Payback

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “In their pockets,” Carlo said.

  “You know anybody’s been burned by them?” Tommy asked.

  “Not yet,” Carmine said. “But the fact that I don’t doesn’t mean it isn’t going on.”

  “You put cash in with them?” Frank asked.

  “I put my toe in the water,” Carmine said. “One hundred and fifty thousand. But it’s too soon for me to see if they’re dealing from the bottom of the deck.”

  “In other words, you don’t trust them,” Tommy said.

  Carmine smiled. “This one time, a guy took his son out to the playground. The boy was about eight, maybe nine years old. The father puts him up on a ledge, a few feet from the ground. Dad stands there, his feet spread apart on the cement, his arms open wide, and asks his son to jump. The kid looks down and he’s scared. He shakes his head. His father says, ‘Jump. Don’t be afraid. Trust me. I’m your father. I’ll catch you.’ The kid still hesitates. The father says, ‘Don’t worry. Just trust me and jump. I’ll catch you.’ The kid shuts his eyes and jumps. The father moves out of the way. The kid lands hard on the cement. Scrapes his legs, elbows, cuts his chin. He’s got tears in his eyes. He looks up at his father. The father bends down and holds his son’s face in both hands. Then he tells him, ‘In this world, kid, you never trust anybody.’ So, to answer your question, no, I don’t trust the accountants.”

  His three friends nodded and sipped their coffee. Carmine, in casual dress—dark button-down shirt, tan slacks, brown loafers, and, as always, no socks—glanced at the street beyond the small cemetery. After a few moments, Tommy asked, “If you feel that way about them, why give them any of your money at all? There’s lots of places for you to park cash. Places that wouldn’t raise any of the red flags this crew does.”

  “I’m doing a friend a favor,” Carmine said. “In the course of doing that, if you help me find that the firm is ripping off some friends of ours, then we’ll be doing them a favor, as well. And, as you all know, that’s always a good chit to have in our back pocket.”

  “So we put a bug in a few people’s ears,” Carlo said, “and have them go and sniff around. Then, let’s say, they find out the firm is skimming from them. What do we do about it?”

  “Nothing,” Carmine said. “If our friends are being taken advantage of, they’ll know how to handle it.”

  “We’re just there to give them a heads-up, nothing more,” Frank said.

  “That’s the long and the short of it,” Carmine said. “We’re not looking for a cut of the action or any money coming back our way. I’m doing a favor for a friend and, by spreading the word, you’ll be doing one for me.”

  “If these accountants are skimming from our crowd, then they’re most likely taking from other accounts, as well,” Frank said. “From what little I heard about them, they do business with the cartels and some high-end drug dealers. It’s not just Wall Street money these guys are hooked into. It’s money from every street they can find.”

  “Which means they most likely have muscle of their own to back them up in case the shit ever hits the fan,” Tommy said.

  “And with the kind of dough a firm like this brings in, they can reach out and hire whoever they want to cover their ass,” Carlo said.

  “All that’s true,” Carmine said. “They’re not your corner H&R Block. But it doesn’t matter how many hired hands they have at the ready. If you help find out they’re stealing from our friends, the accountants are going to need those dragons from Game of Thrones to knock down that crew. Those guys are going to be out not just to get their money back. They’ll be looking for a blood payment. Nothing less will do.”

  “We’ll check it out for you, Carmine,” Carlo said. “Shouldn’t take too long. You tell a mob guy someone might be messing with his cash, he’ll run out the door like one of those Kenyan marathon runners to see if there’s any truth behind it.”

  “I had no doubts you would,” Carmine said. “If there’s anything you need from me, just say the word.”

  “I wouldn’t say no to a nice meal at your restaurant,” Frank said. “I haven’t been there since my Grace died. Three years this October.”

  “Door’s open, anytime,” Carmine said. “Day or night.”

  “One more thing before we wrap this up,” Tommy said.

  “Name it,” Carmine said.

  “These accountants might put it together that you’re the one that fingered them on the skimming,” Tommy said. “They might decide to throw some of that muscle your way. Look to bring a hurt to you.”

  “Maybe so,” Carmine said.

  “If that does indeed happen, just know they’ll have to deal with us, too,” Tommy said. “We may be a bunch of old rain dogs, but they’re the ones that bite the hardest.”

  37.

  WINSTON CHURCHILL SQUARE

  THE NEXT DAY

  CHRIS WALKED NEXT TO PEARL, whose electric wheelchair easily navigated along Downing Street as they eased their way toward Bleecker and Sixth Avenue. They were a few feet from the small park named after the British prime minister who had helped steer the course to victory in World War II. The park was shaded and lined with benches, a comfortable place to read, enjoy a lunch, or settle into a quiet conversation.

  They were each eating a large salted pretzel and enjoying the late-afternoon sunshine. “Let me tell you,” Pearl said. “Nothing would please me more than to see the Yankees in the World Series. But I just don’t see it happening.”

  “The new guys they brought up are playing out of their minds,” Chris said. “They got the pitching, the hitting, the speed.”

  “It’s just not their year,” Pearl said. “The Astros are going to be tough, and the Red Sox are always a coin flip.”

  “You’ll see,” Chris said. “They’ll be there at the end. Raise another flag at the stadium.”

  “They win a few more championships, they might have to think about adding another pole,” Pearl said.

  They entered the park and found an empty bench. Pearl lined his wheelchair up across from Chris, who sat and took the last bite of his pretzel. “You start school pretty soon,” Pearl said, when both were settled. “You good with that?”

  “A little nervous,” Chris said. “I’ve met a couple of the kids who will be in my class. They seem nice enough. But, still, the first couple of weeks will feel weird.”

  “No doubt,” Pearl said. “It’s like the first day of anything. I remember my first day as an active cop. I was so nervous, sweating so much it looked like I had malaria. I counted every minute of that first shift. Couldn’t wait to get it out of my system.”

  “Did you make any arrests?”

  Pearl shook his head. “It was a quiet day, thank the Lord. If I had run into trouble, I don’t think I would have been able to slap the cuffs on an old woman, let alone some hard-ass I needed to chase down.”

  “How long was it before you felt relaxed?” Chris asked.

  “The very next day,” Pearl said. “Whatever the reason, when I hit the street that morning, I wasn’t nervous, didn’t feel any unease wearing the uniform or walking my beat. I felt like I was where I belonged. And, more than that, I felt like a cop.”

  “Do you still?” Chris asked.

  “Yes,” Pearl said without any hesitation. “My legs may have left me, but that feeling never has. Working with your uncle has helped keep that alive for me, being around him and now living in his brownstone. And being assigned these cases, tough as they might be to crack, keeps the feeling going. Some days it’s like I never left the job.”

  “You think Tank feels the same way?” Chris asked.

  “If I had to bet, I’d say no,” Pearl said. “Don’t get me wrong. He loved being a cop and he gets revved up working these cases. But if you took those away, he’d still be a happy man. He’s got his world and his life together. Being a cop w
as just one slice of it. You remove that slice, he’d be okay without it. Sure, he would miss it some but not enough to derail his day-to-day.”

  “I’m sure having me show up on his doorstep threw him off his game,” Chris said. “I’m probably the last thing in the world he wanted or expected.”

  “Maybe at first,” Pearl said. “But if you put it to him now, there’s no question Tank feels as much at home with you as you seem to be with him. No one likes how it came to happen, but I think it’s been good for Tank to have you in his life. And just as good for you to be there.”

  Pearl’s eyes moved from Chris to the street beyond. His upper body tensed, and he eased his wheelchair away from the park bench in order to get a closer look at the street traffic beyond the trees. Chris noticed the shift in posture and the slight movement. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “That’s the third time that van has driven past us in the time we’ve been here,” Pearl said. “Might be the driver’s lost. Or it could be he’s already found what he’s looking for.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “You get up from that bench nice and easy,” Pearl said. “Say your goodbyes to me and then head out of the square at the far end, away from that van. Don’t make it look like a panic move. Once you get out of their line of sight, call and text Tank, let him know where I am and what I suspect. Once you do that, head straight for the brownstone. No stops for any reason. Let Tank know you’re doing that, as well.”

  “I won’t leave you here alone,” Chris said. “If you’re right, there’s bound to be more than one guy in that van. I can call and text Tank right from here. I won’t leave you behind.”

  Pearl glanced from the van to Chris. “Listen to me,” he said. “You have one job, and that’s to get Tank here as soon as possible. You can’t find Tank, get Bruno or Carmine. Meantime, I’ll head out there and find out if my hunch is on the money or I’m just being my old paranoid self.”

  Chris stared at Pearl and noticed how his entire body language had changed. He was focused on his target, one hand resting on the mechanism to move his chair, the other hidden under his long-sleeve T-shirt. Chris had never seen this side of Pearl, who, up until this moment, had always been relaxed and at ease in his presence. But now, sitting here in a historic square, he was on full alert, tense, his instincts in high gear. Despite the wounds he had suffered, despite the disability he lived with day in and day out, Pearl was still all cop.

  Pearl didn’t look at Chris. “Go,” he said. “Cool Hand Luke it until you’re out of the square and then motor. I’m counting on you, little partner. You go and bring in the troops while I stay back and hold down the fort.”

  Chris nodded and stood. He reached out his left hand and clutched it tightly around Pearl’s wrist. “Be careful, please,” he whispered.

  Pearl gave him a casual smile. “I’m too old to be careful,” he said. “But I still got enough in me to be dangerous.”

  Chris headed out of the square, walking along the perimeter back toward Downing Street. Pearl eased away from the park bench and made his way toward the van, closer to Bleecker. It was a working man’s van, windows only on the front passenger and driver’s sides, both rolled down, letting in blasts of a hot and humid summer breeze. As he turned out of the square, Pearl saw smoke coming out of the exhaust. There were two men sitting in the front, the driver’s arm dangling against the side of the van.

  Pearl needed to be sure they were on the lookout for him, and he got his answer when he caught the driver staring at him through his side-view mirror. The driver sat up and brought his arm back inside the vehicle. The rear of the van began to shake, telling Pearl he had more than two potential shooters to contend with. He slowed his wheelchair and scanned the traffic snaking its way up the avenue.

  He didn’t figure them to come out blasting, not with so many potential witnesses and a high probability of collateral damage. Nonetheless, Pearl kept his hand on his .38, nestled under his T-shirt, and waited for them to make the first move.

  Seconds later, the double-panel doors at the back of the van swung open and three men jumped out, two white and one black, all dressed in similar gear—jeans, cutoff sweatshirts, and dark sneakers. They were middle-aged and chunky around the gut, slowed by too many years spent in bars washing down greasy burgers with mugs of tap beer. They stood in a semicircle around Pearl and smiled down at him. “Nice wheels,” one of them said. “You own or do you lease?”

  Pearl glanced up at the three men and recognized two of the faces. For a number of years, the duo had been members of an elite narcotics unit put together to help bring down the rising number of crack-cocaine gangs riding roughshod in some of the city’s poorest neighborhoods. And while they did bring down a few of the gangs, the bulk of their time was spent protecting the dealers and allowing their businesses to flourish. They were handsomely rewarded for their efforts, taking in as much as six figures a month, divided equally among each member of the unit. The two New York tabloids tagged the unit with the nickname “the Dirty Dozen.”

  “Hey, Jackie,” Pearl said to one of the two men gazing down at him. “Last time I saw that ugly mug of yours was about seven, maybe eight years ago. On my flat-screen, in living color on the news. It was right after you were convicted—you and your hangdog lawyer were doing a mea culpa on the courthouse steps. Nice to see you made it through the system in one piece. Tell the truth, isn’t early parole a blessing?”

  “We’re not here to talk about me,” Jackie said. He had short hair the color of sand and bloodshot, puffy eyes. His gun was clipped to a hip holster, visible under the right side of his floppy sweatshirt.

  “I’d love to go down memory lane with you, Pearl,” the one standing in the middle said. “But I only do that with friends. And you and that jack-off partner of yours were never that to me. Not even close.”

  “That’s because me and Tank had little use for cops who took their marching orders from dealers,” Pearl said. “So, to us, Paul, you were nothing more than shit under our shoes.”

  Paul, the oldest of the three, in his mid-forties, fit the stereotype of the corrupt cop—multiple marriages, a handful of kids spread throughout the five boroughs, and a gambling itch no amount of money could satisfy. “And while you and Rizzo were doing your good deeds, we set ourselves up for life. Where did that badass bullshit you two pulled on the job get you? A soft, cushy seat in a wheelchair. You’d have been better off working with us. Less stress and a thicker bank account.”

  “If you’re as set for life as you claim,” Pearl said, “then why are you here? Riding in the back of a beat-up van, looking to roust a poor old cripple like me. That kind of work pays chump change, which means your pockets are nowhere as deep as you like to pretend.”

  Paul stepped forward, reared back, and slapped Pearl hard across the face. The blow was swift and fast and stung Pearl, causing his right eye to tear. “Enough bullshit,” Paul said. “We’re going to put your sorry ass in the van. Resume the rest of our conversation in a quieter spot, a place where we can enjoy a little privacy.”

  He turned to Jackie and the third man, who stood with his back to the van, his eye on the passing pedestrians. “Help me lift him up,” he ordered. “Let’s get him in the back and then get the fuck out of here.”

  Jackie bent down and gripped one side of Pearl’s wheelchair, one hand around a wheel, the other holding on to the back end. He froze when he felt the muzzle of Pearl’s .38 against his temple. “I’m a heavy lift to begin with,” Pearl said. “It’s going to be a whole lot harder to do with a bullet hole in your head.”

  Paul reached for his holstered weapon but then stopped. The third man stared at Pearl, not sure what to do. The two men in the front of the van stepped out and made their way toward the rear, anxious to see what was causing the holdup.

  “Anyone pulls a gun and you can say goodbye to Jackie,” Pearl
said. “Now, I’m not sure if you give a shit or not. But, dollars to donuts, I bet Jackie here does.”

  “You can’t take five of us down,” the silent man said. “From what I hear, you were damn good with a gun. But that was a long time ago, when you were younger and not locked in a chair. So maybe you do take down Jackie. Maybe even get off a second shot at one of us. That’s all you’ll get. And you still end up in the back of the van. Only this time with a bullet in you. Which, from the looks of you, is the last thing you need.”

  “Better to be found dead in this chair,” Pearl said, “because, sure as God rested on a Sunday, there is no damn way I’m gonna let you shove me in the back of that van. At least not while I’m still alive.”

  “Breathing or not,” Paul said. “Makes no difference to us.”

  Pearl looked down at Jackie. “How are those legs of yours holding up?” he asked. “Must be pretty numb by now, crouched down like they been all this time.”

  “Fuck you, Pearl,” Jackie said.

  Pearl turned away from Jackie and smiled, his eyes looking beyond the men surrounding him. “I know you’re a betting man, Paul,” Pearl said. “I’ll put my hundred against your ten that this day is not going to end the way you thought it would.”

  “I’ll take that bet,” Paul said, moving a step closer to Pearl’s wheelchair. “Your money will look a whole lot better in my pockets than it does in yours.”

  “Count me in, too,” Tank said. He stepped out from behind a tree, holding his gun against his left leg.

  “Don’t leave me out,” Carmine said, coming at them from the traffic side of the van. “After all, I’m the only legit bookie in the crowd.”

  “I don’t usually bet,” Bruno said as he stepped in behind the driver of the van. “But in this case, I’ll take some of Pearl’s action.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” Pearl said, “looks like we got ourselves a game.”