A nurse comes into the room holding a yellow lollipop. She offers it to Kelly, who looks at her father for approval before accepting it.
“Why don’t you come with me so your daddy can talk with the doctor?” she asks Kelly. It takes some prodding from Goodman, but eventually Kelly lets the nurse take her by the hand.
Dr. Gendel waits until the door closes, and they’re alone. “I’m afraid there may be something going on here,” he says. “In addition to the shadow we see in the films, your daughter has a spot in her right eye. That could be indicative of pressure somewhere in the brain. One possibility is a growth of some sort. But because the MRI was done without contrast, it’s difficult to tell.”
“Contrast?”
“Yes. Contrast is when they inject a dye into the spinal fluid. It makes things stand out better in the film. Frankly, it would have been better if they’d done that.”
“This growth,” Goodman forces himself to say. “You’re talking about a tumor.”
“That’s one possibility,” Dr. Gendel acknowledges. “But by no means a certainty.”
“What do we do?”
“Well, we could start with another MRI.”
“With contrast?”
“With contrast. But even that might not tell us what we want to know. I’d like to do a lumbar puncture first, see what that shows us.” He says it matter-of-factly, like a car mechanic might say, “I’d like to check the antifreeze first.”
“What’s a lumbar puncture?” Goodman asks, fighting a tremor in his voice.
“You’ve probably heard it referred to as a spinal tap,” the doctor says. “We insert a needle at the base of the spine, draw off some fluid and analyze the cells. It’s a good diagnostic tool for letting us know what’s going on. In addition, it’ll help relieve some of the pressure in Kelly’s brain that we may be seeing here.”
“It sounds very painful.”
“We use a local anesthetic, so it’s not as bad as it sounds. Afterward, she may have a headache for a day, but it sounds like that won’t be anything new.”
The ringing noise in Goodman’s ears is louder than ever. “Is she going to be okay?” he asks. “She’s only six.” His voice breaks on the word six.
“If it’s up to me, she will be,” Dr. Gendel says, giving him a smile that Goodman knows is meant to be warm and reassuring.
On the bus ride home, they find a seat way in the back, in a corner, and Kelly makes him continue the story.
The Ballerina Princess (Continued)
Now it came to pass that the Ballerina Princess got sick. What happened was, her head began hurting her. Now, since she was a very brave Ballerina Princess, she sometimes pretended it didn’t hurt. But her grandma could tell, because she was old enough to be able to tell that kind of stuff. And her daddy could tell, too, because he was the Keeper of the Numbers, and he was generally able to figure things out. And the brave and loyal Prince Larus could tell, because he knew absolutely everything.
So after awhile, the Ballerina Princess realized she might as well say when her head hurt her, since her three best friends knew anyway. And that made things just a tiny bit better for her, because then she didn’t have to worry so much anymore about being brave all the time. Instead, she could spend her time concentrating on being the happiest and most beautiful princess in all the land.
Back at home that afternoon, Goodman sits in front of his TV set and watches as the ground crew covers the infield of some stadium with a tarpaulin for the third time in two innings.
His daughter may be dying of a brain tumor. Sometime next week, they’re going to stick a needle in her spine to try to find out. Dr. Gendel’s fee for the procedure will be $500. That’s on top of the $250 for his office visit this afternoon. The hospital charges an additional $850, which has to be paid in advance. The unpaid MRI bill is $1,100, and he still owes Dr. Saltz $195. That’s close to $3,000 in medical bills alone, and that’s only if there are no further tests or treatments. Which, of course, there are bound to be.
He remembers he has another meeting scheduled with Russell for seven o’clock. If only Kelly can be okay, he promises himself, I’ll throw the drugs away. I’ll find some other way to raise the money.
But the truth is, he has no other way. He isn’t covered by Medicaid. It could take weeks or months to apply, and Dr. Gendel has made it pretty clear that Kelly doesn’t have weeks. Even then, Goodman might not qualify for assistance. And even if he did, it would mean taking Kelly to some city hospital and putting her in the hands of some intern or resident he knows nothing about.
As these thoughts go through his mind, Michael Goodman knows he’s not going to throw the drugs away. He knows he’s going to have to go and meet Russell tonight.
Watching the rain Saturday afternoon, Jimmy Zelb knows that if he hangs around the house, sooner or later his wife is going to get on him about cleaning up the basement. So he calls his partner and asks him if he wants to work.
“Isn’t it Saturday?” Frank Farrelli asks him.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s Saturday,” Zelb says. “But if I don’t get outa the house, it’s also gonna be divorce day.”
“So pick me up,” Farrelli tells him.
An hour later, they’re heading south on the Major Deegan Expressway, windshield wipers slapping softly.
“Let’s go see Vinnie first,” Farrelli suggests.
“He’s allaway downtown,” Zelb says. “How ‘bout we stop off and see Big Red first?”
“Good idea,” Farrelli agrees.
They exit the Deegan at 138th Street and circle back up to 140th. As expected, they spot Big Red as soon as they pull into the block.
“Fucker doesn’t even take rain dates off,” Farrelli says.
“Guess wet money’s as good as dry,” Zelb observes. He’s reminded of his days before the DEA, when he was a vice cop in Toledo. Back then, “wet money” was what they snatched when they’d arrested prostitutes and done body-cavity searches. He smiles at his unintended pun.
Zelb pulls the car to the curb alongside Big Red. Farrelli jumps out and grabs him, spins him around, and forces him down onto the hood of the car, where he handcuffs him behind his back before throwing him bodily into the backseat of the car. They drive off.
As soon as they’re out of the area, Farrelli unlocks the handcuffs and removes them.
“Good thing I recognized you, man,” Big Red says to Farrelli, whom he towers over, even sitting alongside him. “I mighta squashed you oth-awise.”
“Thanks for sparing me,” Farrelli says.
Zelb continues driving. “What’s going on?” he asks.
“Nothin’, man,” Big Red says.
“Not the answer we wanna hear,” Zelb tells him.
“What can I tell you?” Big Red complains.
Zelb hits the brakes. Both Big Red and Farrelli slide forward against the back of the front seat. Zelb grabs Big Red by the throat.
“You better tell me something, mister,” he tells him. “I got a boss who wants cases. You’re gonna get off your fat butt and give us something, or your license is history.”
Big Red pulls loose. “Easy, No Neck, easy,” he says. “Matterafact, I’m workin’ on somethin’ for you right now. Should know in a week or so.”
“Fuck a week or so!” Zelb roars. “We’re coming back to see you Monday. And if you don’t have something by then, my partner’s not gonna take the cuffs off you. Got that?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Don’t see,” Zelb says. “Just do.”
It’s still raining lightly as Goodman makes his way to the park for his seven o’clock meeting with Russell. He’s halfway there when the thought suddenly occurs to him that maybe he’s supposed to be bringing the drugs with him, so the deal can be done on the spot.
He toys with the idea of going back and getting them, but then he remembers his father’s superstition. Besides, he decides, if Russell shows up with his buyer, Goodman can always go get the
drugs and be back in fifteen minutes.
Once more, he stands by the river, waiting for Russell. This time, there’s no uniformed police officer patrolling the area. The rain seems to have kept just about everyone away. The only people in sight are an old black woman looking for cans in the trash containers and two white guys fishing a block or so to the south. He shudders at the thought of eating anything caught in these waters. And the guys don’t look that desperate, either: One’s a big bruiser with a baseball cap; the other’s thinner, hatless, with short red hair.
The breeze is still coming off the river, occasionally blowing a fine mist against Goodman’s face. The forecast is for heavier rain tonight, so he hopes Russell isn’t too late. He likes walking in the rain, but standing around in it getting soaked suddenly doesn’t seem like much fun.
He watches a Circle Line sightseeing boat move downriver. It looks almost empty; whatever tourists are on board must be inside. Then he notices a couple on deck, a man and a woman huddled under a yellow poncho. They wave in his direction as the boat passes. Goodman looks behind him to see whom they might be waving at, but there’s no one there, so he turns back to them and returns their wave. He squints into the mist, trying to make out their faces, trying to tell if they’re lovers or friends, but in the darkness he’s unable to make out their features. He settles for lovers, oblivious to the weather, and he envies their shared intimacy.
It’s almost 7:30 by the time Russell arrives. “Sorry, man. Trains are all messed up,” he explains.
“No problem,” Goodman says, even though by this time he’s thoroughly drenched and beginning to shiver. “What’s the story?”
“The story is this,” Russell says, looking around with a nervousness Goodman hasn’t noticed until now. But the old lady has moved on to other trash cans, and the two fishermen are the only people in sight. “The deal goes down tonight.”
“Tonight?” Goodman asks. “It’s supposed to rain even harder.”
“Ezzackly,” Russell smiles. “Rainy Sataday night, my man says there won’t be a narc on the street.”
“What time?”
“Midnight.” Russell smiles again. “My man says that’s when the cops change shifts. They all be in the station house, doin’ their roll call an’ shit.”
It does seem to make sense to Goodman, who actually hasn’t given much thought to the police, other than the one uniformed cop who passed by last time. “Where do we meet?” he asks.
“Right back here,” Russell says. “You have the kilo, my man’ll have the twenny-five. It’s what we call cash and carry.”
“You’ll be here?” Goodman asks. Now that the deal is fast becoming a reality, he feels suddenly anxious.
“I dunno,” Russell says, looking around again. “It’s up to my man. But if I’m not, you’ll spot him. Great big guy. He’ll walk up to you, tell you I sent him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Better you don’t know his name, he don’t know yours.” Better for botha you.”
All this seems to be happening too fast for Goodman. “You sure this is going to work?” he asks.
“Hey, man,” Russell smiles. “This is what I do. You just be sure you remember my 5,000, okay?”
“Okay,” Goodman nods. “How do I find you to give you that?”
“We meet back here tomorrow, one in the aftanoon, okay?”
“Okay.” Goodman feels as if all he’s been doing is saying okay, like he’s strapped in on some amusement park ride that’s started moving, and now it’s too late to get off.
“They’re moving,” Daniel Riley tells Ray Abbruzzo, and they both begin to reel in their lines.
Goodman and Russell split up at York Avenue, Russell angling northwest to the subway, Goodman continuing home. He walks with his hat pulled down hard and the collar of his jacket turned up to protect him against the wind and rain at his back. He is totally oblivious to the dark-haired man and the redheaded man who follow him.
He makes one stop, at the corner of Second Avenue, for a newspaper, a package of instant soup, a loaf of bread, and a can of cat food. It’s almost dark by the time he enters his building.
“Home sweet home,” Abbruzzo says to Riley as they watch the door close behind the man who’s met with Russell.
“Now show us which apartment,” says Riley.
They stand in the rain across the street, fishing rods in their hands. A minute goes by, two minutes, three.
“Maybe this guy’s a fuckin’ mole,” Abbruzzo says. “Lives in the fuckin’ dark.”
But finally a light goes on in the corner window of the top floor. A moment later, they can make out the silhouette of the man they’ve just followed, as he removes his jacket and shakes the rain off it.
“Bingo,” says Ray Abbruzzo.
“Let’s get outa here,” says Daniel Riley.
Cold and wet and tired, they do just that. But to their credit, they avoid the temptation to head for their homes this rainy evening; instead, they drive downtown to 80 Centre Street. Their aim is simple: to get a search warrant for the left-front apartment on the fifth floor of the building of the guy they’ve already nicknamed J. D. Mole.
But in their haste and their fatigue, in their cold and wet condition, they never pause to wonder just why it was that it took the guy a full six minutes to climb four flights of stairs.
It doesn’t take Michael Goodman six minutes to climb four flights of stairs, of course; it takes him only one. The first five minutes he spends in the basement, opening his storage locker, unzipping his black duffel bag, removing one of the blue plastic packages, and then replacing everything as it was before.
Russell Bradford is cold and wet, too, but he isn’t about to go home. From Ninety-Sixth Street, Russell heads directly for the Bronx, for 140th Street. Russell smells money, $20,000 of it.
When he gets into the block, he doesn’t see Big Red in his usual spot, but he does see Tito. Tito tells him Red’s been expecting him, is waiting for him in the McDonald’s on Walton Avenue. Russell walks the three blocks. It’s dark, and the streetlights are reflected on the wet pavement.
He enters the McDonald’s and looks around for Big Red. He spots him at a table in the back. To Russell’s surprise, Red’s not alone; he’s sitting with a guy Russell’s never seen before.
Big Red sees Russell and motions him over, points to an empty chair at the table. Russell sits down, eyes the half-eaten burgers and fries. He’s hungry, but he knows better than to say so.
Big Red is the first to speak. “Sup, Russell?” he says.
“Sup, Red?”
“This here’s Hammer,” says Big Red. Russell and Hammer nod to each other. Hammer seems to be almost as big as Big Red, though it’s hard to tell, since they’re sitting down. He’s not too dark, has a beard and mustache. There’s an ugly scar on his neck.
“How we doin’?” Big Red asks Russell.
“We doin’ good,” Russell tells him proudly. “The thing is set up for midnight, jus like you said.”
“By the river?”
“By the river.”
“Solid,” Big Red says. “Tell me what this dude looks like.”
“He’s Caucasian,” Russell says. “Short, kinda weak-lookin’. Got this hair looks like Brillo.”
“How old?”
“I dunno.” Russell’s not too good at ages. “Hard to tell with Caucasians. Thirty-five, maybe?”
Hammer speaks for the first time. “Does he pack?” he asks Russell.
“Pack?” Russell smiles. “This guy wooden know which end of a piece a bullet comes outa.”
“How do you know he ain’t the Man?” Hammer again.
“You see this guy,” Russell tells him, “you gonna laugh you ever axsed that question.”
“You betta be right, or you gonna be one sorry nigga.”
“You see for yourself.”
Hammer leans forward and gets into Russell’s face. “I ain’t about seein’ for myself,” he says. “That�
��s your job, and you fuckin’ well betta know what you talkin’ about.”
“Chill,” says Big Red in a soothing voice, causing Hammer to sit back. “Russell’s done good. It’s all gonna go down nice an’ easy.” He streches out “nice an’ easy.”
“You want me there for the introduction?” Russell asks.
“No,” Big Red says, “we’ll take it from here. We’ll hook up with you tomorrow.”
Russell knows he’s dismissed. He gets up and leaves, heads home. But this time tomorrow, he tells him himself, I’ll be one rich man.
Still, he could have used a burger, a couple of fries, at least.
Ray Abbruzzo and Daniel Riley sit in a large room with Assistant District Attorney Maggie Kennedy and begin drawing up the papers for a search warrant. Abbruzzo does most of the talking. Kennedy takes notes while she listens.
“We got this anonymous call from a citizen,” he tells her, “that this guy’s been dealing pure heroin out of his apartment. Gives us the exact location. So we begin a surveillance of him. Sure enough, pretty soon we seen him meet with three or four customers.”
“Were you able to observe any sales?” she asks.
“Yeah, yeah,” Abbruzzo says. “Coupla sales.”
“Did you arrest any of the buyers?”
“Uh, no.”
“Why not?”
“We didn’t wanna blow the thing,” Abbruzzo explains. “This guy’s very cautious.”
“Very cautious,” Riley echoes.
“We think he may be Italian,” Abbruzzo tells her. “Like connected Italian, you know what I mean?”
“What makes you believe that he keeps the heroin in his apartment?” she asks.
“The anonymous caller told us.”
“That was a while ago,” she notes. “Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Abbruzzo says. “We see him leave his place with packages, meet his customers, and do the transactions. He always comes back empty-handed. Gotta be the apartment.”
“Gotta be,” Riley agrees.
“Do you know his name?” Kennedy asks.
“Like I said, the guy’s very secretive,” Abbruzzo tells her. “But we’ve got his street name.” Here he looks around, as though he’s fearful someone might overhear him. Then he leans forward and, lowering his voice to a whisper, confides in her. “They call him ‘the Mole.’“
Shoot the Moon Page 14