“Me paying should be enough.” Sonny was neither thrilled nor surprised with the demand. He’d have preferred to pay on the spot, but his Bielakowski money hadn’t yet cleared.
“My dad had another favorite poem. It’s one line. A cat like you’ll dig it.”
“Do tell.”
“Paying ain’t paid,” said Cassir, bringing the shotgun back onto the table. “If you had the money on board, okay, we’re not having this debate. But that’s not your proposal. You want amnesty and time. Hell, you’re lucky we’re having this chat. If Michael didn’t have you on the line when I saw him at the club, he’d be renting a locker from the coroner.”
“Three days,” said Sonny, rising from the table. The liquor was in full effect, making him question why he poured and drank with such gusto. Seeing his forty-year old son sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, concluded the mystery.
“Three days.” Cassir slid off the cushioned bench, straightened his ponytail, and moved past Sonny toward the cabin exit. Two steps into the fresh air, he reconsidered and stuck his head back inside. “Michael, no hard feelings. Like your old man says, just business.”
Michael picked his head up, looking for whoever called his name. A greenhorn cop peeking into his pupils could’ve spotted the backslide into another drug stupor. “Yeah, man, totally,” he said, smiling and nodding as though nothing was lost on him. “We’re good. All good, bro.”
19.
THREE HOURS SLEEPING on the boat wasn’t enough for Sonny’s system to flush out all the booze and grief.
He awoke at sunrise, still in his clothes, with his head in a hangover flight pattern. Marina personnel were already washing the adjacent sailboat, bitching about their boss and debating why women picked assholes over nice guys. The squeaky-voiced worker with the bucket and brush admitted he’d chase hot ass too if he was born good-looking instead of smart. His partner, the one with the spray hose and fat ankles, said he didn’t think he was all that bright and proved it by squirting him in the crotch.
The previous night had ended with a disappointing sequence. After Cassir’s departure, Sonny poured a nightcap and took a seat next to his son. He wanted an honest exchange, maybe a connection if Michael sobered up enough to recognize what they’d achieved. All he got was tasteless whisky and a rant about the federal government controlling the cocaine trade. Tossing a pillow and blanket in his son’s direction, Sonny tried recalling if he’d ever known anyone so casual about dying. He fell asleep without a close second.
Next morning, during the thirty-minute ride to Michael’s house, both stayed inside their own heads until passing a McDonald’s. Michael gave a whoa and asked about McMuffins and coffee. Sonny lied, saying he didn’t have any cash. When Michael didn’t make a move to check his own wallet, that, as they say, was that.
Turning into Michael’s neighborhood, Sonny said he’d call when the money was ready. He made clear Michael was handling the delivery because he’d had enough of the shotgun-in-the-face routine. Michael shrugged, saying he assumed that was the case. In the driveway, engine running, Sonny said, “I should come in, say hello to Holly and Mickey.”
As though he hadn’t heard, Michael stepped out and picked up the morning paper a few feet down the drive. Returning to the open door, sweat already darkening his hairline, he said, “Not home.”
Could have been a dozen reasons why Sonny’s daughter-in-law and grandson weren’t home. Little Mickey had baseball practice, or they were spending the day at the beach, or mommy and son were at a classmate’s birthday party. But Sonny knew none of those was the answer. “Ah shit, Michael.”
“Gone a week. She packed up while I was at work. Took all the couches and beds, left the cat and a note saying they were moving to Pittsburgh. She has a sister up there that hates me. Won’t answer when I call.”
Sonny tapped the steering wheel and nodded, taking his time with the update. Truth was, he liked Holly and loved the boy and had no doubt they were better off. Hell, a homeless shelter and food stamps was a better life than hanging their hopes on his son. He also knew Michael was waiting for him to say Holly had no right taking Mickey and he should get a lawyer. All his deadbeat friends were surely chirping that load, blaming the victims for breaking free. But Sonny didn’t believe it for a second and wasn’t going to encourage the fantasy. Michael was an arsonist when it came to burning bridges, so tough shit for being on the wrong side of the river.
“Get your life together.”
“I’m trying.”
Sonny dipped his head, his voice following the lead. “For an addict, there’s no room for try. That’s a tax on all the people around you. Me, your wife, that sweet kid of yours. Not doing is better than trying. At least we’ll have our expectations set. Holly and Mickey can make a life in Pittsburgh. I can stop guilting myself into a heart attack. If you want the drugs, if that’s your heaven, go curl up in some juice house and melt your brain.”
Michael wiped a forehead of moisture into his hair. “I’m checking into a facility. As soon as this Cassir thing is off my back, I’m getting clean. This is rock bottom. I’m there, Dad. Honest to Christ. I can’t run anymore. I can’t come home to an empty house. You get me the money, I’ll drop it off and head straight for ninety days and sober living. You won’t hear from me for a bit, until I get out and back on my feet.”
Sonny reached for his son’s hand. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or hangover or getting tapped for two hundred grand, but the emotion welled up. “I love you, kid … you know that, probably more than anything I’ve ever loved in my life. Me and you, it’s obvious we’re the same kind of cookie, so goddamn obsessive. Difference is, I’m addicted to the action, to piecing together my hustles. My neurosis requires a clear head. You’re addicted to the off-switch, doping so you can tune out the noise. You need help going your way. I hope you find it this time. I really do.”
As Michael returned his father’s grip and leaned in for a hug, Sonny didn’t much care if it was real or another move in the addict’s playbook. The ten seconds of connection trumped any explanation.
Both pulled away sniffling. Michael gave his father a smile, closed his eyes, and tilted his face into the morning sun. “Going to be a beautiful day.”
“Yeah, it’s a pretty one. You should go fishing. Relax a little.” Sonny hoped his son would hold the pose. He was watching his little beach boy again, the blondie who loved kites and pillow fights and was too kind to trap lightning bugs in a jar.
Michael opened his eyes, tapped the Cadillac’s hood, and headed up the drive. He didn’t look back until he’d unlocked the front door. By that time, his father was halfway down the block.
Sonny stuck to side streets, not wanting the noise or competition of the interstate. The rhythm of repeating low-slung apartment buildings focused his mind on Newton’s Third Law of Motion—all actions, regardless of intent, have equal and opposite reactions. Not that Michael much cared, but Sonny’s two hundred grand to Cassir wasn’t a victimless outlay. Proceeds from the Bielakowski deal were just enough to cover his own gambling issues and keep water under the boat. Michael’s bills had doubled his commitments so that two-thirds of the take was allocated before his suitcase was unpacked. Late summer was looking like tuna sandwiches and afternoons at the public library. Oh, screw it, he thought. He’d been worse off a dozen times.
Six blocks from his high-rise condo, he picked up croissants and nonfat lattes from Tatiana’s favorite faux-French bakery. Sonny found it comforting to do nice things for her, especially when she was asleep in his bed. At home he slid his key into the front door, snuck into the kitchen, stashed the pistol, and put the croissants on a plate. Taking a seat at the breakfast table, he sipped a latte and started in on his daily stack of newspapers, beginning with The New York Times.
From behind his back he heard Tatiana whisper, “Morning.” She was leaning against the kitchen doorway, sleep in her eyes, wearing the same robe. “Can’t believe you’re awake.”
>
Sonny peered over his tortoiseshell reading glasses. “If you hoot with the owls, you’ve got to soar with the eagles, so says one of my ex-mother-in-laws.”
“Everything okay?”
“Not for the three men I killed. We leave for Cuba within the hour. And that’s the good news.”
“Just three?” she said, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and kissing his cheek. “I missed you. I was worried.”
“That’s why I bought the croissants.”
She took the chair to his right and started pulling apart her pastry the way beautiful women dismantle their food. “If you want to talk, I know that’s not our way, but I’m a good listener.”
“I got you a latte.” Sonny retrieved the drink, taking a moment to rub her shoulders before retaking his seat. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to share with her, per se. He just didn’t talk business with any of his women.
She took the cup in both hands and pulled her heels onto the chair’s edge. “Is Michael okay?”
“You’re a smart one. Got me figured.”
“Not hard,” she said, taking a sip. “After you left, I started thinking about what would get you hopping out of our bed. It had never happened before. Should have figured it was Michael.”
“It was him. I’d like to say it was a false alarm because I didn’t need the gun, but there was a negotiation with a man who likes Michael less than you do. Everyone walked away with all their fingers, toes, and teeth, which was a success given the disagreement’s launch point.”
Tatiana started in on the second half of her croissant, offering Sonny a piece. “You smell like booze. I’m guessing Michael isn’t clean and sober at the moment.”
“We were on the boat. Michael showed up high and I wanted the other guy thinking I was getting loose. Mission accomplished. Probably didn’t need the last two. Woke up this morning, dropped Michael off, he said he was going to rehab, and now I’m home with you.”
“Rehab?” she said, her head coming forward. “You buying it?”
“Literally.”
“Wait, what?”
Sonny picked up the paper. “Every few years, I’m gifted thirty minutes to imagine he’s back on track. Today’s window came at a record setting cost, so let me enjoy. I’m no dummy with the odds, but I also like being a believer. It suits my worldview. Otherwise, what’s the point of the long play?” The question was delivered with a we’re done talking wink and half smile.
Slapping at his paper, Tatiana said she was taking a shower. “I’m just glad everything turned out okay.”
Sonny refolded the paper along its machined creases. “You want to take the boat out today? Looking like a nice breeze. Just me and you, what do you say? I’ll have the marina deliver some food, and there’s still wine from last time.”
While Tatiana was doing her best to catch the sailing bug, she couldn’t make the connection. It just seemed like a bunch of goddamn work and wasted time. The lines plus all the different sails and labor to kinda go in the right direction. What was the point when the cruisers and cigarette boats whipped into whatever hot spots they wanted for drinks and dinner? Onboard, Sonny waxed poetic about the bond between sailor, boat, water, and weather. The only part Tatiana bought into was the passion. All the accessories and philosophies were a lost cause. “I was going to grab a workout and meet some girlfriends for drinks. Casual afternoon and maybe dinner in South Beach. You can come—would be sweet having you with us.”
“Have fun with the girls. I’ll catch up on my reading, run some errands. Maybe I’ll go out solo. Been thinking this might be my last year with Eastern State. Getting to be a handful.”
Tatiana knew silence was often the most effective advocacy with men. They’d float trial balloons and wait for women to shoot them down in hopes of being proven right. She’d lie low, let the boat issue play itself out. “Enjoy the day. I’ll have my phone if you change your mind.”
“You coming back here tonight?”
“Sure, baby,” she said, walking away. “As long as you swear to spend the whole night under the blankets.”
Sonny returned to the paper. As a practical matter, the headlines and big issues never held much interest. His moneymakers were the side stories, single columns, and asides devoted to a three percent rise in a nowhere state’s land prices, or which lobbyist was seen eating with what congressman. Enjoying the latte’s caffeine surge, he thumbed page after page until he reached the Business Day section and stopped cold on a below-the-fold article.
He read the words twice before soft-stepping into the bedroom to confirm the shower was running and the bathroom door closed. Grabbing the cordless phone, Sonny headed for the balcony and dialed a number he used three or four times a year.
“Bielakowski’s,” said a female voice in the deep part of the register. It was a curious habit how some Northeast Philly women adopted the husky, dulled speech patterns of their men. “What can I do for ya?”
“Anton working today?”
“He’s in the office. You want me to get him?”
“No,” said Sonny. “When we hang up, go straight back and tell him his Florida friend wants a call. You got that? Quick with the message, now. He’ll want to know.”
Sonny stuck his head inside to double-check on Tatiana. She was partial to half hour showers, which usually drove him nuts but was fine under the circumstances. Anton Bielakowski’s system for callbacks took anywhere between twenty seconds and ten minutes. While not certain, Sonny figured his friend used pirated lines spliced into the connections of residential neighbors, or he traveled a circuit of nearby pay phones.
Sonny, rereading the article a third time, jumped at his ringtone. “I’m here.”
“Too late for a renegotiation and too early for a Merry Christmas,” said Anton, no hint in the background as to his location. “My gut says you’ve found something in the paper.”
Despite whatever precautions his friend had taken, Sonny was hesitant. No sense helping the government if they’d bypassed the safeguards. “At our meeting in Philly, that third deal I mentioned, you remember? Like the old days down at the docks?”
“Yes, I recall.”
“Nothing certain. But if you have the chance, wouldn’t hurt putting out some feelers. You’ll need a significant buyer with a particular résumé. The product will be unique and very, very profitable. We’re not talking televisions or toasters.”
“Nobody is listening. Speak.”
“You sure?”
“Goddamn it, Sonny—”
“Viagra.”
A pause long enough to cover two full breaths. “I do not understand.”
Evoking a hospital bedside scene, Sonny slowed his words and increased the volume. “It’s a medicine called Viagra. Starts with a V. A pill for men who can’t get it up. Makes your dick hard.”
“Don’t shout,” said the sausage maker, tightening his grip on the phone. “I hear you fine. Okay, now, these pills, do they make you high, too? That’s not for me. Don’t waste my time with drugs.”
“Not high, just hard.”
Another pause. “Hard? That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Longer, too, or no?”
Sonny considered whether Anton was slipping or screwing around. “It’s a medicine, not plant food. Viagra makes your dick sturdy enough to withstand a knife attack, just like you were eighteen again.”
“How come I’ve never heard of this?”
“Because you’re old and because it’s still unavailable, but today’s paper says the government is fast-tracking the approval process. For a timeline, the pills could hit pharmacies before our next meeting. They’ll require a prescription.”
“Stupid politicians,” said Anton. “You’ve got to humiliate yourself with a doctor before getting help? How is it anybody’s business what happens between a husband and wife?”
“Can we skip a debate where neither disagrees? For us, the prescription is a good thing. Take it from me, men h
ate going to the doctor to talk about sexual problems. It’s embarrassing as hell. But if I can work out the supply problem, we’ll be the alternative. Forget the doctor and his prescription pad.”
Anton mumbled, “I’ll make some calls.”
Sonny expected a few follow-up questions. When silence ensued, he told Anton not to hang up.
“I’m still here.”
“Don’t underestimate the opportunity. You remember how many dresses fit in a truck trailer? We’re talking pills. And imagine what a guy who hasn’t been banging for five years would pay for a go between the sheets.”
Anton’s laugh filled the phone line. “Sonny, you got a way about you, always the heat merchant. The consistency is a good thing. But heat is just a starting point—how strong you feeling this? Government approves and the pills are out—you committed to an immediate go?”
“Something less. Still too many variables. Right now, consider me a heist liker, not a heist lover. Get a buyer and price first.”
“Fair enough. We’ll play it loose. Now, for the money, you want back-end action or payment up front?”
“Undecided.” Sonny’s personal balance sheet suddenly had growing debits. Despite his best intentions, the last twelve hours with Cassir and Michael even had him revisiting the whole notion of a family mausoleum. Nothing like a shotgun in the ear to get someone deep thinking about the big sleep. “I might want an ownership interest, or maybe a role in procurement. I don’t know yet.”
“Hands on?”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Anton wasn’t done laughing. “Unretiring? Now don’t go forgetting your dance in the grocery story. Remember? The oranges and ice pick and three weeks in the hospital?”
“Yeah, well, dishwasher, roof, and furnace all went out and the kids need new shoes. You know the story.”
Anton figured Michael had reemerged. While Sonny never blamed his son, Michael’s shortcomings were usually why Sonny chased scores beyond the two or three ideas he sold. Made him grateful for Marcek. “Fair enough. Your gig, you make the call. Stay in touch, and I’ll get things on my end tuned up.”
The Friendship of Criminals Page 15