Ike Randolph opened the door and looked around.
“Hey, Ike.”
Ike jerked his head and Harrison Ronald went inside.
As they went through the kitchen, Ike said, “Better get some coffee. You’re out front tonight.”
Harrison filled a styrofoam cup with steaming liquid. “When they coming?”
“Ten. Got a piece on you?”
“Nope.”
“Get something from the bedroom and go on out front.”
Harrison selected a .357 Smith & Wesson, checked the cylinder, then stuffed the weapon into the pocket of his pea coat. He had bought this coat because it was warm and had deep pockets and a large collar. There was sure a lot of standing around outside in this business. Just like police work.
With that irony in mind, he walked down the hall carrying the coffee, nodded at the guy with the Uzi, and went out the front door to the stoop.
Harrison had seen the guy out front before, but didn’t know his name. “I got it. Anything happening?”
“Just cold as holy hell,” the guy said, then went up the steps and inside.
So far so good. Another three minutes of life and a fair prospect of more. Amen.
He was still standing there at nine fifty-five when a dark gray Cadillac wearing New York plates pulled up to the curb in front and the man in the passenger seat climbed out. Fat Tony Anselmo. The man at the wheel killed the engine.
Anselmo glanced at Ford, taking in every feature with one quick sweep, then climbed the stairs and pushed the doorbell button. The door opened in seconds and he went in.
The man at the wheel sank into the seat until only the top half of his face was visible under his dark, brimmed hat. At twenty-five feet the features were hard to distinguish in the glare and shadows of the streetlights, but Harrison Ronald knew who he was: Vincent Pioche, hitter for the Costello family in Brooklyn and Queens. According to Freddy Murray, the FBI thought he had killed over twenty men. No one knew for sure, including Pioche, who had probably forgotten some of his victims. Brains weren’t his long suit.
If you were going to make your living in criminal enterprises, Ford mused, you should either be a rocket scientist or mildly retarded. The people between those extremes were the ones in trouble. The thinking they did was both too much and not enough. Like Tooley.
That line of thought led him to consider himself. He had a high school diploma and two years of college. He could balance a checkbook and write a report. Tooley probably could have too, if he had had any reports to write.
Was he as smart as Freeman McNally, the Ph.D. of crack philosophy?
The very thought gave him goosebumps. The wind was cold and he had been out here over an hour. He began walking around.
Ike came out about ten-thirty and relieved him while he went inside for a break. He got another cup of coffee and hit the bathroom.
He was standing by the guard with the Uzi in the hallway sipping coffee when the door to the living room opened and Fat Tony came out. He already had his coat on. Freeman was behind him.
Freeman followed Tony to the door while Harrison trailed after.
Together they stood on the stoop and watched Tony Anselmo get into the car. As it drove off, McNally said, “There goes the two guys who killed Harrington and Lincoln a couple weeks ago.”
Because he thought he ought to say something, Harrison Ronald asked, “How’d you hear that?”
“You can find out anything if you know who to ask and you’ve got enough money.”
Freeman went back inside. Ike nodded and Harrison reluctantly descended to the sidewalk.
Yeah, with enough money to spread around you can find out anything, like who’s the undercover cop in the McNally organization.
On Saturday morning at eight a.m. Harrison Ronald Ford met special agents Hooper and Murray in the motel in Fredericksburg. The first thing he did was give them the forty-three hundred dollars that Freeman had given him. The money, Hooper said, would go to a fund to finance antidrug operations.
As they sipped coffee, Harrison Ronald told them the news: “Freeman says Fat Tony Anselmo and Vinnie Pioche killed two guys named Harrington and Lincoln several weeks ago.”
“How’d he find out?” Freddy asked.
“He says he asked the right person and used money.”
“We’ll follow it up. Right now I think those murders are being investigated by local police. To the best of my knowledge, they’re wide open.”
“Did he know why?” Hooper asked.
“Freeman didn’t say specifically. Fat Tony spent an hour and a half with him last night. I think it’s this money-washing business. It all fits.” Harrison Ronald shrugged.
“Monday you’re going to the grand jury. If they indict McNally and his gang, we start busting them Monday night.”
Harrison Ronald nodded and inspected his hands. They were shaking.
“There’s no reason for you to go back there tonight. Those clowns aren’t going anyplace.”
“Last night I got this tidbit on Anselmo and Pioche. That may wrap up two unsolved killings. Who knows what I might pick up tonight?”
“It isn’t worth the risk,” Freddy insisted, dragging his chair closer to the undercover man. “This undercover op rumor might land there today. Tonight they may decide to put a bullet into you for insurance.”
“May, may, might, might. Are you crazy?” Ford’s voice rose to a roar. “They could have killed me anytime in the last ten months. I’ve been living on borrowed time, you asshole.”
Silence greeted that outburst. Eventually Freddy got up from his chair and went over to sit on the bed.
Hooper took the chair and dragged it even closer to Ford, less than two feet away.
Hooper spoke softly: “Why do you want to go back?”
“Because I’m scared. I’ve been getting more and more scared every day.”
“You’re burning out,” Freddy said. “Happens to everyone. That’s normal. You’re not Superman.”
“Freeman McNally ain’t gonna die or get religion when you arrest him, Freddy. Even in jail, he’s gonna continue to be the same old asshole. And sooner or later, his lawyer is going to tell him my real name. I have to learn to live with that or I’m done.”
Hooper sighed. “Look. If killing you would let Freeman walk, he’d do it in the blink of an eye. But when he finally finds out he’s been had, he’s done regardless. And your real name will never come out. That I can promise.”
The undercover man didn’t seem very impressed. “Used to be, I got over the fear after a shift,” he muttered. “Did a crossword puzzle or two, got some sleep, maybe had a drink, I’d get back to normal. Doesn’t happen now. I’m scared all the time. Had to give up whiskey or I’d get stinking drunk and stay that way.”
“There’s no need to go back.”
“I need to. Don’t you see that? I’m fucking scared shitless. If I don’t go back I’ll be scared all my life. Don’t you see? How am I ever going to sit in a patrol car by myself in downtown Evansville at night? How am I gonna stop a speeder and walk up on his car? They send me in to arrest some drunk with a gun, how am I gonna do that? I am fucking scared shitless and I got to get a handle on it or I ain’t gonna be able to keep going, man. It’s that simple.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PRESIDENT Bush left for Camp David in the mountains northwest of Frederick, Maryland, around nine a.m. for a weekend retreat to hash out foreign policy issues with the secretary of state and the national security adviser. Before he boarded the helicopter, however, he had another session with Dorfman and Attorney General Gideon Cohen.
“What does this Zaba character know?”
“More than enough to convict Chano Aldana,” Cohen told the President. “He had at least half a dozen personal meetings with Aldana that we know of—four in Cuba and two in Colombia. He gave orders to his subordinates to assist in shipping cocaine from Colombia to Cuba. He personally supervised at least four transshipments on to
the United States.”
“Is he talking?” Dorfman asked, a little annoyed that Cohen, as usual, was putting the cart before the horse.
“Not yet. Judge Snyder appointed him a lawyer yesterday. Guy named Szymanski from New York.”
“The shyster that got those S&L thieves acquitted last week?”
“Yes. David Szymanski. He’s got a national reputation and Judge Snyder called him and asked if he would serve. He agreed.”
“Szymanski could dry up Niagara,” Dorfman said acidly. “If Szymanski can’t shut him up, this Zaba has a terminal case of motormouth.”
“I talked to the secretary of state about this matter. He felt it was important that we get top-notch counsel for Zaba. We may well want Cuba to send us some more of these people to try, and we need to show the Cubans that anyone extradited will get quality counsel and a fair trial. That’s critical. I personally asked Judge Snyder—”
“Okay, okay,” George Bush said, breaking in. “Will Zaba talk or won’t he?”
“I think he will,” Cohen told him. “The Cubans put it to him this way: If he cooperated with us he could eventually return to Cuba a free man. When he gets back there he can always blame Castro.”
“Who’s conveniently dead,” Dorfman remarked.
“No doubt Cuba will publicize his testimony as an example of the corruption of the old regime.”
“No doubt,” George Bush said. “You going to let him cop a plea?”
“If Szymanski asks, yes. Zaba will have to agree to testify against Chano Aldana. His sentencing hearing will be delayed until after the Aldana trial.”
“Won’t that give Aldana’s lawyer something to squawk about?” Dorfman asked.
“Yes.”
“How about this drug bust on Monday night? Is that on schedule?”
“Yessir.”
“You and I and the director of the FBI will have a press conference Tuesday morning. Schedule that, please, Will.”
“Yessir.”
“And Will, go see that the reporters are moved back far enough so that I don’t have to hear any questions on the way out to the chopper.”
Dorfman departed. When they were alone, George Bush said, “Gid, I know that you and Dorfman strike sparks, but I need you both.”
“The asshole thinks he was born in a manger,” Cohen said hotly.
The President was taken aback. He had never heard Cohen blow off steam before—apparently lawyers at blue-chip New York firms didn’t often indulge themselves. “That’s true,” the President replied with a wry grin, “but he’s my asshole.”
Cohen’s eyebrows rose and fell.
“There’s no way in the world I can please everyone. Dorfman attracts the criticism. He takes the blame. He takes the heat I can’t afford to take. That’s his job.”
The attorney general nodded.
“This drug thing … We have to just keep plugging at it. We’re trying and the voters will understand that. Only pundits and TV preachers expect miracles. And I don’t want anybody railroaded. Our job is to make the damn system work.”
Harrison Ronald got back to his apartment around noon. He locked and bolted the door and fell into bed with the .45 automatic in his hand. He was instantly asleep.
At five o’clock he awoke with a start. Someone upstairs had slammed a door. The pistol was still in his hand. He flexed his fingers around it, felt its heft, and lay awake listening to the sounds of the building.
When this was over he would go home. Home to Evansville and spend Christmas with his grandmother. He hadn’t talked to her in five or six months. She didn’t even know where he was. Tough on her, but better for him. She was getting on and liked to share confidences with her friends and minister.
Oh well. It would soon be over. One more night. When he walked out of this dump in three hours, he was never coming back. The landlord could have it—the worn-out TV, the clothes, the bargain-basement dinnerware and pots and pans, all of it. Harrison Ronald was going straight back to the real world.
He had leveled with Hooper about why he wanted to go back. He was going to have to learn how to live with fear—not just the fear of Freeman McNally—but fear itself. He had learned in the Marines that the only way to conquer this poison called fear was to face it.
Ah me. Ten months in a sewage pond. Ten months in hell. And this time tomorrow he would be out of it.
He lay in bed listening to the sounds and thinking about the life he was going back to.
Thanos Liarakos was in the den when he heard the kids shouting. “Mommy, Mommy, you’re home!”
She was standing there in the front hallway with the kids around her, looking at him. Her hair and clothes were a mess. She just stood there looking at him as the girls squealed and pranced and tugged at her hands.
“Hug them, Elizabeth.”
Now she looked at their upturned faces. She ran her hands through her hair, then bent and kissed them.
“Okay, girls,” he said. “Run upstairs a while and let Mommy and Daddy visit. No, why don’t you go out to the kitchen and help Mrs. Hamner fix dinner. Mommy will stay for dinner.”
They gave her a last squeeze and ran for the kitchen.
“Hello, Thanos.”
“Come in and sit down.” He gestured toward the den.
She selected her easy chair, the antique one she had had recovered—when was it?—a year ago? He sat in his looking at her. She had aged ten years. Bags under her eyes, lines along her cheeks, sagging pouches under her jaw.
“Why’d you come back?”
Elizabeth gestured vaguely and looked at the wall.
“You didn’t stay at the clinic. They called and said you walked away.”
She took a deep breath and let her eyes rest on him.
“Still on the dope, I see.”
“I thought you’d be glad to see me. The girls are.”
“You can stay for dinner if you want. Then you leave.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Don’t give me that shit! You’re doing this to yourself. Look at yourself, for Christ’s sake. You look like hell.”
She looked down at her clothes, as if seeing them for the first time.
“Why don’t you go upstairs, take a shower, wash your hair, and put on clean clothes. Dinner will be in about forty-five minutes.”
She gathered herself and stood. She nodded several times without looking at him, then opened the door and walked out. Liarakos followed her to the foot of the stairs and stood there for three or four minutes, then he slowly climbed the staircase. He stood in the bedroom until he heard the shower running, then left.
He had said she would stay for dinner on impulse; now he regretted it. Could he manage his emotions for two hours? He loved her and he hated her, both at the same time. The irresistible tidal currents tore at him.
Hatred. In her foolish weakness and selfishness she abandoned everything for that white powder. Abandoned the children, him—yes, him—was it hatred or rage?
Love. Yes. If there were no love there would be no hatred. Just sorrow.
And then he was outside himself, staring at this man from an angle above, watching him walk, seeing the meaningless gestures and the twitching of the facial muscles, knowing the pain and knowing too that somehow none of it really mattered.
It didn’t, you know. Didn’t matter. The kids would grow into adults and make their own lives and forget, and he would keep getting up every day and shaving and going to the office. Age would creep over him, then decrepitude, then, finally, the nursing home and the grave. None of it mattered. In the long run none of it mattered a damn.
Yet there he was, standing there imprisoned on this tired old earth, being ripped apart.
“Lisa, tell your mother what you’ve been doing in school.”
The child prattled about mice and gerbils and short stories. Elizabeth kept her eyes on her plate, on her food, concentrated on using the knife and fork at the proper time, on handling the utensils wit
h the proper hands. She patted her lips with the napkin and carefully replaced it in her lap.
“Susanna, your turn.”
The child was deep into a convoluted tale of fish and frogs when Elizabeth scooted her chair back a moment and murmured, “Excuse me.” She bent down for her purse.
Liarakos snagged it. “I’ll watch it.”
His wife stared at him, her face registering no emotion. Then it came. A snarl which began with a twitching of her upper lip and spread across her face.
Liarakos flipped her the purse. She caught it and rose from her chair and went along the hall toward the downstairs half bath.
“You girls finish your dinner,” he said.
“Is Mommy going to stay?”
“No.”
They accepted that and ate in silence. They finished and he shooed them upstairs. Minutes later Elizabeth came back to the dining room, gliding carefully, her face composed.
He sat in silence watching her eat. She picked at the food, then finally placed the fork on the plate and didn’t pick it up again.
“Don’t you want to know where I’ve been?”
“No.”
“Could you give me a ride or some money for taxi fare?”
“You can get wherever you’re going the same way you got here. Good-bye.”
“Thanos, I—”
“Good-bye, Elizabeth. Take your purse and go. Now! Don’t come back.”
“Thanks for—”
“If you don’t go right now, I’ll physically eject you.”
She stared at him for several seconds, then rose. After half a minute he heard the front door open, then click shut.
Harrison Ronald looked at his watch for the forty-fifth time. Two hours and three minutes until he had to be there.
He examined his face in the broken mirror over the cigarette-scarred dresser—would they read it in his face? He could see it written all over his kisser, plain as a newspaper headline. Guilt. That was what was there. Old-fashioned grade-A guilt, the kind your momma always gave you, shot through with cholesterol and saturated fats and plenty of salt and sugar. I did it! I’m the snitch! I’m the stoolie! Whitey sent this chocolate Tom to tattle on all you shit-shoveling niggers and pack your black asses off up the river.
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