Martin rolled his head around and locked eyes with the host. “I’m a cop.”
8.
A MINUTE PASSED before the doctor knocked and entered with an outstretched hand. He was a tall, lean man with hound skin, long earlobes, dark hair on his fingers, and moist lips. Cautious of germs, Sonny declined to shake, pointing to his own palms as though they were sore or blistered.
The doctor said he was glad to see Sonny and buried his nose in the file. He flipped through five pages of notes, pausing after the first and third sheets to lick his fingers. “My nurse wrote you’re feeling a little blue.”
“That was a lie.”
“Okay,” he said, looking up. “What’s the real reason for today’s visit?”
Sonny had given serious thought to initiating the discussion. At stake was lining up his biggest score of the last decade. “I think,” he said, careful to stutter, “that I’m broken.”
“Excuse me?”
Sonny pulled himself to the front of his chair and cleared his throat. “The bedroom was an issue this morning.”
“What?”
“The bedroom.”
“No—I heard what you said. I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Come on, Doc,” Sonny said. “I saw the demographics of your waiting room and all the Buicks in the lot. I’m talking my libido.”
“Hmmm, yes, I see now,” said the doctor as though he’d nailed a six-letter stumper in that morning’s crossword puzzle. “Sexually perform.” The doctor ran a hairy knuckle across his forehead. “You’re saying you couldn’t achieve a full erection?”
“Bingo.”
“Maybe it was a matter of attraction? Or mood?”
“I’m dating a thirty-five-year-old Russian model.”
The doctor’s nod showed he understood. The pursed lips covered the envy. His wife worked the Florida gala scene in size twenty-two dresses and blocky shoes that resembled Dutch clogs. “Has this ever happened before?”
“Never, Doc.”
“Never?”
“This morning and that’s it.”
The doctor’s face was both sincere and doubtful, a look he’d worked on since medical school. “A man your age, a pattern of dysfunction is nothing to be ashamed of.”
Even roleplaying, Sonny bristled being compared to his age group. “I’m telling you, it’s never been an issue. Divorced three times and all of them would take the stand.”
“How many times a month do you and your girlfriend have sex? More than five?”
“Double.” Sonny wanted to shock the doctor off his standard procedure.
A dozen questions rushed into the doctor’s brain, none appropriate for a medical consultation. “It’s probably just a one-time event. An anomaly due to stress or an upset stomach. For now, I’d recommend a wait-and-see approach. Let’s give this situation some air and distance, see if it develops into a pattern.”
“I know you’re a busy guy, but indulge me a second.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s assume this happens again and I insist on medical intervention. What are my options now and, say, a year from now?”
The doctor slid Sonny’s file beneath his arm. “If the dysfunction becomes a reoccurring theme, you’ll undergo a thorough medical exam, which includes blood work and a good look at your prostate. If all that comes back clean, we’d prescribe a medicine that’s injected into your penis.”
Sonny figured the doctor was used to a certain reaction. He frowned, dropped his chin, and stared at the floor. At the end of a twenty-second pause, he looked up. “You’d put a needle in it?”
“Actually, you’d give yourself the shot. Prior to engaging in intercourse, the syringe goes into the shaft and the medication is injected.” The doctor’s voice softened. “Look, while not ideal, it’s the same method we use with paraplegics, so it works. And it’s safe. I’ve heard from my older patients that when it comes to the syringe, the thought of the needle is far worse than reality.”
Sonny was ready to push. “Jesus, Doctor. That’s the best you have—a needle?”
Medical school trained the doctor to break patients down with reality and build them back up with hope. “Don’t be too pessimistic. There’s a development on the horizon, could be a game changer.”
The Promised Land, thought Sonny. A little more leading the witness and he’d have the critical date. “What are we talking about here? Surgery or something? A lotion? A pill?”
“Yes, a pill.”
“That’s terrific.”
The doctor removed his reading glasses and placed a hand on the doorknob, his go-to moves for letting a patient know an appointment was fading to black. “Problem is, the FDA hasn’t given its approval. For now, the syringe is pretty much our only avenue.”
“What’s the time frame?”
The doctor frowned. “You fought a war for the government. It could be a month or a year, or they could reject the entire application and send the pharmaceutical company back to the drawing board.”
“That’s the official line, the story they feed the masses so the stock market doesn’t get rattled.”
“I’m not following, Mr. Bonhardt.”
Sonny rose to his feet. “This FDA business is old news for anyone reading The Wall Street Journal. There’s a pretty little pharmaceutical rep coming in here once a week with free lunch. I want her sales pitch on this miracle drug. Tell me what she’s whispering in your ear.”
The doctor turned the knob. “I understand the pressure you’re under—”
“Damn it, don’t do that.”
The doctor dropped his voice and raised his eyebrows. “When you lose that part of your identity, that part of your manhood, it’s a blow. And then you come here and I start talking about needles and prostate exams and it sends you swimming. That’s hard. I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but I’ve seen it a thousand times.”
“Focus on what I’m saying, okay? Once the drug company receives approval, how long until the drug is publicly available?”
The doctor eased up on the door handle. “In my experience, it’s dangerous to chart medical treatment based on a drug still in the approval process.”
“Oh hell, Doc, open your hand and let that bird fly, okay? I’m looking for a time frame, that’s all. No promises or hard dates. Give me a range and we’ll go our separate ways, I promise.”
The pharmaceutical rep had warned the doctor about rising hysteria. He’d scoffed at her—chalking it up to typical sales talk—but maybe she was right. Perhaps Sonny Bonhardt was a foreshadowing of things to come. “The pill,” he said, taking another step down his vocal range, “is indeed a miracle drug. They’re calling it Viagra, and there’s tremendous pressure to get it into the marketplace. I’ve been told there are facilities and warehouses geared up for immediate manufacturing once the government gives a thumbs-up. Florida is the highest priority. You’re talking millions.”
“What, millions of dollars?” Sonny already knew the size of Viagra’s market but liked hearing the numbers.
“Yes, I suppose, though I meant people,” said the doctor. “My Pfizer rep says I’ll be writing prescriptions six to eight weeks after the announcement.”
“You’re saying six to eight weeks after approval and the pharmacies will have the drug?”
“Yes, Mr. Bonhardt, but I can’t overemphasize the need to relax. Your problem won’t get any better worrying about when the FDA is approving an application. If anything, stress will compound the problem.”
“Okay,” he said. “No stress. I got it. Hearing about this Viagra puts my mind at ease.”
In the parking lot, Sonny called his girlfriend before she could split for work. When her voice mail answered, he said, “Hey baby, sorry for running out. It wasn’t you, okay? I’m heading for Philly and will make it up when I get back. Let’s sail down to the islands. See you, babe.”
Blessed with the discipline to compartmentalize events, Sonny Bonhardt set aside the Viagra heis
t for his next pressing piece of business. In two hours, he was catching a flight to Philadelphia to meet the head of the Polish Mafia. Sonny owed the man two good ideas.
9.
WHENEVER HE HAD THE TIME, Tyler Lehr recalled each detail of the crimes he’d witnessed. The memories were organized into sensory checklists that rolled forward in one-minute increments, what did he see, hear, smell, and so on, until all the observational data had been evoked and refreshed. The process was his morning and evening prayer, a habitual recitation in anticipation of one day becoming the U.S. government’s primary witness against the Philadelphia mob.
To accent his factual framework, Lehr dripped bits of color into the black-and-white summations. Juries were persuaded by the most eccentric crumbs. He knew which victim shit his pants before dying, or begged for his mommy, or wept tears until his ducts were dry. And he knew, sure as he sat tied to a chair, that his own death would produce a similarly distinctive note, one that Anton Bielakowski would never forget.
Staring at the ceiling, images of his son pulsating in his brain, he wondered if his next three words would be that magic moment. Lehr rolled his head forward and, flat as a funeral song, said, “I’m a cop.”
The old man didn’t stir. Lehr hoped the stillness meant Bielakowski was at least considering a different path. “This can work. Let me explain.”
“What is your birth name?”
“Lehr,” he said. “Tyler Luke Lehr. Nick Martin is my cover.”
Bielakowski repeated the new name. “An Irishman. I don’t see it.”
“Black Irish.”
The old man blinked long enough to suggest he wasn’t outright rejecting the explanation. “For the moment, let’s stick with your cover name. Tell me about your family, Mr. Martin, your real family.”
Nick Martin recalled a ten-year-old bureau briefing on Bielakowski and the Polish Mafia: Anton Bielakowski excels in all elements of organized crime and—despite his age—should be considered extremely dangerous. In the 1940s and ’50s, he made a name kidnapping prominent businessmen in Philadelphia, Trenton, Harrisburg, and Delaware. Rising in stature, he expanded into racketeering and—with an unknown accomplice—developed abilities for laundering large sums of cash. He is suspected of laundering for criminal organizations as far north as Providence and is believed to maintain a network of banking connections throughout the United States, Eastern Europe, Switzerland, and the Caribbean. He survives because he makes few, if any, mistakes, and when he does make one, he handles the situation with brutal efficiency. Continually underestimated by younger adversaries, Bielakowski has fought off every challenge to his position. He has been linked to killings—both ordered and personally performed—in each of the last six decades but has never been indicted. Measured, disciplined, and consistent, he is respected within the criminal underworld for implementing his determinations with conviction and little, if any, collateral runoff. Bielakowski’s use of violence is pragmatic rather than psychologically or emotionally driven, which makes his aggression all the more perilous. His criminal family has never been infiltrated because of its symbiotic relationship with the neighborhood of Port Richmond and the attending cultural and language barriers. As such, determining his exact number of associates is difficult because he draws upon the resources of the neighborhood—both in material and manpower—during times of need. They protect each other.
Despite the consequences of revealing his own background, Martin didn’t have a choice. He’d invested too much to die in a Port Richmond hothouse. “The program,” he said, speaking thoughts he’d only ever imagined, “didn’t allow for married guys. I’ve got a twelve-year-old boy in Atlantic City. Different last name than me. I see him a couple times a year and I’m no longer involved with his mother. That’s it. My parents are dead, and I’m an only child. High school in Central Jersey, a couple years in the Marine Corps, and four years of college in Maryland.”
“Are you FBI or with the city?” Bielakowski was constructing a foundation of facts instead of relying on the spin of a trained liar.
“Federal,” said Martin. “Deeper than anyone has ever gone. I’ve been on the streets since coming out of the Academy in 1988.”
“Am I the focus of your efforts?”
“No.”
Bielakowski waited for a tell—a twitch of the right muscle in the wrong way. He saw nothing. “Do you have any co-workers infiltrating my operations?”
The question was a riptide. Outing another agent was the ultimate betrayal. “I guess we’re done with the foreplay.”
“It’s nut-cutting time.”
“The answer, to the best of my knowledge, is no. But I can’t make any guarantees. As far as I know—”
“Stop. I don’t accept qualified answers.”
“That’s the thing. When they dropped me in, all ties were severed. No computer, no office softball team, and no access to other operations either within or outside the FBI. I get nothing but two sit-downs a year. I barely exist except for my Social Security number in somebody’s office vault. The U.S. Attorney doesn’t even know about me.”
Bielakowski tilted his head, studying his captive from a fresh angle. “Do you think I need your help?”
“If I say no, I’m negotiating against myself. And a yes has its own implications.”
“My reality isn’t going to be tainted by what you say,” said Bielakowski. “All of my adversaries have had their share of cheerleaders. None ever imagined defeat.”
“Maybe Rea is different.”
“They were all different. And when I finished, they were all the same.”
Martin sensed a crease, an opportunity to drive in an anchor point. “But you’ve never had the Italians pressing your borders. They have more men and resources than you’ve handled before. That’s a fact. I’ve spent years with them, working to gain entrance and now from the inside. My whole life has been memorizing the details—all the mistakes, all the weaknesses, all the little parts of the puzzle.”
A pigeon flew in a nearby window as though it wanted to hear Bielakowski’s response. When the old man told Martin to continue, the pigeon made a half-circle and exited at the far end.
“Rea’s ambitious,” said Martin, careful to tap down his mob-influenced pronunciations. He wanted to appear neutral, showing that the affect was part of an easily discarded costume. “He’s off-the-charts motivated to be the next big thing. For brains, he’s smart enough. We’re not talking Ivy League candlepower, but he’s not falling down any uncapped wells.”
“What about his relationship with the motorcycle gang?”
Martin knew it was more than a throwaway question, more than a casual inquiry to verify his access and authenticity. Many of the old-schoolers were intrigued by Rea’s relationship with the War Boys. Some thought it was the deciding factor in his victory over Anticcio. The bikers weren’t a recent creation—they’d been around in one form or another for forty years—but their affiliation with the Italian mob, and specifically Rea, was a newer development.
“The War Boys are a wild card,” said Martin. “Rea was the first to see their potential, especially with the meth.”
“We don’t deal drugs. There was a time the Italians didn’t either.”
“Tom Monte was more into cocaine than anyone realized,” said Martin, finding a rhythm. “And Rea has made no bones about dope. It’s too much of a moneymaker. He figures gambling is on the decline because it’s going online and offshore. Even prostitutes are switching to the Internet. But drugs are a street business, and meth is the best.”
Over the last year, Bielakowski had grown increasingly troubled by the bikers. Gun for gun, Anticcio should have never lost to the likes of Rea. That he did meant the War Boys were a factor. “Explain why he wants the meth.”
Martin could talk for twenty hours on Rea’s businesses, and maybe someday would get the chance from the witness stand. Until then, he’d leverage the information for his life. “It’s not that the drug itself is better
or the demand stronger. The power of meth is that it can be sourced locally. Cocaine comes from South America and the Colombians. Heroin and hash come from Turkey and Afghanistan. Even most weed comes in across the Mexican or Canadian borders. Meth can be made anywhere. As long as you have enough raw materials—off-the-shelf cold medicine is a key ingredient—it’s easy. The War Boys figured this out before anyone else. Their problem is they’re organizationally crude with limited distribution. That’s where Rea comes in. Together they can source, manufacture, distribute, and defend the trade. They haven’t perfected the relationship, but they’re pretty damn cozy.”
In return for the briefing, Martin received a subtle nod, which he took as a win. Survival wouldn’t be delivered by the cavalry charging through the door or a SWAT team in the window. Microevents—as delicate as a wink or breath—dictated his future. Martin steadied his thoughts and reminded himself to be patient.
After a few moments, Bielakowski said, “Go on.”
“His men like him enough that nobody’s shooting him in the back. Rea promotes all the old-fashioned greaseball shit. His crew is half-convinced Hollywood will be making movies about them someday.”
Bielakowski understood the power of historical glory. Rea was inspiring his soldiers to achieve the inflated greatness of previous generations. “Young men want the lives of their grandfathers. And the old men would gladly switch places.”
“There’s more—”
Bielakowski didn’t give him the chance. “Did you ever meet Monte?”
“Saw him a couple times. We shook hands once, never talked business. He was a suspicious guy. That’s the reason for my program. It takes time.”
The old man looked toward the windows and around the room before returning his captive’s gaze. Nodding ever so slightly, he said, “In ten years, you never got more than a handshake from Tom Monte. And here comes Rea—on top a few months—and he’s got you running jobs. A cop out on collections. That would have never happened with Monte. Had you gotten closer, he’d have sniffed you out and put you down. Rea lacks those instincts.”
The Friendship of Criminals Page 5