by Wesley Cross
Jason took a deep breath as he fought back tears, then he opened the urn, and when the wind died out, turned it over into the sea. They stood there for few more seconds, watching as the faint traces of ash disappeared on the surface of the water. Finally, Jason closed the urn and started walking.
“May I ask you something, pal?” said Max as they walked. “If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to, but I thought Rach would want to be buried, not cremated.”
“That was my decision,” said Jason, “and I don’t want to discuss it.”
“That’s fine, pal. Not my business.”
Jason called a cab, and they crawled through the traffic until the taxi got onto the West Side Highway where it started picking up speed.
“I have to figure out the way to approach newspapers,” said Jason. “I’m only going to have one shot at this.”
“But all we’ve got is a few emails, nothing direct. No one will take it as evidence.”
“I said it to Engel, and I’ll tell you the same thing. The press doesn’t need the actual evidence. They’ll swallow the story because there’s dirty laundry, and who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe someone else will come forward with something else. Guys like him, their egos are just too big to stay out of trouble. Dominos will fall after that.”
They rode in silence for the remainder of the trip to Max’s place on Lafayette Street. After Max situated Jason in the guest bedroom in the back of the expansive apartment, the two friends sat down for a drink in the dining room.
Jason watched as Max disappeared somewhere to come back with a wooden box with two brown leather belts fastened around it.
“I think Rach would approve,” said Max, taking out a bottle of Macallan with big block numbers 1951 printed on its label. He opened the bottle and poured the amber liquid into the glasses.
“For Rach.”
“For Rach,” echoed Jason, and they clinked their glasses, each taking a sip.
“We need a plan. I need to make things right,” he said, looking at his friend.
“I do have an idea,” said Max getting up and walking to the window, “but you’ll think I’m crazy.”
“Try me.”
“You want to ruin Engel, and I get it. But I don’t think you can ruin him by going to the papers. He has too many people on payroll. For every paper that you convince to write about him, he’ll buy two to attack you. He’ll hire attorneys and sue you for defamation and libel. It’ll end in tears.”
“So, what do I do?”
“I say, we beat him on his own playing field. We take his companies away, one by one.”
“You suggest we take over a multibillion-dollar business run by a tycoon who made a name for himself taking over other businesses?” Jason laughed bitterly.
“Well, we start by taking over a small company, like the company where Rachel used to work, then revive some of your father’s old connections and try to underbid Engel’s contracts, then—”
“Pal.” Jason held up an open palm, stopping his friend. “Last time I checked, the small company that Rach used to work for was worth about half a billion dollars. And you know just as well as I do that the moment we start bidding for it, the price of shares would go up. Maybe double. Do you have a billion dollars that I don’t know about?”
“No, I don’t have that kind of money, but what if we cheated? What if I told you that we could use the money from the sale of your place and that would be enough to buy the controlling stake in Asclepius?“
“If you don’t mind me asking, what did you sell your apartment for? Fifteen, maybe seventeen?”
“Seven,” said Jason, looking into his glass.
“What do you mean, seven?” Max sat back down at the table, staring at his friend. “Why the hell would you sell that apartment for so little?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time. Pal, we have to reverse the sale. I’m sure we can figure something out, maybe pay some kind of penalty—”
“Stop it, Max.” Jason put his glass down and poured a generous amount of scotch. “It’s done, and I don’t want to talk about it. I do want to hear your crazy plan, though. How do we cheat?”
“No fucking way man,” Max stood, “I know you’re screwed up right now and you’re not thinking clearly, but there’s no way I’ll let you give up so much money.”
“Max.”
“Don’t Max me,” he raised his voice. “Where is the info on the sale? Who was the agent? Who was the buyer?”
“Max,” Jason said again.
“If you don’t tell me I’ll find out; you know I can.” Max pointed a finger at Jason. “I swear to God, I will. And when I do, I’ll make them go back.”
“Alright.” Jason raised his hands. “This is how it’s going to work. I want you to hear this, and hear this loud and clear.”
“I’m listening.”
“This is already done. And if you care about our friendship, you won’t push me, you won’t dig for information, and you won’t bring up this issue ever again.”
“I’ll do whatever you want me to do, pal,” Max said, his anger subsiding. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I know.” Jason squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “And I just want you to trust me. Yes, I am screwed up right now, and it’ll take me some time to start thinking clearly again. But this is not one of the situations where I made a mistake. Just let it be.”
Max stared at his friend for some time, but finally threw his hands into the air and sat down.
“Just because I agree to let it go, it doesn’t mean I agree with you,” he said, looking flustered.
“Thank you,” said Jason, “now can we please get back to what you said before?”
“What’s that?”
“How do we buy a billion dollar company without a billion dollars?”
CHAPTER 15
Johnny drove an inconspicuous old truck to the repair shop and parked in the front. A couple of guys from the last raid were working on a classic Camaro, and he spent a few minutes chatting with them about cars.
Finally, he made his way to his office in the back of the warehouse. Johnny locked the door and sat in a squeaky old chair. He took a cheap burner cell phone out of his jacket and dialed the memorized number.
“Thank you for calling the HWN Home Shopping Network,” said a pleasant prerecorded female voice. “Please enter your product number.”
He punched in the eight digit number and waited as the phone swallowed the code.
“Congratulations,” said the voice after a few seconds of silence, “Your product is available for a pick up at warehouse number seven.”
Johnny hung up the phone and got up, buttoning his coat. He walked outside of the repair shop, nodding to his crew members, and took the old pickup truck.
His secret boss communicated with him through an intermediary, Latham, a small shifty man with thinning hair who gave Johnny instructions when they met in one of the predetermined seven locations.
When Latham first approached Johnny in a bar two years ago, he almost killed the man, thinking that the gang leaders were testing his loyalty. Latham didn’t back off and instead offered Johnny a small red capsule and a phone number.
Give it to a girl, he said. Call me if you’re interested.
Johnny said that he would try, but he was convinced it was a poison and immediately forgot about the pill for a few weeks.
One night he picked up girl in the city and took her to his apartment. The prostitute was too drunk and tried to overcharge him. In the fit of rage he almost cut off her head, but then remembered the capsule. He shoved it down the girl’s throat and settled to watch what he was sure going to be a horrible death.
The working girl, instead of dying, went on the loudest fifteen minute moaning trip he’d ever heard, which she vaguely described to him afterward as a never-ending orgasm of cosmic proportions. Intrigued, Johnny kicked her out and called Latham back.
The
man told him he could provide Johnny with a generous supply of red capsules in exchange for occasional, well-compensated work.
The next two years turned out to be profitable for Johnny. The pills that nobody else had access to were selling for a thousand dollars per capsule, and the assignments, or favors as Latham called them, were rare and paid handsomely. As time went by, however, Johnny had grown unhappy about the secrecy of his employer, and the jobs became progressively more dangerous in nature. The last operation was the first time he lost a crew member.
“Warehouse number seven” was a small parking lot next to a grocery store with a big name, The Bronx Food Emporium. As Johnny got off the road, he saw a sleek black Mercedes SUV with tinted windows parked all the way in the back. He parked his old truck in the front of the lot, got out, and walked to Latham’s car.
“Get in,” said Latham, lowering the tinted window just long enough to let Johnny see his face.
“I need a new favor,” he said without looking and dropped a small card onto Johnny’s lap as Johnny situated himself in a passenger seat. “Here’s the name and address. I think he’s shopping for a new job. Scare him but don’t actually harm him. I want him to stay where he’s at.”
“Great,” said Johnny without moving or picking up the card. Typically it was his queue to leave the car.
Latham turned his head and quizzically looked at Johnny.
“What’s his name?” said Johnny, still not picking up the card. “I did a few favors for you and your boss for the past two years. I need to know who I’m working for.”
“And you will, if you have patience,” said the balding man, “when the time is right. We talked about it.”
“I lost a man this time. I need to know who I’m working for. Now.”
Latham said nothing and simply stared at Johnny.
“I need to know his name,” repeated Johnny, his cheeks getting flushed, his hand looking for the handle of the machete.
“Just so we’re clear,” said Latham, touching a button on the steering wheel, and Johnny felt a small prick in his lower back, “you work for me, and not the other way around.”
A warm wave radiated from Johnny’s lower back in all directions, paralyzing his muscles and making breathing difficult. He tried to pull out his machete, but his body refused to cooperate.
Latham reached out and roughly slapped Johnny across the face.
“As you can see, the paralysis doesn’t take away your sensitivity,” Latham said, a thin smile appearing on his lips, “we don’t only make pills that make girls experience mind-blowing orgasms. We also can make you feel as if you’re being burned alive while unable to move. Not something you’d like to experience, is it? Now listen to me, you little piece of shit. I don’t like you, and I don’t care about what you’re trying to do. The only reason I’m even talking to a low scum like yourself is because my boss thinks you’ll serve a purpose yet.
“Now, I’m going to let you move again, and next time we meet you don’t act like a little child, alright?”
The man pressed something on his steering wheel again, and Johnny’s entire body tingled as muscle control started coming back to him.
He struggled out of the car almost falling over and watched as Latham lowered the window to drop the card onto the asphalt.
“Don’t disappoint me, Johnny,” said Latham closing the window as the black SUV started rolling away, “or else next time you won’t be able to walk away.”
Johnny stayed still for some time, swaying on unsteady feet and gathering strength. When he felt confident enough, he picked up the card off the ground and shakily walked back to his pickup truck.
In the truck Johnny pulled out his cell phone and clumsily dialed a number.
“This is Dan,” said a young voice after a few ring tones.
“Hey, Danny,” he said hoarsely. “I need you to run the plates for me.”
“You okay, boss?” the voice said. “You sound a bit off.”
“I’m fine,” said Johnny. “Ready for the plates?”
He dictated the license plate number that he memorized to Danny and waited as the other man hacked into the DMV’s database.
“Here you go, boss. The car is registered to someone named Latham Watkins, but the title and insurance are under a corporate name.”
“What name, Danny?”
“GNM transportation, it looks like.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Johnny, ready to hang up.
“Wait a second,” said Danny. “Just want to check something. It seems that GNM is wholly owned by another company.”
“Can you tell which one?”
“Working on it, boss. Sit tight.”
Johnny sat in silence clenching his fists, trying to work life into his hands.
“So?” he finally said, losing his patience.
“Here you go. Guardian Manufacturing.”
Johnny terminated the call and dropped the phone onto the passenger seat.
Shit, he said out loud.
Johnny sat there for a few minutes considering implications. He was in a bad spot. If the gang elders ever found out he was working for Guardian, Johnny would be a goner, but on the other hand, working for Guardian was like working for the devil himself. He knew he couldn’t just walk away.
Fuckers, all of you.
He looked at the card that Latham left for him. On one side it had an unfamiliar Brooklyn address, and on the other side there was a name.
Steven Poznyak.
Whether he liked it or not, Johnny the Butcher had some work to do.
CHAPTER 16
“Did I miss a promotion or something?” asked Bill Ryan as Chuck pulled over to the front of the building. The large parking lot in front of the apartment complex was crowded by fire trucks, ambulances, and police cruisers. Surprisingly, there was almost no press. Chuck parked his unmarked Ford across the street and turned off the engine.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, cases like that don’t usually land on our lap, but now it seems that we got the hottest stuff.”
Chuck shrugged and got out of the car to look for somebody in charge. The entrance to the building was cordoned off by yellow police tape, and the street was swarming with uniforms.
According to the plainclothes lieutenant supervising the location who introduced himself as Sam, some kind of military operation took place on the sixth floor of the building.
They took the stairs to the top floor as the man recounted what had been recovered before their arrival.
The entryway of the floor was covered in small debris and there was a gaping hole where the door used to be.
“It appears that they used four small plastic charges. Three on the hinges and one at the latch,” said Sam.
Chuck stepped over the threshold trying not to breathe in smoke-filled air, and paused looking around, trying to get his bearings around the scene. The entrance led straight into a small open kitchen with a granite island separating it from a living room. The kitchen, although bearing some signs of destruction, fared relatively well, and it was obvious that most of the damage came from a large explosion that took place on the floor of the living room. A little farther to his left was a gutted leather couch that stood on its side next to the remnants of the bathroom wall.
“Victims?” asked Chuck, looking at few brown stains on the floor and splatter on the remainder of the kitchen wall.
“At least six,” said Sam, looking at his notes, “possibly more. The bodies of the crew that breached this place were recovered, but the owner of the apartment isn’t here. He either left on his own, which judging by the amount of blood, is unlikely, or was taken by the remainder of the crew that came after him. Unfortunately, the sprinklers that came on after the explosion and a ruptured pipe in the bathroom spoiled a lot of evidence.”
“Who owns the place?” asked Ryan, squatting on the floor for a closer look.
“Mortgage issued by EW Bank to some Michael S. Connelly.”
/> “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Chuck said. “Have you talked to the feds to see if there’s something we need to know?”
“Yeah, we have. They’ve got nothing. You know this guy?”
“We were looking into him over the past few weeks. There was a shooting on Williamsburg Bridge where somebody tried to gun him or his passengers down.” He turned to Ryan. “What have you got there?”
“Hard to say with certainty,” said Bill, getting up and cleaning his hands on the sides of his pants.
“If I had to speculate, though, I’d say they’d breached the door, threw in two stuns first.” He pointed at two symmetrical scorch marks. “They tried to storm, but this fella took down the first two troopers.”
“Okay.”
“Hence.” Bill pointed to a bigger scorch mark. “The frag. But that didn’t go well either. Looks like he took down three more guys before the final showdown took place right over here.”
He walked to the hallway and stopped next to a large pool of dried blood.
“That’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid. From here, your guess is as good as mine.”
He fished out a ringing cell phone from his back pocket.
“Ryan.” He listened for a few seconds, frowned, then handed the phone to Chuck.
Captain, he mouthed to Kowalsky.
“This is Kowalsky,” Chuck said formally.
“Chuck, this is Captain Brennan,” said a heavy baritone. “I need you and your partner back in my office as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll head back as soon as we wrap up here.”
“You didn’t understand me, Kowalsky. You and Ryan are off the case. I need you here for something else.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”
“You heard me. Grab Ryan and get your asses here.” The line went dead.
Bewildered, Chuck handed the phone back to his partner.
“Apparently we’re off the case. Cap wants us back in the office ASAP.”
“What the hell?” Ryan pocketed the phone and looked around. “So we’re done here?”