Old Flame (17 page)

CHAPTER

45

T
he real business of Hell’s Kitchen is hatched in its cracks and shadows. But the shadows were beginning to lift.

Swede and his bosses were building a case. Although he didn’t say against whom, he didn’t have to. Toal had filled in that blank. Two seemingly innocuous remarks, weeks apart, yet, when taken together, the sunlight poked through. That was the maddening fact of the Universe. Rarely did anything emerge fully formed. It revealed things in bits and pieces. And you had to pay attention.

I called Kenny and asked him to meet me at Feeney’s. Turned out he was already there.

“Any progress on who owns Été?”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” he said. “Not that it’s very useful. It’s a close corporation, and there’s just one name and address listed.”

“And he is?”

“A very big-time lawyer who wouldn’t talk even if you held a gun to his children’s heads.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Basically, nowhere.”

“I thought you’re an accountant.”

“An accountant, yes. A magician, no. What can I tell you?”

“What would you say if I told you that I’ve succeeded where you’ve failed, Kenny my boy?”

“Really.”

“I think I can identify at least one owner of that star-crossed restaurant.”

Dave walked in and joined us. He had three men with him. One took up a position near the door, the other two sat at the bar.

“But,” I said, “it’s something we’ll have to take up later.”

“Jake. Kenny,” Dave said.

“I heard from Danny Reno last night,” I said.

“He call to thank you for saving his ass?”

“Not quite. Apparently you were right.”

“About what?”

“He had some money put away.”

“What a shock.”

“He’s giving it to Barak. Figures Barak will ease up and let him come back.”

“Sweet Jesus! Barak doesn’t want Reno’s money, he wants his balls on a plate.”

“Danny thinks otherwise. He said he was delivering the certified check last night.”

“Does everyone you know have this need to wind up dead? It’s like a reverse Midas touch.”

“Why do you think that is?” I said.

“Like I said, you’re a changeling. Only thing that explains it. The fairies dropped you off and took my real brother.”

“Have Franny and the kids come back yet?”

“Things are still a little unsettled. Barak got to Liam’s two pals.”

“The guys who were hijacking merchandise for Reno?”

He nodded.

“The fucker sure knows how to carry a grudge. Seems he’s working his way up the food chain.”

“Which explains the three guys you brought with you,” I said.

“You know where I kept his kid? In my house. In Anthony’s room. It’s like a pleasure dome. Has everything a boy could want. Took care of him like he was my own.”

Dave’s failure to appreciate the enormity of what he had done was beginning to get on my nerves.

“Don’t you get it, Dave? You snatched his son! What if the shoe were on the other foot?”

“It would be a come-to-Jesus moment. Literally.”

“And there you have it.”

He grinned.

“Your problem is, you worry too much,” Dave said.

“And your problem is, you’re a thick-headed Mick.”

“The Steeg family curse,” Dave said. “I went looking for Barak. Kind of a preemptive strike. But he vanished. Has one of those houses as big as a cruise ship in Manhattan Beach. It’s empty now. The club in Brighton Beach? They never heard of him. It’s like trying to wrestle with mist. It’s gonna be fun.”

“Fun? Is this a game for you?”

“You really have to lighten up, Jake.”

“Remember what Kenny said about the original golem?”

“No.”

“He was just a pile of mud sleeping on a riverbank, until he was roused. When you kidnapped Barak’s son, you woke him.”

“So?”

“You loosed the killing machine.”

CHAPTER

46

I
t was a long time coming, but I finally figured out what
made my brother tick.

To contextualize and explain who we are, we all — peoples and individuals — concoct our own creation myths. First we try them on to see if they fit, and then we tinker with them until they do. Dave’s myth was that he was Dominic’s son—another way of saying that brutishness begets brutishness, and that total disregard for accepted behavioral norms is a matter of unequal parts of nature and nurture. The truth is that my brother always had a skewed view of his place in the world, and Dominic, while not anyone’s idea of a model dad, was close to, but not quite, the monster of Dave’s imaginings.

Dave’s sheer excitement at going head-to-head with Barak was the tip-off. Fun, Dave called it. And all at once, everything became clear. Dave was an adrenaline junkie between fixes. He needed the rush of neurons firing on overdrive that only a skydive with Barak could provide.

It had been a long time since Dave had really been tested. Organized crime is an oxymoron, populated with imbeciles devoid of artfulness and intelligence.

The kidnapping had put Dave and Barak into free fall. The real test was who would pull the rip cord first.

It was a question I couldn’t answer.

Dave left and took Kenny with him. One more gun to tilt the odds. My brother may have been rocketing toward the ground, but he wasn’t stupid.

I figured I’d pay Terry Sloan a visit.

The Hudson Democratic Club was crowded. Ten card tables were set up around the room, each manned by a guy with a clipboard. Standing around each table were knots of people listening intently to the guys with the clipboards.

Albert Mallus, Terry Sloan’s dark eminence, stood in the center, looking on.

“Hello, Albert.”

“Oh, Jesus! What the hell do you want?”

“What’s going on, having a tag sale on some city assets?”

“Very funny. This is an election year. Gotta get a jump on things. As we speak, precinct captains are organizing the troops.”

“Democracy in action. Does my heart good. Terry around?”

“No.”

“Where is he?”

“Somewhere.”

“Don’t push it, Albert. I’m on a short fuse these days. He goes where you send him.”

He made a face.

“Short fuse! What else is new?” Mallus said. “Terry is meeting with some developers. They’re thinking about building offices and apartments over the Hudson Yards.”

“Didn’t that die when the Jets tried to build a stadium there?”

“That was just a first shot across the bow. Thanks to the foresight of our city leaders, the dream continues. We’re talking decking over the rail yards and putting up parks, and other shit like that.” His lips curled into a shit-eating grin. “You gotta think of the kids, Steeg. They’re our future.”

“Of course, the kids. A noble sentiment. And that means private money,” I said.

“Just greasing the wheels of progress.”

“And Terry is in the thick of things.”

“He’s a man who cares about the future of his constituents. The project means jobs for the neighborhood, so the workingman can hold his head up high. The American Dream.”

“And an inground pool and sauna for Terry’s new digs in the Hamptons.”

“You’re a cynic, Steeg.”

“Sometimes the load gets too heavy to bear. I had lunch at Purslane the other day. Interesting place. Terry said he was going to open a few more.”

“Why not? People got to eat. Even if the food tastes like crap. It’s amazing, isn’t it? The smaller the portions, the more you can charge. And the hotter the place. Go figure.”

“How’s his investment in Été working out?”

A few rapid blinks told me I had hit the mark.

“What are you talking about?” he said.

“What’s there to hide, Albert? No one expects the man to live on his city council paycheck alone.”

“I don’t know anything about that. Look, it’s been swell chatting, but I gotta get back to work.”

“Just one more thing. Why did you have Banas, the waiter at Été, fired? What did he do to piss Terry off?”

“I don’t know what you’re looking for, Steeg, but you’re not going to find it here.”

“I’m almost there, my friend. And when I do find it, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

I almost believed it myself.

CHAPTER

47

A
s I left Mallus, I felt an urgent need for a shower. Hacks like Sloan and their acolytes believe that elected office is simply a socially convenient form of kingship, endowing them with the divine right to feed at the public trough like an all-you-can-eat buffet. But were they any different from my brother and Barak? Those two predators viewed the world as if it were their own private savannah and the rest of us were dinner.

My mood was not improved when I arrived home to find Barak waiting outside. Alone.

“Hello, Mr. Steeg.”

“Where’s Danny?”

“Your Mr. Reno is with us,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“He paid you the money, didn’t he?”

“He did. Two hundred and fifty thousand. Unfortunately, he is a bit short.”

“How short?”

“Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“So, consider it a good-faith down payment. He could have skipped. And then you would have nothing. But he didn’t. Think of it as a third of a loaf. Forget about the vig, and you’ve got your original investment back.”

“Then I would have made no profit. I would be a very poor businessman to accept those terms. Are you willing to be surety for the balance?”

“It’s a little steep, Barak.”

His lips stretched over his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. “Very smart. One who stands surety for another is a fool. And you are not a fool, Mr. Steeg.”

“When are you going to let him come home?”

“All in good time, Mr. Steeg.”

I was tired of sparring with the man. “When is this going to end, Barak?”

“Why don’t you ask your brother?”

“It’s a waste of time. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Our holy books say, ‘In the mouth of the foolish is a rod of pride, but the lips of the wise shall preserve them.’ ”

“What the hell does that mean?”

He laughed. “You are an honest man, Mr. Steeg. What is on your mind is on your lips. A rarity in my business.”

“Here’s another dose of honesty. You and my brother make me sick. You’re both killers pretending to be human beings. All you’re really interested in is who has the biggest dick. And what really gets to me is that you don’t give a shit that when the elephants dance, whoever’s in the way gets his ticket punched.”

Barak put his hands together and soundlessly clapped. “Bravo, Mr. Steeg! You have found us out. And now, what do you do with this great insight?”

“I love my brother, as much as your child loves you. He’s all the family I have, and I don’t want to lose him. I’ll talk to him, convince him to walk away.”

“I’m afraid your words will fall on deaf ears.”

“How about you, Barak?”

“Remember what I said, Mr. Steeg, and take heed. The elephants are preparing to dance.”

CHAPTER

48

I
went up to my apartment to lie down. My chest was burning from the bullshit. Barak quotes scripture, but God’s mercy isn’t part of his makeup. Dave wears the guise of a family man and thinks nothing of kidnapping a child. Terry is supposed to be a public servant, but he forgot about the
servant
part. Then there was Ginny, my biggest disappointment. And all of it was somehow linked.

I was close; so close that I had become a target. For all of Barak’s profession of love and respect, the guy was a psychopath. He had his son back — and he had Danny Reno — but he wasn’t quite done yet. Wasn’t quite ready to ride off into the sunset. In his fucked-up mind, Dave and I were linked. If Dave went, I was a loose end who would have to go too. And then there was my old drinking buddy, Toal. Whose sun was I flying too close to?

The prospect of no good outcomes ignited an urgent dryness in the back of my throat, putting the nasty critters that live in my head in a black mood. The snakes were hot to trot, and I was along for the ride.

I count myself among those drunks who, even though sober for years, keep a bottle of their favorite stuff handy. It’s kind of a final exam for those moments when you’re out of good reasons to keep hanging on to the planet by your fingernails. A moment when you simply say “Fuck it!” It’s a test I’ve failed three or four times in the few years I’ve been clear-eyed.

I went into my bedroom, opened the drawer of my night table, pulled out a bottle of Aberlour, and the Glock lying beside it. The Glock, like the Aberlour, was a daily test of my resolve, as well as a Steeg family tradition. Aberlour single malt Scotch whiskey was my father’s beverage of choice and his last drink before he jammed his service revolver in his mouth and pasted his brains against the wall. A final toast to a squandered life.

I lifted the bottle and turned it in my hand, teasing the cap with my fingers, hypnotized by how the dusky light turned the dark amber liquid to soft gold. My mouth had turned to sand. I eased the cap off, closed my eyes, and the aroma of peat mixed with honey and oaken sherry and damp grass made me dizzy.

I stumbled to the bed and sat staring at the bottle, imagining the punch of molten sweetness slamming into the back of my throat and the numbing darkness it brought in its wake. My hands trembled with anticipation.

My gaze fell on the Glock. I picked it up. The Aberlour in my left hand, and the Glock in my right.

Options.

The lady, or the tiger? A sucker’s choice.

A loser’s choice.

I closed the cap tight, put the Glock back in the night table, and stretched out on the bed. Still nestling the bottle against my chest, I dropped into a fitful sleep and dreamed jumbled, quick-cut, dry-drunk dreams roiling with sinners, their black eyes burning with a mad fire, elbowing their way onto center stage, eager for their star turn.

Later — minutes, hours? I had no idea—I awoke to the sound of tumblers snapping. Suddenly, my apartment door opened. A small shaft of light knifed into the living room. And just as quickly disappeared. Then, the sound of footsteps —soft, puffy, magnified by the silence —on the wooden floor.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I eased the Glock from its drawer and waited. Heart beating like a Gene Krupa drum riff.

The footsteps stopped. The outline of a man filled the bedroom doorway. Something in his hand glinted in the dim light filtering up from the street.

I aimed the Glock at his midsection.

He took a shooter’s stance.

My finger closed on the trigger, releasing and closing until the clip emptied.

Like a scrap of paper caught on a rising wind, he blew backward into my living room.

I flipped on the light and walked over to him. He was on his back. His chest shredded. His left leg splayed in an impossible position. The throwaway gun still clenched in his fist.

I knelt down and pressed my index finger to his carotid artery.

No pulse.

I didn’t expect any.

The final piece had fallen into place.