by Trace Conger
I was having lunch with Sontag at his favorite restaurant when I mentioned I might be thinking of retiring. I didn't plan to broach the topic right then and there over a meatloaf sandwich and jalapeño potato chips, it just happened. It wasn't an official declaration of my intent to retire, either. I was more floating a trial balloon to see his reaction. I didn't expect the silence that followed. Then he quickly changed the subject.
I'd forgotten I even brought it up when a week later a black town car screeched to a stop in front of my apartment as I returned from a morning coffee run.
Nitty Ford, Sontag's bodyman and primary driver, was behind the wheel. Porter rolled down the rear window. "Get in, Connor. We got a meeting." He opened the door and I climbed inside.
Nitty drove us to Sontag's beach house in Greenwich, Connecticut, an hour away from his Upper East Side headquarters. The home was in an exclusive neighborhood overlooking Long Island Sound. From the outside, the place looked like it belonged on the cover of some New England life magazine, but the inside was practically empty, except for a dining room table and a few chairs. The kitchen didn't even have a refrigerator. It wasn't meant for comfort, only business. I'd met Sontag there maybe a dozen times over the years. It was a clean site—a professional crew routinely swept the place for bugs—and it's where Sontag conducted his most sensitive business. Whatever we were going to discuss was going to be big.
We arrived at the beach house around eleven in the morning. It wasn't until I stepped out of the car and Porter demanded my weapon that I realized what was going on. I assumed we were going to discuss another assignment, but I didn't know I was on the agenda. I was wrong when I thought Sontag had ignored me when I brought up retirement. He hadn't. He merely tabled the conversation for a week.
I relinquished my .45 to Porter and he walked me past a black Mercedes-Benz E-Class station wagon to the front door.
Three knocks and we were in the foyer.
"They're waiting for you in the dining room," said Porter. "However this plays out, we're going to miss you."
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"Your retirement."
I didn't say anything.
"You can't talk about leaving and expect Sontag to just let it go," said Porter. "He's gonna question your loyalty." He extended his arm and, looking a bit like the Grim Reaper, pointed his finger down the hall to the dining room.
I hesitated for a moment, preparing myself for what waited in the other room.
"Now," said Porter.
I moved forward, thinking with each step that I was marching toward my death. But then I remembered what Porter had said. However this plays out. That meant there were options. I picked up my pace, feeling Porter looming behind me.
In the dining room, Sontag, Nicky, and Franklin Bockhold, Sontag's advisor, sat drinking coffee at the polished walnut dining table. Their relaxed demeanor suggested they'd be discussing which landscaper to hire, not whether I lived or died.
Sontag motioned me toward the chair placed in front of the table. I approached and sat down.
"You still want out?" asked Sontag.
"It was just a conversation," I said, remembering our chat over lunch a week earlier. "I hadn't really made a decision."
"But you were thinking it. Why?"
I didn't have a specific reason to give Sontag. Aside from not wanting to spend the rest of my life dead or in prison, I didn't see myself working for the mob forever. Of course, I didn't have any other irons in the fire. I was a retired Army intelligence officer, which didn't really have many practical applications outside of law enforcement, which given my underworld occupation for the past six years, was out of the question. I had nothing lined up and wasn't sure where I wanted to go. I just knew running with Sontag's clan was never a permanent situation, and it wasn't something I wanted to define my life when I looked back on it in forty-plus years. So I gave him the only story that came to mind.
“My father is sick,” I said. “Prostate cancer.”
“How advanced is it?” asked Sontag.
“Stage three.”
“So, he’s got a shot.”
“He’s got a shot, but we’re talking hospital visits and tests for the next God knows how long.”
Sontag pressed. “Where is he?”
“Boston.”
“And that’s where you’re headed?”
“Guess so.”
“How long have you been thinking about leaving?”
“I hadn’t really put a ton of thought in it until now. My father just told me about the diagnosis. He’s been undergoing tests for the last month, so I didn’t really have a reason to mention it.”
It wasn’t complete bullshit. Albert was sick, but he made it damn clear that he didn’t want either of his boys upending their lives over his prostate. Still, it was the best excuse I had to give Sontag.
"Here's how this works, "said Sontag. "The three of us have a chat and decide if we think you're a good fit for retirement or not."
He didn't have to explain what happens if they decided not to grant me a release. There was a reason Porter took my weapon.
I nodded and the three men stood up and left the room. They marched out in single file like a jury going to deliberate a verdict.
That's when I heard the familiar click of my .45's hammer locking. I slowly turned around to find Porter leveling my own weapon at my head.
"What did I just walk into?" I asked.
"A vote. If they come back in your favor, you walk out of here. Otherwise, you don't." He made a spiral-motion with the weapon. "Turn back around."
I've been shot at too many times to count, but this was the first time I’d ever had a weapon pointed at my head execution style. It's difficult to describe how that feels, other than everything in your body tightens and you feel like you have to use the bathroom. And it gets cold. Teeth-chattering cold. That whole thing about life flashing in front of you is true, but it's not in some chronological order. It's sporadic, like a dream, and sometimes it doesn't make any sense, like your noggin is screwing with you.
I thought about Albert and my brother, Finn. I had a vivid flashback about a summer at our family lake house in Maine. I was just a kid then, and the memory threw me. There wasn't anything remarkable about it. It wasn't a moment that should appear on my life's highlight reel, but there it was nonetheless. All three of us were fishing from the dock, and then my mother called down from the house that lunch was ready. Our boat, a sleek wooden thing tied to the end of the dock, bobbed in the gentle waves. A moment later, I was maybe five or six years old, standing next to my mother at a department store that was going out of business. We were pulling a four-foot tall teddy bear off the shelf. It was marked down seventy percent. Everything must go.
The memory faded and I found myself laughing out loud that the last things that might go through my brain, aside from a .45 slug, were memories of fishing and getting a teddy bear at a ridiculous discount. Profound stuff.
My mind left the memories behind and instead focused on the irony of the situation. Back in the Army, I used several interrogation methods, including some that might seem barbaric, to extract information from detainees. I thought back to the last person I interrogated. I tied his hands behind his back, knelt him down facing a corner, and placed my weapon to the back of his head. I cocked the hammer, which was loud in such a small room, and through a translator told him I was prepared to kill him then and there if he didn't give me the information I wanted. The psychological effects of interrogation are paralyzing, but they're also effective. He told us what we needed to know, and I assumed it resulted in American lives being saved. At least that's what I’ve always told myself. That detainee didn't know it, of course, but I had no intention of killing him, even if he didn't give us what we wanted. The carefully orchestrated exercise was just an extreme method to get him to talk. Porter, on the other hand, wouldn't hesitate to blow my head clean off if things didn't come back in my favor.
&
nbsp; "How long's this going to take? I can't imagine having a gun pointed at my head is good for my mental state."
"They'll be back when they're ready. Try not to think about it."
What seemed like another ten minutes passed, and the inside of my head fell still and dark, like a movie theater after everyone went home and the sixteen-year-old with bad acne had mopped up the popcorn and spilled Coke. I waited for more memories to come, memories of my family or my time in the Army, but my synapses were tapped out.
Then, the three-person commission returned. I took that as a good sign. Had their decision been a "no," I assumed they would have just signaled Porter to put me down from the hallway. Why risk getting covered in blood splatter by standing too close to me?
Sontag motioned to Porter, who pocketed the weapon. The feeling of immense terror of having a gun pointed at your head is only eclipsed by the bowel-releasing relief of seeing it lowered.
My boss leaned over the table. "Thanks for your service, Connor." He shook my hand with a grip strong enough to break my fingers. "We've discussed it, and we've decided to approve your request to leave our organization. No strings attached. The terms of our decision include the following. After this conversation, Nitty will drive you to your apartment. You'll have some time to gather your belongings and then we expect you to leave New York. You're not to return. You're not to have contact with anyone in our organization or our associates. You're free to do whatever the hell you want as long as it doesn't interfere with our interests. Violation of these terms will mean the dissolution of our verbal agreement, and things will go bad for you very quickly. Do you agree with these terms?"
"I agree with your terms," I said, sounding much too formal. "And thanks."
"Don't mention it," said Sontag. Then he smiled. "To anyone."
"I won't."
"This will be the last conversation you and I will ever have."
"Understood."
“And I hope things work out with your father in Boston.”
“Thanks. Me too.”
Porter handed my .45 back to me. "Let's go." He led me to the town car. He and Nitty escorted me to my apartment, where they watched me pack everything I owned into my green Army duffle and a dented metal suitcase. An hour later I was on I-91 headed to Boston with a clean slate.
14
Routines and Redheads
There wasn't much consistency in New York organized crime. Keeping a routine was a guaranteed way to get into trouble. That's why most everyone in Sontag's organization went out of their way to avoid setting a schedule. They never met with the same people at the same times, and never went to the same places on the same day. That unwritten rule didn't apply to Gretchen Sontag, Joseph's wife, who every Tuesday had brunch at the Palm Court in the Plaza Hotel. Like clockwork, she'd arrive at ten in the morning, enjoy brunch, and then spend the rest of the day in the hotel's spa. She always ate alone at the same table overlooking Central Park. The same schedule every Tuesday.
I had zero leads on Nicky Sontag. I hoped Gretchen could remedy that.
The Plaza was buzzing when I arrived. Guests in more expensive attire than my borrowed suit crisscrossed the lobby's white and gold marble floor. I moved through the crowd, passing cherubs on pedestals and vases overflowing with purple flowers. A crystal chandelier the size of a Volkswagen Beetle hung overhead. I never liked the Plaza. Its opulence made me nervous to touch anything. Even in my mid-forties, I felt like a kid in an antique store.
When I arrived at the entrance to the Palm Court restaurant, a hostess in a long, sleek navy blue dress approached, but I brushed her off. "I'm meeting someone, thanks."
Across the room, at her usual table, Gretchen sat sipping a thin flute of champagne. She wore a black silk blazer over a low-cut beige top. Her skirt was short enough that only its edge was visible under her jacket. At fifty-seven, she still turned a lot of heads. She sat alone, but everyone in the restaurant knew she was there.
I walked over and sat down without asking for permission.
"Well, look who it is," she said, taking a long, slow sip. "Back from the dead."
"Not dead, retired."
"Same thing." She ran an elegant finger around the rim of her plate. "What in the hell are you doing here? If I remember correctly, you're not a fan of brunch. Why was that again?"
"I think it's pretentious. Something people do just to say they do it. Like yoga. It's also lazy. I've got too much shit to do to wait until ten a.m. to eat something."
"I'm sure the chef would disagree." She bit into a strawberry. "How long have you been back?"
"Not long."
"Well, it's good to see you. Really good."
A bald waiter in a white jacket, black slacks, and a brass name tag approached the table. "Will the gentleman be enjoying brunch with you this morning, ma'am?"
"I don't know, Roberto." She dropped the strawberry on her plate. "Mr. Harding simply detests brunch. But perhaps we can persuade him to step out of his comfort zone." She took another sip of champagne. "What do you think, Mr. Harding?"
"Just coffee," I said.
"Yes, sir." The waiter shot me an awkward glance, placed his hands behind his back, and walked away.
"See, that's what I'm talking about," I said. "That look he gave me. As if I'm not good enough to eat brunch at The Plaza. Pretentious."
"No, he gave you that look because your suit jacket is two sizes too small. I'd tell you to fire your tailor, but we both know you don't have one."
"I don't, and this isn't even my suit."
"Why are you wearing someone else's... You know what, never mind. I don't want to know. Where have you been for the past two years?"
"Boston."
"And what brings you back?"
"I'm looking for Nicky. You know where I might be able to find him?"
"No. I assume you should check with your old colleagues."
"Already did that. Even talked to your husband a half hour ago. Nicky's AWOL, and it's important I find him."
The waiter returned with a silver tray. He set a ceramic cup and saucer in front of me, raised the carafe high into the air and poured the coffee like it was some sort of show.
"A lot of trouble for a cup of coffee," I said.
"Don't worry, Roberto," said Gretchen. "Mr. Harding doesn't appreciate panache. He prefers his coffee in paper cups."
Roberto offered a quick nod, turned and left with the tray.
"I don't know where Nicky is," she said.
"You don't seem too worried about him."
"Why should I? He's not my kid. Let Joseph worry about him."
"He is worried about him. That's why I'm sitting here in an ill-fitting suit drinking a twenty-seven dollar cup of coffee."
"Well, I can't help you, Connor." She sucked on another strawberry. "But I'd be careful if you do go out looking for him. Nicky's not going to want to see you.
"Why's that?"
"Nicky never liked you. Maybe it's your shitty disposition. Or maybe he thinks you helped put Joseph away."
"Why would he think that?"
"After they picked Joseph up, Nicky was paranoid they had tapped the phones uptown, so he spent the day at my place making calls. I don't know who he was talking to, but I heard Nicky running down a list of names he thought may be involved in Joseph's arrest."
"And my name came up?"
"Yes. So if you do find Nicky, know that he might be looking for you too."
Every time I began to think Nicky wasn't behind Boston, something like this tried to convince me otherwise.
"Thanks for the concern, Gretch. Are you still tied into things around here? Things happening in the organization?"
"What, are you wearing a wire or something?"
"No. I wouldn't be able to hide it underneath this tight suit anyway."
She smiled. "What specifically do you want to know?"
"I hear Nicky's car bomb was part of a power grab. With Sontag away, someone's trying to take over the organiz
ation. They want Nicky out."
"How do you know Nicky wasn't the one who orchestrated the power grab? And that the car bomb was someone else retaliating for something Nicky did?"
"Is that what happened?"
"I don't know any specifics about the bomb, but I do know Nicky was upset Joseph didn't transfer power when the feds picked him up. Nicky felt he was due."
"If it's any consolation, Joseph changed his mind. That's why I'm looking for Nicky. Joseph plans on anointing him chief to quell an uprising.
She slid her champagne flute aside and leaned in. "Is that right?"
"You sure you don't have any information on where I can find him?"
"No. I really have no idea where he is. Maybe Victor could help."
"Why's that?"
"Because Victor knows a hell of a lot more than I do about what's happing inside the organization. Why the hesitation? Does he hate you too?"
"Don't know, but he's on my shortlist of people who might want me dead."
"Why would Victor want you dead?"
"That's not a story I'm ready to get into right now."
"Suit yourself, but if you're looking for Nicky, I'd start there."
I blew across the top of my coffee and took a sip. I had to admit, it was pretty good. "If you hear anything, will you let me know?"
"Sure, but don't count on it. I've been living here at the hotel for the past month, and these days I don't cross paths with anyone you'd be interested in."
"Why are you staying here?"
"No reason to be at that big house all by myself."
She sipped more champagne. Her heavy gold bracelet slid up and down her thin forearm each time she raised her glass.
"Come on, Connor. You know he's never getting out of prison. There's nothing here for me anymore." She brushed her dark red hair behind her ear, revealing a diamond stud earring the size of an M&M. "Want a tour of my suite? I could get you out of that horrendous suit for a spell. For old times’ sake."