Old Flame (13 page)

CHAPTER

32

T
he next morning Dave stopped by. I told him Danny Reno had dropped in to say hello. He nearly went nuts.

“Your fucking buddy Reno is wearing me out,” he said.

“Jesus taught us to care for the least among us.”

“And look what it got Him. Reno is a fucking moron who, if he keeps this shit up, may not be among us much longer. And you’re no better. I can’t believe you gave him money.”

“He’s tapped. What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t believe that for a minute.”

“You had to see him. He looks like a bag lady.”

“Really! Remember Joey the Bum? Had this palsy thing going on? Used to panhandle on Broadway?”

“Sure. I used to slip him a few dollars now and then.”

“Very generous. I’m sure he has a plaque in the lobby of one of the several buildings he owns dedicated to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was clearing maybe three, four hundred a day. Cash. Take-home. No taxes. On matinee days he would do even better.”

“How do you know?”

“I put Joey’s money on the street. He made another four hundred in vig alone. Hand to God. When the palsy routine got old, he switched the act to a Vietnam veteran with AIDS. Used to sit in front of the theaters with a handwritten sign. He’d be there when they came in, when they broke after the first act, and when the show was over. Worked maybe three hours a day. Now he’s retired to a condo in Boca. And you gave him money. Jesus Christ! You’ve got to be a changeling.”

“That’s what Pop always thought.”

His face went dark.

“Fuck Dominic,” Dave said. “If it wasn’t for Norah, I would have killed him and taken pleasure in it.”

“Just about every time we talk, the conversation somehow veers around to Dominic. He was a prick. He’s dead. End of story. You’ve got to let it go.”

“When they plant me in the ground.”

“Let’s get back to Joey the Bum. What’s his connection to Danny?”

“They made their living the same way. Joey took care of business. So did Reno. He has money socked away. Count on it.”

It was time to change the subject. “When are you meeting with Barak?”

“I have a call in to him. It’ll be soon, though. So listen, I’m here for a reason.”

“Besides making me feel stupid?”

“Dinner the other night didn’t work out so well, and I want to make up for it by taking you to lunch. For a change, let’s do something other than Feeney’s. I love Nick, but enough’s enough.”

“I don’t have anything going.”

“Good. There’s a new restaurant in Chelsea, Purslane, just opened.”

“Now they’re naming restaurants after weeds? Perfect.”

“Who gives a shit? The food is supposed to be good. If that doesn’t make you happy, I got another piece of bad news for you. Terry Sloan is joining us. He’s building a house in the Hamptons and wants to show me the plans.”

“The Hamptons? Did the city council vote itself a pay raise?”

“Terry always has an eye on opportunities.”

“I’ll take a rain check,” I said.

“No, you won’t. I know you don’t like him, probably with good reason. But, like you, he’s a fact of life, and I’ve gotta deal with him. The way I see it, if I gotta put up with Reno, you can put up with Sloan for a couple of hours. It’s like you said about Dominic. Put it behind you, and move on.”

Hard to argue with.

Purslane confirmed my worst suspicions. The restaurant was a celebration of weeds. They decorated the plates, appeared in watercolors on the walls, illuminated the margins of the menus, and served as the motif for the silverware. The menu offerings weren’t much more promising. Everything was organic or artisanal, wildly overpriced, and as appetizing as hay. Couple that with Terry Sloan, sitting across from me and crowing about his new 15,000-square-foot house on the bay when he deserved to be in prison.

“So,” Terry said, “they tell me it should be ready around the first of July, and it better be. I got this Fourth of July party planned. There’s gonna be fireworks and an old-fashioned clambake. You know, the works. The invitations go out in a couple of weeks. Franny and the kids would love it.”

I guess I didn’t make the guest list. More’s the pity.

“Just like the kind of party your constituents have on the Fourth,” I said, “except for the clams and lobsters and mojitos part.”

Dave threw me a look, but Terry continued, undaunted. “Hey, it’s the country’s birthday,” he said.

Subtlety is one of the things that distinguishes humans from all other members of the animal kingdom. Terry failed to make the cut. “There’s that,” I agreed.

“Sounds great, Terry,” Dave said. “If we can make it, we will.”

“Terrific! Love to have you. You’re invited too, Steeg.”

Not only was Terry incapable of reading the shadings of language, he was a bust at reading Dave. My brother would rather have wild dogs play tug-of-war with his intestines than schlep out to the Hamptons on a holiday weekend. Dave’s idea of a party was grilling some steaks for the family.

“Thanks, but I have a high colonic scheduled,” I said.

Dave threw me another look, more menacing than the last.

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” Terry said. “So, what do you think of the restaurant?”

“Nice place,” Dave said.

I kept my mouth shut.

“Yeah,” Terry said, “I’ve got a piece of it. A new business I’m into. We plan to open a bunch more.”

That explained the Hamptons manse. “Really?” I said.

“Sure. The handwriting’s on the wall. Healthy living is the future. No more smoking. No more trans fats. No more shit to clog up your arteries, no more—”

“Taste,” I said.

“We get the point, Jake,” Dave said. “Let’s move on. OK?”

The waitress appeared, and Dave and Terry ordered drinks. I stuck with club soda with a lemon slice floating on top.

“I hear you had a thing with Pete Toal,” Terry said.

“That’s putting a fine point on it. I clocked him.”

“Why?”

“He played me. Wasn’t straight.”

“What the hell does that mean?” he asked.

“I’d rather not go into it.”

“You can’t go around punching people in the mouth, Steeg,” he said.

“Of course I can.”

Terry turned to Dave. “You’ve gotta talk to him,” he said.

“You’re asking the wrong person,” Dave said.

“Why do you care, Terry?” I said.

“You’re pissing some people off.”

Now we were getting to the heart of things. “You have my full attention. Who?”

“All I’m going to say is that Pete has some friends who don’t like to see him smacked around.”

“It’s good to have faithful friends. But the thing I’m trying to figure out is whether it’s the smacking around or something else that’s bothering his pals. In other words, whose ox is being gored?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh,” I said, “I think you do. With someone like Toal, there’s always money involved. He could be hit by a bus and his
friends
wouldn’t bother to send flowers. But screwing with the money flow might cause their concern.”

“You’re very distrustful, you know that, Jake?”

“It’s the key to my longevity.”

“Not if you keep going the way you’re—”

Dave drove his salad fork into Terry’s thigh.

“What the
fuck
!” Terry screamed.

Dave put his finger to Terry’s lips. “Shhh! Don’t make a scene.”

A bunch of heads turned, and a waiter hurried over. Terry waved him off. The waiter glanced down, saw what was sticking out of Terry’s thigh, and nearly puked.

With his hand still gripping the fork, Dave turned his attention to Terry. In a voice barely above a whisper he said, “You don’t ever threaten my brother.”

The color drained from Terry’s face. “I . . . didn’t . . . mean . . .” he gasped.

Dave dug the fork in deeper. “I don’t give a shit. That’s just the way it is. OK?”

Terry gagged, and nodded.

Dave yanked out the fork and dropped it on Terry’s plate. Then he picked up the menu, looked at it briefly, and set it down.

“I think I’ll have the trout. How about you, Jake?”

If anything, Dave was consistent. Blood was blood.

Terry didn’t linger at the table — mumbled something about Bellevue’s emergency room— and I had lost my appetite. But Dave didn’t want to dine alone, so I stayed.

“You crossed the line with Terry,” I said.

He laughed. “Whose line?”

“Mine,” I said.

He wasn’t laughing anymore. “He should have known better.”

“I keep telling you, I’m tired of playing kid brother. I can take care of myself.”

“The trout is good. Have some.”

I’ve never figured out what makes Dave tick. Loving father and husband. Devoted brother. Stone killer. Capable of extraordinary acts of kindness, and mind-numbing cruelty. Dave was born with a port-wine stain on his cheek that caused him no end of grief. When he was with the Westies, a notorious West Side gang of Irish psycho murderers, one of the doped-up donkeys, a guy named Brian Grace, took special delight in fucking with Dave over the port-wine stain. Mickey Feather-stone, the ringleader of the lunatic crew, ordered Dave to let it ride. And he did, for a very short while. One Christmas Eve, Grace was drinking at Feeney’s. Dave showed up with an acetylene torch. Nick held Grace down while Dave went to work on his face. Afterwards, Grace was a chastened man, and Dave went home and set the presents under the tree.

The closest I’ve come to explaining my brother is that he’s either a master compartmentalizer or a total fucking lunatic. How else to account for the bizarre dichotomy that gums up his moral compass? With Dave, true north is a shifting target.

It was something we never talked about, but the Terry Sloan incident, coupled with the kidnapping of Barak’s son, gave me the feeling that Dave was about to crater.

“Couldn’t you have made your point another way?”

“We’re back on that? No. See, that’s the only thing guys like Terry understand.”

“What do you mean?”

“The day before their first Election Day, they’re average schmucks. The day after, they’re suddenly important, and everybody kisses their ass like it’s the pope’s ring. Why? Because they have something they never had before. Power. And they think they’re invincible. And then they meet someone like me — or Barak — and get a glimpse of the real thing. The few smart ones understand reality right from the get-go. But guys like Terry require the occasional object lesson.”

“So this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing,” I said.

“It never is.” He smiled and held out a forkful of trout. “You gotta try this. It really is good.”

“But that doesn’t make it right.”

He put the fork down on his plate. “Do you remember Angelo Carpozzi?” he said.

“He was a cop.”

“Right. A big ape of a guy. When I was younger, whenever he would run into me — at a restaurant, out on the street, wherever — he would take me into an alley, rip a button off his uniform, and play a riff on my skull with his nightstick. If I fought back or lodged a complaint — which I would never do — he could say I attacked him. Remember the ripped-off button? I don’t know how many times the guinea bastard kicked the shit out of me.”

“He was a bad cop and didn’t deserve to wear the badge,” I said.

“Or maybe he was just doing his job cleaning up the neighborhood.”

“That’s nuts.”

“No, it’s power. And sometimes you’ve got to break the rules for the greater good.”

“What’s the greater good in stabbing Terry?”

“He knows I’m not to be fucked with.”

“You don’t see the distinction, do you?” I said.

“What’s the greater good with guys who never served in the military wrapping themselves in the flag and sending kids Anthony’s age off to bring democracy to fucks who would rather kill each other? And when our guys come back with body parts missing, the same guys who sent them treat them like shit on the bottom of their shoes. Explain the morality of hiring a CEO and paying him millions a year, and then the geniuses who hired him throw even more money at him when they figure out he’s a yutz and can his ass? Do you want me to go on?”

“I get the point.”

“And it’s about fucking time. Look, I understand where you’re coming from, Jake. But understand me. All I give a fuck about is the well-being of my family. Everything else is nothing.” He planted his arms on the table and leaned forward. “So, where does that leave us?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then you better figure it out.”

I wasn’t sure that I could.

CHAPTER

33

D
ave offered me a lift. I needed to walk.

It was an unusually balmy day, and the streets were clogged. After a few blocks, I stopped to check my messages. There was one. Stuart’s accountants had come through. I headed over to Été.

Stuart was one of those people who look overwhelmed even when they are sleeping. Short, abrupt movements. Hurried speech. Mind always somewhere else.

“Good to see you again,” I said. “What do you have for me?”

He handed me a thick manila envelope. “All the charge receipts and cash transactions for that evening. The originals. I would have made copies, but I just didn’t have the time.”

I slipped the envelope under my arm. “Can I take them with me?”

He shook his head. “Uh-uh. But you can use my new office. Actually, it’s Noonan’s old office. I’ve got his job now. Probationary. Seems like they’re trying me out.”

“Good for you, Stuart.”

He blushed. “It wasn’t the way I wanted to get it, but . . .”

“You’ll take it.”

“I guess. Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”

I followed him through the dining room and into the back. We stopped at what looked like a broom closet with a desk jammed into it.

“Everything you need is right here,” he said. “If you need to make copies, the machine is in the corner. I’ve got to get back. There’s so much to do. One thing after another. I’ll be out front if you need me.”

“Appreciate it, Stuart.”

I opened the envelope and spread its contents on the desk. The accountants had made my job easy. There were two packets secured by rubber bands. One contained charge receipts. The other, much smaller packet contained cash receipts. Included also was a spreadsheet listing each transaction, cash or charge, by time and amount. Operating on the “trust no one” theory, I added the charge receipts and checked the total against the spreadsheet. It tallied. Not surprising. It’s nearly impossible to fudge charges. Then I went back through the charge receipts and looked for Ferris’s name.

No dice.

That meant he either paid cash or someone else paid the bill. I rechecked the charge receipts, searching for any familiar name, and came up with nothing. I guess I didn’t travel in those rarefied circles.

Next, I turned my attention to the cash receipts. They came to eight thousand dollars. The spreadsheet showed six. Someone had his hand in the till. The IRS gets the spreadsheet, and the receipts get lost. Not surprising, but it still didn’t answer the question of whether Ferris was at the restaurant the night he was murdered.

And then it hit me, something Toal had said about the ME’s report. I went looking for Stuart.

I found him at the reservations desk and handed him the receipts.

“Find what you were looking for?” he asked.

Raising the possibility of skimming with Stuart wasn’t a good idea. For all I knew, he could be the skimmer, but I doubted it. But my guts insisted that skimming was a piece of the puzzle, and I knew just the guy who could help me get to the bottom of it.

“I think so.”

“Glad to help,” he said. “By the way, if you’re in the neighborhood some evening, I’d love for you to be my guest for dinner.”

“I might just do that. Thanks.”

He handed me a menu. On the way out I looked at it.

And I had the answer.