Black Water Transit (24 page)

“I am not obliged to reveal the nature of our sources at this time. For that matter, our search warrant names the
Agawa Canyon
, Mr. Coleman. We were not limited to any particular container.”

“I’d like to see a copy of that warrant, Ms. Greco.”

“You will. At the appropriate moment.”

“I see. Very well. Are you about to charge my client this fine June morning, Ms. Greco?”

She hesitated, glanced back at Jack, and then past him at the faces of the ATF men gathered around him.

They all watched her face as she worked out the angles.

“No,” she said through her teeth. “I’m not.”

“And if you do decide to proceed with some sort of indictment, you’ll do us the professional courtesy of allowing
us to attend the federal offices in Albany at an agreed time?”

Hearing this made Jack’s stomach churn, but he kept his face blank and listened to Flannery’s controlled tones.

“I will. In return for Mr. Vermillion’s promise not to leave the country and to remain in contact with you or your office.”

“You have our assurances. And I’d like to state for the record that this is a clear and deliberate attempt on someone’s part to destroy my client’s reputation.”

“The reputation of a known Mafia associate?”

Flannery would not be drawn in.

“And I am confident that a vigorous investigation will exonerate him and expose the conspirators, whoever they may be, Ms. Greco, and we will follow the evidence wherever the facts may lead. To whomever they implicate. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystalline, Mr. Coleman.”

“And I have your word of honor that, in the event charges may be laid against Mr. Vermillion, we will be given the opportunity to answer them in person, that he will not be dragged off the street in one of those media-circus arrests that your office has lately developed such an affection for? He’ll be processed with dignity and discretion?”

“He’ll be accorded every consideration he has a right to.”

“No circus arrests?”

“No.”

“Your word on it, Ms. Greco, one attorney to another?”

“My word on it.”

Flannery handed her one of his business cards.

“All of my numbers are on that. When you’ve reached a decision, you’ll call one of those numbers and
I will arrange to have my client appear at whatever location you name. Now we’ll be leaving, Ms. Greco, and I bid you the very best of days.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Coleman. Jack, we’ll be seeing you.”

“Tut, Ms. Greco. No threats. I have your word.”

“Yes. You have my word.”

“On your honor?”

Greco smiled, not nicely.

“As a gentleman?”

Nicky drove with his eyes fixed forward and both hands on the wheel and Casey was as stony silent as he was until Nicky had the big rusted gypsy cab rolling along Empire Boulevard. Then she let out a long ragged breath, thick with grief and remorse.

Nicky glanced over at her and spoke softly.

“Casey, can you tell me something?”

“Sure. I’ll try.”

“What’s a Sylvester?”

“Nicky, I’m sorry I called you a Sylvester.”

“I figured it was an insult. I just didn’t know what kind. Then I figured maybe I remind you of Sylvester Stallone.”

“It’s what they called white boys in Vietnam.”

“Yeah? Casey, I’m no math whiz, but I’m gonna bet you’re too young to have served in Vietnam.”

“My father … he was killed there. In Saigon, 1972.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“So was I. He was nineteen. My mother was four months pregnant. With me.”

“What was it? Combat?”

“Yeah. It was combat. But not with the Vietcong. He was an MP at Long Binh Jail, just north of Saigon. He was stabbed to death by a prisoner. A U.S. Army soldier. From someplace called Eufalia, Alabama.”

“You’re kidding. By one of our guys?”

She was quiet for a time.

“No. One of
your
guys.”

Nicky had to work it out, but he got it.

“Oh, let me guess, a white guy?”

“Yeah. He said, ‘The nigra looked like he needed a cutting, so I give him one.’ The army shrinks said he had some kind of combat-related psychological disorder, gave him a Section Eight, and he spent two years in Leavenworth. Now he has three children and a speedboat and he owns a farm equipment dealership in Way-cross, Georgia.”

Nicky stared at her.

“Christ … you keeping a file on him?”

“Yes.”

“Man, you are one outstanding hater.”

“I do what I can,” said Casey, without a smile.

“This knuckle-walker kills your dad. Hence the black thing?”

“It’s not a ‘black thing,’ Nicky. He was killed for being a black cop in the American army, and he was only in Vietnam because he was a black
man
in America.”

“Casey, a word in your shell-like ear … lots of white boys went to Vietnam. My uncle—”

“No
rich
white boys.”

“You’re gonna have to work out whether you’re a racist or a communist, Casey. You can’t have both. That’s just greedy. You gotta choose one and stick with it.”

“You wanna know how many white kids from Harvard went to Vietnam?”

“You wanna know how many black kids went to Harvard just because they were black? I’m here to tell you I sure wasn’t offered a ticket to Brown, or even given a pass on the SATs, a clear victim of racist oppression on account of I’m Africa-deficient. Black-challenged. Melatonin-impaired.”

“You mean ‘melanin.’ ”

“Yeah, whatever. My point is—”

“Can we just drop it? Please?”

“Look, I know this is not the time. Only reason I’m prodding you about it is, this thing that was between you and Detective Rule … it’s over now. Finished. But you and me, we need to get straight on it. It can’t hang around. I’m white too. We have a lot to take care of.”

“I know that. But your timing sucks.”

“Yeah … you’re right. I’m sorry. And was your mother okay? Did she get around it? The thing with your dad?”

“No. She’s not okay. No, she didn’t get around it. Can I ask you a question, Nicky?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you know how I got onto the Jay Rats?”

Nicky let the question simmer for a while, trying to figure out how to deal with a lit fuse. There was heavy traffic on Washington and he had to fight through the intersection and make the turn northbound. Brooklyn was spooling up to speed and the sun was burning a hole in the haze over the eastern buildings. What the hell, tell her the truth.

“I heard something about it.”

“From whom?”

“I like it when you say ‘whom.’ ”

“Don’t get clever, Nicky. Who told you?”

“Vince.”

“Vince told you?”

“Yeah.”

“This morning, while we were waiting for Jimmy to die?”

“Yeah. Like I said to Pete, he talked. I listened.”

“Vince talked to you about me. What’d he say?”

“Basically, you were suspected of tuning up a PD name of Eddie Rubinek.”

“Did you hear why I might have done that?”

“Yeah. Vince told me you guys had busted your butts on the street making a kidnap-rape case. Then this Rubinek toad-sucker works some kind of Fourth Amendment mojo with a judge down on Centre Street and the perps walked, and then you might have taken a moment to chastise the fellow. A bit.”

“Vince said that?”

“Said what? ‘Toad-sucker’ or ‘chastise’?”

Casey laughed. It was short and sharp, but it was a laugh.

“So?” said Nicky.

“So what?”

“So … did you?”

“It was the Shawana Coryell case. You know it?”

“I caught it on the news. It was everywhere. It was lousy. Forgetting it is the problem there, Casey.”

“Yeah … what would
you
have done?”

“Me?” said Nicky. “I would not have gotten caught.”

“I didn’t get caught.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes … I’m here. The CO of the Two Five used to be Vince’s partner. He figured I needed some ‘guidance’ and that Vince Zaragosa was the man to do it.”

“Jimmy was right, you know. Most cops in your
situation, the force would hang that cop out to spin, let the crows pick his eyes out like little green grapes. But here you are.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“No more than you. And you definitely do. What got to you about Jimmy Rock is, you think he may be—might have been—right, you think you got the job with the Jay Rats because you’re black.”

“But I didn’t, Nicky. I really didn’t.”

“No, you got it because you’re
connected
, you had a rabbi. The CO at the Two Five. He went the distance for you. Nobody gets anywhere in any police department without a friend up the scale. Maybe it’s not fair, but what is?”

“Connected, maybe. But I never asked for a break because I was black. I never asked my boss at the Two Five. I pull my time.”

“What’s the difference? Connected or connected black, you took a break when it came to you. Other guys, not connected or not black, maybe they would have taken the hit. You ducked it. Good for you. I’ve ducked a few myself. That’s the game. That’s what makes America great. The fix isn’t always in, but sometimes when you really need it, you can get it.”

“That’s a damn cynical point of view.”

“Thank you. My favorite prayer? Please God, give me what I want, not what I deserve. You know Jimmy Rock’s backstory?”

“No. And, with respect, yes he’s dead, but I still, God help me, I really don’t give a shit either way. Detective Rule was a mean-minded sadistic little prick. It takes more than a bullet to fix that.”

“Oh my, you’re a tough little black girl, hah? Know the world, don’t you? Hard rain gonna fall, is that it? Want some good advice?”

“I’ll listen. I’ll let you know if it’s good.”

“Ask Vince.”

“No.”

“Make peace with this thing, Casey. Vince can help you. We had a long talk about … a lot of things. Talk to Vince.”

“No.”

“Suit yourself. Here we are.”

They’d pulled up outside Casey’s apartment block on Temple Court, across from Prospect Park. The little dead-end street was deserted and the rows of old trucks and cars under the bare trees looked tired and shabby, livestock in a pen.

Nicky had been up for twenty-four hours straight, the last eight of which had been shattering. If he’d been on his game, he’d have seen the shape of a man sitting in one of the parked cars, maybe even made him. But he didn’t. However, Earl V. Pike made him.

Nicky was studying the east wall of Casey’s apartment. Most of the windows in the brownstone building were shuttered against the rising heat, and air conditioners studded the exterior walls, humming and rattling and dripping water down the bricks. It was a dumpy little residence, soaked in the acid bath of chronic poverty. Nicky could see the outline of a woman in one of the lower windows.

She was watching the cab as they sat there, the engine idling. There was a red spark in her hand and a line of smoke curling up from it. It was hard to make out any facial details through the grimy window. Nicky saw Casey’s wary glance up to that window as he turned the car off.

“That your place up there?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“So somebody’s waiting, hah?”

Casey’s face registered a couple of changes and finished with blank and empty.

“Oh yeah. Life’s an endless cycle of song.”

She said it with an air of resignation, with a ripple of anger and resentment. Nicky watched her and his face softened around the eyes.

“Look, Casey … I was gonna wait on this.”

“On what?”

“You mind taking a little run with me?”

“What? Now?”

“Yeah. It won’t take long.”

“Where to?”

“Peekskill.”

“Peekskill! What the hell for?”

“Vince asked me to take you to Peekskill.”

“Vince? When?”

“During our … talk.”

“The one where you listened and he talked?”

“Yeah.”

Casey looked back up at the window, at the smoking figure leaning on the windowsill, her face hidden by the sun lying on the dust and the grease that coated the window. She rubbed her face with both hands, shut her eyes, spoke after a long silence.

“Nicky, you realize that the last time I had any sleep was two lousy hours on the army cot at the office over in the Albee Mall, and that it was you calling on the phone that woke me up?”

“Yeah.”

“And that was … Christ, twenty hours ago? And everything that has happened since … The past forty-eight hours have been a flat-out nightmare. The very … almost the very worst time in my life.”

“Yeah.”

“This is something Vince thinks I need to do?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it about Jimmy Rock?”

“Yeah.”

“Am I going to enjoy it?”

“No.”

Valeriana Greco lied. She held off for exactly three hours and then sent the whole ATF team to arrest Jack Vermillion at the corporate offices of Black Water Transit Systems. They arrived in vans and unmarked Caprices, boiled up the staircase in a pack, terrified the staffers, bulled through his secretary, stood Jack up, pushed him over his own desk, and cuffed him way too hard. Then they frog-marched him down the front stairs in front of his staff and past all of the dockhands gathered in the big yard.

Greco was waiting for him inside a crowd of ATF agents, standing next to a big white van with
United States Marshals
painted on the side in huge scarlet letters.

There was a Live Eye satellite truck from Albany there, and about fifteen reporters milling around with video cameras and flashes. Apparently somebody had called them with an anonymous tip—a powerful local businessman was about to be arrested by the ATF on charges of smuggling weapons and running a stolen car ring. He was also implicated in the deaths of three ATF agents and the wounding of a fourth, as well as the death of a New York City police detective. The tip included vague references to “connections with shadowy figures in organized crime.”