Monkey in the Middle (8 page)

‘How come,' Sofia asks, ‘you always know what I need?'

Epstein thinks for a minute before saying, ‘You've got to think that way, think about what people need. You have to take care of the people you care for.'

‘Is that the way you're gonna think about our son?'

‘Yeah, what he needs, not necessarily what he wants.' Epstein leans over to plant a kiss on Sofia's left cheek. ‘But what I really think is there's no right way to raise a kid. There's better ways and worse ways, but it's mostly a crapshoot.'

Sofia considers this for a moment, then says, ‘If I don't have the baby first, I want you to take me to midnight mass on Christmas Eve. I don't give a damn if you have to take me in a wheelchair. I want to go.'

‘To St Patrick's Cathedral?' Epstein asks. ‘In Manhattan?'

‘Yeah.'

Epstein's first impulse is to reject Sofia's request out of hand. The logistics, the crowds, the possibility that she'll go into labor during the Offertory? Fuck it. But Epstein ignores this impulse. To his thinking, problems are to be solved, not dismissed. Sofia is a religious, not to mention superstitious, woman. He knew that when he married her.

First thing, he'll have to park in a bus stop, there being no other possibility on that section of Fifth Avenue. That means using his ‘ON OFFICAL POLICE BUSINESS' placard, a technical violation but one likely to go unpunished on Christmas Eve. And there's his aunt Marie, who was confined to a wheelchair before her death. Most likely her son, Andy, has the wheelchair stored in his garage. Andy's a pack rat. He has trouble throwing out coffee grinds. And as for Sofia going into labor? While still a rookie patrol officer, Epstein delivered twins girls in a Lower East Side tenement. If necessary, he'll deliver Jonathon himself.

‘Consider it done,' he tells his wife.

Billy Boyle picks Epstein up an hour later and they drive to a strip mall on Route 4 in New Jersey. The wrong strip mall, as it turns out. There's no Italian restaurant among its dozen businesses. Epstein tells Billy Boyle to drive on, try the next one. Instead, Boyle uses his cell phone to call information. He asks for the phone number of Villa Napoli in Teaneck, then calls the restaurant for directions. Epstein's annoyed, but says nothing. Much more than rabbi and underling, he and Billy Boyle are in it for the long run. Epstein has already taken the captain's exam and he's certain he aced the test. Just as he's certain that when he moves up, Billy Boyle will come along. Even if Epstein has to call in every favor he's ever granted.

Ten minutes later, they walk into Villa Napoli to find Dave Flannery already eating. Flannery is hugely overweight and he sits with his chair pulled away from the table to leave room for his gut. Epstein looks over at Billy Boyle's lumpy face. The man's slash of a mouth is pulled into a predictable grimace. Boyle prides himself on his flat belly and broad shoulders. On his self-discipline, too.

‘Be cool, little brother,' Epstein advises.

Billy Boyle's expression remains fixed, but he gets the message, or so Epstein assumes. Flannery believes that he and Epstein are on equal footing, that he and the cops are involved in an equitable exchange. He helps the cops. The cops help him. This is decidedly not the case.

‘So, Dave, what's the good news?' Epstein asks. He takes a seat to Flannery's left, leaving Billy Boyle to sit down across from the mobster. Though ostensibly one of Paulie Margarine's subordinates, Dave ‘Flabby Dave' Flannery runs his own crew. Dave is twenty-eight and definitely on the rise.

Flannery points to a pair of stuffed mushrooms on a plate that once held a hot antipasto. ‘Help yourself,' he advises.

‘We ate.'

‘You don't want nothin'?' Flannery's features are small and squeezed together by his enormous cheeks. Looking at the man, Epstein tries to decide whether his face is retreating or advancing. Retreating, he finally decides. Eventually the man's cheeks will meet and his face will look just like his ass.

‘Espresso, for two,' Epstein says.

Flannery sucks down a glass of wine, then raises his arm to reveal the sapphire ring on his finger and the Rolex on his wrist. ‘John,' he calls to the waiter, ‘espresso for my friends. And you could bring the pasta.'

Epstein waits for Flannery to speak first, the wait stretching out until the waiter appears with a bowl of fettuccine Alfredo. He sets the bowl down and walks away. Flannery digs right in, expertly twirling the ribbons of pasta around his fork before jamming them into his mouth.

‘Paulie's gonna go all out,' he says between bites.

‘How so?'

‘Don't know yet. But he wants to hit Toufiq hard. Ya know what I mean? Knock the little prick and his crew out of the game, for good and for ever.'

Epstein looks over at Billy Boyle, who's indeed beginning to boil. Flannery's attitude is dismissive, his tone weary, as if he owns the cops.

‘But you're gonna call me, right?' Epstein asks. ‘As soon as you know?'

The espresso arrives before Flannery can reply. Epstein waits for the waiter to fill the two small cups, then repeats the question. ‘But you're gonna call me, right? Because my orders are real simple. Paulie Margarine starts a war, OCCB will arrest everybody in his organization. And that includes you, Dave. Plus, we'll hit every piece of your operation, including Ermine Escorts, which you only opened a month ago.'

Flannery eats in silence for several minutes, until the plate is empty. Then he signals to the waiter. ‘You could bring the veal now.' Finally, he turns to Epstein. ‘That's impressive. Ermine Escorts. How quick you connected me. But somethin's gotta give here. How do I know I won't get hit next?'

‘How do you know Toufiq is responsible?' Epstein responds.

Flannery shakes his head. ‘What you're sayin', it don't matter. Guys like us, we have to react. That's how we got be like us in the first place. Besides, with four guys down, I say we already got a war.'

Epstein reverts to his original point. ‘We're not ready to move on Paulie,' he admits. ‘We need another year. But we got enough to get indictments. Think of the cost, Dave. Think about lawyers who get four hundred dollars an hour. Think of the lost revenues. And all for nothing, because I've got snitches inside Toufiq's crew and they're tellin' the same story. Toufiq's not the source of your troubles.'

Another silence, a silence in which Epstein contemplates turning Flannery over to Billy Boyle. Epstein is still undecided when the veal shows up.

‘Veal marsala,' Flannery says. ‘They cook it right.'

Epstein finally nods to Billy Boyle, who reaches across the table to snatch Flannery's plate. When the plate's sitting in front of him, he spits into it. ‘You don't call, ya fuckin' mutt,' he explains, ‘I'll kill you myself.'

Their cards on the table, Epstein and Billy Boyle stand up to leave. But then Epstein has a change of heart and decides to throw Flannery a bone. Thinking, What the hell, he's not gonna eat the veal.

‘Your boy, Carlo? You should warn him off that Ridgewood deal. It's gonna go bad.'

Eleven

E
pstein lifts the sheet to look at what remains of Bruno Brunale's head. He's been warned, so he's not surprised by the gore. The man's head has been torn apart, exploded really, and strings of blood-saturated gray matter stream across the sidewalk. Worms deserting the skull, Epstein thinks before dropping the sheet.

According to Billy Boyle, who arrived first, the damage must have been done by a rifle loaded with hollow-point ammo, the kind used to bring down bear and buffalo. Meanwhile, nobody heard anything, nobody saw anything, which means the perp used a suppressor to control flash and noise. Suppressors are rare, effective suppressors anyway. But then, so are knives with Arabic inscriptions.

Bad news for Paulie Margarine, for the NYPD, too. A knife in Macy's, a rifle in Astoria. Another man, Charles Bousejian, was bludgeoned to death with an aluminum baseball bat.

But there's good news here as well. A pair of uniformed cops on foot patrol responded to the Brunale shooting within a minute. What's more, they did their job, detaining all witnesses. That included Paulie Margarine, who was standing within a foot of Brunale when the fatal shot was fired. Epstein's been looking for an excuse to approach the gangster. Now he has it.

As Epstein turns away, his cell phone rings. He quickly retrieves it. Epstein's hoping to hear from Dave Flannery, but it's Champliss on the other end.

‘What do you have for me?'

‘I just got here, but I'm sure it's connected to the other homicides,' Epstein admits.

‘And?'

‘You're asking me what Paulie's gonna do next?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Paulie's gonna go after Toufiq. I have it from a reliable source.'

‘And what are you gonna do?'

‘I'm gonna talk him out of it.' Another of Epstein's little fibs. Postponement is the most he can deliver. ‘I think he'll listen to reason.'

His superior mollified, Epstein takes a look around. The job's gone all out, shutting down Thirty-First Street for two blocks in either direction. People exiting the subway are being escorted to the nearest corner. Pedestrians hoping to enter are being told to hoof it to the next stop. Across the street, Epstein spots Paulie Margarine standing beside a uniformed officer assigned to make sure he doesn't leave. Epstein almost dances across the street, approaching to within a yard.

‘You need to see a doctor?'

Paulie's blue coat is pockmarked with splatter. There are bits of skull and brain tissue in the man's hair. What hair he has left, anyway. To Epstein's mind, Paulie is aging badly. His face is deeply lined and he looks as though he hasn't slept in a week. The muscles of his shoulders and chest sag when he shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

But Paulie's attitude hasn't changed. ‘Fuck you,' he says.

‘Does that mean you're OK?' Epstein retrieves his ID and holds it up for Paulie's inspection. He notes a light of recognition blossom in Paulie's tired eyes when he reads OCCB. He's not dealing with a precinct dick.

‘What do you say,' Epstein asks, ‘we go take a seat and talk for a few minutes?'

The cell phone in Epstein's pocket begins to vibrate before Paulie responds. ‘Think about it while I answer this,' Epstein says before moving off.

‘Epstein here.'

‘It's Flannery. I got what you asked for.'

‘Shoot.'

‘A birthday party at one of those restaurants where they smoke them pipes. I forget what they call 'em – hookers or somethin' like that. Paulie's gonna hit the joint hard. He's usin' out of state shooters. Swear to God, the old prick went on for an hour about the expense.'

‘When, Dave? When is this supposed to happen?'

‘He told me to make sure I had an alibi for eight o'clock tomorrow night.'

‘And where's this going down?'

‘Someplace near Steinway Street. I'm not sure exactly, but I can tell you the restaurant will be closed for a private party.'

Epstein remembers to thank his informant before hanging up, just as if Billy Boyle hadn't spit into Flannery's veal. ‘You did good, Dave. I won't forget.'

Paulie Margarine shifts his weight from one leg to another when Epstein approaches him for the second time. Aware of Paulie's arthritis, Epstein assumes the man's knees are hurting.

‘Well?' Epstein asks.

‘Let's go,' Paulie says.

Epstein leads the gangster to an unmarked car three blocks away. Paulie shuffles along, his shoes scraping the sidewalk, but he doesn't complain. Epstein admires that.

In no hurry, Epstein unlocks the car, then opens a back door. He's curious now. Paulie knows that Epstein, should he be of mind, can lock him inside. Will he enter willingly? That would tell Epstein a good deal about the man's state of mind. But no, Paulie Margarine proves himself in control, despite his recent trauma.

‘After you,' he says.

Epstein slides across the seat. He watches Paulie Margarine lower himself, one piece at a time, then work his legs into the car, watches the man lean back and sigh.

‘So, whatta ya want?'

‘You can tell me what happened, for starters.' Epstein's tone is mild. He's holding a wild card and he knows it.

‘I was talkin' to Bruno and his head blew off. I didn't see nothin'. I'm bein' sincere. I didn't see a fuckin' thing and I didn't hear a fuckin' thing. One minute I'm talkin' to Bruno, the next I'm eatin' his brains.'

‘Any idea where the shot came from?'

‘A rooftop, a window, the el platform, a passing car? I got no idea.'

Epstein nods. ‘But you'd have to agree, this guy's a real pro. I mean, he killed Tony Maguire in front of hundreds of witnesses and walked away. Brunale, he takes out with a sniper's rifle from god-knows-where. Yeah, that's right. What happened to Brunale wasn't caused by any handgun round. This is the kind of bullet that kills elephants.'

Paulie considers this for a moment, then says, ‘So what?'

‘So, do you really think that Rachid Toufiq, or any of this people, could do this?'

‘I don't know what you're talkin' about.'

‘That right?'

‘That's exactly right.'

‘Well, consider this. We know what you plan to do tomorrow night. You hear me? If any of your people stray to within a mile of that restaurant, we'll have your ass in jail before midnight.'

Paulie Margarine can't entirely control his surprise, though he makes a valiant effort by leaning forward to rub his knees.

‘And what good would it do you, Paulie, even if Toufiq and his crew vanished from the face of the Earth? What would you buy except a little time? A very little.' Epstein shakes his head. ‘You gotta start thinking outside the box, Paulie. There's has to be another way. One that works.'