What You Break

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “No, Gus, please. Don’t hang up.” She was breathless and sounded frightened. “Joe DiMaggio. Joe DiMaggio,” she repeated, using the code word we worked out if she felt she was in danger.

  “Okay. Give me a second.”

  I held the phone away from my ear and looked up to Ryan.

  “Is there a place I can take this call, an empty office or something?”

  “An emergency?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Out the door, turn right. Two doors down is a break room. No one is in there at this hour.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I walked quickly out of Ryan’s office toward the break room I put the phone back up to my ear.

  “What’s the matter, Maggie? What’s going on?”

  “I’m not imagining things, Gus.”

  “What aren’t you imagining?”

  “Someone is following me, a man. I’ve seen him a few times like lurking around when I’ve gotten off the elevators or coming out of the hotel restaurant. He keeps his distance, pretends like he’s not watching me, but he’s watching me. I know. Men have been watching me my whole life. He’s almost always at the edge of my sightline, but he’s there.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  “Big man in his thirties, muscularly built, bad mustache. Shaggy brown hair. He wears sunglasses and a leather jacket. You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?”

  “Of course not. You were right to call me. Where are you right now?”

  “In the hotel,” she said, voice trembling slightly.

  “Where in the hotel?”

  “In my room.”

  “You have the privacy latch and the security lock closed?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good. Stay there. I’m gonna get back to the Paragon. It’ll take me about five minutes from where I am now. Then I’m going to make some calls. Don’t open that door up for anyone until you hear back from me. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “When someone comes to the door, they will use the words “Father Bill” to you. If they don’t use those two words in that order, don’t open up and call nine-one-one immediately. Don’t yell, don’t fight, call. You got it.”

  “You’re scaring me, Gus.”

  “Okay, call, then scream and fight. Is that better?”

  We both laughed at that, too loudly and for too long.

  “Listen, Maggie, you’ll be okay. I’m gonna take care of this and you’ll be fine. Remember, Father—”

  “—Bill,” she finished the sentence. “I remember.”

  “I’m going now. I’ll call you back in a little while and explain how it’s being handled. I love you, Magdalena.”

  “And I would have to love you to put up with this shit.”

  Good, I thought, she had some anger in her voice. It would help her focus. I hung up.

  I ran back into Carl Ryan’s office, thanked him, and apologized for being such a pain in the ass. He assured me that it was okay and, seeing the panicked look on my face, asked if there was anything he could do.

  “One thing,” I said. “Can I get out through the shop floor? I’m in a hurry.”

  “Come with me.”

  As the Gyron building disappeared from my rearview mirror, I realized that when it came down to it, I didn’t really care about Micah Spears’s past or his money and promises. It was hard not to care about what had happened to Linh Trang, but the sad truth was that nothing I could find out about her murder would change her fate. It was a lesson I would keep relearning: Knowledge of the dead changes nothing. What mattered was keeping Maggie safe.

  51

  (THURSDAY AFTERNOON)

  Maggie was as safe as I could make her from seven hundred miles away. I’d had Kurt Bonacker get in touch with the hotel manager where Maggie was staying and the manager let me speak to his head of security. I probably could’ve gotten in touch with security by myself, but I knew the way the world worked. If word came down from management to help the guy on the phone, it carried a lot more weight than if I was asking a favor.

  It turned out that the head of security at the hotel was a retired Detroit PD sergeant named Vernon Boston. Vernon and I got on just fine and I made the threat to Maggie as clear as I could without going into too much detail. I left Slava out of it, telling Vernon that I had some old enemies from my time on the job.

  “Don’t we all?” he said. “Don’t we all? Shit, I’d need more fingers and toes to count up mine.”

  Hotels, especially big ones like the hotel I’d booked Maggie into, have all sorts of passageways that guests never see or even know exist. He took Maggie down to the loading dock in a service elevator and had her driven in a cargo van to another hotel.

  “Do you have a reliable personal protection firm out there?” I’d asked before he moved her.

  “It’ll cost you, but sure we do. Ex-Blackwater types, you know what I mean?”

  “Perfect. Twenty-four hours a day until I say otherwise.”

  “I’ll set it up.”

  That was the easy part. The hard part was calling the emergency number Slava had given me. I wasn’t going to hand him over to the Russians without first discussing it with him. In any case, I had bought us both a little bit of time now that Maggie was safe. He didn’t pick up. I didn’t figure he would. Sometime during the day, when it suited him, he would call me back. The voice mail box wasn’t set up, so there was no chance of leaving a message. I wouldn’t have had to, anyway. Slava would know why I was calling. Now all there was to do was wait, but the universe doesn’t operate as neatly as that. So even before I put my phone back in my pocket, it buzzed in my hand.

  “Gus.” It was Charlie Prince.

  “Yeah, Charlie, what’s up? Making any headway with the case?”

  “That’s where I am at right now. I’m in a bar in Bay Shore known to be a Asesinos hangout. Third place I’ve been in the Brentwood/Bay Shore area. So far, no luck. But that’s not why I called.”

  “I didn’t figure it was. So what’s the reason?”

  “I heard from the Sheriff’s Office investigator this morning.”

  I asked, “What, Rondo’s dead?”

  “Nah, looks pretty good he’s gonna spend the rest of his short, miserable life in zucchini land. He had a stroke last night and they helicoptered him over to Stony Brook University Hospital. Brain function is gone. Hey, Gus, you think if I volunteer, they’ll let me pull the plug on the motherfucka?”

  “You’d have to take a number like at the Stop and Shop deli counter. Thanks for calling to let me know, but—”

  “That’s not why I called you, either. Well, yeah, it’s part of the reason, but there’s something else.”

  “Something else like what?”

  “Looks like the guy who stuck his toothbrush into Salazar’s neck was one of his own.”

  “One of his own?” I asked, not knowing exactly what Prince meant.

  “One of his own, another Asesinos cholo, Martín Gutiérrez, a real badass. Gutiérrez makes Salazar seem like a fucking choirboy, if you can believe that. Remember the drug deal that went bad a few years ago in Freeport?”

  “Sorry, Charlie, I haven’t been much for the news for the last few years.”

  “Five dead, three men, two women. Throats slashed. Then the bodies were mutilated postmortem. You don’t want me to draw you a picture, do you? It wasn’t pretty. A CI for the Nassau County detective who caught the case pointed to Gutiérrez and two other Asesinos members, but they didn’t have any physical evidence to make it stick.”

  “So what’s he doing in Riverhead?”

  “Awaiting trial for homicide. A bouncer at a bar in Huntington Station threw Gutiérrez out when he was harassing a woman who wanted no part of him. Early the next morning, Gutiérrez, full of enough meth to keep all of Su
ffolk County lit, came back and waited for the bouncer to leave work. When he did, Gutiérrez beat him to death, slowly, with his fists. It’s on video, there were witnesses and tons of physical evidence. He’s going away for the rest of his life anyway. I guess Rondo must’ve said or done something to his gang brother to really piss him off.”

  “Come on, Charlie, let’s be honest with each other here,” I said. “You don’t like it and you don’t think for a second Gutiérrez tried to kill Rondo because of some breach in gang etiquette. A guy who beats another man to death on video and in front of witnesses isn’t going to plan a fake fight in the yard as a distraction. If it was some gang etiquette thing, Gutiérrez would’ve walked right up to Salazar and stabbed him on the block.”

  “It was a hit,” he said. “It had to be, but why?”

  “The answer’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? The gang wanted Salazar dead to protect themselves. Gutiérrez was already fucked, so they had him do it. My guess is Gutiérrez doesn’t even know why he was ordered to kill Salazar or they gave him some bullshit story. He’ll be a dead end, not that he would talk in any case. There’s no incentive you could offer him to talk.”

  “But I’m gonna go speak with him later anyway, after they arrest him. You want in?”

  I thought about it. “Thanks, but no, I don’t think so. I’ll just be in the way, and I’ve got other shit I’m dealing with right now. You find anything out, I’d appreciate hearing about it.”

  “You got it, Gus.” But he wasn’t done. Although he stopped speaking, I could almost hear him formulating his next sentence. I waited. “You know, I can’t help but think we don’t have any idea of why Linh Trang Spears was really murdered. I sure am curious now, though.”

  “Me, too, Charlie. Me, too.”

  “I’m gonna keep checking the bars for now. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

  That was it. I got the sense he knew he could check every one of those bars and clubs and he would get nowhere. If Charlie Prince was right, if I was right, that Gutiérrez had been ordered to kill his gang brother, it was progress of a sort. It might mean someone was nervous, that my poking around had, in fact, started a chain reaction . . . or not. In spite of what I’d said to Charlie, there might be a hundred reasons for Gutiérrez to make an attempt on Salazar’s life that those of us on the outside of the gang could never know about or even understand. For the moment, I had plenty of other things to worry about, but very little I could do about them except wait.

  52

  (THURSDAY AFTERNOON)

  Bill Kilkenny was confused but happy when I showed up at his door with a cold antipasto plate and eggplant-parm heroes.

  “Smells grand, but to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’m not sure you’ll like the answer.”

  He laughed. “Experience has taught me that the Lord cares little for my preferences. My likes or dislikes tend not to change the facts.”

  “Nothing changes the facts, does it, Bill? There are plenty of facts I’d like to change.”

  “No less true for me or any of us, I think. You’re thinking of your lad, then?”

  I shook my head. “No, actually, I’m not.”

  He patted my cheek. “Then you’ve come far, Gus Murphy. You’ve come very far. Now, will you stop tempting me with those aromas—Italian, if my Arthur Avenue–trained nose isn’t lying to me—and get in here. I’ve the perfect red to go with it.”

  We didn’t talk much as we sipped our Chianti and shoved hunks of provolone, Genoa salami, soppressata, roasted peppers, and olives into our mouths. But whenever I looked up, I could see Bill studying me for cracks and fissures.

  “What is it, Bill?”

  “You show up here unannounced with lunch, but you haven’t much to say. You tell me, boyo. If your mood’s not about John Junior, then what, or is it who?”

  I explained to him about the man who was following Maggie and about the choice I had to make about Slava.

  “I don’t envy you, but is it really a choice between Slava and Maggie? Is it one life for another?”

  “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

  “Who among us asks for what we really get, Gus? It is our fate. Some of it is of our own making, but most of it is out of our purview.”

  “Don’t go all God squad on me, not now. Next thing I know, you’ll be shoving a rosary in my hand and asking me to kneel beside you for a little praying.”

  “If I thought you would mean a word of it, I wouldn’t hesitate to do just that.”

  I laughed. “Well, if you’re in a praying mood, Bill, you might ask the Holy Trinity why one of his own gang brothers tried to kill Rondo Salazar yesterday.”

  He was stunned. “The man who killed Micah’s granddaughter was himself killed?”

  “Sort of. He’s in a coma for which there are no return breadcrumbs.”

  “That’s artfully put for the likes of you.”

  “I’m thinking about the breading on the eggplant heroes.”

  “They’ll keep,” he said, in about as stern a voice as he could manage. “Have you made any progress there with what Micah asked of you?”

  “In terms of concrete progress, no, but one of the detectives on the case thinks that my nosing around about Linh Trang’s murder might be stirring the pot. I don’t know what to believe. Now can we eat?”

  Bill nodded. And as he set out plates for the heroes, I was tempted to ask him yet again about Micah Spears’s dark past. I didn’t bother. It wouldn’t’ve worked any better now than it had the last two times I asked. Besides, I couldn’t praise the man for keeping my confidences and things I’d revealed at the lowest points in my life and at the same time fault him for keeping the same covenant with others. Oddly, it was Bill who broached the subject of Micah Spears, if in an offhanded manner.

  “So then, if there’s all this gang shite involved, the poor girl’s murder might have no connection at all to Micah?”

  “Why would Linh Trang’s murder have anything at all to do with her grandfather?” Because Bill had brought up the subject, I figured I might finally be able to get some information out of him. “Maybe if you’d tell me why Spears changed his name, I could give you an honest answer.”

  Bill looked like he was considering the proposition when my cell vibrated. Before he answered, I reached into my pocket.

  “Sorry, Bill, I’ve gotta get this,” I said, and walked outside.

  I picked up, simultaneously hoping and dreading that it was Slava. It wasn’t Slava, and I sighed in disappointment and relief.

  “Hey, Asher.”

  “Christ, Gus, I know nobody wants to hear from his lawyer, but could you fake a little enthusiasm? It makes up for the lack of pay.”

  “Sorry, Ash. My bad. What’s up? The NYPD back at it again?”

  “Nothing like that,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Are you working tonight?”

  “Yeah, but tell me what’s going on and let me worry about work.”

  “There’s someone I think you should talk to.” His voice was now a whisper. Although there was a lot of background noise, he clearly didn’t want anyone to overhear what he was saying.

  “Where are you?”

  “At the courthouse in CI.”

  “How is Central Islip these days?”

  “Same as it ever was, only more depressing. Listen, can you get out of work tonight?”

  “If I have to.”

  “You have to.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”

  “No. Text me the info, Ash.”

  “I can do that.”

  “What’s this about, anyway?”

  “Just show up tonight.”

  “Should I thank you?”

  “Maybe not,” he said, his full voice back. “Depends. I’ve got to
go.”

  He was good to his word and was gone. Before I went back inside, I called Fredo, the other van driver who was always looking for extra shifts. He never turned them down.

  “Is everything okay, Gus?” Bill asked when I stepped back inside.

  I shrugged. “Is everything ever okay? At least it wasn’t about Maggie and it wasn’t Slava.”

  “That’s something. It’s good, I think, to remember to be thankful for the small graces.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like eggplant-parm heroes, for fuck’s sake. Now can we please eat?”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  53

  (THURSDAY NIGHT)

  You didn’t have to live on Long Island for more than a few months to discover the North/South divide, the LIE acting as our own version of the Mason-Dixon Line. The general theme being that, with the exception of the Hamptons and a few scattered towns along the Atlantic, the North Shore had better schools, was wealthier, cleaner, safer, whiter . . . I mean, Gatsby didn’t live in Merrick, for chrissakes, nor did the Astors, Roosevelts, and Vanderbilts build their mansions in Mastic Beach.

  But the North Shore was no less free of the bullshit dividing lines that existed in places like Bellport. Only on the North Shore we liked to pretend that there was no such thing as the wrong side of the tracks, only the best side and the gradually, marginally, slightly less good sides. It’s sad how easily we let ourselves fall into that tribal nonsense, the who-is-better-than-whom crap. Even in Commack, the place where Annie and I had raised the kids, our neighbors got haughty about North Commack having it all over South Commack. As if it mattered in the scheme of things. Ask any real estate broker on the island and they’d tell you I was certifiable, that of course it mattered, that nothing mattered more. That on the North Shore, the descriptor “North” could mean several hundred thousand dollars in asking price, that on the South Shore the descriptor “South” could mean the same. Right, what could possibly matter more than fucking real estate values?

  I guess I had real estate on my mind as I drove north up Nissequogue River Road, the silent river below to my left, Smithtown Landing Golf Course along the opposite bank. Not that I could see the golf course in the dark or make out the phase of the moon through the mournful blanket of clouds that had descended upon Suffolk in the last several hours. I had grown up in Smithtown, on Blydenburgh Avenue, squeezed between Main Street and the Long Island Rail Road, the tracks not seventy-five feet away from our back door. I’d driven past the old house on my way to the address Asher Wilkes had texted me. I used to like to take the short drive from our house in Commack with the kids to show them where their dad had grown up. I guess I liked reminding them that I was a kid once, too. I used to feel like a kid a lot of the time, not even the job could beat it out of me. I didn’t feel much like a kid anymore, nor did I go by the old house. It just didn’t have any meaning for me the way it used to.