“Best of luck with your business, Tommy,” Vincent says. “We’ll see you first thing Saturday morning.”
Dom waves a hand. “Twelve minutes of peace and quiet, kid,” he says and starts to laugh all over again. “Don’t forget, if you hear any.”
I walk out the door into the night. At the corner I take the first real breath I’ve had in hours. Christ, Tom, you sure know how to do things the hard way. I’m climbing into a cab when I hear, “Hey! Hey, you!” in a big voice behind me. At the door to Madge’s, on his way into the place, is my old buddy Gino. He starts toward me.
I slam the cab door. “Get out of here. Now!”
He steps on it without a word. There’s a New York cabbie for you.
“Hey!”
Gino gets as close as the back of the cab, where he bangs his fist on the trunk as we speed off. Out the back I watch him shake his fist, then I turn back and slide down the seat. Christ. I should have figured these Italian gambling types would move in the same circles. What happens if Gino starts milking Vincent about me? Screw it. I have the money I need, and that’s all that matters. We win the match and everything else will fall into place. Still, my heart could use a couple minutes off now and then. It’s been some week. I look out at the water with a weak smile as we bump over the Brooklyn Bridge. You wanted kicks, right, Tom?
I STOP IN AT HOME get the money together. I can hear the shower going and the sound of giggling over the water. Molly sure is making up for lost time. I listen at the door on my way by, then open a beer and sit on my bed a minute. I put all the money in my old college knapsack, finish my beer and head out.
I step out of the cab across the street from the public library. She really is beautiful. So white, and regal. Almost makes me wish I’d paid more attention in school. I cross the street. From the bottom of the wide stairs I can see two figures at the top, silent against the stone of the building. Duggan has brought his goon with him. Seeing him there, thick and dark, it occurs to me I should have some backup myself tonight. Oh well. It’s strange, but I’m not worried about them jumping me for the money. Duggan wouldn’t do that. Not just because Papa O’Shea is in on the match now. Duggan wants to beat me as bad as he wants the dough. Almost as bad as I want to beat him.
I take the stairs. At the top he comes forward with a grim smile.
“I didn’t think you’d show, college boy.” He lights a cigarette, shakes out the match and tosses it away. “Another ten minutes and Shakespeare here was going looking for you.” He motions at the mass behind him. “You remember him, eh?”
Do I ever. Shakespeare is the dude heaver at County Hell Pub. A real bull, with a neck a foot across and tiny red eyes buried in a fat, red Irish face. I’ve never heard him talk but I’ve seen him in action. He stands at the bar door all night, until any trouble breaks out, at which point he grabs the biggest guy involved by the throat and holds him in the air until he turns good and blue. End of trouble. Even the dealers who work that stretch of Tenth Avenue know better than to fuck with Shakespeare, or with any of County Hell’s customers when he’s around.
“Sure I remember him. What’s he doing here—returning a book?”
“He’s here to get a good look at you, college boy. If you don’t show tomorrow, it’s Shakespeare’s job to go get you.”
“I’d hate to have to outsmart him.” I see his big neck tense. A Doberman, waiting for the “kill” command. I slide my knapsack off my shoulder. “Let’s do it, Duggan.”
I follow him behind the big stone lion and we crouch in the darkness. He pops the clips on a briefcase and turns a flashlight on the stacks of bills inside. Twenty hundreds to a stack, twenty stacks. I open my knapsack and dump my piles of money onto the ground. I drop them back into the bag as I count them. He nods when I finish and we stand. He holds out his hand. His shake is cold and hard.
“So Daddy came through, did he? He won’t help you tomorrow.”
He motions to Shakespeare and they walk away down the stairs. At the bottom, Duggan turns and gives me a salute with the left hand.
“You be there, you hear? And remember, college boy—no substitutes.”
His grin and confidence bring the sweat out on me again. I watch them walk to the corner, turn west on Forty-second, and disappear into the night. Is he that good a bluffer or does he have something up his sleeve? But what? Walking slowly down the stairs, I think of a saying I heard in high school, about justice in the Old West.
You’ll know it when you see it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
FRIDAY morning dawns clear and hot. I lie still in bed, going over it all once more in my head. I think I have everything set. The money is counted and ready and in a bag in the closet. The gang knows to be at Adam’s Curse at eight for warm-ups and a few calming beers. My protection will meet up with us at County Hell. That should be everything.
Well, not everything. I’d hoped to come home last night to a message from Lisa. That didn’t happen. I haven’t heard word one since she walked out of the pub the other night.
Maybe it was a pipe dream, expecting her to go away with me. Maybe I’m getting what I deserve for my low lie about having the money in hand. That was bad, I know, but it was the only lie I told her. The rest was true, and I only fudged on that because I was up against it. Christ. With all I have riding on this match—and it’s pretty much everything, by now—I can’t stop thinking about the one thing missing—Lisa. Shake it off, Tom. If you can’t keep your mind on darts tonight, winning back Lisa will be the least of your problems. I roll out of bed to meet the day.
I’M NOT EVEN OUT of the elevator at the office when Kay jumps up from behind her desk and rushes up to me.
“Tom, what have you done?”
“Whoa. What do you mean?”
She takes a quick look over her shoulder.
“The Pharaoh wants to see you.” I stare at her. My first instinct is to bolt, but it’s too late for that. “He’s in his office right now. Said you’re to see him before you do anything else. Tom, what’s going on?”
“I’m not sure, Kay.”
“You’re okay though, right?”
“Yeah—I guess.”
The Pharaoh is old man Farrell, the oldest senior partner and son of the founder of the firm. We call him the Pharaoh because of his clout and because he’s something of a mythical figure around here—nobody ever sees him. All the offices but one are in the north wing, to the left of reception. The Pharaoh’s sits alone in the south wing. In my year here I’ve never been in there. They say no paralegal ever has. I turn back to Kay as I open the door to the south wing.
“If I don’t come out, remember this name—Dr. Silverman.”
“Why?”
“He has my dental records.”
The door opens onto a corridor with plush carpeting that ends fifty feet later at the door to Farrell’s office. I stop in front of it. Word around the firm is that a meeting with the Pharaoh means one of two things. Somehow I don’t think he’s about to make me partner. I knock.
“Come in.”
The office is a beauty. Five hundred square feet, easy. Floor-length windows looking west over the water. Big-time art on the walls, a carpet you could sleep on, and at the other end of the room the biggest desk I’ve ever seen. Behind it, the Pharaoh is pretty big himself. Tall, I should say, with the straight back you see in old men who’ve done something with their lives. He has all his own hair, though it’s white now. His elbows rest on the desk, his fingers together under a sharp nose, his blue eyes hard and leveled right at mine. He looks like an old-time robber baron.
“Good morning, son.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Do you know why I called you in?”
“No, sir.”
He’s silent, his eyes still on me. I get the feeling he’s giving me a chance to change my answer and save us both a lot of time. Finally he speaks.
“Carter McGrath played squash with a friend last night.”
; “How did he do, sir?”
“I should say he intended to play. They never quite got around to the game. His friend, you see, is Dave Jacobs, from the Immigration and Naturalization Service. I believe you’ve dealt with him.”
I look down at my unshined shoes. I won’t have to worry about them again.
“Yes, sir.”
Of all the ways to be done in—a damn squash match. Dad always said it doesn’t matter what a man has on you—look him in the eye. I do.
“You know where this is going, don’t you, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
We are silent awhile. I do a quick mental revision to my plan as Farrell stands, looks me over one more time, then walks to the window and looks out on the water. He speaks with his back to me.
“In war, son, do you know what happens to soldiers who take it on themselves to jeopardize the success of a mission?”
“No, sir.”
“We march them out back and shoot them in the head.” He stands bone-straight, his hands behind him, his eyes seeming to follow a lone sailboat as it makes its slow way up the Hudson. “First, though, we give them a chance to explain themselves.”
“Prego didn’t do it, sir.”
“I don’t care.”
“Sir?”
“We were retained by Regina Garrett to effect a settlement in her favor. What Mr. Prego did or did not do is irrelevant.”
“Not to me, sir.”
“That’s why I’m senior partner and you’re fired. You may go.”
He doesn’t turn around.
“Sir?”
“You may go.”
I take a step forward and a good breath.
“Sir, I have a call in to a Mr. Harry Sellers. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Mr. Sellers writes a man-of-the-people column for the New York Post. His specialty is the David and Goliath story. He likes to take the side of the workingman against the big corporation. Especially likes to take aim at banks and law firms. I think the old term for him would be a muckraker, sir. He’s got a pretty rabid following.”
Silence.
“When he calls back, sir, I can tell him I admire his work and I’d love an autographed photo. Or I can tell him about the Prego case. I think it’s the kind of thing he would run with, sir. I’d give him the bare outlines—a little background on the principals, maybe thirty seconds on the tactics of the Wall Street firm that wants to deny Mr. Prego a fair trial. It wouldn’t take much. Just a few words to get the ball rolling. I’d have to guess it’s the kind of story his readership would eat up, sir.”
Farrell keeps his back to me, his gaze over the water.
“What is it you want, son?”
“I want Prego to have his day in court, sir. No threats from INS, no Board of Health at his door. A fair trial, our lawyers against his.”
“What else?”
“That’s it.”
More silence. At last Farrell lets out a sigh that seems fifty years in the making.
“Boats.”
“Sir?”
“Boats, son. Do you like boats?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So do I. That’s why I still come into the office. In a morning I might count a hundred boats out there. There’s one with single rigging—you don’t see that much anymore.” He swivels around, his arms folded.
“Son, if you had asked me for money you’d be on your way to jail right now. If you had asked for your job, security would be dragging you outside by the collar.” He walks to his desk and sits behind it again. He picks a cigar from a case of fat ones, rolls it in his hands, and looks up.
“My father founded this firm when he returned from World War One. I think it is safe to say that the Prego case is not the kind of case he founded a law firm to try. Nor would some of the tactics recently resorted to have met with his approval. I’m not too happy about them myself.” He cuts off the tip with a gold cutter. “Unfortunately, this is not a case we are likely to win in a courtroom.”
“Doesn’t that tell you something, sir?”
A hint of a smile crosses his face. “How old are you, son?”
“Twenty-three.”
“You have a lot to learn.” He hits a button on the intercom. “Kay, send Mr. McGrath in, please.”
Carter comes through the door looking like he wants a go at me. Farrell waves him into a chair by his desk and Carter sits on the edge of it, ready to spring.
“Son, perhaps you’d like to explain yourself to Mr. McGrath.”
“No, thank you, sir.”
Carter can’t hold himself back. “Well, you’re going to.” He looks at Farrell, who gives the barest nod, and starts in. “Why did you tell me Prego was clean, Reasons? Are you going to try to say you misunderstood what Jacobs told you?”
“No, sir, I understood him fine.”
“Why, then?”
As I look Carter in the eye the old betting feeling comes over me—the release. “Because I thought we were on the wrong side on this one, sir.”
I swear Carter is going to come right through his shirt.
“The wrong side?” He tries to laugh but his face won’t let him. “The wrong side?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Reasons, you want to know what the wrong side is? It’s the side that’s not paying you. That’s the wrong side.”
“That’s not how I see it, sir.”
He’s up out of his chair. “You little shit. Do you know how much money is riding on this case? Do you have any idea? I ought to tear you apart.”
“You could try, sir.”
Farrell puts up his hand. “Okay, McGrath, sit down.”
Carter does but keeps his eyes on me. Farrell lights the cigar he’s been holding and turns his chair to face Carter.
“The Constitution and the laws of this state may be a pain in the ass, McGrath, but you might try keeping them in mind. We are still bound by them.”
Carter looks around the room, uncertain.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean that in your zealousness to serve our client you have indulged in a few shortcuts.”
“But Mr. Farrell, I only did—”
Farrell stops him with a glance.
“Mr. Reasons takes issue with these shortcuts. He has suggested to me that word of our transgressions might find its way to the press. If that were to happen it would cause Farrell Hawthorne no small embarrassment.”
Carter gives me a long look that turns slowly from amazement to contempt. “You’d go that low, Reasons.”
“I think we’re about on the same level here, sir.”
Farrell continues. “Mr. Reasons wants to see this case reach the courtroom, McGrath, and currently he has us in a position of disadvantage. To use an old expression, you might say he has us by the diamonds.”
“But, sir, we can’t take this case to court.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s … well, it’s not the kind of case …”
“You’re an attorney, aren’t you, McGrath?”
“Yes, sir.”
“An aspiring partner, in fact. Yes?”
Carter tries to loosen his collar.
“Yes, sir.”
“And if I remember correctly, and I still do sign the checks around here, you draw a pretty good salary. And it is coming up on six years for you, McGrath. Right about time for the firm to be making a long-term decision. Now surely anyone deserving of partner ought to be able to win a case like this on the merits. Don’t you think?”
Carter’s face is a lot of fun to see right now. There aren’t that many colors in a rainbow.
“Yes, sir.”
“Splendid. Now go do so.” Carter doesn’t move. “McGrath, haven’t you a court case to prepare?”
Carter walks out. Farrell gazes at the door, puffs his cigar, then turns his attention back to me.
“Son, you do know the standing this firm has in the legal community?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you
know how difficult we can make your life if you decide to bother us again. Good day, and remember, son, our word carries a lot of weight.”
“Not where I’m going, sir.”
CLEANING OUT MY DESK is a quick job. I don’t keep a lot of personal stuff here. I decide against a farewell lap around the office, but do stop at Kay’s desk on the way out. She gives me a hug, looks about to cry.
“Tom, how could they? What did you do?”
I wipe her eyes. “No crying—trust me, it’s better this way. Tell you what—next week I’ll take you for drinks and tell you the whole story.”
She lets me go. “I’m going to miss you, Tom.”
“Chin up, Kay. I’ll see you soon.”
Out on the street I turn and give a last look at the building. One year she took from me. As I walk away, it hits me that I’m probably the first Reasons to be fìred from anything. The first I know of, anyway. So why do I feel so steady?
Steady, hell—I’m downright pumped. The truth is, I couldn’t have plotted it any better. I didn’t figure to be long for that place anyway. Sure, I’d rather have given them the boot instead of the other way around, but I got my shots in, and this way I take care of Prego without having to leak anything to the press. He’ll get his chance in court, and once that jury gets a look at Regina Garrett … well, let’s just say I’ve got all my money on the Italian. As for Carter, I’d have my résumé squared away if I were him.
I let out a breath as I start uptown. Okay. I did the right thing, and it feels good, but now the Good Samaritan act is over. I turn my mind ahead. All of a sudden my life is pretty simple. All the distractions are out of the way and the task ahead is clear.
I’ve got me a dart match to win.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I NEVER SAW a thing.
I’m a pretty big guy—give me a chance to get an arm on someone and he’ll be the worse for it. But one second I’m heading into my building and the next I’m coming to in the alley next door, a sack over my face and my right arm, from the elbow up, stretched flat over a milk crate, a big hand on my wrist to keep it still.
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