Jessica Silverman was involved and, somehow, Lauren was too. If they didn’t come in for help, and Brian Silverman had died with unfinished business, Arena would either kill them because they couldn’t produce the money, or they could cooperate with Arena and end up caught in the Bureau’s rapidly approaching conspiracy bust. And the problem for the women was that the US Attorney would charge them even if they cooperated with Arena under duress. Logic worked in reverse for the innocent ones: without a tap on their conversations, they would never prove they’d been threatened, and the forfeiture alone would make them irresistible. Carl knew he might be getting ahead of himself and the proof. But his gut told him that if Lauren was caught up the way he suspected, and if she helped Arena at this point, she wasn’t coming out the other side of it with her life in one piece. She could easily end up in jail for a very long time.
CHAPTER 27
Wednesday, November 6
At 1:00 a.m., Lauren paced her living room, her heart on overdrive. Emily was in jail. Lauren felt the same aching powerlessness as the night Brian died, but worse now because one bad thing after the next had pancaked on her like a collapsing building, depleting her ability to cope. Her sanity was a thin veil at this point. Plus, although the least of her problems, this whole fiasco had made her see a truth about her own life: she was as alone in this crisis as she was as a kid when her father died.
Lauren felt so overwhelmed and frustrated, she wanted to pick up a chair and smash it against the wall just to release the pressure cooker of feelings. A drink would take the edge off, a glass of wine. No. Jesus, how did thoughts like that pop up after twenty years of not drinking or drugging? She pitched pumps, pantyhose, and a toothbrush into a gym bag. She rolled a suit and blouse tightly so they wouldn’t wrinkle, and packed them inside, too. She ripped her phone charger from the wall and threw it in. She couldn’t just sit in the house and wait all night or she’d go crazy. She practically ran out of the apartment door before she could think better of it.
She looked out her building’s entryway for any sign of danger. At this hour, her neighborhood was entirely different than the gentrifying enclave it was during the day. Teenage drug dealers gathered in front of the all-night bodega next door to her building. Just her and them, which would normally be scary; but it was ironically reassuring to have any company on the otherwise empty street. She walked from her building, hoping the teenagers weren’t so inebriated that they failed to see she was old enough to be their mother.
Lauren had bigger worries than harassment, although she was starting to have doubts about whether Jordan Connors had been telling the truth about the contract on her. He could have been lying. Why would Bobby put a contract on her? And, even if he did, why would a guy doing life in prison keep his money behind that contract just because she’d run out on him twenty years ago? The more she thought about it, the less sense it made.
Either way, contract or not, she had to get downtown to 100 Centre Street in the morning. Felony burglary and criminal trespass. The desk sergeant had told her what the charges were when she called the precinct after hearing Emily’s hysterical one-phone-call on her voice mail. Lauren knew the routine. After arrest, Emily and Jessica would go from precinct cells to Central Booking. Then they’d be transported to the Department of Corrections’ filthy, tomb-like bullpens under the Criminal Courthouse. They’d wait there for their case to be called for arraignment.
As an attorney, Lauren could have contact with Jessica and Emily after the Department of Corrections took custody at 100 Centre Street, but not before. By her calculations, that wouldn’t happen until at least dawn. Meanwhile, she hadn’t even thought of sleeping. She’d never sleep. So why try?
“Mami, I like your ass.” A sixteen-year-old leered at her, holding his crotch, as she walked around the periphery of drug dealers.
Fuck you! nearly flew from her mouth, but she caught herself. She met the teenager’s dangerous, marijuana-bleary stare and refocused her gaze straight ahead. A dozen teenage eyes followed her as if she were the ball in a tennis match. She walked to a cabstand further down the block, a line-up of idling cars between Fort Washington Avenue and Cabrini Boulevard. She opened the back door of the first apple-green car.
Twenty minutes later, she stood outside sprawling Independence Plaza, tall apartment buildings spanning several blocks in the far west side of Tribeca. She dialed Carl’s number. “What are you doing? Are you sleeping?” she asked, knowing this whole unannounced-visit thing was inappropriate. He’d said he was just going home with his dog and that he wasn’t dating anyone, but she knew it was risky anyway.
“Sleeping?” His voice was groggy but he perked up as if her voice had made him happy. “Yeah. What are you doing?”
She found herself crying. “I need to come up.”
“You’re kidding—you’re here?”
“Downstairs.”
A pause. “Come up.”
Mookie barked at the other side of Carl’s apartment door before she could ring the bell. Carl wore a T-shirt and sweats, holding Mookie back by the collar. “Sit, Mook.”
Lauren put down one hand to touch Mookie’s head and melted into Carl’s arms, his muscled arms strong around her. She breathed in his scent, losing her mind. Their kiss was perfect, the kind of intense kiss-perfection that each person inexplicably knew the other felt too. They were both breathing hard when they separated. They looked at each other and laughed. She rubbed a tear away with her finger.
The living room was large by Manhattan standards. It was sparsely furnished, masculine in an inattentive way. A boy’s bike and two skateboards rested against a white wall. Carl’s bike was mounted on hooks. A few child’s drawings were taped near the entryway to an alley kitchen. Lauren’s eyes were drawn to a framed photo of Carl and his son.
The boy’s dark eyes and thick black eyelashes were identical to Carl’s. “He’s gorgeous.”
Carl smiled. “Alex.”
“You look so happy with him.”
“He makes me happy.” Carl took Lauren’s hand. “And I’m really happy you’re here. Shocked, but happy.”
Lauren lay her forehead against Carl’s chest and let out a long sigh.
He wrapped his arms around her, leading her to a couch with a view of a dark shimmer of the Hudson in the distance. Mookie curled up next to Lauren’s feet. Carl held Lauren, stroking her hair, as if he were trying to comfort her and keep his hands somewhere safe. “What’s the matter? What happened?”
Lauren chose her words. “Emily was arrested.”
“Emily?!”
“She was at Brian’s office. She said they were collecting … pictures, his personal stuff. I can’t even describe this. Steve must have called the police. So much is going on, I can’t think straight. I can’t see her for hours. I just can’t believe this is happening. I feel as if the walls are collapsing on us.”
“Even if his partner was pissed off at your ex, who does something like that?” Carl seemed to be thinking out loud.
Lauren started crying again, and Carl kissed the wet of her face. Both of their hands ran over each other’s bodies, swept up in each other as if by an outside force. Their breathing became heavy before they pulled themselves back.
Lauren caught her breath. “I’m going to the courthouse in a few hours. I could wait here.”
Carl’s olive complexion had flushed. “You’re going to represent her?”
“For the arraignment.” Lauren put her palms under Carl’s shirt, feeling the smooth skin and hair over taut muscles. “Not until the morning. I can’t do anything but wait.”
She found Carl’s mouth against hers, his hands against her bare back, his palm running over her butt. She groaned. Ready. Her cautious inner voice stayed blessedly silent. She felt his hardness through her own jeans.
He jumped up as if stung. “No, no. We can’t do this.”
La
uren took in the deep stress in his eyes. She straightened her clothes. “What?!”
“I really like you.” Carl’s face was red now. “But—look, I can’t.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Carl stood—as if he were going to put her out?
“Lauren.”
She had reached her limit—hurt, pissed off, confused. “Oh, my God. You know what, I’ve had enough. There’s something going on with you, and my plate is full.” She jumped to her feet, needing to get away from him. “I’m sorry I came. I don’t have the bandwidth for this. I’m sorry.”
“Lauren, wait.”
She grabbed her gym bag and coat.
“Please, Lauren, there are things I need to work out.” He took her arm. “I can’t talk about it now. Trust me.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Get your hands off me.” The door slammed behind her before Carl had time to say more.
CHAPTER 28
Lauren sat the rest of the night in Bubby’s, a rustic American all-night restaurant. She ate a few bites of eggs and cheese grits, avoiding the stares of the men who were drinking at the bar. She felt so angry at herself once again. What drew her to guys who were such a mess? Nothing she’d done had made Carl react like that. She was sure of that much. He acted as if he were a priest breaking his vows, tempted by a seductress. She had no plans of stepping foot near that kind of back-and-forth insanity. Finally, she was done. She was at a bottom with reaching for the nearest source of testosterone in a fucking storm. That was what she’d done when she was a kid, what she’d done with Brian too. Look where it had gotten her. They used to say in treatment that insanity was doing the same things over and over, expecting different results. She was officially insane.
Apparently Carl was too. He was as crazy as a bedbug. Unpredictable. Hiding something. Once again, she was glad she hadn’t slept with him. Although she wasn’t ready to ghost him this time. That had proved useless.
At 5:00 a.m., she changed into her suit for the day, balancing on one shoe at a time in the restaurant’s cold bathroom while she put on her pantyhose. She drew a curious look from the waitress when she left in a business suit and pumps. The night’s shadows still weighed on the city as she approached the Uber she’d called. The driver, wearing a kufi and trimmed beard, unlocked the doors and she got in.
The car sped east and north on empty predawn streets. She had one more thing to do before court. Having no clue what would greet her, she rode through Alphabet City, named for its Avenues A, B, C, and D. The car stopped across the street from Tompkins Square Park, four blocks from where she’d grown up. Alongside the park, gnarled oaks wove a moving web of light, street lamps shining through the gaps in their branches.
She’d passed Brownie’s in cabs a few times over the years since she’d ceased frequenting the place two decades ago, but she’d barely glanced at it. It had been as distant to her as an alternate universe you forgot once you left. Glimpsed from the outside, it had always looked the same as it did now, grungy, with its windows blacked out and no sign to identify it.
The driver looked back at her. “Are you sure you want to go there?”
“Could you wait a minute for me to check if they’re open?”
“Okay. But I don’t think that’s a place for nice people, ladies wearing suits.”
Lauren paid him, wishing she could heed him. “I’m okay, thanks.”
The morning was still dark outside, but when she pulled open Brownie’s door, she entered true blackness like the entryway to a spook house. Her eyes adjusted and she reached for an inner door. A chestnut-complexioned bouncer—he must have been six four and over three hundred pounds—looked her over. House music boomed from speakers.
“Slumming?” he said, a snide half question, half comment.
“Is Brownie still here?”
“Where else would he be?”
Lauren walked by the bouncer, acting as if she’d passed his vetting. He didn’t stop her. Unlike what the cabbie had said, suited-up lawyers and bankers did sometimes land at Brownie’s. There was always a sprinkling of people who went from office to happy hour to night club to illegal after-hour spot to a spot like this that opened just before dawn when the after-hour clubs closed. Brownie’s stayed open until midafternoon, closing just in time for happy hour. Manhattan offered an endless polar night to those on a death spiral.
The small club hadn’t changed much since the mornings when Lauren had accompanied Bobby here. They were always treated as honored guests, continuing a night of drinking, drugging, dancing, and Bobby’s networking with his nefarious associates. Lauren passed the long bar now, not seeing Brownie holding court on a stool as he used to do. Red velvet couches and cocktail tables lined a small dance floor. The hour was still early for Brownie’s, only a few men and a couple of women with dramatic low-cut dresses sat at one table. The group sniffed coke openly, their eyes tracking Lauren as she walked along the edge of the dance floor. She looked away from their drugs, taking in their soulless eyes. She didn’t look at their eyes long either, intuitively afraid of the attractive power of their darkness.
On the dance floor, two women danced close to each other, one masculine with huge breasts and belly, and the other feminine with a skirt barely covering her hips. The big woman moved her hips with slow grace against her dance partner.
Brownie sat in a dark corner with a bottle of champagne open in a bucket at his table. A gold-handled cane glinted next to him. He was no longer the stout man he’d been. He sat hunched over, looking around with rheumy eyes more fitting for a nursing home dayroom than an illegal after-hours spot.
He searched Lauren’s face as she approached before he focused into an amused realization. “Is that you, Snow?”
Snow White. He’d been calling her that since he first came across her running the streets of Alphabet City, before she’d met Bobby.
She smiled but didn’t reach down to kiss his cheek. Brownie’s wasn’t that kind of social atmosphere. It was a place for hustlers, truck hijackers, contract killers. It was a place where Lauren used to hang out, thinking herself strong enough to deal with all that, always afloat in a hidden sea of fear. A fear that had returned now as if it had never left. “Hi, Brownie.”
“Well, well, well. I’d hoped you got away.” He took in Lauren’s business suit and face and gave her an approving look. “Maybe you did get away … but I’m wondering whether you’re making one big whopper of a mistake thinking you can test the waters again.”
Lauren sat. “I’m not back.”
“Good.” He poured himself some champagne and put an index finger in the air, signaling to the bartender to bring her a glass.
“No thanks. I’ve got to be in court in a couple of hours.”
His eyebrows arched. “So, what are you doing here … after all these years?”
“Listen, Brownie, trouble’s found me.”
He took a prim sip of champagne. “It has a way of doing that.”
“Did you ever hear that Bobby put a contract out on me?”
“I heard that. Then you disappeared into thin air. I always hoped you got away and weren’t just buried so deep no one came across you.”
Lauren inhaled sharply, visualizing the image.
He went on: “I’m glad to see you’re not. Bobby probably has a lot of bodies not found yet, women especially, and he was deeply pissed when you up and vanished on him. I’m not the only one who thought maybe the contract had already been fulfilled. Course, when you disappeared it was back before the internet made it hard to hide. It was a lot easier to vanish back then, which was lucky for you.”
Lauren tried to tuck away her fear, digesting what he’d said. How would she ever hide now? Especially in plain sight, the way she’d done before. Her eighteen months in drug treatment, totally off the grid, had helped her more than she’d realized, putting time and sp
ace between her and any gangsters looking to make a fast buck. Later she’d used Brian’s last name for much of her adult life. By the time Google alerts had become a thing, Bobby’s contract must have been forgotten in some kind of Mafia cold-case file. “I didn’t know about the contract, Brownie. I went away for a couple of years … to get myself together, started a new life. I’m out of the Life. But somebody wants to collect now. Damn, Brownie, why? Bobby’s been in jail for nearly twenty years already.”
“That he is. Life sentence. If he’s lucky, he’ll get out for compassionate release when he’s ready to die. Rumor has it that you had something to do with that. Ergo the contract.”
Lauren sat back, shocked. “No!”
“Word is the cops told him you were going to cooperate if he didn’t plead.”
“That’s not true. I didn’t know anything about what he was doing. I didn’t even know he was arrested at first. I read the book when it came out, same as everyone else.”
“He’s in jail, but he’s still got power. His name is good and so’s his contract, apparently not forgotten anymore.”
“I don’t know what to do about it. Someone’s blackmailing me to do a deal, or they’ll cash in on the contract. My ex-husband got me into a bunch of shit. He was a piece of work.”
Brownie smiled, benignly. “Even when you were just a kid, you always had a good head on your shoulders. But, Snow, you had a broken picker when it came to men. I guess some things don’t change.”
Lauren couldn’t have agreed more.
Brownie put his drink down and sat back, thinking. “You can buy yourself some time by doing the deal the people want, but doing their bidding isn’t a long-term solution. Even if they honor their bargain, now that you’re on the radar, word will slip out and the next guy will go for it sooner or later.”
Widows-in-Law Page 20