Monkey in the Middle (4 page)

‘Gone before the first responders arrived. We can make a plea for witnesses to come forward when we do the press conference, but I wouldn't hold my breath.' Epstein averts his eyes, a gesture he believes appropriate in light of their respective ranks. If their positions were reversed, he thinks, he might well invoke the cliché, the one about killing the messenger. But Champliss surprises him. When Epstein looks up, his boss's prissy mouth has tightened and his black eyes might be carved from ebony.

‘Grab one of Rachid Toufiq's people. Reach as high up the food chain as possible. I want you to sweat him, Solly. I want you to send a message. This has got to stop.'

Six

T
hey grab Ibrahim El-Shaer in front of a coffee shop on Steinway Street below the Grand Central Parkway. Epstein and Billy Boyle. The coffee shop has a name, but it's written in Arabic and there's no English translation. Arab Attitude, Epstein decides. In his experience, Arabs are even more macho than Hispanics. The young ones, anyway, the ones born here. You offended them every time you opened your mouth.

Maybe this is why El-Shaer doesn't take off when Billy Boyle stops the unmarked Ford in front of the coffee house, when Billy and Epstein leave the car and walk toward him, when Billy Boyle flashes his badge.

‘Turn around and put your hands behind your back.'

El-Shaer's eyes widen at Boyle's take-no-prisoners tone, but he doesn't move until Boyle spins him around. Much the smaller of the two, the Arab offers little in the way of resistance, though he does mutter something in Arabic that Epstein assumes to be unflattering. El-Shaer is Toufiq's bookkeeper. Epstein knows this because he has an unregistered snitch inside Toufiq's crew, a man named Fouad Birou.

NYPD regulations require informants to be registered as they're acquired. But this mandate is routinely ignored. First, because dozens of employees have access to the registry, employees who have, on occasion, sold the list to the bad guys. Second, because snitches on the registry are open season for other cops. OCCB, Vice, Narcotics, Major Crimes, Special Victims . . . everybody wants a pass at your snitch, which does not make for a trusting relationship. Not at all.

‘Where are you taking me?'

‘For a drive, Abe,' Epstein responds.

‘My name is not Abe. Do I look like a Jew?'

‘Ibrahim, right? Ibrahim El Shaer? So, Abraham, Ibrahim . . . you gotta forgive me if I assumed they were the same. Arabs and Jews being people of the book and all that.'

Billy Boyle cuffs and frisks El-Shaer before leading him back to the Ford. Epstein trails a half-step behind. At the last minute, he pushes onto the backseat alongside El-Shaer.

‘Am I under arrest?' El-Shaer asks

Epstein hesitates, then says, ‘In a manner of speaking.'

‘For what crime?'

‘Spittin' on the sidewalk. Do you deny the charge?' Epstein raises a hand. ‘Wait, I haven't read your constitutional rights to you.' He wipes his hand across his brow. ‘Be hell to pay if we lose the case over a technicality.'

Epstein proceeds to give the standard Miranda warning, reading the text from a card he keeps in his breast pocket, a good luck charm he's carried since earning his gold shield. El-Shaer gets the point and shuts up. Once inside the precinct, he'll invoke his right to counsel. Until then, better not to say anything.

Epstein takes advantage of the quiet to phone his wife. It's closing in on nine o'clock and he wants to reach Sofia before she goes to sleep.

‘I have to pee so bad that I'm about to explode, but I can't find the energy to get off the couch,' she informs her husband following a perfunctory hello. ‘I feel like a beached whale.'

Epstein has heard this complaint before and he's not unsympathetic. But he wants a child – children, actually – and there isn't another way to do it. He couldn't volunteer for birthing duties even if he was of a mind to, which he definitely is not. Epstein doesn't really understand why he wants kids so bad. Without doubt, kids are an endless drain on family finances, meager enough in his case, and they let you down more often than not. Didn't Epstein let his own mother down when he joined the cops instead of going to college? Andrea Epstein was truly pissed when her son broke the news. And she's still pissed. Never mind his promotions, never mind his ambitions, she probably won't forgive him if he's appointed Commissioner.

‘It's almost over,' Epstein encourages. ‘Tell me how you feel.'

‘Take a basketball, fill it with water, shove it into your abdomen. Then you'll know. By the time this is over, I'll have enough stretch marks to pass for a fucking zebra.'

Another recurring theme. Sofia's mutilated body. Epstein has always been hot for his wife and the last few weeks have been hard on him. As will, he knows, the weeks to follow.

‘When are you coming home?' Sofia asks.

‘I don't know, baby. This case I'm on, it's a night and day thing.'

‘But you're gonna take a leave once the baby's born?' Sofia's purr masks an underlying threat.
If you don't, I'll make you wish you were dead
.

‘The minute you go into labor, I'm outta here.'

Billy Boyle pulls the Ford to a stop on Shore Boulevard, a narrow two-way street wedged between Astoria Park and the East River. He puts the car in reverse and backs into a parking space beneath the massive stone tower anchoring the Queens end of the Hells Gate Railroad Bridge. Then, together, he and Epstein drag a resisting El-Shaer into the park. To Epstein, it looks as if Ibrahim has gotten the message. There will be no phone call, no lawyer, just a private conversation, him and the two cops.

‘Shit,' El-Shaer says.

The night has turned cold and their footsteps crunch on the frozen grass. A hundred feet above them, a freight train makes its way through a massive arch at the top of the tower and on to the bridge. The train moves slowly, the clack of its wheels, regular as a metronome, seeming to come from a great distance.

The sound effects please Epstein, as does the deep shadow. He wants El-Shaer frightened. Fear will speed things along. But unlike Billy Boyle, he takes no pleasure from what's about to happen. Epstein's just following orders.

Epstein watches Billy Boyle square off with El-Shaer. In his early twenties, Ibrahim is a handsome boy, with the large dark eyes of a nocturnal primate and a well-defined, aquiline nose. His mouth is sensual, the lower lip actually succulent, while his chin is as round as a plum. All in all, he reminds Epstein of a new-age Jesus, right down to the skimpy beard.

‘OK, Abe . . .'

‘Don't call me Abe. I'm not—'

Billy Boyle puts an end to the conversation by slamming a fist into El-Shaer's unprotected gut. El-Shaer falls backward, on to his cuffed hands. His mouth opens, as though to scream, but his lungs can produce no more than a strangled wheeze. Epstein squats down beside him.

‘Now I want you to listen close, Abe, because –' Epstein glances up at Billy Boyle's lumpy face – ‘well, let me just say that listening close is in your best interest. Ya see, I got a wife who's nine months pregnant, so you can understand if I wanna get home to her as soon as possible. Plus, it's gotta be twenty fuckin' degrees out here and my balls are turnin' into ice cubes.' Epstein squeezes El-Shaer's narrow shoulder. ‘Bottom line, Abe, my tolerance for bullshit is real low at the moment. That's why there's not gonna be any sparring, any manipulating. You don't tell me what I wanna know, I'm skipping right to Plan B. Now, what comes into your mind when I say the name Charlie Bousejian?'

Epstein's really hoping that El-Shaer will get the message, but it's not to be. Without ever looking at Epstein, the Arab says, ‘Who?'

Epstein jumps to his feet and walks off. That's the way it is with mutts, he tells himself as Billy Boyle goes to work. They have to play macho. They have to test the waters. They just can't help themselves.

Epstein turns away to enjoy the view. Before him, the East River flows south, revealing the high-rise apartment buildings lining the Upper East Side and most of the mid-town office towers. Epstein recognizes the Chrysler, Citibank and Met Life buildings, and of course the Empire State Building, its upper stories lit with red and green floodlights. Christmas lights. Epstein's view is framed by the arc of the Triborough Bridge, which runs across the far end of the park, and by the silver-black waters of the East River. The tide is running hard on the river. The water bucks and rolls as Epstein imagines El-Shaer bucking and rolling behind him. The Arab is showing heart. He doesn't scream, only grunts occasionally, his complaints barely audible over the incessant clack of the freight train above.

‘Enough, Billy.' Epstein walks back to squat beside El-Shaer. He waits until El-Shaer catches his breath, then says, ‘Charlie Bousejian.'

‘Bousejian got whacked.' Now that he's taken his lumps, now that he's proven himself to be a man, El-Shaer can allow himself to open up. Maybe he broke, but it was under torture. To Epstein, this is predictable and pathetic.

‘Exactly,' Epstein replies. ‘And Tony Maguire, Shawn Peterson, Nomo Terrentino? What about them? You recognize those names?'

‘Dead.'

‘Dead how?'

‘Whacked. They got whacked.'

‘And who did they work for?'

‘Paulie Margarine.'

‘And who do you work for?'

As El-Shaer couldn't meet Epstein's gaze before, he now seems unable to turn away. ‘I got a right not to incriminate myself,' he whispers.

Billy Boyle cocks a fist, but Epstein waves him away. To Billy, mutts like El-Shaer are no more than cockroaches.

‘Listen up, Abe, Epstein says, ‘what we're sayin' here, between us, is strictly off the record. Given the situation, it's never gonna see a courtroom. You can understand that, right?'

‘Yeah, but—'

‘But nothin'. Either you open up or I turn him loose.' Epstein jerks a thumb in Billy Boyle's direction. ‘And if that doesn't work – swear to God – I'll put your ass in the river.'

El-Shaer is still looking into Epstein's eyes. Looking for what, Epstein doesn't know. But then El-Shaer's mouth opens and the words flood out. ‘I know what you're thinking,' he tells Epstein, ‘but it's bullshit. Rachid had nothin' to do with those guys. We don't have the muscle to challenge Paulie Margarine. Not even close. Plus, there's an FBI snitch on every block in the neighborhood. You can't fuck your girlfriend without the FBI makin' a videotape. It's like a bad joke. The cops think we're the Mafia and the Feds think we're al-Quaeda. The truth is that we're barely survivin'.'

Epstein glances over his shoulder at the mention of the FBI. Just what he needs. ‘Keep goin',' he says. ‘Convince me.'

After a moment, El-Shaer nods to himself. ‘Bousejian and them guys, they weren't earners. They were assholes, in and out of jail every other week. Paulie's main guys are still walkin' around. What I think, Paulie's cleaning house. I mean, if we wanted a war, we wouldn't start by offing these chumps. We'd use the element of surprise to get as close to the top as possible. The element of surprise is not an advantage you get twice.'

Epstein encourages El-Shaer with a wink. ‘You seem to know a lot about war. Elements, strategies? I always figured it was blaze away and see who rode off into the sunset.'

But El-Shaer is set on his path. ‘Rachid,' he tells Epstein, ‘is not a fighter. He's smart and he never gives up once he wants something, but he's not a warrior.'

‘So, your boss is a punk?'

‘Let's just say he avoids confrontation. If it was up to me, there'd be a lot more pushing back.'

Epstein gives El-Shaer a little poke. ‘C'mon, you're sayin' your boss is a fag, right? A pussy?'

‘Well, if the shoe fits . . .' El-Shaer laughs, a short bark, then quickly sobers. ‘But what I'm trying to say is that under no circumstances did we whack those guys. Not me, not Rachid. In fact, Rachid, the last time I saw him, was pissin' his pants. That's because he thinks Paulie Margarine's gonna come after him, which is just the opposite of the way you're thinkin'. There's even a rumor that Rachid already bought a one-way ticket to Casablanca, that he'll be home by New Year's.'

Epstein has heard this story before, from his snitch, Fouad Birou. It's a story he believes to be true. Still, he looks to Billy Boyle, who cocks his head and winks. They have enough to satisfy Champliss. Epstein turns back to El-Shaer. He takes a digital recorder from his pocket and holds it up for inspection. The recorder isn't running, Epstein having zero interest in a record of the crimes he's committed over the last half-hour. But El-Shaer doesn't know this.

‘You're my snitch, Abe. Till prison do us part, I own your ass. You fight me, I'll send this recording to your boss. In fact, I might even drag him into the precinct and make him listen to it while I watch. Myself, I don't think he's gonna fall in love with what you had to say about him.'

Epstein doesn't turn on the light when he enters his home. Sofia is in the living room, snoring loud enough to rattle the windowpanes. Epstein shucks his loafers and tiptoes through the small foyer and into the living room beyond. To his left, Sofia lies back in a recliner, hands folded over her swollen belly. Epstein stares at her for a moment, then drops on to the couch. He feels the tension begin to leak out, a pinprick in a water balloon. Home at last.

Home is what makes it worthwhile for Epstein, sitting on the couch, contemplating his wife, the curly hair that streams over her shoulders, her button of a nose and her soft brown skin. Sofia is a third-generation Puerto Rican. Though she barely speaks Spanish, she's intensely proud of her heritage. On this night, when she awakens to find Epstein a few feet away, her eyes narrow and she smiles.