Chris had already begun to edit his reports. He never lied to the department, and he always gave his location, but he didn’t give the address anymore; he would say he was “in the vicinity of …” Harry seemed satisfied just knowing where Chris was driving John, during the week, knowing who he was meeting and where, and how he was greeted. Chris described that as best he could; if John was greeted with a lot of respect, that guy was a nothing guy.
Other than that, Chris didn’t want to send in more detailed reports that might involve Anna and Marty. He just wanted to feel the way he felt tonight, relaxed and at ease, happy to have just spent a perfectly normal evening, with people he liked to be with, in a perfectly normal way. It was an illusion, of course. But undercover work, by its very nature, was an illusion of one kind or another. This one was just more comforting, and it was beginning to seem more real.
Solly told Chris The Daily Planet was closing. Somebody would stay around to manage the pross part, which was still flourishing, with plenty of customers from about four to seven P.M. But the gambling part had died out. “We shot our load there,” Solly said. “We’ll look around and open someplace fresh.” Chris hoped Solly wouldn’t find a new job for him right away. He wanted to spend as much time with Marty as he could.
On his own, he’d cut back his games at Waterside, from once a week to once a month. He was getting edgier about the men who were coming. Not because of their numbers—he was averaging eight to ten men a night, now that the games had settled into expert affairs—but because of their backgrounds. These were professionals, men who were more likely to spot one of the electronic devices and finger him as an informer. He had to watch carefully who sat where, and what that guy might be watching—was he going to use the phone and quickly unscrew the mouthpiece? Did that guy really have to go to the bathroom? and if he did, why was he staying in there so long? One man who came to Waterside regularly was a close associate of a Luchese capo who was involved with the Purple Gang, a network for narcotics distribution. The young members of the Purple Gang had been errand boys in East Harlem for the established OC chiefs there, the men whom George had despised. “I spit on them!” George had said. Then the errand boys had grown up. They continued to work for some of the bosses, including that Luchese capo, but they also liked doing things on their own initiative. They especially liked fingering informers. One informer whom they found was left in pieces—his lacerated torso on a side street in Queens, his head on the 97th Street entrance to the Grand Central Parkway, eastbound.
Sometimes Chris and Marty got out of the city, when she left work on Friday, and drove upstate.
Even with the heavy Friday evening traffic, they liked to leave then, so that when they woke up on Saturday, they’d be in the country. Chris had another new car—he got a new car from Harry about every year to keep up appearances. After the Buick he’d had an Oldsmobile, then had moved up to a white Lincoln. The car was so flashy it almost hurt your eyes, so big you could have put a bathtub in it. Chris had a lot of fun driving that car, and he loved going to the country in upstate New York. The only thing that bothered him was a pain he was beginning to feel in his groin. Well, considering his life-style, all the running around, not sleeping much, why wouldn’t his body rebel in some way? He took a lot of aspirin, and tried not to think about it.
Marty knew a little inn, a hideaway, where they always stayed. Their room had a fireplace; one chilly night, Chris made a fire. “Where did a musician who grew up in New York City learn to make such a good fire?” Marty asked. She was teasing, but he could tell that she really was interested, and a bit puzzled. Chris mumbled something vague and changed the subject quickly.
With less to do in Manhattan, at least temporarily, Chris went back to Astoria more often to keep his hand in. By now, he knew everybody who came in to the club. He knew Rudy well. Since the early days when Rudy saw him as a cigarette hustler, Chris’s reputation had soared, thanks to his association with Solly, mostly. Chris thought that buying the guns from Rudy had probably helped, too. Chris had seen Rudy from time to time, off and on, usually in Astoria, and Rudy had always been agreeable. He didn’t look all that agreeable—Rudy was a big guy, about six one, two hundred and fifty pounds—but Chris had no reason to think otherwise, when Rudy came in around two A.M. and sat at the bar with a scotch.
“I used to do undercover work,” Rudy said.
Chris just looked at him. Everything in his head was going BOING! BOING! BOING! as he tried to think how he should react. Do I look straight ahead? Do I look away? Do I look surprised? Do I look nonchalant? Do I look interested?
Chris figured he probably reacted in all those ways. “Oh, yeah?” he said.
“Yeah,” Rudy said. “I used to work for the CIA. So I know what it’s like to work undercover.”
Rudy said something about the CIA and Cuba, but Chris wasn’t paying close attention. What is he getting at? Chris was thinking. “C’mon, Rudy, you’re bullshitting me, aren’t you?” he asked.
“No, no,” Rudy said. “I was with the CIA, and I know all about working undercover.”
“So what are you telling me for, Rudy?” Chris asked.
Rudy gave him a long, level look. “I just felt like telling you,” he said.
When Rudy left, Chris was relieved. As bizarre as it seemed, maybe the guy had worked for the CIA. Chris had reached the point where he could believe almost anything. On the other hand, he doubted that a guy who had worked for the CIA was going to come right out and say so. He was still mulling it over when Rudy returned. He sat at the bar and had another scotch.
“I have to go over and see a guy on Roosevelt Avenue,” Rudy said. “I want you to come with me.”
“Hey, sorry,” Chris said, “I got a place to run here, I can’t leave.”
“Sure you can,” Rudy said. “Gene is here. C’mon, do me a favor, go with me to see this guy. It won’t take long, maybe an hour.”
Something told Chris not to go. It would be a mistake to go. But something else said, go with him, see what he’s up to. Chris thought that if he didn’t go, it might reinforce whatever ideas Rudy had about him. Then Rudy would just come back another time. Better to see it through now. If I don’t go, and he doesn’t come back, I’ll always wonder what this was all about.
He remembered clearly what Big Lou had said: “Rudy’s good with a gun.” But Chris thought that as long as he stayed alert, remained aware, he’d be okay. You had to be aware on the streets of New York, anyway; everybody did. If you weren’t aware, on the street, you might get hit by a bus, or somebody would bump into you and pick your pocket.
“Okay,” Chris said, “gimme a minute.”
Chris went into the bathroom. He made sure his gun was loaded. He chambered one round, so he wouldn’t have to cock it. All he would have to do was pull the trigger.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said to Rudy, as he took his overcoat from the office. “But I gotta be back in an hour.” He swung the coat around and transferred the gun to its pocket, making a small production of putting it on as Rudy got up.
“Yeah, an hour,” Rudy said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Rudy drove a red Cadillac with a white leather interior. The car was immaculate, gleaming, which didn’t surprise Chris. When wiseguys parked their cars on Mulberry Street, or out by the Bergin club, it was like pulling into a service station, with half a dozen guys swarming all over the vehicle—washing, waxing, buffing.
Chris had spent more than twenty years in Queens, both in the outside world and in the OC world. He could have found his way around these streets blindfolded. As they drove east on the Grand Central Parkway, he knew the exit for Roosevelt Avenue was the exit for 111th Street and Shea Stadium, then a right, under the El.
Rudy drove past the exit.
“What are you doing, Rudy?” Chris said. “That was the exit.”
“I’m going on a little farther,” Rudy said. “There’s another exit.”
That’s right, Chris thought
. There is another exit, for the Long Island Expressway. It’s a little out of the way, but Rudy could turn off there and double back.
Rudy passed that exit, too.
“What are you doing, Rudy?” Chris asked again.
“Don’t worry about it,” Rudy said. “I’ll take the next one.”
Rudy took the next exit. But instead of turning back, he continued to drive east on Parsons Boulevard.
“Hey, you’re going the wrong way, Rudy,” Chris said. “Roosevelt Avenue is back there, the other way.”
Rudy laughed. “Maybe we’ll just take a little ride,” he said.
“Hey”, I gotta be back in an hour,” Chris said. “I got some people to see, back at my place.” He tried to keep his voice low and growly, sort of aggravated, rather than shaky.
Rudy laughed again. “What’s the matter? You worried about something?” He turned off Parsons onto a side street. He was still driving fast, over fifty. The minute he slows down, Chris told himself, the very minute, I have to shoot.
Chris reached into his overcoat pocket. He gripped the little automatic, held it for an instant, then eased it up out of his pocket. Keeping his left arm bent and slightly raised, as a shield, he slid the gun noiselessly up his right side and across his chest, under his coat. He aimed the gun directly at Rudy’s head.
Chris could feel his heart thumping, right under the gun. He’d never shot anyone. He’d pulled it often, but in all these years, in all these situations, he’d come close to using it only once or twice. The first time was way back, when he was a rookie, on his first post in Rockaway. It was a summer evening, just getting dark. He was standing on a street corner, feeling bored, when a big guy in a T-shirt and shorts came running toward him. The man was yelling, and as he got closer, Chris could understand the words. “I’m going to KILL you!”
The guy was huge—like Hercules, Chris thought, all muscle. Chris was strong, but in a taut, wiry way. He felt he was no match for this monster.
“You talking to me?” Chris called.
The man was growling and snarling, making animal sounds. He was flailing his arms in the air. Chris began to back up, even as he was remembering what he’d just been told at the Academy: Never back up. Never retreat.
“Listen, pal,” Chris shouted. “Stay where you are! Stop right there! I don’t want to hurt you!”
The man kept coming. About ten feet in front of Chris, he stopped. He began moving very slowly forward, inching toward Chris, as though in a horror movie. He was still growling, his arms raised like enormous clubs. Chris could feel the smash of those arms on his head.
Chris had been holding his nightstick in his right hand. He switched it to his left and put his right hand on his gun in its holster.
“I don’t understand, do you have a problem?” Chris asked. He realized how ludicrous that sounded, but he didn’t know what else to say.
The man stopped for a moment, glaring. Small globs of thin, whitish foam dripped from the sides of his mouth. Oh God, why me, why me, why me? Chris thought wildly.
“I’m warning you!” he yelled. “Take one more step and I’ll kill you! I’ll put one in your head! I’m telling you right now, STOP!”
He pulled his gun and pointed it at the man’s chest. Bits and pieces of the firearms lectures at the Academy were spiraling through his head. The toughest decision you will ever have to make. Split-second. Must be necessary. Must be certain … your life in danger. Someone else’s life. Must be necessary. Absolutely. No choice. Then shoot. To protect yourself and public. Shoot!
Chris had backed up as far as he could go. He was bumping against the building. He was afraid that the guy would wrest the gun from him and shoot him with it, or run with it and shoot somebody else. He was just saying to himself, “Shoot! You have to shoot this guy!” when he heard frantic yells.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot, Officer!”
Two men came racing up behind the hulking fellow and pushed him away.
The men were his brothers.
“Listen, he just goes off the handle once in a while,” one of them told Chris. “Sorry.”
Rudy wasn’t slowing down. He was still driving fast on these dark, deserted streets, making conversation.
“How’s the piece you got from me?” Rudy asked.
“It’s good. It’s okay,” Chris said.
“You got it with you?” Rudy asked casually.
“No, I keep it at my house,” Chris said.
He thought it worked to his advantage to say he was unarmed. If Rudy thought he was armed he might not hesitate, just shoot. Boom! That was the edge the bad guys had; they knew what they had in mind. The good guy—the cop—couldn’t be sure when it was time to shoot, but the other guy always was. If Rudy thought Chris was unarmed, he might not be in a hurry to shoot. He could take his time, wait for the perfect spot, the right moment.
Rudy made a sharp turn. Chris thought he couldn’t wait, then, for him to slow down, or to make some obvious move. He would have to shoot now. He would have to shoot first. Shoot to kill. He could feel the index finger of his hand on the trigger. The finger felt detached and isolated, as though it didn’t belong to the rest of his hand. For the first time in his life, Chris was prepared to shoot someone just on the basis of what he was thinking.
“The hell with it,” Rudy said suddenly. “Let’s go back to your place. Where’s the fucking parkway?”
He braked sharply. The tires shrieked. He made a U-turn on the empty street and got back on the parkway. They were back within the hour.
“Surprise,” Marty said. “My parents have gone out. I’m making dinner for just the two of us.”
“Well, okay, fine,” Chris said, as he came inside. He was indeed surprised; he’d never been in the house without Anna and John around. When Marty had asked him out for dinner, he’d had no reason to think it was anything but a normal night.
“You look wonderful,” he said. “But how can you cook in that outfit?” Marty was wearing a long white dress in some thin, silky material that he could see right through.
Marty laughed. “You’d be surprised what I can do,” she said.
She took him into the living room, where there was a small table set up, with candles and wine glasses and one rose in the center of the table. A bottle of champagne was nestled in an ice bucket. Marty opened it with only a slight pop! skillfully, and poured for them both.
“There’s another surprise,” she said, as they sat down. “You probably think I’m making Italian food, but I’m not. I’m cooking Chinese.”
“Well, hey, that’s great,” Chris said. He’d hated Chinese food since the night at The Golden Slipper, and he wasn’t fond of champagne, for that matter, but what the heck? He would just enjoy it, in this dramatic setting, with Marty sitting there in the candlelight in that see-through dress. To keep his mind from going fuzzy, he asked something about her father.
“Let’s don’t talk about my father,” Marty said.
“Well, then, how about your mother?” Chris said. “I really like your mother. She’s a wonderful person.”
“She thinks a lot of you,” Marty said. “I don’t know if you realize that.”
“Well, gee, that’s nice,” Chris said. He knew he sounded like some schleppy kid, but he didn’t know what to say. “I’m really glad, because I sure do like your mother. She’s really nice.”
Marty took another sip of champagne, keeping her eyes on him. “My mother wants to know if we’re getting serious.”
“Well,” Chris said. “Well, what did you tell her?”
“I didn’t tell her anything,” Marty said. “I don’t discuss things like that with my mother.”
“Hey, you should,” Chris said. “She’s a very understanding woman. You should talk about things like that with her.”
Marty stood up. “I’m going to make dinner now,” she said. “Come watch.”
In the kitchen, she put on a plaid apron and poured oil into a wok. “Everything’s
ready,” she said, motioning to little dishes with chopped-up things in them—vegetables, walnuts, green beans, slices of chicken. Chris watched with interest as she poured things into the wok and stirred it so quickly that dinner was ready almost immediately.
Chris had made up his mind to eat the Chinese food, no matter what, and was pleased to find that it was really very good. Marty brought another bottle of champagne from the kitchen, and he found he was enjoying that, too.
Marty carried in the dishes. “Stay where you are,” she commanded. “I’ll be right back.”
When she returned, she crossed the room and put a record on the stereo.
“Where did you and Daddy go yesterday?” she asked, not looking around.
“Oh, here and there,” Chris said, as he’d said once before. “No big deal.”
“Here and there, here and there,” Marty said in a mocking tone. She stood looking down at the stereo. “Why do you want to be a tough guy, Christy?”
“Who, me?” Chris said. “I’m not a tough guy. I’m a nice guy. You know that by now, don’t you?”
She turned, and held her right hand out, her index finger pointed at him, as though she had a gun.
“The cemeteries are full of tough guys,” she said in a tough, growly voice.
“Why—where did you hear that?” Chris stammered. “That doesn’t sound like you. What makes you say that?”
Marty came back to where he was sitting and poured the last of the champagne. But she didn’t sit down. She stood looking at him.
“Have you thought any more about opening a music store?” she asked, in her regular voice. “You’ve got the money, haven’t you?”
“Well, yeah,” Chris mumbled. “But right now I’m—I’m doing a couple other things. Maybe someday. A music store or—or a club.”
“Maybe someday,” she mimicked. “When is someday?”
“I don’t know,” Chris said.
Marty set her glass down and held out her arms. The music was soft and slow. Her filmy dress swirled as she came toward him. “Hey, I don’t dance,” Chris said. “You know I don’t dance.”
Love or Honor Page 21