“Nothing, nothing . . .” the mutterer mumbled now, struggling but too scared to raise a hand.
Josh began singeing off strands of his beard with his lit cigarette. The man squealed and squirmed. Liam smelled burnt hair.
“You know what I did in the army don’t you? Do you know how many ways they taught me to hurt you just with this cigarette? Do you?” He yanked harder.
“No . . .” the man shook his head, still straining as the beard pulled at his flesh.
“I’m not sure either. Let’s count and see . . .”
“Yoshua!” a voice with an old-world lilt to it reached them from inside. Josh looked up. It was Rebbe, who had emerged from an inner office. “Stop fooling around and come here.”
Josh let go immediately and the man gasped, stumbling back as if released from a tether, and then scurried off. Josh handed his cigarette to Liam, who took a drag then stomped it out, grinning.
Rebbe put his arm around Josh and led him off to a corner. “Luzzem,” he said. “Don’t bother with that meskite. He’s a nobody. A nudnik. Not worth your time.”
“Yes sir,” Josh said.
“Your family back home, they’re okay?”
“Yes, everyone is fine, thank you.”
“And the job, no troubles?”
“No. Smooth.”
“Good work, boychick.” He squeezed his cheek, hard enough to leave an impression, then called to another tough-looking man in a long black beard and black suit. “Shlomo, get a couple cameras and one of those vacuums and put them in my trunk.”
In no time the goods were unpacked and distributed to camera and electronics stores run by Orthodox Jews as well as other dealers further down the pipeline: Black-owned appliance stores in Bed-Stuy, an Italian hardware shop in South Slope, even a discount place along Atlantic run by two Palestinian brothers. This was New York. Meanwhile, Liam and Josh disposed of the truck, leaving it under the BQE, had dinner at a Mexican place, and then circled back to pick up their share of the proceeds. It was a nice score, not at all bad for a day’s work, and Liam knew Sean would be pleased with how things turned out. He’d been complaining about money and had called a couple times to ask about the dough, so Liam was surprised when he finally called to say he had it and Sean didn’t even pick up. But then again, that was Sean. Jack, the eldest, was the grown-up, steady brother. He was married already with a second kid on the way, and the kind of tough guy who had no trouble using a gun but would rather try his fists first. The scar tissue on his knuckles testified how often that was sufficient.
Sean was the wild middle brother. The one who got into scrapes as a kid, dropped out of school, who got drunk and fought now, and who, Liam suspected, might have developed a taste for other substances as well. And Liam? He was the baby, the spoiled one, pretty and clever, who got top grades at school but still preferred the life of crime to the life of the mind, and found, when the time came, that violence, when necessary, caused him no bother at all. They’d been brought over from Ireland by Pat White, a distant relative and then the boss of what was left of the Westies, the Irish mob who once ran Hell’s Kitchen and still ran a share of bookmaking, extortion, robbery, political influence, and murder. But Pat had sold them out, and the Madigan brothers, with an assist from Gio, were in charge now.
“Mind if we swing by me brother’s?” Liam asked Josh now. “I know that eejit too well. Even if he’s dead drunk, he’ll wake up yowling for his money like a babe for a tit.”
“Of course not,” Josh said, squeezing his hand. “It’s a nice night for a drive.”
So they cruised up the West Side to the rent-controlled walk-up that Sean had taken over when the former occupant, a one-time bank robber turned FBI snitch named Harry Harrigan, had been disposed of. Now the Madigans controlled the building, along with most of Pat’s other assets, like the parking lot where they left Josh’s Volvo convertible.
They buzzed. No answer. Was he drinking at a local bar? If so, he would have answered his phone. A neighbor came out, opening the street door, and they climbed the stairs and rang. Still nothing, but he could hear the TV.
“Come on, wake up, you moron!” Liam yelled, banging the door. It swung open. At this both men froze. Liam reached down and pulled the revolver he had in his ankle holster. He glanced at Josh, who nodded, and carefully stepped in. The lights were on. The TV was playing. Sean was alone, spread on the couch. His face was white. His lips were blue. His eyes were staring up at nothing. Drool curled from his slack mouth. And a needle dangled from his arm.
It was Josh who knew what to do. He’d had medic training and it kicked into action. He immediately checked Sean’s pulse and breathing and then got him on the floor where he performed CPR. Liam watched, frozen in horror.
“Liam! You need to focus,” Josh yelled at him, as he pumped Sean’s chest. He tossed him his keys. “There’s a bag in the trunk of my car.”
Snapping out of it, Liam caught the keys and sprinted frantically down to the lot, running right past the attendant to fetch the small first aid kit, and came back, breathing hard. By then Liam had him breathing shallowly, alive, if just barely. He tore the kit open, found the Naloxone, and injected Sean. Instantly, he was back, rejoining the living with a scream that made it seem more like a nightmare than a joy, perhaps similar to the scream he’d uttered at birth.
Later, after they’d made sure Sean was all right, and he’d cried and apologized, and Liam had cried and cursed him out and then forgiven him, and they’d gotten Sean to bed (though not before he remembered to ask for his money), they shut the bedroom door, and Liam put his arms around Josh, his eyes still shined with tears. “You saved his life. I don’t know what to say. I was useless. Thank God for you, Josh.”
Josh smiled back. “You saved mine too, remember? And risked your own for me.”
Liam shook his head. “That’s shite. We were partners on a job and you were just wounded. This is different. He was dead. Dead.”
They gripped each other then, tight, and Liam, as if sharing a secret, whispered to him: “I love you.”
Josh whispered back, “I love you too.”
Before they left, Liam picked up the syringe and broke it with an expression of disgust. He threw it in the trash with the tarnished spoon Sean had used to cook the shot that had nearly killed him. That had killed him, Liam corrected himself, since his brother had died before Josh brought him back. And there on the coffee table beside it was a torn little envelope, coated with a trace of bitter powder, and stamped with the image of an angel, wings up, as though still poised to fly off with your soul.
15
USING ALL HER TRAINING and stealth, Special Agent Donna Zamora carefully turned the doorknob and entered the premises at 7:15 A.M. Taking care not to alert the occupants, she crept into the living room, silently shutting the door behind her.
“Morning, hon. Have a fun date?”
Donna froze in shock, regarding her accoster with horror. She did not, however, draw her weapon, as much as she might have liked to. Watching her from the kitchen doorway, with a cup of coffee in her hand (it was Donna’s favorite mug, the one her daughter Larissa had painted for her with rainbows and suns), was Gladys Brody, Joe Brody’s grandmother and, to Donna’s extreme discomfort, her own mother’s new best friend.
“Gladys! Why are you here?”
“I’m waiting for your mom. We’re going to AC.”
“Oh right. I forgot. Did you hurt yourself?” Gladys had a therapeutic cuff Velcroed around her lower arm.
“It’s for the slots hon.”
Her mom came in, from Donna’s bedroom, where she slept when staying with Larissa overnight, already dressed and carrying a bag. She broke into a warm smile and came to kiss Donna. “Good morning, mija. You had a fun night I guess?”
Mortified, Donna glared at her. “If stakeouts are fun. I told you I was working.”
Her mom shrugged.
“Gladys . . .” Donna changed the subject. “How’s Joe these da
ys?”
“He’s working a lot too, like you. Out of town business trip.”
“Really? I didn’t know bouncers went on business trips. Did he have to go throw a drunk out of a strip club in another state?”
Now her daughter came out rubbing her eyes, looking heartrendingly adorable as she did every morning, in her pink Disney nightgown, her long hair floating like a cloud around her. “Mommy!”
She ran over for a hug. “I dreamed about pancakes.”
“You did?”
She nodded. “Daddy came to take me and brought a bear.”
“Sorry sweetheart. Daddy’s at work, I told you. He had to go away. But I’m sure he will bring you something when he gets home. Now come on, let’s make you some pancakes.”
As she led her daughter toward the kitchen, she wondered if what she’d just told her was true. Her ex, Mike Powell, was CIA and, as far Donna knew, had suddenly been reassigned to a top-secret mission overseas. Abusive and controlling during their brief marriage, he had become obsessive, almost a stalker, during their divorce. But he had always been a loving and dutiful father, visiting Larissa often, attending school events, paying his share. Recently, however, he had revealed himself to be a real creep, the kind of creep who thought that undermining her career might somehow paradoxically win her back or teach her a lesson. The kind of creep who thought that rejecting him was something she needed to be punished for. This made dealing with him and arrangements for their daughter go from tense and awkward to full-on toxic, so when he suddenly announced that he was leaving and that where and why and how long were all classified, she was, frankly, relieved. But she couldn’t explain that to Larissa. So she kept saying that Daddy was away, and would be back soon, though she fervently hoped that was not true.
She poured orange juice and handed it to Larissa, then poured coffee for herself.
“Donna!” her mom called out. “The van is here. We’re going.” Larissa ran over. “Come kiss Grandma goodbye. And give Aunty Gladys a hug.”
Aunt Gladys? Donna sighed. She had to admit that she was fond of Gladys herself, and her friendship did seem to be brightening her Mom’s life up a bit, though when she referred to Gladys as her “partner in crime,” did she get that Gladys was an actual criminal with a rap sheet longer than most of the suspects Donna investigated at the FBI? It was one more complication in her already too mixed-up life. Speaking of which, there was Gary to think about now as well. She’d crept out while he slept, having told him in advance she needed to get home and relieve her mom from babysitting duty.
As if on cue, Donna’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Andy. So???
Frowning, she texted back: It was fun. Nice guy.
Just fun? She felt Andy jumping down her throat from over the phone. When Gary never called Ari for the post game briefing we thought—score!
Um . . . she considered, then typed. It got a little complicated. I will tell you later.
I’m meeting Blaze for a beer later. Come and tell me all about it!
Blaze was Deputy Federal Marshal Blaze Logan. She and Donna had worked together, ending up in a couple of tight spots, and had become pals. Then, as an openly gay federal agent, Blaze had found she had a lot to talk to Andy about as well.
Great, she texted with one hand as Larissa, having distributed her kisses and hugs, took the other, chirping “Mommy! Pancakes!” Just pick someplace quiet where we can actually talk please.
Done, he answered, though Donna didn’t believe it. She went in to start the batter, and while her daughter loudly requested bananas, and her mom and “Aunt Gladys” left to party in Atlantic City with their van full of old biddies, she found herself wondering, where in hell did Joe really go on his supposed business trip, and why?
Joe woke up from a nightmare as they landed. Or rather, Yelena woke him.
“Joe,” she said, “Joe,” shaking his shoulder lightly and speaking softly into his ears.
“Huh?” His eyes popped opened. “What?”
“You’re scaring these people.”
He sat up and looked around. A flight attendant was crouching over them and, across the aisle, a woman a sweat suit with a blanket wrapped around her was staring in alarm. The heads of two small children, a boy and girl, peeked over the seats in front of him, their mustachioed hipster father hovering with a look of stern disapproval from behind his cool glasses.
“Sir . . .” The flight attendant leaned in, scolding him. “You can’t yell and use foul language. You’re disturbing the other passengers.”
“Sorry,” Joe said, nodding and rubbing his eyes. He’d thrown his own blanket on the floor and his Rilke paperback lay twisted on his lap, as though he’d tried to strangle it.
“Now please return your seat to the upright position,” the flight attendant said. “We will be landing soon.”
She moved on. The lady across the aisle kept glaring. “Disgusting,” she muttered to no one.
“Sit down,” the dad told his kids, then told Joe, “Chill out, all right, dude? You’re scaring my kids.” They didn’t look scared, as it happened. They were grinning.
“You sit down and put your belt on,” Yelena told him, flatly. She looked him the eye. “Imagine how upset they’ll be if you get injured. Badly.”
His eyes widened at her. Then he sniffed and sat back down.
“What was I saying?” Joe asked Yelena.
“Nothing. Just yelling fuck and shit like usual.”
“Oh . . . sorry . . .” He saw the kids still peeking at him, now with their eyes pressed to the cracks between the seats. He winked at them. They giggled. Then he turned to look past Yelena and out the window. They were descending rapidly. The engines roared. Moisture streaked the glass like tears as they tore through the atmosphere. Mist clung to the plane’s wing in shreds. New York City was emerging from the clouds. He was home.
Toomey heard the ruckus coming from where Joe and Yelena were sitting. He happened to be up, stretching his legs, before returning to his seat in business class. Those two, of course, were back in coach. That figured. Like Joe, he was sure, Toomey had flown many times in military planes, choppers, and private CIA jets, but on commercial flights, which soldiers took more than most civilians realized, coming or going from leave, reporting to new posts, they were strictly consigned to the cheap seats. He’d never sat up-front with the rich folk until he became a consultant. That was one of the things he’d point out to Joe if he were trying to recruit him. Which he would be happy to do if destiny hadn’t set them on different paths, paths that were now converging.
That’s how Rick Toomey thought of himself: a man of destiny, a warrior, like a samurai or a knight. He fought for a cause and lived by a code, and he would, he fully expected, die by it one day as well. But not today, so why not fly business class, put his feet up, sip champagne and flirt with the flight attendants? He’d earned it. That was the problem with society today, no code, no purpose and it was as bad, or worse, among the rich up here than among the poor. The poor had an excuse. The rich had an obligation. But now only poor boys fought wars, those who couldn’t buy a way out, or those who saw the military as their one way out. Like Joe, who, he knew from his research, had been offered a choice of jail or army: either way he’d serve. Say what you like about the aristocrats in the olden days, however much wealth and luxury they had, they still sent their sons to die for king and country. It was what they were bred to do. Now that was over. The military too had its own aristocracy, and that was where Toomey was bred. His father had been a colonel in the Marines and then an instructor at West Point. Choosing to go into the Special Forces meant Toomey himself would never rise to top brass, be a general, and sit around the Pentagon drinking coffee, but that was okay, the old man understood. Like Joe they were born to serve.
That’s why Toomey was on this flight to New York. With Felix and Heather, their New York people, out of action, Toomey decided to shepherd this shipment himself, and be there to meet it when it came through. It w
as too important. Especially this one. It was carrying his destiny. And though he worked with Richards and his cronies at Wildwater (worked for them they would say, since they were paying for this plane ride and the steak he had consumed) he didn’t respect them or trust them; they shared his values but not his code. They were rich but not aristocratic warriors, not samurai or knights.
That was why when Toomey saw Joe and Yelena in action, he smiled, and when they took down the chopper he was in, he laughed: it was a laugh of recognition. He had known immediately what Joe was: a warrior like him. And it seemed especially fitting when he learned that it was Joe Brody and his Russian cohort Yelena Noylaskya who had taken out Felix and Heather. He had found a worthy adversary, someone it would be a pleasure, an honor, to fight with, whether as comrade or foe. And if it had to be foe, so be it. That’s why, when he heard Joe yelling and realized what was up, he grinned. Now he knew his opponent’s weakness as well as his strengths. He was wounded. It was just in a place no one could see.
Against the Law Page 8