American Blood

by Ben Sanders

  Marshall wondered if that was a wish for dying or surviving, but he didn’t ask. He said, “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to call Loretta, tell her how much I love her and that sort of thing. Right now that’s the sum total of my intentions.”

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  Cohen said, “Maybe the one savin’ grace of this kind of thing. You see the world with a bit of extra clarity, and you know pretty well what your priorities are.”

  Wisdom applicable to himself, but in a slightly different way. Marshall sipped his coffee, careful to hide the noise. He said, “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  * * *

  Marshall drank and watched the light show.

  Vance dead by the Chrysler. The other thug dead in the Tahoe. The two men dead in the motel room. To him it was the natural outcome, but it would be nice to know the odds. If somehow there existed a great accounting of the world with a cosmic tally of human traits he could see the number that had brought him to this moment alive.

  He’d done this a long time and he’d always been on the side of good fortune. But one thing he knew was that all safe bets run their course and eventually even the slimmest chance will manifest as the thing you’re facing. Maybe this was his final win. Maybe come next time whatever good luck he’d ridden would be gone, and Marshall with it.

  Who would they tell? Probably his mother, wherever she was. His father, wherever and whoever. His private self so carefully concealed, Sarah could never know. Abby would say: Where’s Marshy Marsh?

  He’d just be a bygone element of someone else’s life. Perhaps he already was.

  He drained the mug. The waitress asked if it was to his satisfaction and he smiled and told her it was.

  Last night’s phone call with Rojas was playing in his head:

  I’m planning on killing you. That lady cop, too.

  Lady cop.

  Lauren Shore.

  He had another cup of coffee while he thought about what to do. Without exception he placed the mug in the same position after every sip with the handle perpendicular to the counter edge. He had his sleeves down to hide the blood from the two men he’d killed in the motel room, and he buttoned each cuff in turn. When the coffee was finished he picked up the phone again and dialed information and asked for the New Mexico MVD. The call was redirected to an automated service. He listened to the prerecorded options and pushed the button to speak to an operator. A woman picked up.

  “New Mexico Motor Vehicles Division, you’re speaking with Diane, how may I help?”

  Marshall, talking in a murmur, said, “Yes, hi. My wife’s just re-registered her car, you might have actually spoken to her. Her name’s Lauren Shore, the car’s a Chevrolet. Let me see here.” He recited her license plate number from memory. “What I was wanting to check, she’s actually overseas right now but we’re moving in three days, but I don’t know if she’s swapped the car over to the new address. Sorry, I’m not being very helpful, I don’t actually know if she had it on our house, or if it was registered to the office, I normally just leave this stuff to her.”

  He waited. He could hear typing.

  The woman said, “Shore. Chevrolet. Uh. Loma Del Norte Road, Northeast?”

  “Oh great, she must have changed it. And number twelve hundred, I think? That’s the new place.”

  “Uh. No sir, I’ve got eighty-one fifty-six here.”

  “Oh, of course, twelve hundred’s the new office. That’s fine, thank you for your help.”

  “Have a good day, sir.”

  Marshall put down the phone and walked out.

  2010

  One of the taskforce safe houses was on Foster Avenue in Brooklyn, a temporary lease above a grocery/deli on the ground floor, only a short walk from the PD’s 70th Precinct. When Marshall arrived at nine A.M. the three of them were waiting:

  Lee Ashcroft from the NYPD’s Organized Crime Control Bureau, Sean Avery from the FBI, and Avery’s supervisor, a guy in his midforties Marshall had named the Ray-Ban Man on account of his eyewear.

  They were at the table by the window, blinds partially drawn. A narrow view across the street of brownstone frontages, the steel fire stairs a thin black sawtooth on the brick. On the glass in reverse gold print was written EZRA SILVERSTEIN, DIVORCE ATTORNEY. Marshall didn’t know if it was part of the ruse, or if Ezra was a former tenant. He sat down.

  Ashcroft said, “We sent a unit down along Eighty-sixth, no Mikhail.”

  Marshall said, “There must have been witnesses. I saw about a dozen people.”

  Ashcroft nodded. “He was only there a few minutes, two guys came and got him.”

  “How’d they find him so soon?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Lloyd called and tipped them off. Who knows.”

  Marshall didn’t answer. Ashcroft was fiftyish, a big guy going bigger, stomach the main culprit. Neck approaching the girth where the top button would be a touch-and-go affair. Avery was your standard government man: polite in a kind of cool and detached way, no real spark. Nothing unpleasant, but nothing you’d look forward to seeing again. The Ray-Ban Man seemed to be cut from the same cloth: a trim gray suit to match his trim gray haircut, quiet and concise, an air of oncologist about him. Accustomed to bad news, and good at being polite with it. Right now he sat with arms folded, back against the wall beside the window, head turned so he could look out along the street. On his right Avery held his mirror pose, between them both directions covered.

  Marshall said, “I want out.”

  Nobody answered.

  The Ray-Ban Man’s sunglasses were on the table in front of him, folded in a square by way of hinges at the bridge and temples. He looked at them and then looked back out the window and said, “Is your cover compromised?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So as far as he’s concerned, you’re just a bent cop?” Trying to be gentle with it.

  Marshall said, “Uh-huh.”

  “So what’s the issue?”

  All three of them looked at him, like this would be good.

  Marshall said, “The issue is my morals are compromised.”

  The Ray-Ban Man looked at Ashcroft, a silent question exchanged: Will you do it, or shall I?

  Ashcroft leaned forward, arms on the table, poised to deliver a difficult truth. He said, “It’s the nature of the work. You might have to do things you don’t like.”

  “I shot a guy in the stomach. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

  Nobody answered. Avery traced an eyebrow very carefully with a thumbnail.

  Marshall said, “What about that tail job we had last week? That guy in Koreatown who Jimmy Wheels shot?”

  Ashcroft said, “Who’s that, the little wheelchair guy?”

  “Yeah. Wheelchair guy.”

  Ashcroft said, “Midtown South said the transfusion almost saved him.”

  “Almost.”

  “Yeah. Not quite.”

  Marshall said, “Wonderful.”

  Ashcroft said, “This is New York organized crime. Sometimes people get hurt.”

  Marshall looked at him and smiled. “I appreciate that, Lee. The problem I’ve got is I’m supposedly doing this for the greater good, except I’ve got no sense of where the end is and I’m complicit in things I’m going to regret for the rest of my life.”

  Ashcroft said, “Killing people.”

  “Well. Killing people who maybe didn’t need it. Like maybe that Russian guy from the night before.”

  The Ray-Ban Man said, “So what do you propose?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well.” Delicate, like he knew how this would go. “You want out, how do you think you’re going to do it?”

  Marshall said, “Like any job. Just don’t show up on Monday.”

  The Ray-Ban Man smiled, doctor with the prognosis. He said, “Are you going to take your uncle with you?”

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  “Or were you just goi
ng to disappear and see what happens? Assume Tony won’t think to ask Eddie where you’ve gone. Or that he won’t hurt him, either.”

  Marshall said, “I’ve been doing this nine months now. I didn’t write you a blank check so you could work me forever.”

  The Ray-Ban Man said, “Yes. But you’ve got to stay with it long enough for us to make an arrest.”

  “And when’s that going to happen?”

  “Eventually.”

  Marshall said, “What’s the Bureau’s priority?”

  “All kinds of things. We’ve been through it.”

  “Yeah, but what’s the big-ticket item you want to hang on him?”

  The Ray-Ban Man said, “I’m retiring in a month, so goals might get a shakeup. But if you find me the Dallas Man, it would make a nice retirement present.”

  The Ray-Ban Man chasing the Dallas Man. Marshall liked the namelessness of it. He said, “Lloyd mentioned him the other night.”

  The Ray-Ban Man nodded slowly, like some private mystery had just gained clarity. “What did Lloyd have to say?”

  “Nothing we don’t already know: Tony uses him on the tough jobs, makes people just disappear.”

  “How’d you get onto that subject?”

  Marshall said, “He said he was going to have him kill me if I didn’t stay in line.”

  Not a glimmer, nothing. As threats went he’d probably heard worse. “And that was it?”

  “I guess it struck him as a pretty good line to close on.”

  Nobody answered.

  Marshall said, “I can’t believe after nine months you still don’t have enough.”

  Avery said, “Keep digging.”

  His one curt contribution, didn’t even deign to look at him.

  Marshall said, “Did you read my report?”

  The Ray-Ban Man said, “All it seems to say is you shot a guy, and Tony Asaro poked someone in the eye with a spoon.”

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  Ashcroft made a steeple with his fingers, tips only just touching. He said, “It would be nice to get him on something bigger than assault with cutlery.”

  Marshall said, “So is this Dallas Man going to be big enough?”

  The Ray-Ban Man checked his nails. He said, “If you find him and prove he’s been killing people on Tony’s dime, then we’ll make an arrest.”

  Marshall said, “Make me a cake, too?”

  The Ray-Ban Man smiled. “We’ll fly one up from Quantico.”

  * * *

  After the Bureau guys had gone they sat in Ashcroft’s car, Ashcroft at the wheel with a pastrami sandwich in one hand, coffee in the other. He liked a good deli.

  Marshall said, “Do you even know what his real name is?”

  “Who?”

  Marshall looked at him. “Mr. Sunglasses.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What is it?”

  “He swore me to secrecy.”

  “Jesus Christ, Lee.”

  Ashcroft kissed a drip of mayonnaise. “Some of these fed guys get funny about their privacy. I dunno. The guy’s very sorta … you know. Particular.”

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  Ashcroft took a bite, followed it with coffee. Every few seconds he checked his mirrors.

  “Shit, you’re jittery. We’re not having an affair.”

  “Yeah, well. If there’s someone watching I’d prefer to know about it.”

  “There’s nobody watching. I guarantee it.”

  Ashcroft didn’t answer.

  Marshall ran a hand through his hair, let that sit between them a while. He said, “Eddie’s got a debt with them. They’re chasing him for it. Lloyd told me.”

  “Ah, shit. Eddie your uncle?”

  “What other Eddie would I be worried about?”

  Ashcroft said, “How much?”

  “Sixteen grand.”

  Ashcroft tilted the sandwich a few different ways, lining up a good mouthful. “Should I ask why he owes it?”

  “No. You better not.”

  Marshall looked out the window, listened to him chewing. He said, “If NYPD gives me the money I can clear the debt.”

  “Marsh, Jesus.”

  “It’s only sixteen K. Asaro has me on two a week, I’ve been booking that as evidence for nine months, just take a little back.”

  “Marshall, I can’t.”

  Marshall turned and looked at him. “So what can you do? Let’s try and be positive, if we can.”

  “Ah, Christ.”

  Ashcroft tossed his sandwich on the dash, wax paper on vinyl sliding to the corner. He cradled the cup in his lap and looked at his side mirror. “I’m trying to get you out, okay? I’m doing my goddamn best.”

  Marshall didn’t answer. He climbed out slowly and was very gentle with the door.

  * * *

  Round two was at the Hilton on West Twenty-sixth Street. Afterward they lay in bed in the dark, no noise from the street, and across the ceiling the city lights cast long and random through the gap between the curtains.

  Marshall, head on one arm and Chloe in the other, said, “Does anyone wonder where you are?”

  She arched her back. “I doubt it. I don’t have a bedtime anymore.”

  He said, “What about your credit card?”

  She turned and lay against him. Just a darker shape in the dark. Her breath on his neck. “What do you mean?”

  “You put the room on Visa. But who gets the bill?”

  “I do.”

  “So it’s private.”

  “Yes, Marshall. It’s private.”

  “I just wondered.”

  She didn’t answer.

  He said, “How do you pay for it all?”

  “I have money.”

  “From your father?”

  “How else do you think I could afford this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Quiet a little while. He watched the lights and then he said, “Do you ever wonder how he made his money?”

  “No. I know how he made his money. Buying property and then selling it for a profit.”

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  She said, “Why are you even asking me this?”

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  She said, “Normal cop suspicion? Or cynicism or whatever.”

  “Something like that.”

  She said, “You think he’s hiding something?”

  “Everybody’s hiding something.”

  She propped herself on an elbow and looked at him. She ran the other hand through his hair. “What are you hiding?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  Marshall said, “Yes it is. I don’t know if people hide how much they know about me.”

  She didn’t move, this vague rendering above him in the dark. She said, “That night you called me. How did you get my number?”

  Hard to lie in this context. She could feel his warmth, his heartbeat, his breathing. He kept it vague. “I’m a police officer.”

  “I didn’t know the NYPD was that efficient.”

  He said, “Depends on the situation.”

  She laughed gently through her nose, and he smelled alcohol from earlier. “Did you tell them there was a girl you wanted real bad?”

  “Not quite. I didn’t want that on the file.”

  She didn’t answer, and he thought she’d let it go. Her hand was on his chest. Maybe nothing, maybe tracking rhythm, listening for the truth.

  At length she said, “Are you hiding how much you know about me?”

  “No.”

  “So you don’t know very much.”

  Marshall gave it a moment and said, “There’s only one thing I want to know now.”

  She lay down again, her head on his shoulder, lips on his skin. “Which is?”

  “Would you ever leave here?”

  No movement, but he knew she was holding her breath: no cyclic warmth on his neck. She said, “I don’t know. It would depend why. And for
whom.”

  Maybe this was too far, too soon. He said, “What about for me. Because I asked you to.”

  Still holding her breath. “I thought this was just fun.”

  “It is.”

  “So that’s a pretty serious invitation.”

  “You can still think about it. If you want.”

  She didn’t answer. He watched the ceiling, and after a few seconds she started breathing again.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Wayne Banister

  Back at the motel.

  Regret was always a delayed effect. Getaways took some concentration. It was often an hour before the don’t-be-seen imperative gave way to other thoughts. Not that he wanted to confront it, but the quiet made it weigh on him. You’ve just killed two people, trapped a kid with a dead body.

  He rationalized it based on past experience. Not that he thought it was right, but he’d learned to apply some moral relativism: the world had given him much, much worse. Whatever wrong he’d dealt was negligible in the grand scheme of horror.

  They’d been married eight years when she started getting symptoms. Night sweats, back pain, weight loss you could notice week-to-week. She called it early: cancer. He told her don’t be stupid. He ascribed it to job stress. He said relax. He came on too glib: most people would kill to get that slim. But then the tests came back: Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

  Sweetheart, you’ve got a year.

  He had good medical. It covered her exorbitant chemo and pill costs. But she was a fighter. Support groups talked in terms of life lived: you’ve had thirty-five wonderful years. She saw the flipside: you’ve got forty-something more ahead of you. She couldn’t die and miss out.

  She researched and sourced extra drugs. Trial meds lacking FDA approval. The monthly tab ran a solid four figures. He needed more work to meet the costs. The choice was obvious, given his training. He knew how to do it, and he knew how the system operated.

  He killed a pimp off Rockaway Boulevard, out by JFK airport. The guy had snitched on one of Tony Asaro’s dealers, put the guy in federal for ten to fifteen. Tony wanted the pimp dead. Wayne got wind and put an offer in: thirty thousand, and I can make him disappear.

  Tony accepted.

  Wayne did the deed and caught the train home afterward. Shakes and nausea at the Broadway Junction transfer. He almost fell on the tracks, but a homeless woman pulled him back.