He asked Charley which of the guards was on the take, and the old man pointed out one of them. Mongo established a business relationship with the guy, paying him to bring in small quantities of meth.
That was a substance Mongo had no personal use for, knowing the damage it could do. Instead, he bartered with other inmates who couldn’t get enough of the stuff. Some smoked it, heating it until it vaporized and then inhaling the fumes, while others crushed the crystals and snorted them. Some swallowed it.
Mongo was indifferent as to how they used it. They could make margaritas with it, for all he cared. What he got in return was a number of cons who would do anything he asked of them, from washing his clothes to running errands. Supplying them with meth turned them into his personal servants.
Next he used some of the money to bribe his way to a better job. At first he’d been assigned to work in the kitchen, which was a foul place, hot and smelly and dotted with rat shit. A payoff got him moved to the library, and that was where his education began.
Supposedly his work was filing and cataloging, but he wasted no time on such activities. Instead he read for hours each day. It was amazing how much he didn’t know. He was eager to learn, however, and he had a good memory. Almost every book he picked up was packed with information that was new to him. The library also boasted a half-dozen computer terminals, and when he wasn’t reading he explored websites. He realized that much of what he was learning could be put to practical use.
One concept hit him like a lightning bolt:
What you are doesn’t matter. It’s what people think you are that’s important.
He tucked that away, awed by its simple truth.
Another theory that impressed him held that staying in good shape would also sharpen the mind. He was permitted an hour of exercise per day, so he devoted it to pumping iron, and his muscular body grew ever more sinewy.
Then each night he surfed the tiny TV set in his cell, looking for more slants on everything from manners to stylish clothing. Charley knew better than to complain that his cellmate was hogging the set.
Mongo also sought out cons who had brains worth picking. One was a former stockbroker from San Francisco who’d caught his wife with another man and threw her out the window of their apartment in Pacific Heights. He could rattle off facts about finance by the hour. And he knew everything worth knowing about hotels and restaurants in European cities as well as many in America.
Another was an alcoholic who’d been a movie actor, until he drove his SUV over a woman as she was crossing the street. She’d been pushing a baby carriage at the time, so the actor went up on not just one count of vehicular homicide, but two. Mongo was fascinated by what the guy explained to him about getting into a role, how you could convince an audience you were authentic.
Then there was a hustler who had made a fine living for years by marrying rich widows and fleecing them. After each success he’d assumed a new identity and married another one. His mistake had been allowing his picture to be taken with his latest bride following the wedding. The photo appeared in the Sacramento Bee, and a former wife saw it and blew the whistle. Mongo found him a treasure trove of knowledge on how to acquire documents that would enable him to become a different person.
You can buy social security numbers and credit cards, the guy told him. Also forged driver’s licenses and fake passports. But when you get yourself a new ID, use it only a short time, and then get another one. That way nobody can catch up with you. By the time authorities start looking, you’re somebody else.
All of it would be valuable, he knew, when he got out. Especially another great concept he’d come across. It was in a book by a guy named Dale Carnegie, and that one was a lightning bolt, too.
Decide what it is you’re best at, and then concentrate all your energy on making the most of it.
Okay, what was it he was best at? He thought about it, and decided it was killing people. Not only did he have a talent for it, but he liked doing it. And as Carnegie also pointed out, it was important to enjoy your work.
Mongo was sure that once he was on the outside, his skill would be very much in demand. The problem was coming up with some way to market himself. What the hell, he couldn’t run an ad in the LA Times or on Craigslist. And he wasn’t about to join a gang. His ambition was bigger than that. Much bigger.
So how could he let interested parties know what he could do? He’d just have to keep working on it until he found an answer.
In all, Mongo spent five years in Q. Juanita waited for him to hook up with her after he was paroled, but he dumped her as soon as he got out. She went into a frenzied rage, screaming about all she’d done for him, but he just laughed.
It was a wise move, he decided. She’d been useful during his stretch in prison, but now he was free. Get too close to a bitch and she could be like an anchor around your neck. Besides, when you wanted a woman, it was easier to just rent one.
The solution to his marketing problem came to him one night while he and Charley were watching TV. A commercial came on, the kind placed by law firms that say something like, “Important! If you or any of your loved ones have ever had a cough or a runny nose, call this 800 number right away and we’ll sue the shit out of somebody!”
“You know how that works?” the old man asked. “A lawyer tells other lawyers he can get them business. So he runs a bunch of ads on TV, and when he gets a bite, he passes along the name of the person who got sick to one of the lawyers. He gets a fee for that, and a cut of the settlement if the case goes that far.”
“Where’d you pick that up?”
“Me and another guy were trying to run a scam, claiming we had asbestos poisoning. It fell apart when we couldn’t prove it, even though we had a crooked doctor. But anyhow, that’s when I found out how the lawyers work together.”
Mongo realized that Charley might have pointed the way to a great opportunity. It could also be pie-in-the-sky, but it was worth following up on. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced he could pull it off.
A week after he was paroled he returned to LA and looked up the address of Harold Strunk LLP, the lawyer who’d defended him. Strunk’s office was in Century City, high in one of the office towers. Mongo put on his only suit and a white shirt and a tie and went there unannounced.
The lawyer’s receptionist had gray hair and a frosty manner. When Mongo gave her his name, she told him Mr. Strunk was not available, and that Mongo should call or write and ask for an appointment.
“He’ll see me,” Mongo said. “Remind him I was a client, five years ago.”
She frowned, but she picked up a phone and spoke into it.
When she hung up, she said Mr. Strunk would be tied up for quite some time.
“I’ll wait,” Mongo said. He sat on a Barcelona chair and leafed through a magazine.
Three hours went by as the receptionist typed on a computer and fielded a number of phone calls. At last Strunk sent word to her that he’d give Mongo a few minutes and no more.
The lawyer’s office was impressive. It was spacious and elegantly furnished in rosewood and squashy leather, and the south wall was all glass. There was a hazy view of downtown Los Angeles in the distance, tall buildings wreathed in smog.
Strunk was in shirtsleeves, seated at a vast desk that was stacked with papers. He had a narrow face and thinning hair and small dark eyes that darted one way and then another. Each time Mongo saw the man, it occurred to him that Strunk didn’t just act like a weasel, he looked like one.
He didn’t offer Mongo a seat. “So you’re out,” he said. “When did that happen?”
“A few days ago.”
“Okay, I’ll give you some advice. Stay clean and find a job. You get in trouble again, don’t expect me to wipe your nose for you. I don’t make a habit of handing out freebies. I gave you one, and you were lucky I did. Wasn’t for m
e, you’d still be inside. Now excuse me, but I’ve got work to do.”
“I didn’t come here for advice.”
“No? For what then, money? I don’t hand that out, either.”
“I’m here,” Mongo said, “to offer my services.”
“What are you talking about?”
Mongo had rehearsed this in his head. He spoke carefully. “I figure now and then either you or another lawyer you know might want somebody to go away and not come back.”
Strunk stared at him.
“All you’d have to do,” Mongo went on, “is give me the name and the location of the mark. I’d take care of him, and you’d collect a very large fee. Then you’d pay me a share for my end, plus expenses. And that would be it, until you needed me the next time.”
For several moments, Strunk continued to gape at his visitor. Then he said, “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Not hardly. This’d be strictly business, good for both of us. I’d be working as kind of an independent contractor. I’m very good at what I do, and I can go anywhere and fit in. There’s no reason anybody should ever know who I really am, or that there’s any connection between us.”
The lawyer’s dark eyes darted from side to side, and then once again fixed their gaze on Mongo’s face. “You’re on parole, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but not for long. Pretty soon I’ll have a whole new ID. The guy I used to be, the one who got paroled, will disappear. They’ll never find him.”
“Impossible. They’ve got your fingerprints and a mug shot on file.”
“My appearance is easy to change. And I know how to fix my fingers so they don’t leave prints.”
The eyes darted once more. “I don’t think we should be having this conversation.”
“So we never had it, right?” Mongo took a scrap of paper from his pocket and placed it on the desk. “This is the number of my cell phone. Call me when you need me.” He turned and left the office.
Thinking back about that visit now, Mongo smiled. He was a good judge of character. Once a weasel, always a weasel. And the arrangement had done just what he’d said it would: made a pile of money for both of them.
Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain. The roach had burned down until it scorched his fingers. He dropped it into an ashtray and yawned.
The phone rang, and he answered it. “Yeah?”
The voice was garbled, because its owner was speaking through a device that disguised it electronically. “Nice work.”
“And?”
“It’s on its way.”
“How?”
“United Parcel. You’ll like what brown can do for you.”
“I’d better.”
“Don’t worry. There’s even something extra.”
“Good. I earned it.”
“Yes, you did.”
“And the deposit? Something extra there, too?”
“Absolutely.”
“Also good.”
“Will you be around, in case you’re needed?”
“Not for a while. Going to Vegas. I’ll be at the Crystal Palace. You can reach me there if you want.”
“Have fun.” A click, and the line went dead.
Mongo closed the phone and got to his feet. Another joint would be okay. And there was also a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge. He’d have himself a little celebration.
As he’d said, he’d earned it.
6.
Jeb Barker parked his Mustang in front of Seventeenth Precinct headquarters and stepped out onto the sidewalk. As he did, the fire station next door issued a warning blast, and seconds later Ladder 2 burst out onto East Fifty-First Street and roared toward Second Avenue. The big red machine’s siren was screaming and firefighters were hanging on to the rails, and on the stern an American flag was snapping in the wind. Barker watched until the truck swung right at the intersection and disappeared.
No matter how many times he’d seen it, he never failed to get a kick out of the spectacle. Once or twice he’d even wondered whether he might have been happier if he’d joined the FDNY instead of going on the cops. And then he decided he wouldn’t. A cop was what he’d wanted to be all his life.
He went into the precinct house, waving to the desk sergeant as he trotted up the stairs to the detective squad room.
The place was only moderately busy. Two detectives were talking on phones, two others were tapping out DD5s on computer keyboards. Still another was interviewing an emaciated youth. The detective was trying to get answers from him, but the kid kept nodding off. The holding cage in one corner of the room was vacant.
Lieutenant Frank Kelly’s office was on the far side, behind a glass wall. Barker knocked on the door, opened it, and stuck his head in.
Kelly was on the phone. He looked up and waved Barker to one of the straight-backed visitors’ chairs before his desk.
Barker sat and waited for the lieutenant to finish his call. The conversation seemed to go on forever, with Kelly’s end consisting of grunts and occasional one-word replies.
It occurred to Barker that the older man never changed. Ruddy cheeks, graying hair cut short, striped blue shirt freshly laundered, an execrable multicolored tie. And, as always, an air of unshakable calm.
Barker had known Kelly since boyhood, and theirs was a special relationship. It was said that every cop in the NYPD needed a rabbi if he hoped to advance, and the lieutenant was that and more to Barker. He had made detective on his own, but it was Kelly who’d gotten him out of trouble on several occasions. The most recent incident could have ended his career.
When at last he put the phone down, Kelly said, “So how did it go?”
“It was a madhouse. Cops, civilians, media, and top brass. You could barely move around.”
“Only to be expected when the victim’s a celebrity. You want coffee? I just made fresh.”
“No thanks.”
The lieutenant picked up a pot from a credenza behind his desk and poured himself a mug. As he dropped in a lump of sugar he said, “I watched some of it on TV. They had to send extra cops to handle the traffic. I also talked to Mike Levin, the squad commander in the One-Nine. He said it was mass confusion, with a lot of conflicting stories. Did you get an idea of what actually went down?”
“Yeah, I did. The perp told the victims he was with WNEW and was there to record an interview with Delure.”
“Uh-huh. I heard about that part.”
“He knew just how to convince them he was legitimate, had everything worked out in advance. Delure’s secretary was a woman named Dana Laramie, and she told me Delure had a lot of valuable jewelry with her. Rings, bracelets, necklaces, and so on, and the guy took all of it. Except for one ring that he either overlooked or was in such a hurry he dropped it. So now Hogan’s claiming robbery was the motive, and that’s why he killed the two women.”
Kelly pursed his lips. “Any of that strike you as strange?”
“Hell yes it does. I never heard of a heist where the perp shot people before robbing them.”
“Oh, it’s happened. But you’re right, not with somebody as sophisticated as this character.”
“Exactly. The killer was a pro. The last thing a guy like him would want is to have a murder rap hung on him. Would’ve been much more logical for him to just tie up the vics and then grab the loot and take off.”
“You tell Hogan that?”
“I tried to, but he cut me off. Told me about how he was one of the greatest dicks of all time. Greatest dickhead would be more like it. He’s gonna have a task force working on the case, and what does he want Spinelli and me to do? Check out robbery suspects.”
“Okay, if that’s the way he sees it, so what? The fact is, you’re lucky, Jeb.”
“Lucky how?”
“For one thing, because Hogan’s not refusing to have you o
n the case. For another, because I’m willing to free you up so you can work on it.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“You’re not exactly the most popular cop in New York,” Kelly said. “After you shot that guy in the park last year, a lot of people were yelling for your head. Not just citizens’ groups, but some right here in the department. The media said you set back the relationship between cops and civilians by years. I had to call in a lot of markers to keep you from getting sent down in grade, or even kicked off the force.”
Barker felt the heat come up into his face. “Goddamn it, I did what was right. The guy was a serial rapist who liked little girls.”
“That was never proved, though, was it? And neither was the rape.”
“You know what happened, Lieu. When I got there he was on top of her, and when he saw me he got up and so did the kid. There was blood all over her, and she was scared and ran away. Then he came at me.”
“All he had was a knife, and they claimed it was too small to cause any harm.”
“That was bullshit too. Fucking thing was a good-sized switchblade. And how convenient that it got lost a few days afterward.”
“Say what you like, but shooting him was a big mistake. The guy was a leader in the Fourth Ward.”
“Okay, I won’t argue about that. But it was the media that turned it into a story about a cop killing an innocent man.”
Kelly rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he said, “You’re a lot like your old man, you know that? He was a hothead, too. That’s what got him killed.”
“So you’ve told me.”
“I was with him, you know, the night it happened. We were on patrol in the Sixth.”
Barker had heard the story more times than he could count. He forced himself to be patient.
“There was this guy who knocked over a liquor store,” Kelly said. “When we got there he fired a couple rounds, and one of them hit me in the leg. Then he ran in the stockroom. I was on the floor, telling your father to wait till we got backup, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He went in and there was a shoot-out, and in the end they were both dead.” Kelly shook his head. “Jack had some set of balls.”
The Big Hit Page 5