by Ben Sanders
Perry said, ‘Yeah. Did you bring me a gun?’
Henry waved limply, remembering. ‘Yeah. Frankie, show it to him.’
Frankie snapped out of TV mode, glanced around as if getting his bearings, looked down at his briefcase. He said, ‘I didn’t have much available at short notice, but this is a good piece. Brand-new, no blood on it or anything. Wouldn’t want to hand over any bad omens.’
Henry closed his eyes. ‘Just show it to him.’
Frankie popped the clasps and raised the lid, revealing a Colt pistol and a box of shells in separate foam recesses. He lifted the pistol out and held it in front of him on two hands, jiggled it a little, as if taking its measure. He said, ‘Not a bad piece—thirty-eight, does the job, long as you get close enough. Like, too far, you can struggle to put a guy down, just end up with lead stuck in him. Real messy bleed-out.’
Henry pinched his nose and said, ‘Don’t talk like that around the kid, c’mon.’
‘Well, I’m just saying. Gotta know what you’re doing. But like, you use hollow points with it, can’t get matched off ballistics or anything.’
Perry said, ‘What do you want for it?’
Henry shrugged, hung his fingers on the edge of the table, turned his bottom lip out. ‘Two hundred?’
Frankie said, ‘I was thinking more like two fifty.’
Henry said, ‘Two hundred, and I’ll make up the rest. He’s not paying two fifty for that. It’s a good piece, but, you know. Two hundred.’
Perry said, ‘Fine.’
Frankie said, ‘What d’you need it for, anyway?’
Perry looked at him and said, ‘We’ll see.’
Cohen
The Lexus that had followed him was a 2015 LS sedan, retailing brand-new for around seventy grand, according to Google. New York DMV told him the owner was a guy named Jonny LaSalle, his address a place on Christopher Avenue over in Brownsville, right in the heart of Brooklyn. Cohen drove there in his rented Charger, afternoon traffic heavy enough he could cruise by without being obvious. LaSalle’s place was in a long row of adjoining brick units, each one so small they’d no doubt be called studio apartments if you arranged them vertical.
It was a no-frills street, but it still had character in its own way: places with potted plants and vegetables out front, another with a swing set and paddling pool. One house had a table and deck chairs in the driveway, an old guy who looked like Saul Bellow sitting there reading a book by Saul Bellow. Now that was something.
The Lexus was parked out front of LaSalle’s, looking slick in a fresh coat of wax. Cohen left the Charger a block away and walked back. The units all had a little concrete courtyard out front, bordered on three sides by a waist-high cast-iron fence, with a gate giving out onto the sidewalk. LaSalle’s was closed. Cohen stepped over it and went and listened at his front door. He could hear a baby crying, a wet sizzle of something in a pan, a TV on a commercial break.
Cohen knocked.
The TV noise quit, and the baby’s crying seemed louder without it. A man called, ‘Yeah?’
Cohen said, ‘Jonny LaSalle home?’
‘Who are you?’
Cohen said, ‘I’m the man you been following around.’
No answer.
Cohen said, ‘One of them, anyway. I don’t know how many you got going at once.’
A woman murmuring something he didn’t catch, and the man saying to her, ‘No, just chill. It’s fine.’
A second later the door opened, a two-inch gap showing a big guy in his mid-thirties, holding the door with one hand and the other out of sight behind him.
He said, ‘What?’
Cohen saw his recognition and knew he’d got his man. He said, ‘Jonny? That’s not a good way to be answering the door, especially when the law comes knocking. Makes people wonder if you got a gun in the back of your jeans.’ He nodded at LaSalle’s waistline, something more than just belt hiding back there. He said, ‘I seen that move once, I seen it a thousand times. What I’d really like is to come in and we can all be civil. Which is easy enough, right?’
Not making threats, but standing with his coat pushed back, hand on his gun to let him know they could go that way if he wanted. He saw LaSalle look at the badge on his belt, eyes staying with it too long, and Cohen knew the man was worried.
The baby was still crying, giving it plenty of lung, and Cohen said, ‘Sorry if it’s not a great time, but we really need to clear this up.’
LaSalle said, ‘What do you want?’ The curve of the door chain level with his mouth. He had a thick neck that tapered inward to meet his ears, a collar of tattoos coming almost to his jaw.
Cohen said, ‘It’s more like, What do you want? Only reason I’m here is I saw you outside Perry Rhodes’, and then you thought you’d follow me.’ He tapped his marshal’s star, reaching with his left hand, not letting the right stray from the gun. He said, ‘I’m on the Department of Justice payroll, which I guess makes all your queries disappear. But I got some as well.’
LaSalle didn’t answer, but Cohen heard the lady say, ‘Jonny, let him in.’ Getting to the point where neighbours might notice.
Jonny let him in. The chain came off the hook, and then the door opened and Jonny stepped back. Cohen waited on the threshold, making sure the man would give him space, and then he came in and shut the door behind him, catching it with his heel.
LaSalle had both hands in view now, which was a good sign, and the woman was standing slightly behind him. She was about thirty, possibly Chinese, the two of them staring at Cohen as he stood checking out the room.
He said, ‘Don’t need to look at me like that.’ He nodded at LaSalle. ‘I’m not the one’s been acting weird.’
No answer. There was a sixty-inch television on the wall to the right, a metal table and two chairs in front of it. A leather armchair opposite them, on the left. The crying baby was in a high chair at a counter where the living area met the kitchen.
LaSalle gestured, irritated. ‘Could you like, feed him or something?’
The woman said, ‘What do you think I been doing? Jeez.’
Cohen took a seat at the table, his back to the wall beneath the TV. He stretched a leg out in front of him, propped it up on the heel. The two of them looking down at him.
He turned to the lady and said, ‘Sorry to interrupt whatever you were doing. I don’t have any quibble with you.’
‘Well, ain’t that great.’ Mimicking his accent.
Cohen looked at Jonny and said, ‘I haven’t seen what you’re keeping in your belt yet, and I’d prefer not to.’ He nodded at the armchair opposite him. ‘So if you take a seat, we can all stay relaxed.’
LaSalle claimed the armchair, slouching with his legs spread.
Cohen said, ‘You seen that guy up the street? Looks like Saul Bellow?’
No one answered. The air was cool, but it smelled good from the cooking. Sautéed vegetables, definitely an onion in there. The baby’s crying had eased back to a whimper, the lady feeding him something with a spoon.
Cohen said, ‘I thought you’d all be Chinese.’
‘Yeah? Why’s that?’
Cohen said, ‘Someone told me Dexter Vine owes money to a Chinese gang. Which makes me wonder how a guy called Jonny LaSalle has anything to do with it.’
Jonny didn’t answer.
Cohen sighed, looked over at the kitchen, saw the woman staring back at him as she served the baby mush. Cohen turned to Jonny and said, ‘Look. I don’t know how many times I’ve said this. I got kidnapped, couple weeks back, and me being a federal agent meant it was a pretty big deal.’
He waited for LaSalle to put two and two together, but nothing seemed to happen.
Cohen helped him along, said, ‘Anyway. If people start following me around, it’s likely to bring them a shit-ton of trouble. I can appreciate you don’t want to talk, but just keep in mind, if you’re frank now, we can keep it discreet, and no one needs to know we met. Other option is we can make it a real fiasco, h
ave blue and red lights all along the street, no secrets anywhere.’
Jonny held his gaze for a moment and then looked at the front door, maybe seeing through it to the Lexus at the kerb, wondering whether the nice car was worth the trouble that came with it. He said, ‘I married in, that’s why I ain’t fucking Chinese.’
The woman said, ‘Jonny, Jeez.’
Jonny said, ‘I’m from Boston.’ Putting on the accent, saying it ‘Bawston’.
‘And who do you work for down here?’
Jonny said, ‘You know Lee Feng?’
Cohen said, ‘I’m from New Mexico. I don’t know anyone.’
LaSalle smirked. He stretched a leg out, mirroring Cohen. His eyes flicked to the TV and then back down again. He said, ‘Man, you gotta be the weirdest fucking cop I ever seen, come in here talking Texas and Saul Bellow, saying you don’t know anyone.’
Cohen cast about idly, taking in the room and the baby, and he said, ‘Have to admit, you’re not quite what I expected, either.’
LaSalle didn’t answer.
Cohen said, ‘Why were you outside Perry Rhodes’ today?’
‘He works for Dexter Vine.’
‘So I hear. And I hear Dexter owes some money.’
‘Yeah.’ Nodding slowly. ‘He does.’
Cohen said, ‘So tell me about it.’
LaSalle glanced at the TV again, like recharging for the next answer. He said, ‘Dexter’s got a debt, but he’s not paying, it’s pretty fucking obvious. They’re worried he’s planning some kind of takeover, like, hit us up for free cash first, and then push us out.’
‘Push you out of what?’
LaSalle shrugged, innocent. ‘Assets.’
‘Sure. How much does he owe?’
‘I dunno. Seven figures. It’s not pocket change.’
‘How long’s he have to pay?’
‘They pushed out his deadline. He’s got till midnight.’
‘Midnight. Whyn’t they set nicer deadlines, like nine A.M. or something?’
‘I dunno. More badass, isn’t it?’
Cohen said, ‘And in the meantime you’re meant to be keeping tabs, something like that?’
‘We monitor his people, yeah. I had him and Perry.’
‘So why you at home now, and not out casing thugs?’
LaSalle shrugged. ‘Man’s gotta eat and sleep sometime, right?’
Cohen closed his eyes. For a few seconds he forgot the context, comfortable in the chair, smelling the cooking and thinking of Loretta and the girls and the feeling of home. He said, ‘You know why Dexter might be looking for someone called Marshall Grade?’
LaSalle shrugged again. ‘Haven’t heard the name.’
Cohen nodded. ‘All right. So how do I find Dexter?’
LaSalle looked at him, jiggled one leg. He said, ‘Where you going next?’
Cohen said, ‘Wherever Dexter is.’
LaSalle said, ‘You’re not putting me in the middle of something crazy.’
Cohen shook his head. ‘I haven’t put you in anything. You got here, and anywhere else you been, on account of your own volition. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’
LaSalle didn’t have an answer to that.
Cohen said, ‘So. I don’t know what else you’re mixed up in. Maybe nothing, you tell me. But you got a baby and a wife and a roof over your head. Cornerstones of the good life. And I don’t want to take any of them away. So just keep all that in the front of your mind before you answer this question. All right?’
LaSalle didn’t answer.
Cohen said, ‘Where is Dexter Vine?’
LaSalle looked at the TV. He said, ‘He’s down in Bay Ridge.’
‘Where in Bay Ridge.’
‘Eighty-sixth.’
‘Getting warmer.’
LaSalle closed his eyes and let his breath out through his teeth. ‘It’s a two-level brick place, with like a garage dug out on one side. Shrubs out front with a path made out of shells.’
Cohen stood up and said, ‘Y’all have a nice evening.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Marshall
Lana said she’d meet him at the diner on Delancey Street again, the silver place that looked like a toaster. Marshall parked the Cadillac on Grand and walked back north along Allen to her apartment building. He pressed her intercom in case she was still home, and then tried random buttons on the panel, saying, ‘FedEx’ until someone buzzed him in.
He went up the short flight of steps into the foyer, the heavy street door falling shut with a crash behind him. The place would’ve been impressive when it was first built, a subway-like tile mosaic on the floor, ornate iron scrollwork in the balustrades that’d look nice with a fresh coat of paint.
Up on 3, he leaned on the rail, looking down at the ground floor. Cigarette smoke in the air, faint traffic noise from Allen Street. The place had a sombre feeling in the dim afternoon light, a mausoleum vibe with its muted sounds and colours. He could hear nothing from the apartments. There were four of them on this floor, two at each end of the landing. He tried Lana’s door, but it was locked. He listened again, but heard only street noise. He knocked at her neighbour’s door, a sharp triple-rap that’d be obvious from inside.
He waited.
No footsteps, no murmurs.
He counted to ten, and then kicked in Lana’s door.
He hadn’t done it for a while, but his method still worked, coming at it half-turned from three yards or so, striking just below the handle with the heel of his boot. The thing flung open like it had been yanked by a falling piano, the sound of the impact not dissimilar to that of the street door crashing shut.
Marshall stepped inside and appraised the damage. The bolt had ripped the latch out of the frame, a splintered cavity where the steel had been housed. He counted to thirty to check he hadn’t summoned a neighbour, and then closed the door, leaning his weight on the panel to coax everything back home. It wasn’t perfect, but it was within half an inch. Good enough for now.
He stood in the living room, trying to see it with new eyes. He sat down at her desk and opened drawers. Innocuous paperwork, loose business cards, torn envelopes. Nothing with a false panel.
He checked the furniture next, out of thoroughness more than suspicion. He couldn’t imagine her hiding something between the cushions. She hadn’t. He lifted the sofa in case there was a compartment in the floor, but the linoleum was undamaged.
He didn’t want to check all her books, but there was a chance she’d hollowed one out, the way pirates hid rum. He pulled an Old Testament off her shelf and thumbed through, but it was all as God intended. He replaced it and scanned titles. Quantum mechanics, quantum field theory. He thumbed through an introductory text, figuring if something had to go, she’d sacrifice the basic stuff. No luck. He’d have to come back to the books; no time to check two or three hundred of them.
He went through the kitchen next. Nothing but pots and flatware in her cupboards. Nothing illegal in the drawers: cutlery, more cutlery, spatulas, and baking utensils. Plastic trash liners down the bottom. That made him pause. He dug through and found a roll of duct tape, and he knew exactly what she’d done.
In the bathroom he lifted the lid on the toilet tank. It was thick, heavy porcelain, awkward to remove. He set it down and leaned it against the shower stall, pushed his coat sleeve to his elbow, and reached into the water. Two brick-shaped plastic packages had been submerged. He knew from the density they were bundled cash, anywhere between five and fifty grand each, depending on denominations.
He placed the wet bricks on the desk in the living room, and then went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. He was sitting in the swivel chair, halfway through his first mug, when Lana showed up fifteen minutes later.
She closed the broken door as best she could, glanced in the bathroom, but didn’t stop to take it all in. She sat down on the sofa in the living room, removed a pack of cigarettes from her coat, and lit one with a match. Moving slow, like it’d pres
erve her dignity, waiting for him to get started.
Marshall said, ‘I thought your timing would be better. Like, come in just as I’m doing the big reveal.’
She didn’t answer. There was a half-filled coffee mug on the desk. He picked it up and passed it to her so she’d have an ashtray.
She said, ‘You were too insistent on meeting at the diner, so I realised you must’ve come here.’ She tapped ash into the mug. ‘You could’ve picked the lock.’
‘Yeah.’ He sat down again. ‘But I wanted to break your door.’
‘And what if you’d been wrong?’
He shook his head. ‘But I’m not. No point putting it in terms of what-ifs. The reality is you had cash hidden in your toilet.’
She didn’t answer, just looked at him and smoked her cigarette, cheeks slightly hollowed mid-drag.
He picked up a piece of notepaper from the desk and folded it in half and then half again, eyed each corner to check they were perfect. He looked up and said, ‘Lana, did you tip off Henry Lee that I was coming by this morning?’
She didn’t answer. He imagined saying yes wouldn’t be easy.
He said, ‘You worked the same stuff as me, so I thought you’d know the same people.’
She blew smoke out her nose and said, ‘Where else do you think all the money came from?’
There we are. He thought she was going to hold out on him, but it would have been a hard road for her with the cash right there. His folded paper yawed apart slowly on the desk, a time-lapse of something hatching.
He said, ‘Henry was waiting for me with guns and backup when I got there.’ He put an elbow on the desk and linked his fingers, like this was any other story. He said, ‘That part wasn’t actually a problem. We got it all settled down, he cooked me some breakfast. Issue was, people chasing me guessed that’s where I was going. And they timed their visit right and I was still around. First I’d thought it was this guy Perry Rhodes had tipped off Henry, but that didn’t make sense, because Perry was with the guys who busted in. Anyway. There were two of them. Shot one guy and killed him, and the other’s still out there somewhere.’
Her lips parted a fraction, that classic look of zero comprehension, eyes clicking back and forth through a small angle, like searching for some kind of tell. She said, ‘Are you serious? You killed a guy?’