by Sam O'Brien
“Yeah, man,” said Robert. “It sounds like a blast. Totally like something out of a novel. Horse racing’s a bit crooked, huh?”
“Ah, not so bad, but it’s not perfect, either.”
“As long as it’s imperfect or perfect enough to let us profit,” said Marco. “After that, I really don’t care.”
They all laughed. Oliver laid out the plans for Robert, but he seemed only vaguely interested and asked Oliver few questions. Marco was mostly silent, content to just sit there, nodding approvingly from time to time.
Over dinner, they laughed and joked about the random events which led to them all meeting, and ultimately, to this dinner table.
The next day, Oliver struggled down to the kitchen around midday. He poured himself a coffee from the pot, opened a newspaper, and turned to the sports pages. The sun blazed through the large window, onto his back. He did not hear Robert enter.
“Hey. How’s it going?” said Robert.
Oliver looked up. “Good, slept like a log. Feels like a holiday.”
“Hey, I was thinking. We should take off into the city. We could hang out, or go to see something – whatever you want. Then go to a bar and party. I know some places.”
Oliver nodded, smiling. “Sounds like a plan.”
“So, where you want to go?”
The visitor took a second to consider the many options in a city like New York, before deciding on a place that he had already been. “Well, I went to the Museum of Modern Art the last time I was here. The day I met you, in fact. I hear it’s all renovated and redesigned now. Might be good to take a look.”
“OK, cool, and I was thinking I’d like, take you to Ground Zero. You been?” he asked.
"No, what’s it like?”
“Strange. You’ll see.” He drummed his fingers on the marble surface and considered the logistics. “OK. So Dad’ll give me a car. No driver. That way we can park in midtown, take the subway, and stay in the city for the night. No driver to keep an eye on us.”
“When do you want to leave?”
“When you finish that coffee.”
Less than an hour later, they cruised through the Lincoln Tunnel and into Manhattan. Oliver was astounded once again by the energy of the city. People dashed urgently along the streets, and the advertising billboards flickered constantly: enticing, seducing.
They deposited the car and walked the few blocks to the Museum, then spent almost four hours slowly progressing from room to room, staring at great length at the pieces they liked. Both of them took turns to mock several pretentious people who were walking around the gallery with an air of self-importance and apparent looks of disdain on their faces.
“That guy’s so full of shit,” whispered Robert, nodding towards an expensively dressed man in his mid-forties, who was talking loudly about symbolism to a much younger and very beautiful girl. She looked like she wanted a cocktail and to go to Bloomingdales with his credit card.
“If he’s not careful, he might disappear up his own arsehole, at any second,” said Oliver. Robert burst out laughing. “Man, your accent’s cool. It’s like the whole tomayto/tomahto thing – asshole/arsehole. Man, chicks must love you here.”
“A foreign accent in America’s like being Superman – I’m different – but Ireland’s my Kryptonite.” They laughed.
They moved on downtown by subway, and toured Ground Zero. It was now fairly orderly, with the construction of the memorial just getting underway. Neither of them spoke much as they wandered, stopping only to take in the various shrines, statues, bronzes and other messages.
By evening they found themselves propped against the bar in a dark joint in SoHo. They knocked back imported beers and grazed on overly-salted pretzels; they had worked up a thirst. Oliver considered how well they had been getting on. The guy sitting opposite him didn’t seem like the spoilt brat who had nearly got himself run over ten years ago.
“Robert, you’re not twenty-one yet, are you?”
“Will be in October. Why?”
“How come you didn’t get carded when we came in here?”
“Nobody cards me where they know me, but even if they do, I have a fake ID.” He smirked. "Well, it’s real, just has the wrong date of birth – present from Mike for my eighteenth.”
“Isn’t it great to have connections?”
They grinned at each other, clinked glasses and drank. They sat in silence for a moment, until Oliver broke it.
“What happened to your nanny that day? Cassie, wasn’t it? She looked shit scared when you ran off. You were quite a handful.”
“Can’t remember.” He shook his head slowly. “Man, I had so many nannies. They never lasted long. Dad told me the Feds were always trying to get to them for info on him, or whatever . . .” His voice trailed off.
“It brought it all home for me earlier, to actually see the trade centre site,” Oliver said. “Your father and I had a conversation about the attack and how it made things easier for his line of business.” He was testing the water now.
Robert took another sip of beer and stared at the wall for a second. “Everyone in his line of work thinks the same,” he said finally. “But I don’t think that makes them bad people. Everyone has their reasons.” Another sip. “I mean, I bet the fucking government were delighted to be handed an excuse to do whatever they want all over the world.”
Oliver chewed his lip. He reckoned that sounded like Marco, not his son.
“What was your mother like?”
“I don’t remember her as much as I want to. That kind of scares me, you know, in case I forget her completely. She was great, always played with me, let me make hand-prints on the walls of her studio. My dad . . . He, uh, like . . . After she died, he just spent all his time on work.”
“When did you first know that your father’s business was, er, unusual?”
Robert shrugged and ordered two more beers. “I don’t know. I knew we weren’t like other families. At school everyone was, like, afraid and in awe of me. I suppose I knew my dad was someone who scared people.” He took a large gulp of the ice-cold liquid. “Anyway, I don’t know much detail about what he does. I just know we’re never short of cash. And I like that. He’s good to me.”
“He’s a generous man. I mean, he’s helping me out more than my own family ever have.” Oliver told Robert about his brother.
“I guess I’m lucky I don’t have brothers or sisters. I used to be lonely when I was a kid, though. It was difficult having friends over. I guess their parents worried they’d turn into little hoodlums, or some shit like that. That’s kind of why I wanted to study in California, to get away from all that,” he sighed. “Only problem is, I like my lifestyle and the money and the way things just seem to happen, doors open for me. Know what I mean?”
Oliver thought about it. That was the second time in a few minutes that Robert had sounded mature; maybe there was more to him than the rich party animal. Oliver said, “I do. And I understand. I mean, I’d say I’d feel the same way if I was you.”
"Hey, Dad’ll look after you, too. Don’t worry.” Robert shrugged. “Well, enough of that shit. Drink up!” He nudged Oliver’s elbow and motioned towards his beer glass. “Let’s move on, the night is young! You sure an old fella like you can keep up?”
“Not so old, you cheeky bastard. Only thirty-two. I’ll keep up.”
They left the bar and visited a succession of others in the district, each one darker and more crowded than the last. They were starting to feel quite drunk. Robert decided cocaine was the remedy. They packed themselves into a tiny toilet cubicle and greedily consumed the white powder. By the time they got out of a taxi in the meatpacking district, they were floating. They walked round a corner and saw a huge line of people on the street, all vying for the attentions of the nightclub doormen guarding the velvet ropes.
Oliver was having flashbacks to the time he had come to a place just like this with Mike. Maybe it was the same place? What difference did it make? As l
ong as they got in and the girls were as good as the coke.
Robert scanned the line. “Follow me,” he said.
He approached the doormen; they nodded, opened the rope and let him through. When he passed between them, each shot out a meaty arm to block Oliver.
“It’s cool guys, he’s with me,” said Robert.
Oliver grinned at them. Nice one: straight in the door. They strolled into the booming mass of people and Robert made straight for the bar. Oliver followed him, checking out women writhing suggestively on the dance floor. At the bar, Robert pushed a drunken guy out of his way so he could order. The guy, who was as big as Robert, reacted by shouting and making threats. Without a word, the young Romano looked the guy up and down and walked away, then jerked his head for Oliver to follow.
The guy shouted, “Pussies!”
They headed back to the door, where Robert whispered to one of the gorillas. The guy spoke into his headset and nodded.
“Watch this,” said Robert, making his way back inside.
Two bouncers appeared and stealthily attached themselves to the arms of the drunk. He was swiftly escorted towards the door in a state of bewilderment. As the guards dragged him out, Robert could not resist smirking at him.
Oliver, in his cocaine haze, didn’t know whether to laugh or be shocked. “I can’t believe you got him kicked out,” he said.
“Fuck him, he’s an asshole – or should I say, arsehole?”
They both cracked up into fits of laughter.
After that, they were taken up to a secluded balcony, where there were two busty, sweaty- looking girls drinking cocktails and sniffling. Oliver was getting that déjà vu feeling. They sat and chatted. And drank. And snorted. The night passed in a blur of drugs and girls.
In the early hours, they had finished the cocaine and the high had come crashing down. They stumbled into the lightening day and took a taxi to their rooms at the Marriot in mid-town. As Oliver drifted off to sleep, he thought to himself just how lucky he was.
They spent the rest of the week the same way that: drinking in some bar in Jersey or New York, snorting coke and playing pool. Oliver didn’t see Marco again. He got a message from Mike that he was away on business, which relieved the Irishman, considering how hard he and Robert had been partying.
Before he left for the airport, Robert and Oliver exchanged numbers and agreed to keep in touch. Mike whisked Oliver away, but dropped him back at the Best Western. Oliver, slightly puzzled, looked at him with raised eyebrows.
“You take a cab from here,” said Mike.
“Sure. It’s safer, I suppose?”
“Something like that. Open your cell phone, save my number. Under Mike, just Mike. Gotit?”
“Got it.”
“OK. Take care of yourself, tell me when you’re coming over again and remember everything we discussed. If you need anything, I’m just a phone call away.”
They shook hands and Mike clapped a hand onto the Irishman’s shoulder.
“Thanks for everything, Mike. Really, you and Marco’ve been great.”
“Aah, that’s what family’s for. We help each other out. Now go on, get outta here.”
Oliver sat in the departure lounge and allowed himself a satisfied smile. Job well done. Now he just had to buy the horses. Who needed a family when he had friends like these?
* * *
Agent Huntley picked up his phone. “Yeah?”
“It’s Rosen.”
“What’ve you got?”
“Do you want this Irish guy questioned before he gets on his plane?”
“No. It’s too early, I want to see where this goes. But make sure the system flags us if he comes back.”
“OK. They must like him, they got him an expensive hooker, then he stayed the week at Romano’s house.”
“At his house? You’re shitting me?”
“No.”
“Christ, nobody ever goes in there, I mean nobody. Except Mike, that old servant and Luigi, the security chief. This is huge.” Huntley flipped the device shut and pondered an idea as he stared out the car window at the police cars and forensics van. He watched an officer running crime scene tape around the clapboard suburban house.
He sighed and got out, flashed his ID to the cop on the door, and was let inside.
“Thanks for calling, Jim,” said Huntley.
The grizzled, burly cop turned and half-smiled. “Yeah, well, once I figured it was Mike the Nail’s work, I knew you’d want to see. Jesus, Huntley, you look like shit – you ever sleep? Or you just lie awake counting the ways you’d like to get Romano?”
Huntley rubbed his temples. “Save the wisecracks, Jim. Tell me what you got.”
Jim led him into the kitchen. Huntley saw two men, probably late twenties, early thirties, slumped over each end of the table.
“How long they been like this?”
“Bout a week, I guess. Neighbours complained about the smell, we sent a unit to investigate. Nice surprise, huh?”
Both men were stripped to the waist and gagged. They had their hands spread out in front of them and nailed to the table. Their knees were nailed to the chairs and their feet to the floor. Their bellies had been slashed open, and intestines spilled out over their knees and onto the linoleum. The floor was covered in a pool of dried blood. The stench of decay was unbearable.
Two forensics officers were taking photos and swearing. “Mind your goddamn step,” barked one.
“Any cash or drugs in the place?” asked Huntley.
“No, but our guys reckon that’s cocaine residue on the countertop,” said Jim.
“Who were they?”
“Two fuckin’ idiots. Thought they could get involved with your friend and the Nail, and it wouldn’t bite them in the ass.”
“So what went down?”
Jim shrugged. “Who the fuck knows? Who cares?”
Huntley jabbed his finger at the cop’s barrel chest. “I fucking care, Jimbo. Answer my goddamn questions or I’ll have your badge.”
Jim looked furious. One of the forensics guys stifled a smirk.
“Jesus Christ, Huntley, give it a rest. You’ll wreck your life trying to get these guys. We got two more bodies with nails in them and fuck all else. And I’ll bet you my badge we don’t get a print or a hair in the place from anyone except these two.” He shook his head. “Why don’t you go after Colombians or terrorists instead?”
Huntley ignored him. “I’ll call you in forty-eight hours. You can give me the full report then.”
Jim grunted as Huntley spun on his heel.
Back in his office, he summoned Rosen. Karl Rosen was stocky and shorter than the thin, gaunt Huntley. Rosen knew that people called them Herman and Uncle Fester, after the characters in the Munsters’ films, and even he thought Huntley was a grey as a vampire.
“What now?” he said, plonking himself on the sofa with a sigh.
“I’ve had enough of the Gent.”
Rosen rolled his eyes. “What happened now?”
“They nailed two more guys.”
“Shit. Worse than before?”
“The same.”
“Any evidence?”
“The usual: fuck all. Anyway, this Irish guy could be our biggest break yet. I’ve been thinking. We’ll need a few more guys and a couple of girls, too . . . Yeah, two girls: young, straight out of Quantico, if possible. And good-looking, too.”
“Shit, Pete, you don’t ask for much. We’ll never get approval for that unless you can link it to terrorism.”
“Fuck terrorists. The Gent’s worse. You leave approval to me. You just start going through personnel files and keep an eye on the Irishman when he comes back.”
“You sure we’ll see him again?”
“He’s been to the Gent’s house. You know that never fucking happens, right?”
Rosen sighed again. “If you say so.”
“I know so. He’ll be back. He’ll get in with the Gent, and he’ll probably end up nailed to a t
able. Unless we put Romano away first.”
Chapter 15
The next morning, Oliver was sitting in the cosy kitchen of his mother’s house, sipping coffee and trying to stave off jet lag.
Evelyn appeared and was both startled yet delighted to see him. “Oliver, what a lovely surprise.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and sat beside him at the large oak table. “I didn’t hear you get in.”
Oliver rubbed his bleary eyes. “My flight got in at five-thirty; I didn’t want to wake you. God, I’m knackered; running on adrenalin.”
“How did it go? You left in such secrecy, and I didn’t hear a word from you. I was getting worried.”
“Yeah, sorry, Mum. I should have called, but it was a mad week. Feels like a dream. Or a scene from a movie.” He yawned and stretched. “The good news is, I found myself an investor and we worked out a deal. I’m going to start buying horses in a few months.”
Evelyn lit up. Her whole face erupted into a smile of pure joy. “Oh, my dear Oliver, that’s wonderful news.” She couldn’t help but embrace him. “Tell me all about it. I knew you could do it.”
Oliver raised his eyebrows and cocked his head at her. “Did you? Really? Huh, you might have let me know.”
“Oh, Oliver, don’t be like that. I prayed for you every night and lit candles for you at church last Sunday.”
“I’m sure that made all the difference.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Oliver, and don’t mock my beliefs.”
“Sorry, Mum, it’s the jet lag. Thanks, really.”
"That’s OK, I’m just happy you’ve found an investor. Now, this calls for a celebration. I’ll make you a nice fried breakfast while you give me all the details.”
She went to the fridge and started to prepare bacon rashers, sausages, eggs, tomatoes, black pudding, and lots of tea and toast. The smell wafted around the kitchen.
Oliver drooled with hunger. “Mum, you’re a star. I love your breakfasts. But as far as giving you all the details, there isn’t much to tell. It’s someone I knew from when I worked in America ten years ago, and he trusts me enough to back me. And for that, I am very grateful.”