The Defense: A Novel

by Steve Cavanagh

  That left me with two more calls to make.

  I called Harry and left him a message. It was just coming up to four a.m. and he was probably still in night court. I told him I got the bag, thanked him, and said that if I needed anything else, I would send him a text message.

  The last call I had to make made me nervous beyond belief.

  The keypad on the phone was small and I made lots of mistakes dialing the number, but it probably had more to do with my body coping with stress than the size of the keys. After all, I’d managed to make the other calls without any problems. My hands were shaking, not for the first time that day. It took me a good ten seconds to make sure I’d typed the correct number into the phone, rereading the handwritten number on the back of the FBI card and checking it against the number I’d typed. Satisfied, I hit dial.

  I could have been making a mistake with this call, but I had to do it, and I had the phone to do it—a heavily modified Nokia with a special SIM card. The phone was very expensive and for good reason. The cell captured the network of the mobile phone it was calling. Technically, whoever I called was in fact calling themselves. For landlines, it threw out a random wireless search and hit the nearest landline connected to broadband and the call would be registered from that landline number. The same line is never captured twice.

  Somebody answered my call.

  “Yeah?” said a male voice with an American accent.

  “Hello. Can I speak to the operator, please?” I said.

  “What? Operator? You must have a wrong number,” said the voice. He sounded like a smoker. I heard the low breath and baritone drawl of a nicotine fan.

  “I’m sorry. I was using technical jargon again. I’m new at this, and they tell you not to do that. I meant can I please speak to the handset owner?”

  “Speaking. Who is this?”

  “This is your telephone company, sir. I’m afraid I’m calling with a sixty-second warning—your phone is about to be cut off. If you have an emergency call to make, I suggest you do it now, sir. Do you have an emergency or do you anticipate an emergency arising?” I sounded like I was reading some bullshit from a prepared script, not really understanding what I was saying. Like a real telephone company employee.

  “You’re not cutting me off. Why would you cut me off?”

  “Your bill is outstanding, sir.”

  “This is a scam. This is a group package phone—it’s paid for by the Federal Bureau of Investigations, buddy.” He gave me the full title.

  “I’m afraid it hasn’t been paid, sir. Unless you can pay me sixty-six eighty in the next few minutes, I have to cut off your service.”

  “You can’t do that. I already told you the FBI pays for this phone.”

  “Not for a while, I’m afraid, sir. Can you pay the amount now?”

  “No. It’s already been paid.”

  “Then I have to cut you off.”

  “You can’t do that. I mean, how could you do it?”

  “I already have, sir, just now. If you don’t believe me, just try making a call after you hang up this one.”

  He hung up immediately. I didn’t. I’d captured and was using his cell network. If he did try to make a call, which I was sure he would do, he wouldn’t be able to get a dial tone.

  I waited thirty seconds, listened to Victor laughing on the phone, then called again.

  “See?” I said.

  “How did you do that?” he said.

  “I just pressed a button here, sir. That’s all. Can you pay the overdue amount, please?”

  He let out a sigh and paused. I thought for a moment that I’d blown it. This call was too risky; I shouldn’t have made it. I put my thumb over the disconnect button and waited. I prayed he wouldn’t take the gamble of losing his cell today, when the Russians might need him most.

  “Do you take credit cards?” he said.

  I almost punched the air.

  “Sure, but before I take the number, can I have the name as it appears on the card, please?”

  A moment’s silence followed; then he said, “No way. This is a scam.”

  “Would a low-life con man be able to do that to your phone?” I asked.

  “No, but…”

  “Okay, so what’s the name?”

  “How come you don’t know my name? I mean, you called me. I’m a customer, right? What do you need my name for?”

  “I just need to verify the name on the card, sir. This is not Al Qaeda.”

  It was the big weakness with the idea, which of course came to pass. I expected it.

  “Sir, I have all your customer details here, but of course I don’t know if I’m speaking to the customer right now. Anyone could answer your phone, so I just need your identification details from your card.”

  Another agonizing pause came.

  “You said you were calling from my telephone company. What company am I with?”

  I checked my signal indicator at the top of the screen; I’d captured AP&K.

  “AP&K, sir. Do you want me to ask you what color pants you’re wearing?”

  “Wha—” He stopped and sucked air through his teeth. This could’ve blown up in my face at any time, but I was relying on this guy being gullible. Thankfully, he was in the FBI and not the DEA. Cops and FBI agents get stung all the time. I know hustlers who exclusively target cops and feds because they’re more trusting of what they believe to be authority. Little old ladies and beat cops, ripe for the picking.

  “The name as it appears on the card is Thomas P. Levine,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Levine. Can you tell me the type of card and confirm the first line of your address?”

  Victor banged on the door. I already had what I needed.

  I pretended to take a payment, then disconnected the call.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Creeping up the dimly lit stairs with Victor following behind me, I couldn’t help but wonder what Thomas P. Levine looked like. Back in the chambers office, I chewed this over as I made the call from Arturas’s phone.

  “Could I speak to Jimmy please?” I said.

  “Who is this?” said a voice.

  “Tell him it’s his lawyer.”

  Jimmy came on the phone. “You know what time it is?” he said.

  “It’s Eddie,” I said.

  Silence. I didn’t say anything. I just waited.

  “Been a long time. Call me back on this number,” said Jimmy.

  I memorized the number for a cell and dialed it right back.

  He answered quickly. “You’re good. Nobody is listening. What’s up?”

  “I have four million with your name on it. Got a job for you, and it’s easy money. Somebody needs to keep their mouth shut,” I said.

  “We’re usually pretty good at keeping people’s mouths shut. When you coming in?”

  “Got to pick up the cash first; shouldn’t take long.”

  “Come at six a.m. I’ll throw in breakfast. There’s a shift change around that time. Got a lot of bird watchers in the area, all different kinds of agencies. So you gotta take the long way around. Side entrance, knock three times. Smile for your picture. See you soon, bub.”

  The call ended.

  Jimmy and I had gone our separate ways when I went straight. We more or less agreed upon it. The feds, NYPD, the Justice Department, the IRS, and God knows who else all had their eyes on the Mafia. It would make straight life difficult for me and possibly put a target on my back if we were seen together. We’d called each other occasionally, but that hadn’t lasted too long. I’d forgotten that meeting Jimmy in secret could be tough. Taking four million dollars to him without any one of those agencies clocking me would be just about impossible. Just as I thought I was beginning to climb out of this hole, I suddenly had a whole new set of problems. I was about as tired as I’d ever felt in my whole life. I swore and kicked the empty suitcase on the floor, sending it across the room and into the door.

  “There’s a problem,” I said.
>
  “What? He wants more money?” said Arturas.

  “No. He has company. FBI, ATF, DEA, take your pick. Somebody’s camped out at his place. We need to approach carefully. If I’m seen hauling a huge bag of cash in there, I’ll be arrested within seconds, along with most of the New York Mafia.”

  “So leave it. There is already too much risk. We take our chances with Benny. I’ll call Olek and tell him it’s off,” said Arturas.

  “Wait. I said it would be tough. Not impossible. I’ll figure something out. Don’t you think I want to get out of this without killing a witness? Don’t you think I want my daughter back? I’ll do whatever it takes to get Volchek off without killing Little Benny. I can do this. Your boss needs it to happen this way.”

  This set off another argument between the Russians. Except this time I thought I recognized a few words here and there; I heard “Benny” a few times. That was what sparked my interest. Arturas was wild with anger; his neck and chest flushed red, and spittle hung from his lips as he bellowed at Victor and I caught, “Benny” then “nyet, nyet, nyet.” I was pretty sure “nyet” meant “no.” Then “Benedikta,” and something I couldn’t quite pick up before Arturas bellowed, “Moy brat.” This last phrase echoed around the room. They were talking about Little Benny, but I couldn’t understand them.

  Victor became quiet. Arturas seemed to have won the argument.

  “All right. We’ll go pick up the money. You will come, too. Then we will go straight to Jimmy’s,” said Arturas.

  Four a.m. Two hours to get the cash and get to the restaurant.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Getting out of the courthouse was a lot easier than getting in. The lobby was pretty busy with the families and friends of those who’d been arrested and were trying for bail. A bunch of cops were blowing the steam off their coffees at the bottom of the staircase while they shared a joke. I didn’t recognize any of the security guards on night duty. Not that it mattered—you don’t get searched leaving the courthouse.

  Outside, the wind was picking up, and I was glad of it. I was wired on adrenaline, but it was beginning to wear off. The cold air felt invigorating. Gregor had stayed in the room upstairs. It was just me, Arturas, and Victor who were headed for the limo across the street. I got in first. Victor came afterward and sat opposite me. When Arturas got in and sat down, I leaned toward him, banging shoulders, pretending to drag the bottom of my overcoat out from under my legs.

  Arturas grumbled.

  He hadn’t felt the lift or the plant.

  I’d taken the detonator, the real one, from his coat pocket and dropped in the fake that I’d lifted from him earlier and the new fake that Harry got for me from Paul. Arturas now had two detonators, like he’d had earlier that day, except that both of the detonators were now fakes. The real detonator felt a little heavier to me as I held it in my pocket, but then I’d become adept at sleight of hand twenty years ago. I could judge the half-a-gram difference in a phony dime just by holding it. Arturas wouldn’t notice the difference in weight between the detonators. At least I hoped he wouldn’t. I’d noticed that he kept the real detonator in his left pocket, and the fake in his right, to make sure he didn’t mix them up.

  As the limo pulled out, I saw that it had been parked outside the little tapas place where Harry and I had first met and had lunch. In that meeting, Harry had basically offered me a job. I’d never had a straight job before. Didn’t need one or want one. My mom, on the other hand, thought I was working as a paralegal. The day after I’d met Harry for the first time, I visited her in the hospital. In the years since my dad passed away, Mom had experienced a steady decline. I gave her money every week so she didn’t have to work, but that seemed to make her even worse. She rarely got out of bed before midday and had stopped socializing with her friends. She’d even stopped reading.

  That day, that last day, she looked so tired. The skin on her face seemed so thin I thought that it might tear at any moment. Her lips were dry and broken, and her hair was damp and clung to her pallid skin. The doctors said they weren’t sure what was causing her weight loss, her pains, and her cough. They had gone from diagnosing MS to cancer and back again.

  Deep down I knew exactly what was killing her.

  Loss.

  When my dad passed, she kept going, for me. She hadn’t cried much; she didn’t want me to see her pain. For all her efforts, I knew. I knew she had already died inside. As soon as I started making money and she believed I was in a good job, she just kind of stopped. It was almost as if she had done her job. She had raised me, and now she wanted to let go. So that she could be with my dad. She was slowly dying of a broken heart.

  Her eyes brightened when I brought her the flowers. She loved flowers.

  She held my hand, and I saw a tear glisten on her cheek.

  “Are you feeling okay? Is there much pain today?”

  “No. There’s no pain. I’m happy. I’ve got my big son, and he’s going to be a lawyer someday.”

  Her smile hit me like a punch. I couldn’t tell her. No matter how many times I’d told her, she couldn’t understand that being a paralegal didn’t necessarily mean I would eventually become a lawyer. She didn’t listen. She wanted to dream for her son, and in the end I let her. If I’d told her that I wasn’t a paralegal, that I was a con artist pretending to be a lawyer so I could con insurance companies, what little she had left would’ve faded away. In some way, that lie made me feel responsible for her death. If she had known that I wasn’t really a paralegal, but a con artist, would she have given up on life? If I had told her the truth, she would have cried and wailed and ordered me to get out of that life, that my father had wanted better things for his son. Sitting by her bed, watching her slip away, I made a decision that I would be true to her memory of me. That I would give her a real reason to be proud.

  Her hand fell in mine. I knew she wasn’t asleep. The heart monitor sounded its alarm. No one came for a while. Then, slowly, a nurse opened the door, turned off the monitor, stroked my mom’s head, and said, “She’s gone.”

  I buried her with my father, paid off my crew, called Harry, who set up a place for me in law school, and until Arturas pulled that gun on me in Ted’s, I had never looked back. I had put my life as a hustler behind me. Now I was glad. Glad that I still possessed those skills.

  Harry had saved me that day when he offered me a job. He had held my fate in his hand and changed my life. Somehow, I thought Harry felt responsible for me.

  A blast from a car horn brought me back to my ride in the limo. The windows were so densely tinted that I had trouble seeing where we were.

  After a few minutes, I figured we were headed south, toward Brooklyn, and it wasn’t long before we took the exit for the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. I still call that tunnel the Battery even though it has been renamed as the Hugh L. Carey Tunnel in honor of the former governor of New York. My dad often spoke about Carey as a good Catholic man; that had to be true—Carey had fourteen children.

  “Where are we headed?” I asked.

  “Sheepshead Bay,” said Arturas.

  I knew the Bay well. It wasn’t too far from where I grew up. The Bay separated Brooklyn from Coney Island and stretched back into quiet neighborhoods from the rowdy Soviet bars that had opened up along the shoreline. We drove for around thirty minutes before pulling into a lot behind an auto-repair shop at the corner of Gravesend Neck Road and East 18th Street. The lot fronted for an old warehouse.

  “Come with me,” said Arturas.

  We got out, and I looked around. The area was a mix of apartment buildings and businesses that mostly closed after five p.m. A quiet street at that time of the morning. The ground was slippery with frost, and we made our way to the steel door that served as a pedestrian entrance to the warehouse. The door led to a large furnished office. Two couches sat against the eastern wall facing a TV planted high on the opposite wall. The TV was on, fixed to a news channel. A news anchor talked over an image of the Hudson Ri
ver. The banner headlines scrolling across the bottom of the screen said that the harbor patrol had begun to bring up bodies from the cargo ship, the Sacha, which had sunk with all its crew on Saturday night. The headline said they had found the ship and some of the crew, but so far only dead bodies. According to the news anchor, the fact that they had found the ship was good news for commuters, as debris from the sunken ship ceased to be an issue and the Holland Tunnel could reopen. The anchor seemed more concerned with traffic than the families of the dead. He obviously wasn’t a New Yorker; we care about our own.

  Two men silently entered the office from an adjoining room, each carrying a large duffel bag. They dumped the bags on the floor and left. I thought they might have been the van drivers that I’d spotted earlier from the ledge, but I couldn’t tell.

  “Four million. Pick it up and let’s go,” said Arturas.

  “I’m not going anywhere. If I walk in there and that four million turns out to be a dollar short, I’m dead. I’m not going anywhere until I’ve counted the money. I’ve told Jimmy I’m bringing four million dollars, and I’m going to make sure that’s exactly what I’ve got,” I said.

  Kneeling down, I unzipped both bags and began to count out the six-inch-thick tightly wrapped bundles of cash within.

  As I knelt, I kept an eye on Arturas and Victor while I handled the money.

  After a few minutes, I had a pretty big pile of cash on the floor. Arturas gestured for Victor to follow him into the hall. Shuffling around on my knees, I could make out both men. Arturas stood with his back to me. Victor’s view of the office was blocked by Arturas.

  The small black vial of liquid was easy to conceal and hard to find in a large pocket. The cap came off silently, and I hit the spray nozzle four times, sending what appeared to be a cloud of water vapor over the top piles of cash. Replacing the cap, I slid the little black bottle into my coat pocket.