American Blood

by Ben Sanders

  She said, “You’re not local, are you?”

  He shook his head. “New York. I’ve been down here about five years.”

  “So what’s your story? I figured you were some. I don’t know. Special Forces guy or something.”

  He took his time answering, venturing into things he’d never really talked about before. He said, “I was NYPD. I worked undercover with the mob. It was a joint police/FBI thing.”

  She said, “That’s not the full story.”

  “No.”

  “So can you tell me?”

  He said, “I was with a guy called Tony Asaro. East Coast mob. Ran protection and stuff for him.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-four. I was twenty-nine at the time.”

  “So how’d you end up doing that?”

  Marshall said, “I lived with my uncle in New York. Asaro was his brother-in-law. My uncle had laundered money for him through his business for years, so Asaro knew him and he knew me before I was a cop.”

  Getting back to details he didn’t want to share, but the way she was calmly watching, like this was any old story, he felt safe to go all in. And he had to. It was reciprocal disclosure. He couldn’t back out now.

  He said, “He wanted me working for him as well. They get you fast, this was when I was only just out of the academy.” He smiled. “They backed off long enough for me to get a transfer to organized crime, and then it was all on.”

  “So he thought he had a bent cop on his payroll.”

  “Yeah. And he got an undercover one instead.”

  “So where is he now?”

  “Prison. Federal tax evasion, like they got Al Capone.”

  “And how did you get out?”

  “Not easily.”

  “Hence the WITSEC thing.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is Marshall your real name?”

  He nodded. “Well, kind of. I wanted to keep Marshall, but I could only have it as a middle name. So I’m James Marshall Grade.”

  She nodded. “I like it. It’s got a … I don’t know. It’s got a ring to it.”

  He mouthed it a few times, testing the claim. He said, “Yeah, I guess. I’ve always thought of myself as just Marshall rather than Marshall-something. Or whatever, something-Marshall-something. The other bits never really meant anything.”

  She gave that a few seconds to settle, and then she said, “Who was it you were supposed to protect?”

  Marshall said, “Her name was Chloe.”

  She waited.

  Marshall tipped his head back, like it could shift the memory, make it clearer. He said, “She was shot.”

  “You going to tell me about it?”

  He said, “Put that kettle on again.”

  2010

  About five P.M. he sat with Ashcroft in his car on Flatbush Avenue, crime scene tape over Eddie’s window where the glass had been shot out. They were parked diagonally opposite. The block was cordoned at the next set of lights, a small crowd behind the police cruisers, cell phone cameras rolling for posterity. A long line of marked and unmarked cars at both curbs.

  Ashcroft was slouched down in his seat, ball cap pulled snug like he was worried he’d be seen. He raised his coffee cup. “Look, sorry. This is kind of my little routine, didn’t really think about it.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I mean, yeah. No disrespect or anything.”

  Marshall looked at him. “Lee. I don’t care about your coffee.”

  Ashcroft made the most of the ruling and had a mouthful. The radio was on, status codes coming through at a murmur. “You doing okay, Marsh? You’re looking way too calm.”

  Marshall looked in his side mirror. The reflection of the sidewalk receding to a point. Things all converging. He said, “When have you ever seen me not calm?”

  Ashcroft sucked a tooth, lowered the visor a little and raised it again. “Yeah, well. If you were going to make an exception now would be the time.”

  Marshall said, “Still no witnesses?”

  Ashcroft shook his head. He leaned forward to see the upper-level windows. “Few people came out after the noise, but they said it just looked like a normal street. Other than over there obviously.”

  Marshall said, “Probably a drive-by. Guy in the back, pull up alongside, bang. Cabin’d catch all your brass. Late afternoon, no customers to worry about, either.”

  Ashcroft said, “Even just the one guy in a car. Drive in from this way, zip the window down, boom, and then you’re off.”

  Marshall said, “Exactly.”

  Ashcroft said, “You want to have a look inside?”

  Marshall looked across the street. A few guys in blue jumpsuits picking through the mess, CSU doing their thing. He said, “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Well. Yeah.”

  “So that’s all I’m going to see. Stuff out on the street’s what’s worth looking at. I don’t need to see his blood.”

  Ashcroft studied him. “How come you’re all normal?”

  Marshall looked in the mirror again and shifted in his seat so the vanishing point of the sidewalk was sitting dead center. “What did you think I’d be like?”

  “I dunno. I just … I didn’t think you’d be going over it with one arm up on the sill.”

  Marshall looked at him. “This is how I always sit. I think of good stuff while I’m sitting like this.”

  Ashcroft said, “Are you upset?”

  “A bit.”

  “A bit.”

  “I only knew him eight years.”

  “Who did you know before that?”

  “My mother. In Indiana.”

  “You need to call her?”

  “What, to tell her about this?”

  “Well. Yeah.”

  Marshall shook his head. “I don’t think she’ll mind. Eddie’s my dad’s brother, not hers.”

  “Jesus. Is your whole family like you?”

  “Like me how?”

  “All sort of … Ah. Don’t worry.”

  Marshall said, “I’ll put a checklist together, hunt my dad down wherever he is, see how we stack up.”

  Ashcroft looked at him as he sipped his coffee.

  Marshall said, “He was in debt sixteen grand to guys normal people would try and avoid talking to, let alone doing business with.”

  “So?”

  “So this here is a pretty natural by-product of the lifestyle he chose.”

  Ashcroft touched his hat brim and said, “Fuck, I end up getting clipped one day I hope I don’t have someone looking at it and going, Well, you know what? This here is a pretty natural by-product of the lifestyle he chose. Yada, yada.”

  Marshall said, “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I think you’re going too fast. He wasn’t necessarily whacked because he owed something.”

  Marshall said, “I’d say he was. You get threatened one week for owing money and then end up dead the next, there’s probably some kind of correlation.”

  Ashcroft popped the lid on his cup and took a look, sealed it again. He spent a moment looking at the crowd up the street. He said, “Might be right. Way I understand it though is if you’re dead you’re not much good for paying money if you owe any.”

  Marshall said, “Yeah. But you reach a point where you realize you’re never getting back what you’ve loaned. So you assess your options a little.” He nodded at the scene across the street. “Take some appropriate action.”

  Ashcroft shook his head, adjusted his mirror. “I don’t think you’re right.”

  “I think I am.”

  “Asaro wouldn’t have him clipped like that. I mean, shit. You’re working for him.”

  “This is a serious business. I saw him put a spoon through a guy’s eye the other night. Getting someone in a drive-by probably seems civilized. Like, this is probably a courtesy.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Stop asking me that. I’m fine.”

  Ashcroft lo
oked his jacket over. “What’re you packing under there? Doesn’t look like proper issue.”

  Marshall didn’t answer. It was the Beretta M9 Asaro had given him, the gun he’d used to shoot Vicki B.’s man, no silencer this time.

  Ashcroft said, “Had old Tom Whatshisname on the phone, from the range. Said he reckoned you’d been doing draw-fires three hours straight the other day. Said lucky he knew you were PD or he would’ve worried it was some Timothy McVeigh shit or something.”

  Marshall said, “If I’m ever in a shooting, I don’t want to be putting them wide.”

  Ashcroft didn’t answer.

  Marshall said, “You need to give that Ray-Ban Man a call, let him know I’ve had enough of undercover.”

  “I think you’re making too many assumptions.”

  “Well. I’d say if they’ve murdered my uncle it’s probably a conflict of interest or something. Probably a bureau guideline somewhere deals with it.” He opened his door.

  “You going for a look?”

  Marshall said, “No. I’m going for a walk.”

  * * *

  More like a subway ride. He got a Q train at the Parkside Avenue station. Standing-room only in the peak-hour traffic. These blank and tired faces and nobody talking, everyone swaying in rhythm, well-practiced moves. North and west across Brooklyn to the Manhattan Bridge, west to Seventh, north through Midtown. He got off at Fifty-seventh and shuffled with the crowd. Exhaust and hot trash aroma, the chatter of thousands. Up the stairs and he emerged into the cool evening, gentle by contrast, even with blaring traffic gridlocked on Seventh.

  He walked the two blocks up to Central Park and made a left at Fifty-ninth, headed for Columbus Circle. Right onto Central Park West. Walking north in the shadow of the elms and across the street the grand old apartments tall-windowed and ornate, dour-looking in the evening light, an almost grim opulence.

  He crossed CPW in front of the Dakota Building and cut north again over West Seventy-third, walked in the front entrance of the Langham.

  The guy at the desk recognized him and smiled primly. “Hello, sir. Are you expected?”

  Marshall said, “I’d say I probably am.”

  The guy dialed Asaro’s room and said a visitor was waiting. He listened briefly and then said, “Yes, sir, that’s right.” Then to Marshall as he lowered the phone: “You can go on up, sir.”

  Marshall rode the elevator to five. Lloyd was waiting at the door. Marshall stepped inside to the foyer. Asaro’s office on his left, separate doors to living and dining straight ahead. A hallway to the right. All very quiet.

  Marshall said, “Where’s your father?”

  Lloyd closed the door gently, leaned against it with folded arms. He said, “You can’t just show up and start demanding things.”

  “It was just a question.”

  Lloyd didn’t answer.

  Marshall said, “Where is he?”

  “On a plane somewhere. He has to go to Miami for this real estate thing.”

  “Real estate.”

  “What do you want?”

  Marshall in the center of the foyer, his back to the entry. He tugged his lapels gently, get the jacket shoulders sitting right. He said, “My uncle’s dead.”

  Open-ended, see where it led him.

  Lloyd said, “He did business with some hard guys. I guess that’s what happens.”

  Quiet a while, in case he took it further.

  Marshall said, “I never said it wasn’t natural causes.”

  Nothing. In the living room the TV was paused on some car game.

  Marshall said, “You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you, Lloyd?”

  He didn’t get an answer. Lloyd crossed the room to a side table holding an old rotary telephone and opened a drawer and took out a little Smith .38 and let it hang at his leg.

  “I don’t like the way you’re talking.”

  He pushed the drawer closed. Nothing twitchy to it, nice and easy, like he was fixing a drink.

  Marshall said, “I don’t think that’s how you want to do this.”

  Lloyd didn’t answer, drifted a little closer.

  Marshall said, “There’s a few different ways we can part but as long as you’re holding that you’re narrowing the options a bit.”

  “All right.”

  Six feet between them.

  Marshall said, “Just so you know. I don’t want to embark on anything without you and me both knowing where we’re heading. But if you’re sure.”

  Lloyd raised the gun and closed one eye to aim. The pistol at arm’s length. “Pretty sure I know how this is going. No crystal ball, either.”

  He cocked the hammer. “I’ve just got a way of knowing.”

  Marshall said, “Shooting cops is one of those things, pretty hard to pull off. Need to dress it up good for it to fly.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. You need to take that piece out of your jacket and put it down for me.”

  “No thanks.”

  Lloyd didn’t answer, just kept aim.

  Marshall said, “I’m not going to take it out, and you’re not going to shoot me unless I do something pretty rash. Too much hassle really, isn’t it?”

  Lloyd didn’t move.

  Marshall said, “Only way you’re getting it is if you come over here and make a play. We could give that a go. Otherwise I think we’ll just go sit down, have a talk about things.”

  He gestured with a thumb, raised his eyebrows invitingly as he walked through into Asaro’s office. On the left was his desk in front of a tall bookcase, one shelf serving as dry bar. Straight ahead two high-back chairs sat at mirror angles on either side of the tall window looking out over West Seventy-fourth. He chose the right-hand one and sat down so he was slouched comfortably, and laid an ankle across the other knee. Elbows on the rests with his fingers in a steeple just below his face. The Beretta under his jacket a nice weight on his chest. Lloyd took the other chair and laid the Smith sideways on the armrest.

  Marshall said, “So. You going to tell me what happened?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Someone killed Eddie this afternoon. Drive-by.”

  “Where? The shop?”

  Marshall nodded.

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Your father might.”

  Lloyd didn’t answer.

  Marshall said, “If it was him I’m going to kill him. Same goes for you, too.”

  “I think one day I’ll put you in the ground.”

  “I don’t think you will. But okay.”

  Lloyd didn’t answer.

  Marshall said, “Anyone else home?”

  Lloyd shook his head slowly, air pocket in one cheek, like it was bad news. He sighed through his teeth. “Just you and me, I’m afraid.”

  Marshall said, “Where’s Jimmy?”

  “Not here.”

  “You know if he’s taken any drives up Flatbush Avenue lately?”

  “No idea.”

  “Yeah. That’s a long way from saying you had nothing to do with it.”

  “I can’t say what he’s done or hasn’t done. Because I don’t know.”

  “I know. That’s why you’re going to put the gun down and we’re going to call your dad. See what the situation is.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Marshall said, “You remember what I said?”

  “About what?”

  “How you’ve set things moving on a certain road.” He looked out the window, an oblique angle down along Seventy-fourth. “There’s still time to back up.”

  Lloyd lifted the gun, lowered it again. He said, “Room’s soundproofed. Won’t need to dress anything up.” He smiled. “Quick tidy, no one will know.”

  Marshall said, “Well. That’s good to bear in mind.”

  Lloyd didn’t answer.

  Marshall said, “You know something?”

  “What?”

  Marshall said, “Universe is infinite.
” He dropped his chin a little, like trying to follow something distant. He said, “Means even the very slimmest luck has either already come to pass or will eventually. Anything you can think of, you give a thing endless chances, one day it’ll happen. Somewhere, at some point. Which is good because it means even if you make a wrong turn you’ve got the comfort of knowing that in another dimension your parallel self made a better choice. Maybe you already have. You could have done something that let you avoid sitting here altogether.”

  Lloyd didn’t answer.

  Marshall said, “Anyway.”

  He looked at Lloyd, the steepled fingertips bouncing in a small amplitude, half an inch. He said, “I guess there’s three things we can do. We can call Tony and see what the deal is. Or we can just wait until he gets back. Take a lot longer, but it’s nice and peaceful.”

  Lloyd smiled. “What’s the third way?”

  Marshall said, “Well. It’ll depend on what you do, I guess. Sort of a reactive thing on my part really.”

  Quiet between them. No traffic noise at all and he wondered if the room really was soundproofed.

  Lloyd crossed his legs, Marshall’s antipose. He said, “I think I’ll give you to thirty to get out, and then I’ll start firing.”

  Marshall waited. He said, “Have you started?”

  Lloyd smiled and slouched lower, spread his legs. “Uh-huh. Twenty-five.”

  “Oh. I thought you might count it out loud or something, doesn’t matter.”

  He slipped his phone from his right pocket, passed it to his left hand, let the right drape easy on his stomach. He said, “I’ll try and get hold of Tony, see what he can tell me in twenty seconds. Or however long it is.”

  Left arm cocked with the screen at eye level, he made a show of punching the numbers. Lloyd watching him. Marshall put the phone to his ear, frowning slightly, let’s see what he has to say.

  Two seconds’ pause. Then the landline on the desk began to ring.

  Marshall said, “Oh, wrong number.”

  He looked toward the noise, surprised. Quite a suggestive action, and Lloyd just couldn’t help but glance over too, and without moving his head Marshall drew the gun from his jacket and shot him twice in the chest.

  The bullets caught him high up on his right, maybe an inch spread. The Smith hit the ground but didn’t fire.

  Lloyd gasped and curled into himself, started to scream but kept it to a low croak in the back of his throat. As he fell forward Marshall could see the twin holes in the chair back, delicate threads of white stuffing visible.