Mad Dog Justice (20 page)

Roddy thinks of his father in Attica.
Like father, like son
, he ruminates for the ten thousandth time in his life. He recoils at the thought of a shank slicing his father’s guts. Roddy knows how fragile life is. All you are or have ever been can be gone in an instant, just as it was for Walt McKay and almost was for Danny.

And now Dan threatens him with a deadline: one week to find out who’s coming after them. And then do something about it. Something
acceptable
to Danny. If not, he’ll go to Morgan.

A block away, he stops in front of a gray clapboard house, where Danny and his mother lived. Peggy Burns—the angel of his life—took him in when Horst beat or tortured him. But she’s dead, too. A flood of sadness overtakes him, and the street seems
to darken.

It occurs to Roddy that thirty years ago, everyone knew him as the Dolan boy, the tough kid who hung with the Sheepshead Bay Boys. Now, if he dropped dead on the street, they’d have to rummage through his pockets to locate his next of kin. He’s an outsider here, an alien, a complete unknown. His anonymity staggers him like a shock to the heart. He wonders what makes a life worth living. Is it love? Commitment? The giving of one’s self to another? Children? Is there anything left in this life for him? Bleakness fills him and leaves him feeling hollow.

At Emmons Avenue, he crosses the footbridge over Sheepshead Bay and walks to the concrete esplanade overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The sea is green-looking with choppy whitecaps in the grayish distance. A gloomy mist hangs over the water. Roddy smells rain coming. Steel-wool-gray clouds clump massively at the horizon. He gazes toward Coney Island in the distance, where the steel skeleton of the towering Steeplechase Parachute Jump stands.

Seeing Coney Island, Roddy’s reminded of the nighttime Cyclone rides with Danny: the Parachute Jump and its dizzying descent, firing pellet guns at the target-shooting concession on Surf Avenue; and Nathan’s Famous, where, on freezing winter nights, he and Danny gorged on hot dogs and fried clam bellies amid the bright carnival atmosphere of Surf Avenue.

He comes to the huge granite slab along the esplanade, where as nine-year-olds, he and Danny swore their blood brother oath, becoming Cochise and kemosabe to each other by slitting their wrists and mingling their blood.

But now he has doubts about Danny’s loyalty and is even questioning Danny’s involvement with Kenny in McLaughlin’s. Even more alarming is Danny’s readiness to run to Morgan. Danny—with that
best boy
conscience of his—is about to toss in the towel and confess everything. He’s become a loose cannon
and can no longer be trusted. In his way, he’s nearly as dangerous as the mafia or the Bratva.

Danny—his lifelong friend and blood brother—could put them both in prison for the rest of their lives.

Beneath a somber sky, Roddy looks out over the Atlantic. The water roils and sloshes against the rocks below. Clumps of green and brown seaweed float in swirling eddies on the foaming surface. In the distance, he sees the silhouette of a freighter—ghostly looking in the misty winter dreariness. It will soon pass Breezy Point and the Rockaways, and then head east through Long Island Sound to the open reaches of the Atlantic. The air smells of brine. Roddy watches the rolling clouds move toward land. He tastes salt, thinking some sea spray has hit his face but realizes tears have snaked down his cheeks to his lips.

Roddy returned to the place of his youth to reignite the mad dog. Even though he felt that vicious surge when he thought mobsters were parked near the house, Roddy wonders if too much has changed for him to return to those days. So many years have passed and too much water has flowed beneath the bridge spanning Sheepshead Bay.

Sitting on the rock where he and Danny sat so many years ago, beneath a darkening sky, amid the horror of the present, it strikes Roddy with stunning clarity: everything in his life—from this moment on—is a complete unknown. He’s no longer a kid from the streets, and Danny’s not a boy either. They’ve gone on with their lives and have traveled their own paths. Their roads are diverging.

And now his lifelong friend may destroy everything.

D
anny’s skin feels like it’s curdling. He’s going stir-crazy in this hotel. He’s keeping up with business all right; he’s on the phone and using the computer, scanner, and fax. Thank God Natalie’s running things in Yonkers. It’s mostly massaging clients’ returns to lighten their tax loads. Everyone wants to finesse Uncle Sam, but that old guy gets his piece of the pie.

As if it really matters, because when Danny gets right down to it, he’s not certain he’ll be alive a week from now. And this confinement is hard to bear.

His only excursions have been to the hotel dining room. If he gobbles down any more food, he’ll tip the scales at two thirty. Last night, he gorged on a charbroiled New York strip steak with goat cheese smashed potatoes and a salad. And then a monstrous piece of creamy cheesecake. Reminded him of McLaughlin’s with its prime meats and gargantuan iceberg lettuce salads smothered with gorgonzola and bacon bits dressing—and the restaurant’s array of mouthwatering desserts. Jesus, everything reminds him of the restaurant.

Just what you need, Danny Boy—cholesterol-laden crap so you’ll have a heart attack and drop dead, just like Da did in the innards of that shit-ball furnace he was repairing, amid the soot, dust, and fumes. Dan’s certain his genes guarantee he’ll have a massive coronary—stop his ticker cold—unless another bullet
does the trick first.

Maybe that’s what he deserves—a slug right in the brain.

But maybe he and Roddy can get out of this hole if he contacts Morgan and really talks with the guy. Even though Roddy’s dead set against going to the cops, it might be the only way to see this thing through to some reasonable end. Roddy would see it as a Judas kiss if Danny cut a deal for them with the DA. Yes, latch on to a deal, one that would keep them alive and get their families out of harm’s way.

Danny tries imagining the conversation with the detective.

You see, Detective, liquor, wine, and steaks were disappearing. Kenny was screwing up—and we were taking losses. So we told Kenny we were getting out
.

After he disappeared, Captain Greene said Kenny owed money to the wrong people. And maybe they’re after us because we were his partners
.

So these guys wanna kill you instead of collecting their money? Can’t be, Mr. Burns, because money trumps everything with these guys, and dead men don’t write checks
.

Conversation over.

Morgan would sniff out that line of crap a mile away and
really
start interrogating him. He’d push, probe, and needle Danny. Each question would lead to a dozen more, and then who knows what he’d unearth?

Unearth?

Yeah, sure. Why not just tell Morgan to go ahead and dig up the grave at Snapper Pond? Find Grange—or whatever his real name is—and what’s left of that skinny Irish bastard Kenny, too.

Jesus, why’d he partner up with Kenny Egan?

And why did he listen to Angela, who has always nagged him?

Danny, you’re too conservative with money. Be a little daring. Take a chance. Become a silent partner. It won’t kill you
.

But that’s bullshit. He shouldn’t try convincing himself he was
pussy-whipped into this thing—that it’s somehow Angela’s fault. A shudder of shame racks Danny for even thinking he could shift the blame onto her. This mess is his own doing and it’s his cross to bear, not Angela’s or anyone else’s.

Danny broke faith with Roddy and led him down this treacherous path. Why did he shoot for the stars with that degenerate, Kenny “Snake Eyes” Egan?

Because Danny never had real confidence in himself, that’s why. Because he somehow felt he was less than an equal when it came to the guys back in Sheepshead Bay. He always avoided all the bad shit that went down. Everyone called him Danny Boy because he was a pudgy-faced, redheaded, freckled kid who was smart, who gave a shit about school, who pleased the teachers, was good with numbers, belonged to the math club, and got straight As. He never sat with the cool guys in the cafeteria and was never really part of that macho Sheepshead Bay, kick-ass crowd of toughs and small-time gangbangers.

Yeah, the girls liked him because they thought he was cute—especially with his ginger-colored freckles, red hair, and boyish face. They’d sing “Danny Boy” when they passed him in the school hallways. But his only true friend was his blood brother, Roddy. If not for Roddy, those hard-boiled bastards would have bullied him mercilessly and he’d have been the never-ending butt of their cruel comments, jokes, and catcalls. He’d have been ranked-out endlessly, from daybreak until sunset every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

Along came Kenny with the McLaughlin’s deal. So he got into bed with Egan and fucked over Roddy. It was a complete betrayal of his blood brother. All because as a kid, he was never daring enough, or slick enough, or worldly enough. And he wanted to prove something—that he had balls and money and could handle power and people. That he could swing a big dick—and become a player by owning a Manhattan steakhouse, right in the middle
of everything. A place where the Donald Trump and John Harris types congregated, where Mike Bloomberg, Alec Baldwin, Derek Jeter, Pete Hamill, and the glitterati did their thing.

And then—worse than anything he could ever have imagined—he was involved in the murder of two men. One way or another, Danny will pay for what he did.

His disposable cell rings.

“Roddy?”

“Who else would it be?”

“Where’ve you been?”

“Nowhere I wanna be.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Danny says with a heavy sigh.

“Dan, I’ve been thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“There was this gap between when you got shot and when I saw those guys in the garage.”

“Yeah?”

“When these mob guys are on a vendetta, don’t they usually settle the score all at once? Doesn’t it all go down on the same day?”

“I wouldn’t really know,” Danny says.

“Doesn’t that make sense? They don’t leave loose ends hanging around.”

“Okay. So?”

“I just wonder if they came for me—whoever they are—only because they knew you were alive.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I’m just thinking out loud. I’m wondering if maybe you’re the primary target.”

Bubbles start popping in Danny’s chest. His bronchioles narrow, and he feels mucous collecting in his tubes. Fucking asthma. “But who’d be gunning for me—and why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe some former client in deep shit with the
IRS or some employee you fired.”

“I don’t know, Roddy. I can’t remember anyone who left on bad terms or had a real grievance against me.”

“You sure, Dan? Think. Maybe someone got screwed over by the IRS and blames you?”

“I’ve never had a major screwup, ever. And the only clients I’ve lost are those who died or moved to Florida or Arizona. And even if that was the case, why come after you, too?”

“You got a point. I’m just trying to think this out from every possible angle.”

“And why
now
?” Danny says. “Why ten months after what went down upstate?”

“Well, I learned from my contact that Grange could disappear for months at a time. That’s why he was called Ghost. So maybe they only just realized something happened.”

There’s a pause in the conversation. Static fills Danny’s ear. Roddy says something, but he’s drowned out by interference.

“So what do you think?”

“Roddy, I didn’t hear you.”

“I have an idea is what I said. How ’bout I go see Omar? You remember him?”

“Kenny’s assistant maître d’. You think he might know something?”

“I have no idea, but you want me to come up with some answers, right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You said one week, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Omar was at the restaurant almost as much as Kenny.”

“It seems like a long shot, Roddy.”

“Maybe, but what else do we have? And what about that hostess Kenny hired … Crystal?”

At the mention of her name, Danny visualizes Crystal—tall,
her blond hair in an elaborate chignon, her hips swaying as she moved in a sexualized strut, leading diners to their table, and those bee-stung lips pouting lasciviously.

“What would she know?”

“Hey, Danny, how much do
we
know?”

“I get your point.”

“You know where they live?”

“I’ll check my computer. I’m sure I still have their W-2 forms in there.”

“Do it. We gotta make something happen before we’re dead meat.”

O
ver the years he’s lived in Bronxville, Roddy’s forgotten how congested a rush-hour subway car could be.

On the 4 train, Roddy stands against the middle doors of the car. In Ranger mode, he scans the crowd. The subway speeds beneath Manhattan streets, rocking and clacking, people’s heads bobbing in unison as the train roars uptown. Never before have so many ordinary men looked so potentially threatening. What would a hit man look like? Roddy wonders. Most likely, a harmless-looking guy—just another face in the crowd, someone who could melt seamlessly into the subway car’s clot of humanity after he’d shot or stabbed his target. Roddy stays vigilant and scans every person standing in the sardine-packed car. He gets off at 86th Street and climbs up the stairs leading to the street.

Standing at the intersection of Lexington and 86th, Roddy has no way of knowing if he was followed. He starts walking east on 86th, eyeing everyone and everything. Passing a Verizon store, he spots a guy leaning against the building; he’s smoking a cigarette and watches as Roddy walks by. Roddy can feel the man’s eyes on his back. He turns and glances at the guy, who averts his gaze. Roddy walks a few yards more, turns again, and notices the man is gone. He scans the street—including the other side—but there’s no sign of him.

At the intersection of 3rd and 86th, Roddy sees a holdout
from decades ago—Papaya King. As kids, he and Danny bought hot dogs slathered in mustard and washed them down with the then-famous papaya fruit drink.