Mad Dog Justice (19 page)

“I don’t know if I can go on this way, Roddy.”

“
What
? You don’t know if you can go on? What’re you … fuckin’ crazy? We have no choice.
None
. We did what we had to, and now we’ll do what we gotta do, Dan.”

“I don’t know, Roddy. We’re all fucked up now, and we’re going nowhere.”

“Going nowhere? Whaddaya wanna do, Dan? Put us in prison? Is that it? All my life I’ve been thinkin’,
Like father, like son
. And what do I hear my best friend sayin’? You wanna put me in Attica like my father? Is
that
it?”

“Listen, Roddy, I’ve always gone along with you. All my life, I’ve let you steamroll over me, like that night we killed Grange and Kenny.”

“That’s
bullshit
, Dan. Pure bullshit. I never rolled over you.
Ever
.”

“I let you call the shots about Grange and Kenny. And now I’m payin’ the price. I’m in hell—it’s a living hell. I just can’t take this anymore.”

“You have to, Danny. We’ve gotta keep going. What the fuck do you want? You think
this
is hell? Life in prison …
that’s
hell. You can’t even
imagine
what it’s like. And our families’ll be left with
nothing
. Not one fuckin’ thing.”

“Yeah? So tell me, Roddy, what do they have now? They’re in hiding because we put their lives in danger. You’re not at the hospital, and I can’t set foot into my office. The cops are circling, and the mob’s after us. So tell me: what the fuck do we have? We’re stuck in this snake pit and I see no way out. It’s only a matter of time before they get us.”

“Unless we get to them first,” says Roddy.

“Get to them
first
? Get to
who
? Who the fuck do we get to? Who the hell
are
they? And even if we find out who
they
are, what do we … two guys—a doctor and an accountant—do up against the
mob
? You gotta be kiddin’, Roddy. And what if it’s the Russians? They’ll stop at nothing to get us. They’ll go after our families, our wives and kids. What do you propose we do then?”

“Look, Danny, we gotta think this through and find out which mob is behind this … the mafia or the Bratva.”

“The
mob
? The fuckin’
mob
? Just the word makes me cringe. Jesus, Roddy. What the fuck did we get into?” Danny’s heart feels like it jumps in his chest.

“We gotta try to figure it out.”

“Even if we dope it out, what can we do? Huh? You got an answer for me?”

“Listen, Dan. We take it one step at a time.”

“One step at a time? What steps can we take, Roddy? What goddamned steps? Huh? Or are you gonna do something without me knowing anything?”

“What’re you talking about, Danny?”

“You gotta promise me something.”

“What?”

“You don’t do anything like what happened with Grange and Kenny. You gotta promise me we talk before you do anything.”

“I have no problem with that.”

“We gotta be on the same page. No acting on your own.”

“Agreed.”

“And another thing.”

“Yeah?”

“You say you wanna think this through.”

“Yeah …”

“If you don’t come up with something in a week, I’m talkin’ to Morgan to see what our options are.”

“Are you
nuts
? One
week
? You can’t put a deadline on this. Go to the police? That’s crazy, Danny.”

“No, it’s not. It might be the only
sane
thing to do. We’re caught in a squeeze, and I see no way out.”

“Dan, we can’t act out of fear or worry. It’s never the way to go.”

“It’s not just fear. There may be a way to cut a deal.”

“Cut a deal? That’s ridiculous. Dan, we’ll end up in prison. Twenty-five to life, that’s what we’ll get.”

“Roddy, let’s face it. We’re dead meat. And lemme tell you something. We’re not nine years old anymore, and we’re not the Hardy Boys. All I care about is my family. I gotta protect Angie and the kids, and I gotta do the right thing. If it means I go to prison, that’s what I’ll do. I don’t give a shit.”

“Don’t fuck me over, Dan. Don’t make me end up like my father.”

“I’m not fuckin’ you over, Roddy. I’m thinkin’ about how we can get out of this with as little damage as possible.”

“No, Dan. You’re thinkin’ about fuckin’ over our lives.
Completely and forever. I can’t let you do that.”

Danny inhales and hears those bubbles in his chest.

“Whaddaya gonna do, Roddy?”

“C’mon, Dan.”

“No. What’re you gonna do? Silence me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not bein’ ridiculous. I’m serious. Whaddaya gonna do, huh?”

Dan hears static on the line, nothing else. The air in the room seems dead.

“Roddy, if we’re lucky, you have one week. Then I’m gonna do what I gotta do. If you don’t like it, well, you do what
you
gotta do.”

O
n this gray winter morning, Roddy leaves the Marriott and heads toward the Court Street subway station.

Yesterday’s phone conversation with Danny echoes in his thoughts. How did everything get so screwed up? Danny wanting to see a priest … confess … contact Morgan and blow it all wide open. A ponderous load of guilt must be weighing him down. Dan setting a one-week time limit before he goes to Morgan and tries to arrange a deal—absurd. Nothing but self-immolation.

And Dan’s last words to Roddy keep reeling in his thoughts. “
I’m gonna do what I gotta do. If you don’t like it, well, you do what you gotta do.”

When Roddy called Nutley last night, Tracy wouldn’t talk to him, but he spoke with the kids. Sandy’s voice trembled.

“Daddy, is that fat man coming back?”

She was on the verge of tears.

“No, sweetie. He’s not coming back.”

“I’m scared.”

“There’s no need to be scared, sweetie. He’s never coming back,” Roddy said, shuddering inwardly.

No … Grange is gone for good … and maybe my life is gone, too
.

“When can we go home?”

“Soon. I promise.” But he wondered how he’d make good on
such a pledge.

Speaking with Tom, Roddy detected a hint of apprehension in his son’s voice. How much fear was the kid trying to mask?

Roddy’s thoughts return to Tracy. He realizes how empty his world is without her, how diminished and alone he feels, and he knows he would do anything to get her back.

“Roddy, we’re so over.”

C
rossing through Columbus Park, Roddy wonders why he’s heading to the south end of Brooklyn. Is it because that’s where the Russians live? Why would he want to go there? Or is it something else—returning to his past, the place where he learned to think and act like a mad dog?

Walking toward the subway station, Roddy scans the park and surrounding area. He’s cautious passing any shop or building entrance, or if he sees someone loitering on a street. He’s changed baseball caps and bought two more jackets. He won’t wear the same one two days in a row. He hasn’t shaved for days, and his face is covered with thick stubble. As an extra precaution, he wears wraparound sunglasses while on the street. And he scopes out everything. Nothing escapes his eyes.

He recalls Sergeant Dawson’s words about escape and evasion behind enemy lines: “
Improvise. Blend in with the population. Wear and do nothing that makes you stand out.”

At Borough Hall, he makes his way down the stairway into the labyrinthine maze of the subway system. His eyes crawl over every man he sees—even teenagers. He’s exquisitely aware of anyone who looks potentially aggressive. Or of anyone who appears overly casual. His heart jumps whenever he sees someone wearing a Bluetooth device.

Standing on the platform, he spots a man wearing a black leather car coat. The guy is short, with dark, slicked-back hair
and a Roman nose—could be Italian, maybe Eastern European; he’s leaning against a pillar reading the
New York Post
. Roddy eyes him from a distance of about fifty feet. A few moments later, the man tucks the paper under his arm and moves toward the end of the platform, away from Roddy. He then resumes reading the newspaper. It’s unlikely he’s a threat.

A moment later, Roddy notices a young black man strolling toward him. He wears baggy jeans and a navy blue hoodie. He’s maybe nineteen, twenty years old. Roddy’s muscles tense and his hand slips into his jacket pocket. He clutches the revolver grip. Roddy speculates what the kid might be up to. He recalls from countless movies that hit men come in all sizes, shapes, and colors. There was an episode of
The Sopranos
when Tony was nearly shot by a black kid who ran up to his SUV. It turned out to be an attempted mob hit.

The kid notices Roddy; their eyes lock. Roddy’s body stiffens, but he wants to avoid a confrontation—an eyeball-to-eyeball stare down. But he can’t take his eyes off the kid. As he stares directly into Roddy’s eyes, the kid’s gait turns into an aggressive strut—a rolling pimp walk. His chin thrusts forward; his shoulders sway from side to side. He never blinks and doesn’t avert his gaze for half a second.

About ten feet away from Roddy, the kid’s cell phone lets out an ear-splitting rap rhythm in the confines of the enclosed station with its tile walls. Still staring directly at Roddy, the kid grabs the cell from a side pocket of his cargo pants, stops, and says, “Yo.”

The kid stands with the phone at his ear, listening. He glares at Roddy, belligerence seeping from every pore of his body. Roddy’s fingers tighten around the pistol grip. The kid’s features harden and his look turns baleful.

Roddy’s heart quickens. Is this guy gonna start something? Is this a chance meeting, or could it be something else—an encounter that isn’t so random, one that’s planned? Roddy decides
to play it carefully and lets his eyes wander to a point beyond the kid’s shoulder and a bit off to the side. But he keeps him in his peripheral vision. He feels the kid’s eyes crawling all over him. It’s a testosterone-filled challenge—he’s daring Roddy to make eye contact again.

Roddy realizes this isn’t how a hit man would operate. The kid’s not a threat. He’s just an angry young punk with a hard-on for the world. Roddy’s also aware that time has changed him. Gone are the days when he’d have stared the kid down or even walked up to him and given him the Robert De Niro
You lookin’ at me?
line. That was the Mad Dog thing to do—answer the challenge with one of his own—and if needed, throw the first punch, a lightning-fast, power-loaded fist coming with pile-driver intensity from nowhere.

But those days are long gone, and the Mad Dog is much smarter now, less testosterone-poisoned than years ago.

Roddy turns and peers down the tracks into the tunnel. His hand remains in his pocket—on the pistol grip. He can still see the kid out of the corner of his eye. Another minute passes, and the kid ambles away—still bristling truculence.

When the R train rolls in with its brakes screeching, Roddy boards and rides it to DeKalb Avenue, where he transfers to the Q train on the Brighton Beach line. Plenty of Russians live in Brighton Beach, the largest Russian enclave anywhere outside their mother country. Slavic-looking people occupy the train, all speaking in harsh-sounding English or Russian. They’re getting off at the last stop: Brighton Beach—Little Odessa by the Sea, as it’s called.

At the Prospect Park station, the train leaves the tunnel and emerges onto an elevated track. It rumbles through Brooklyn, stopping at Church Avenue and Newkirk Avenue, and continues southward through the flatlands of Flatbush. At the Kings Highway stop, Roddy is overcome by a nostalgic ache as he recalls
the excursions he, Danny, and Jackie Kurtz made as teenagers, visiting the stores along this commercial thoroughfare.

The train pulls into the Sheepshead Bay station—the stop before Brighton Beach. From the height of the elevated structure, Roddy looks out over the old neighborhood, wondering if he’ll make some connection with the past.

Leaving the train, he waits for the station platform to clear, making sure no one is following him. His eyes scan left and right as the platform empties. After a full minute, he clambers down the stairway to Sheepshead Bay Road, and moments later, he’s deep in the midst of his past. It’s more than a quarter of a century since he’s been here.

Sheepshead Bay Road looks familiar, but appears narrower than he remembered. Retail stores seem to crouch over the street. Ethnic restaurants are everywhere—very different ones from those of his youth. A pizzeria, gyro joint, a taco stand, and a Chinese takeout place are near the station, and the Johnny Fell Inn is no longer at the next block; in its stead looms a huge Chase Bank.

But there’s no gentrification: no Starbucks or high-end boutiques or organic food shops catering to vegans.

I’m a long way from Bronxville
.

Gone is Herbie’s Gym, where he trained and boxed as a kid. A Citibank branch stands in its place. He takes a detour to where Leo’s Luncheonette was located. It’s gone. On the empty lot behind where Leo’s stood—where he ripped off Cootie Weiss’s ear in a fight when he was twelve—stands a six-story apartment house.

El Greco—the Greek’s—is still perched on the same corner near the bay. Roddy remembers the night he, Frankie Messina, and Kenny Egan planned the appliance store burglary. It all comes back in a mercurial rush of images: the narrow alleyway, he and Frankie loading the truck, the siren’s shriek and whirling police lights, the 61st Precinct’s piss-stinking holding cell,
the arraignment and his appearance before the judge. Then: the army—a life-changer.

Across the street is where Roddy beat the shit out of those German guys who were pummeling Danny. Rosario’s butcher shop’s been replaced by a Korean nail salon. How ironic it all seems: he’s looking at the spot where he saved Danny, and yet Dan is now about to jeopardize everything they’ve worked for all their lives.

“If you don’t like it, well, you do what you gotta do.”

On East 19th Street, leafless sycamore tree branches sway in the wind. Roddy stands before a two-story attached house, where he lived in the basement apartment for his first seventeen years. It brings an image of his glazed-eyed, whiskey-guzzling mother and her woman-beating boyfriend, Horst. Roddy visualizes himself at fifteen, coming home from Mike’s Pool Hall to find his mother bloodied and unconscious on the couch. Horst had beaten her half to death for having burned the beef stew she’d been cooking. And when Horst lunged at him with a kitchen knife, Roddy pummeled him with a series of chopping blows and kicks. After Horst was discharged from Coney Island Hospital, he never returned and was out of their lives forever.