richie. Not a threat, not from me, not between us. But just between us? You have
got
to leave Frank Lucas alone.”

Richie blinked. “Frank Lucas?”

“You heard me, Rich.”

“What the fuck, Joey . . . he's not
important
enough for you to make a move on me like this.”

Joey's eyes locked onto Richie's. “Yes he is.”

So the elephant in the room, for once, had
not
been Uncle Dominic! When Joey had said, “You know who I mean,” he meant Frank Fucking Lucas. . . .

Richie pressed the packet of photos into Joey's hand.

“Tell Marie I'm sorry I had to leave,” he said. “Up to you, whether you tell her
why
. . . .”

That afternoon, Richie went
over to HQ and sat with the sun's dying light streaming through the amber stained glass and he studied the table of organization they'd been building on the bulletin boards.

He stared for a long time and he considered what Joey had said, and the things that had been between the lines of what Joey said. The Organized Crime chart currently had Italians up top, the uppermost figure Joey's Uncle Dominic. The black faces, among them Charlie Williams and the Lucas brothers, were way down on the board, in a position reserved for lower-echelon Harlem crooks.

Finally Richie got up, untacked Frank Lucas's photograph and moved it from its lowly position to a place of rare honor (or perhaps dishonor) as the first African-American to reach the top of the pyramid.

Above the Mafia.

When Toback came in the next morning—at Richie's request, before the rest of the team—the boss sat, leaned back in a metal chair, staring up at the chart and the new, black face atop it. At first Toback thought Richie was either kidding or insane.

But they talked a long time and, finally, Toback came around to Richie's thinking.

The squad was trailing in as Richie wrapped up, saying to Toback, “INS, FBI, IRS—I can't get anything out of them on Lucas. Nothing on his travel, his bank accounts, property holdings—nada.”

Toback chuckled dryly. “That's because they all think you're on the take.”

“Fuck them!
They're
on the take!”

Toback raised an eyebrow. “How do you know your assumptions about them aren't as unfounded as theirs are about you?”

Richie leaned forward, putting both palms on the banquet table. “Because these bent bastards don't
want
this to stop. This drug traffic, it employs too many people—cops, lawyers, judges, probation officers, prison guards. The day dope stops coming into this country, what? A hundred thousand people are out of work?”

But Toback was shaking his head. “Richie, I thought
I
was cynical. . . .”

Spearman threaded over through the desks and came up to Richie. “Excuse me—couple of suits want to see you.”

Richie frowned. “Feds?”

“Yeah. J. Edgar flavor.”

Richie went over near the entrance and conferred with two FBI agents as interchangeable as their dark suits and short haircuts and stony expressions. One might have been ten years older than the other, but otherwise they were strictly Frick and Frack.

“We understand that you're doing a good job, Mr. Roberts,” the older of the two said. “And we want you to know we'll do everything we can to cooperate with your efforts.”

“Good. Fine.
And
. . . ?”

The two men exchanged glances.

“We have it from a very reliable source,” the older agent said, “that a contract's been taken out on your life.”

Richie, not wanting to show the feds anything, said blandly, “Yeah? Who took it out?”

“It emanates from Organized Crime circles.”

“No kidding.
Where
in OC circles does it ‘emanate' from, guys?”

The feds again traded looks.

The lead agent said, “We can't say without compromising our source. You understand about not compromising sources.”

“No,” Richie said, shaking his head, “I don't. Not when it's
my
life, I don't.”

The younger agent chimed in: “If you like, we can assign someone to protect you.”

“What?” Richie laughed. “The FBI is going to protect
me
? Guys, I been working on the street for fifteen years. I appreciate your concern, and your offer, but . . . I'll take a pass.”

Richie would say this much for the feds: they took no apparent offense. The lead agent gave Richie his card, and they went out.

“Hilarious,” Richie said, walking back over to Toback.

But his boss's expression was grave. “None of this is funny, Richie,” he said, sitting up in the metal chair. “And you
know
it. . . .”

Spearman, Abruzzo and Jones had taken all of this in—with or without electronic aid, they were born eavesdroppers—and even they had no wise-ass remarks to offer.

So maybe it was
natural that Richie did start to feel a little spooked.

That night he was walking down a dark side street, on his way back to his apartment with a bag of groceries in his arms, when he started thinking a guy was following him.

This character was medium build and wearing nondescript working-class clothes, a zippered jacket and slacks and a cap; but there was no doubt the guy was edging closer, and closer. . . .

Richie slowed and let the guy get closer still . . . then dropped the groceries, gently as possible under the conditions, and whirled on the guy and smacked him in the jaw, sending him down to the sidewalk in a pile of arms and legs.

And as the fallen follower was trying to get his wits back about him, Richie's revolver moved in to stare him down, inches from his face.

“Don't shoot!” the guy blurted. “For God's sake, don't shoot me!”

Richie pressed the nose of the revolver to the man's forehead, dimpling the flesh. “Talk.”

The guy blinked a bunch of times and managed, “Are . . . are you Richard Roberts? You
are
Richard Roberts. I got a subpoena for you, is all.”

Richie helped the guy up, allowed himself to be served and felt a little bad for the poor son of a bitch, who had pissed himself in the process.

But not that bad.

This time, Richie and
his lawyer sat next to Laurie and hers on the same side of the courtroom. Richie was in a suit and tie, and his ex-wife was conservatively dressed as well, but looking pretty enough to remind him why and how he first fell in love with her.

He leaned past Sheila and whispered to Laurie, “I'm sorry I couldn't give you the kind of life you wanted.”

Her eyes went sideways to him, her expression as startled as if he'd honked his horn.

He went on: “I'm . . . I'm sorry it was never enough. You have plenty of reason to complain. But, please, don't punish me for being honest. Don't take my son out of my life.”

Laurie was staring at him now—he couldn't read her face, other than the surprise there at him talking to her in the middle of all this.

Now she leaned over and her eyes went fiery and she wasn't whispering at all as she said, “You think I left you because you were
honest
and didn't take
money
like every other cop in New York?
That's
what you're saying?”

Up front, the bailiff gave them a look, but Laurie clearly didn't give a shit—she was well off the launching pad.

“Let me tell you, Richie Roberts, why you don't take money. You don't take money because in some sick, twisted way, you think that pays back you being dishonest about everything and everybody
else
in your pitiful life. And let me tell you, that is
way
worse than
taking money nobody gives a damn about—drug money, gambling money, that nobody's gonna miss.”

All eyes in the courtroom were on this little drama now.

And Laurie, center stage, ranted on: “I'd rather you
took
that dirty money, not because I'm greedy or want better things . . . but because maybe you'd've been honest with
me
, then. Or
don't
take that stupid money, I don't care, I don't want it; but just don't play Mr. Clean while you're cheating on
me
. Don't cheat on your kid by never being around. Don't go out getting laid by all your slutty snitches and secretaries and strippers and . . .
her
. . . .”