Cover Story

by Gerry Boyle

“It was ten years ago. I did the time. Nobody cares about that now.”

  “Yeah, they do. They don’t want you around at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Whaddya mean, you’re not sure? You come in here and you’re not sure? I think this whole thing is bullshit.”

  “It isn’t. They’re coming. They offered two and Chico wanted five. Him and another guy he called a junkie.”

  “Marcel? That snake! I’m gonna kill him! And I’m gonna kill Chico. They’re dead. I mean, they are dead.”

  “You’re the one they want dead.”

  “Why me? I kept my mouth shut. I kept my end. It’s over. I never said a word.”

  “About what?”

  “About—”

  He stopped.

  He raised the gun.

  “You’re a cop. You’re wired.”

  He reached out and tore my shirt open. Ripped it open at the belly, too. Turned me around and squatted and yanked my shorts down to my ankles.

  “I’m not a cop, George,” I said. “And telling me is the only thing that’ll keep you alive.”

  “I gotta get outta here. That bitch take the car? Shit, the bitch took the car.”

  “Tell me first. Then I’ll drive you.”

  “Nothing to tell. The job got done. It was business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Business, for God’s sake. I did a job. I got paid. Who besides Chico and Marcel?”

  “I don’t know. So you were paid to attack Kim Albert?”

  “What the hell,” Drague said. “You think I did it outta the goodness of my heart?”

  We were in the kitchen. He had paused to guzzle a beer.

  “Let’s go,” Drague said, turning me and shoving me toward the door.

  “I’m telling you, George, the best protection you have is to talk,” I said. “Talk to the cops. Talk to the newspaper. Talk to TV.”

  “You’re nuts,” he said. “This is nuts.”

  “You go back on the street and they’ll hunt you down,” I said, hands still on my head. “You know they will. But once you go public, it’s like insurance. Once it’s out, it’s too late. Something happens to you, it just proves everything you say is true. So there’s no reason to shut you up, except maybe revenge, and they’ll be scrambling too much to save themselves to think about that.”

  “It is true.”

  “I believe you, George.”

  “You could put this in the New York Times or some goddamn place?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I could.”

  “But they’ll put me back inside.”

  “They can’t. You can’t be tried twice for the same crime.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not. I swear. It’s the law.”

  “TV, too?”

  “They’ll be knocking your door down.”

  He considered it, then tossed back the rest of the beer.

  “So what do I get?” he said, flinging the can off the wall. “For talking?”

  “You get to live,” I said. “You’ll save your skin and then you can walk.”

  “I don’t get money?”

  “Maybe you can sell your story to the tabloids. Go on the talk shows.”

  He considered that, sorting through his drug-addled brain.

  “You mean, like Oprah? Sally fucking Jessy?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “She pays, doesn’t she?”

  I didn’t know.

  “Hell, yes. Big bucks. Tabloids, too. They’ll pay big bucks. If the story’s what I think it is.”

  “What do you think it is?” Drague said.

  “I think you got paid to be part of a crime wave.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “I know.”

  “I just put some rich bitch in the hospital.”

  “Why rich?” I asked.

  “What are you, stupid? ’Cause I jump some Raggedy Ann coming home from some factory, who gives a shit? I grab some rich guy’s wife or daughter, that’s news.”

  “And that’s what they wanted?”

  He finished the beer. Went to the window and looked out, then came back to the table. He stuck the gun in the pocket of his shorts and it pulled them down on the right side. I dropped my hands from my head and he started gathering up the crystalline chunks and bags of powder from the table. Some powder spilled, and he put it to his nose and sniffed, like it was snuff.

  “‘Make headlines,’ they said. That’s why I picked her. Little chick with a briefcase. I figured I’d bang some Yuppie. Hey, it worked.”

  “So you didn’t know Kim Albert?”

  “Hell, no. I had to hang out in these little candy-ass coffee places looking for somebody. She caught my eye ’cause she had a nice little butt. I mean, I needed somebody halfway good-looking, you know what I’m saying? I can’t just turn it on and off like a light switch. I ain’t some animal.”

  “Where’d they find you?”

  “Where do you think? Riker’s. I’m sitting out there awaiting fucking trial and they all of a sudden spring me on PR bail. I go home, I’m living with my mom. She’s riding me, saying I sit home all day and she goes to work. She was a cook. Made macaroni for the fruitcakes at the hospital up at Morris Park. I’m like, ‘Give me a break. I been in jail for six weeks.’ Like, an hour later, I get this call. Guy says he’s got a job for me.”

  He was leaning over the table, crumbling dark crystalline stuff into a small glass pipe.

  “One for the road,” Drague said. “Anyway, so I said, ‘Who is this?’ He said, ‘I’m a friend of a friend.’ I said, ‘What kinda work?’ He said, ‘I need somebody taught a lesson. A lady.’ I figured this is his ex or something. I say, ‘I don’t go around whacking people, pal.’ He says, ‘I’m not talking about whacking somebody. I’m talking about giving ’em a serious spanking.’”

  “Who?”

  “Anybody. It didn’t matter. I mean, it had to be a certain kind of person. One of those snotty bitches who look right through you on the street, noses in the air. I’m thinking, Jeez, this guy holds a grudge or what? Some rich bitch stands him up and he wants to get even?”

  “How much?”

  “I ain’t telling you.”

  “You don’t tell the story, you’re still worth killing.”

  “Five before. Five after. If I get caught, I do short time and get another five grand when I get out, if I keep my mouth shut.”

  He lighted the pipe and drew the white smoke into his lungs, his eyes narrowing.

  “How’d they know you’d do short time? Rape is serious.”

  “That’s what I said. My record, I could get ten years. I hang up. Couple nights later a different guy calls. Little faggoty voice but smart-sounding, you know? He says he’ll guarantee I don’t do more than a year. I say, ‘For a Class A sexual assault? Who you kidding?’ He says, ‘Leave it to us.’ I say, ‘Bullshit, I will.’”

  Drague put the pipe down and looked at me. There was a new sparkle in his eyes as he took the gun from his pocket, gestured with it as he spoke.

  “So then he says, ‘You know that little girl you popped?’ This is the young one I was in jail for. Hey, she was working as a dancer. I mean, come on. I’m supposed to get her birth certificate? And he describes her, right down to the underwear she was wearing. He says, ‘Her memory is getting better.’ I say, ‘How do you know so much about that?’ He says, ‘Who do you think got you out? And if we can get you out, we can put you back in.’”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I recognized the voice. I think he wanted me to know. I think he knew if it was some jaloni calling and saying these things, I’d tell him to kiss off. But I knew who it was.”

  “Who was it?” I said.

  I waited. Drague opened the refrigerator and took out another Heineken. Opened it and tipped it up. His Adam’s apple j
erked as he gulped it down. He wiped his mouth with his forearm and pointed the gun at my head.

  “Maybe I should just kill you.”

  I breathed slowly, in and out. He lowered the gun and smiled.

  “Just dickin’ with ya.”

  He laughed. Killed the beer instead. Banged that can off the wall.

  “So who was it?”

  “Who was it?”

  “Who offered you the job?”

  “Oh, yeah. I was tellin’ my life story, wasn’t I? Well, here’s the good part. The punch line.”

  He paused, and his expression darkened.

  “I don’t get bucks for this, you’re dead. I’ll hunt you down.”

  “It’s a deal,” I said.

  “I can do it.”

  “I know you can.”

  Drague seemed reassured.

  “It was the prosecutor. The skinny little asshole who did my case.”

  “Conroy?” I said.

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “What do think of the story so far?”

  “Very good.”

  “You don’t believe me, you can listen to the tape.”

  “You taped Conroy?”

  “A little insurance. Until now, I didn’t think I’d need it.”

  42

  We walked down the sidewalk toward the Camaro, Drague just behind me, the gun in the front of his shorts. The kids weren’t in the street. They weren’t on the stoop. The block was hot and silent, and I could hear the scuff of Drague’s running shoes on the pavement.

  “We’ll go get the tape first?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, sure. I got it hid.”

  “And then to the Times?”

  “Sure. They’ll pay me money?”

  “No, but they’ll make you legit. Being in the Times will up your value for the people who do pay.”

  “How ’bout a hotel?”

  “They’ll do that much.”

  “A four-star place. And a case. I’m cranked right up. I’m gonna need a case to ease back down. I want a case of Stella Artois. It’s Belgian. And a real high-class hooker.”

  “How ’bout we settle for the beer? For now.”

  “Okay. We gotta get this story out there first, anyway,” Drague said, like it was his idea. “That’s my insurance.”

  We were at the car. I had the keys out. The street was oddly quiet, with nobody outside. I looked around, then opened the car door. Drague went to the other side. I glanced up and down the block and then I peered up.

  From the second-floor windows, children were watching. Why were they inside? What were they waiting for?

  “Car’s kinda beat,” Drague was saying. “Don’t they pay down at the New York Times? TV guys, some of them got nice rides. I saw this chick once, she’s on one of the shows, reads the news, this hot little blonde. Hey, wouldn’t I like to—”

  We both looked back.

  The blue van had come out from between the houses, bouncing over the curb. Tires squealed and it was coming toward us. I started to get in the car but there was no time. Drague was crouched against the fender, eyes wide, gun out. I got clear of the car door, started to run, heard, “Freeze! Police!”

  I turned. It was the guy from Christina’s, the one with the bolt cutters. He’d come from the doorway on Drague’s side.

  “He’s not,” I shouted, but Drague had half-turned and was starting to put up his hands. The guy had a handgun and he ran at Drague and swung and hit him with it, and I heard Drague say, “Hey, what are you—”

  I turned back and the van was on me, the door sliding open, a man leaping from it as it skidded to a stop.

  He had a gun, too, and as I turned to run he started with, “Police officers! Stop right there.”

  But I didn’t stop, just kept running, and I could hear his footsteps behind me, a roar, and then the van was on me, squeezing me against the cars and I was grabbed from behind, slammed down, my cheek scraping the pavement. I lashed back with my feet, kicked the guy as he swung at me with the pistol, hitting me in the arms, the forehead, shouting, “You’re under arrest. You’re under arrest.”

  I tried to roll under a car but he caught my ankle and pulled, got a handcuff around my wrist. I punched him with my free hand, tore at his hair, screamed, “They’re not police—call the police!” and then I heard the spray, felt it on my face, in my eyes, and it burned.

  I couldn’t see, but I felt the other cuff go on, felt myself hoisted to my feet by the handcuff chain.

  “Watch your head,” the voice said, as he pushed me toward the van door and then inside.

  It was a youngish voice, the voice from the phone.

  “Get help,” I screamed. “Call the police.”

  “I told you, McMorrow,” he said, his mouth close to my ear. “Runnin’ with the big dogs now.”

  He shoved me into the van, onto the floor, where the middle seat should have been. The Boxer was at the wheel, his head turned away, but even through the Mace I knew it was him. The factory guy sat on the backseat and the young guy was somewhere behind me.

  Drague was beside me, and as the van pulled away, he started right in.

  “I don’t even know this asshole. I mean, he barges into this place, I’m in the sack with this chick, and there he is. I ain’t told him jack shit, but you wanna take him out, fine. I’ll just disappear. I’ll just—”

  There was a thud. I heard Drague gasp and I braced myself. Waited. Said, “Oh,” as the kick hit my ribs.

  “Shut up,” the young guy said.

  “This is stupid,” I said. “It’s too late. If I were you, I’d—”

  I saw it coming, braced again.

  “Uh.”

  It was the bolt-cutter guy kicking. The young guy talking.

  “—I’d be headed for Mexico or Europe or Canada or someplace. When this comes apart, you don’t want to be—”

  “Shut him up,” the Boxer said. “I don’t need a lecture.”

  “I’ll pop him now,” the young guy said.

  “No, wait,” the Boxer said. “Not in the middle of traffic.”

  “Hey, it was over,” Drague said. “I did it. I didn’t talk. What the hell you doing this for?”

  “McMorrow dug it back up,” the Boxer said.

  The van swayed, then leaned to one side, leveled off. I heard horns, trucks. The boulevard.

  “I didn’t talk all this time. I ain’t talking now.”

  “Shut your mouth,” the young guy said.

  “You gotta believe me. What’d I do?”

  I heard a siren approaching, then passing and fading.

  “Somebody back there called it in,” the young guy said.

  “Leave us and take off,” I said. “Two murders, you’ll get the death penalty.”

  “You’re thinking of Casey,” the Boxer said.

  “That’s where I hearda you,” Drague said.

  “Jeez,” the factory guy said. “Are these guys annoying or what?”

  “It was his gun,” Drague said. “I took it off him. I was gonna bring him to you.”

  “Shut up, you pathetic piece of human shit,” the young guy said.

  “Well, Jesus, let me through, you goddamn idiot.”

  It was the Boxer, shouting at traffic.

  “Don’t kill me,” Drague screamed. “Don’t kill me.”

  Oh, God, I thought. Oh, God, help me. Please help me.

  “Mace the asshole,” the factory guy said.

  Please, God.

  “Will you let me in this fucking lane?” the Boxer said.

  The van had slowed. Suddenly it accelerated, shuddering like a jet, and I saw the factory guy brace himself, his eyes wide.

  “Jesus, you’re gonna kill us,” he said.

  “Let me go,” Drague said. “I got friends, man. They’ll fuckin’ hunt you down.”

  “Shut up,” the young guy shouted.

  “Slow down,” the bolt-cutter guy said. “Ten minutes, it’l
l be over.”

  “You don’t know these guys,” Drague was saying. “They’re Hell’s Angels, and they’ll—”

  “Shut up,” the young guy screamed.

  “He’s got a tape,” I said. “He taped everything. When you were making the deal back then.”

  There was a moment when nobody said anything. The van swerved and slowed.

  “What?” the Boxer said.

  Drague paused, probably trying to decide whether having a tape was good or bad.

  “Every word,” he said. “I got you, numb nuts. I got that little bastard, Conroy. You think I’m stupid?”

  “Where is it, shit for brains?” the young guy said.

  “It’s safe. And if I ain’t back by tonight, it goes to Geraldo. I left orders.”

  “Oh, Jesus, this guy is full of shit,” the young guy said.

  “You’ll find out,” Drague said. “You’ll find out the hard way, you fucking, two-bit, pretty-boy lackey.”

  There was a thud and I heard Drague’s breath gush out and then the young guy, hair slicked back, smelling like magazine cologne, was on Drague’s back, the gun pressed against the base of Drague’s skull.

  “I’m gonna kill you, you mother—”

  But Drague was strong and he writhed under the young guy, tried to roll him off.

  “Hey,” the Boxer said.

  I turned onto my hip, facing the bolt-cutter guy. He was starting to his feet, the gun in his right hand. I squirmed and lashed out with my feet, kicking his shins, once, twice. He swung the gun and there was a flash but no pain, and I kept kicking and the van turned and the bolt-cutter guy fell sideways against the door.

  I was on my knees, then my feet caught and I half-fell, half-lunged on top of the young guy, and I bit his shoulder hard, getting bone. There was a muffled scream and the gun was waving and it went off, so loud you felt it, and he rolled me off, but toward the Boxer, and I fell between the front seats. I writhed and kicked and the Boxer was slamming my head with his fist as he drove, his other hand on the wheel.

  And I wriggled down, wrists cuffed behind me, my face gashed by buttons and knobs. I slid lower, the knobs against my shoulder now, twisted again and squeezed my head against metal, my shoulder against the Boxer’s leg, his shoe, his foot on the gas pedal.

  I rammed his foot. The motor roared. I held the foot and pedal down.

  The Boxer hollered, “No!”