Shamrock Alley

by Ronald Damien Malfi

  “Brooklyn,” he said. “Bath Avenue.”

  “How you know Tressa Walker?”

  “Went to the same high school,” he said.

  “Which one?”

  “Lafayette. You know the area?”

  “Bath Avenue,” Jimmy mused, taking the bottle from Mickey. “You a hookup guy? In with the guineas?”

  “I’m on my own,” he told Jimmy. “But everybody’s hooked up to somebody. Who you attached to?”

  Jimmy executed his half-smirk again and jerked his head in Mickey’s direction. “This guy,” he said.

  The urge to bring up the counterfeit money was great, but if he brought it up now it would be too conspicuous, like dropping a grenade in a foxhole—soldiers are going to scatter. It was possible that he could work around it, maybe head down that path and hope Jimmy Kahn was careless enough to start talking, but he didn’t think Jimmy Kahn ever would.

  The bottle came around to him again, and he swallowed another mouthful. This one sent the parking lot listing to the left. Beside him, Mickey pointed at the two guys unloading the truck and mumbled something practically inarticulate to Jimmy. Yet Jimmy must have understood, because he started chuckling under his breath and plucked the bottle from John’s hands. John didn’t know quite what to make of Jimmy—it was still too early—but he’d been around Mickey enough by now to tell Mickey’s impenetrable veneer was slowly sloughing off. With each sip from the bottle, he was regressing to the accessible hood he’d been at the Cloverleaf. It was as close to being friendly, he assumed, as Mickey ever came. With any luck, maybe Mickey would initiate a conversation about the counterfeit money …

  When the bottle made it back around to him, he was aware of Mickey watching him from the corner of his eye, a drunken grin threatening his lips. He took two large swallows, his eyes on Mickey.

  “Uh …” He wanted to hang his head between his legs and moan but wouldn’t give in. Handing the bottle to Mickey, he noticed that Mickey’s hands looked blurred. And so did his.

  Wonderful. Now I’m getting shitfaced.

  Mickey drank, passed the bottle to Jimmy. Jimmy knocked back enough to fill a small teacup. They drank like troopers, their postures becoming more and more relaxed, their conversation more and more flowing. They talked for some time about hockey and about their best scores on some pinball machine, Jimmy’s eyes never leaving the two guys unloading the truck, while Mickey’s eyes remained on the circulating bottle.

  The plan had been a success. He’d thrown them a curveball, and they’d swung. Now they knew he was a player, a go-to guy, and that put them at ease just a little. There would be no more surface-level bullshit with Mickey O’Shay. He was now at the next stage of the game.

  When the final crate was loaded into the garage, Donny sat his bulk down on the bumper of the Ryder truck (his weight caused the truck to list) and the little guy—Sean—just stood beside him. After he caught his breath, Donny got up and took a few steps in their direction, arms outstretched. Despite the cold, his face was red and blotchy from perspiration, and he was panting like a dog.

  “Hope you fuckers didn’t wear yourselves out watching us work,” Donny said. “That bottle looks heavy.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Mickey growled, pulling himself to his feet.

  Jimmy, too, got up and tossed the now-empty bottle in the grass behind them. Unzipping his fly, he voided a hot ribbon of urine onto the stone steps. Then without saying a word, he walked around the side of the garage, no doubt to inspect his laborers’ work.

  “Drank it all?” Donny was moaning, peering over the side of the stone steps and down at the empty whiskey bottle in the grass. “Goddamn.”

  Eyes swimming in his head, John caught Mickey staring at him through the wet tangles of his hair.

  Don’t look at me like that, he thought. I’ll knock you right the hell down, Mickey Mouse.

  “All right,” John muttered, and stuck out his hand for Mickey to shake. However, his face remained stoic and unwelcoming. Following a slight hesitation, without even looking at John’s hand, Mickey grabbed it and shook it once, firmly. “Where’s Jimmy? I wanna say good night.”

  “Jimmy’s gone,” Mickey said, turning in a loose half-circle and heading around to the other side of the garage.

  “What? Already?”

  Mickey didn’t answer. His back to John, he walked with his hands stuffed into his pockets, his head cocked toward his feet in his usual manner. Watching him leave, John felt a resurgence of frustration rise up inside him, more potent than any amount of alcohol he could consume. Sitting, shooting the shit, opening conversation … and the bastard just disappears? As if he’d never been here in the first place. It wasn’t just that street guys didn’t behave that way—it was that people didn’t behave that way. Damn it, they made him feel too off-guard.

  He watched Mickey’s shadow disappear around the side of the garage like a ghost. Something Tressa Walker had said to him last month when he’d met with her at McGinty’s came back to him now, the context of her words unexpectedly more profound than they’d been that evening: These guys are like no one you’ve ever seen.

  Maybe. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t play them just as hard. Harder, if he had to.

  The door to the garage came down in a series of rattles and bangs. It hit the ground hard, the sound like the report of a pistol in John’s head, and was locked from the inside. Several moments later, beyond the fence and across the street, he heard car doors slam and the engine of a large car kick over. Not moving, he stood in the parking lot and listened as the car took off down the street, its headlights glimmering through the slats in the wooden fence at the opposite end of the parking lot.

  These guys are like no one you’ve ever seen.

  It was the voice of a ghost, a prophet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “DON’T GET TOO COMFORTABLE,” KERSH SAID JUST as John was about to sink down into his desk chair.

  “What’s up?”

  “Chominsky’s waiting on us in his office.”

  John pulled off his leather jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. “Whatever it is, let’s just blame Veccio.”

  “You feeling all right this morning?”

  Rubbing his temples, John said, “Never better.”

  Kersh picked up a large dictionary from his desk, held it a few feet over the desktop—then dropped it. Some heads in the office turned. The sound slammed into John’s head, rocketing through his ears.

  “Christ,” he muttered.

  Grinning, Kersh said, “That’s what you get for partying with the Irish.” Then he handed him a fresh cup of coffee. “Here,” he said. “Just to let you know I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “You go on ahead,” he said. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom.”

  “Take some aspirin,” Kersh said. “You look like garbage.”

  Bill Kersh entered Chominsky’s office following two quick knocks on the door.

  Chominsky was seated behind his desk, a box of doughnuts resting at the corner of his desk, two men in suits seated in chairs before him. Both men shifted their gaze to the office door as both he and Kersh entered. The man closest to the door Kersh immediately recognized—Peter Brauman, in a pressed suit and tie. The other man was rather staunch and at first appeared slightly irritated, one hand pressed neatly in his lap while the other held what appeared to be a fruit shake.

  Kersh nodded at Brauman. “Peter.”

  “How you doing, Bill?”

  “Hanging in.”

  Chominsky pushed forward in his chair. “Where’s Mavio?”

  “He’ll be here in a few minutes,” Kersh said, pulling a chair from the wall and dragging beside Peter Brauman. “What’s going on?”

  “Bill,” Chominsky said, “this is Detective Sergeant Dennis Glumly, NYPD.”

  “Bill,” Glumly began, “we’ve got a unit that’s been keeping an eye on Mickey O’Shay and Jimmy Kahn for just about two years now. We’ve set up surve
illance around the candy store on Fifty-third and Tenth, on O’Shay’s apartment, all over the neighborhood. We’ve even got a loft rented down the street and a makeshift HQ at John Jay College.”

  “Why are you keeping tabs on them?” he asked Glumly.

  Glumly blinked. He had long, feminine lashes and steel-colored eyes. “I was going to ask you guys that same question,” Glumly said, quite matter-of-factly. “Few weeks ago I saw you parked around the intersection by the candy store. Long story short, I saw you there a few more times and made another car that smelled like feds. Got me curious.”

  “O’Shay and Kahn are part of a counterfeit investigation,” Kersh said.

  Glumly nodded. “Doesn’t surprise me. Those guys are into everything.”

  “Bill,” Peter Brauman spoke up, “I didn’t really emphasize just how bad these guys are when you came to me the other night.”

  “I saw the reports,” Kersh said.

  Brauman shook his head. “You don’t understand …”

  A quick knock on the office door and they all looked up. John stepped in, closing the door behind him, and nodded at the men.

  Chominsky started to make the introductions. “John, this is—”

  Dennis Glumly’s fruit shake fell on the floor. “Holy Christ!” It looked as though he were about to topple out of the chair, his eyes never leaving John’s face. A mottled expression of perplexity and shock blossomed across his face, and he brought his hands up in a parody of surrender. “Holy Christ!” He couldn’t help but repeat the phrase.

  Likewise, Peter Brauman looked as if someone had just dropped a cinder block across his feet and then slapped him in the face. He, too, could not keep his eyes from John; he stared at John as if to confirm his reality.

  “Holy Christ …”

  About to pull another chair over to the group, John stood frozen in place. “Did I miss something?”

  “I don’t…” Chominsky attempted.

  Kersh looked at Peter Brauman, shook the man’s arm. “The hell’s going on, Pete?”

  Then, quite surprisingly, Peter Brauman snorted an astonished laugh and rubbed the side of his face with his hand.

  Looking directly at John, Dennis Glumly said, “Brett … you’re not going to believe this …” The detective shook his head as if to clear blurred vision. To John, he said, “I’m Dennis Glumly, NYPD.”

  “John Mavio.”

  “John,” Glumly repeated. Then he, too, laughed. “Son of a bitch! John, we’ve been …” He couldn’t manage the words. Finally, after pausing a moment to collect his thoughts, Glumly said, “How long have you been undercover?” He seemed amazed by his own words.

  John knitted his brow. “What’s going on?”

  Just as confused, Brett Chominsky turned to Glumly while running a finger along the left side of his face. “Dennis?”

  Resignedly, looking at John, Glumly said, “I was just explaining to Agent Kersh that we’ve had a surveillance set up on Mickey O’Shay and Jimmy Kahn for close to two years. And we’ve been watching you, too, for the past couple weeks.”

  “Me?” He sat himself down in a chair beside Kersh. Then it hit him, and he smiled. He just couldn’t help it. “You guys thought I was the real deal, huh? Another player on the field …” He shot Kersh a wink and said, “There’s your blue Pontiac.”

  “Goddamn,” Glumly muttered, matching John’s grin. “John, man … how the hell did you get in with these guys?”

  “Hold up,” John said. “Why are you guys here?”

  Glumly filled John in about spotting the Service’s surveillance vehicles around the candy store. “Figured there must be something big going down if you guys were involved.”

  “Counterfeit case,” John said.

  Glumly nodded. “So I’ve learned.”

  Kersh waved a hand. “Wait, wait—back up.” Turning to Brauman, he said, “What’s the deal with these guys? You said you didn’t give me the whole story that night I came to see you …”

  “They’re animals,” Glumly interrupted, without waiting for Brauman to answer, “connected to about fifty unsolved homicides throughout the city. I’m talking brutal shit—shootings, shakedowns, chopping people up into little pieces and scattering the parts like birdseed. Past year I’ve been picking up limbs all over the West Side. Some are probably contract hits, the rest for intimidation. They’ve got the entire West Side petrified, and we’re getting concerned. Six months ago I arrested O’Shay as the prime suspect in a murder rap—butchered some guy in a bar bathroom. Shot him in the knees, poked out one of his eyes, then blew two holes in his head. Ten, maybe a dozen people were in the bar, but I couldn’t get a single witness. I had a snitch put it on Mickey, but he wasn’t there and wouldn’t testify. Every time we get close, people change their minds or simply vanish into the air.” With a straight face, Glumly added, “Or the river.”

  John watched as Glumly’s eyes again came to rest on him. He’d been soaking in all the details of the detective’s story up to this point, trying to imagine just how a pair of Hell’s Kitchen hoodlums had come so far so fast. If what Glumly said was accurate, he suddenly understood why Tressa Walker had been so frightened of them that night in McGinty’s. He also understood what it must have been like for her to come out and confess what she knew to him, and to take him into the center of their world.

  Looking at John, Glumly said, “They hang around street corners like teenagers and sit inside that candy store almost all day. Occasionally they’ll shoot out to the Garden for a hockey game, but that’s it.” Glumly jerked his chin at John. “You show up, we thought maybe we’d get somewhere. A new player.”

  “We got somewhere,” he told Glumly.

  “Yeah,” Glumly said, leaning back in his chair, his left leg bouncing. He noticed his spilled shake and leaned over the armrest of his chair to scoop it up and set it in the half-empty box of doughnuts on Chominsky’s desk. “Yeah, kid, you’re goddamn right you did. I don’t know how the hell you pulled it off, but you’re like a gift from God. I would never have believed an undercover could get into them. They only trust the shit they grew up with.” His features darkened. “But you don’t know these guys like I do.” There was a respect in Glumly’s voice now that John had not expected from the man upon their introduction. It seemed very much out of character. “You deal with them, you think everything’s fine, then they turn on you for no reason and you don’t see it coming.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  Kersh shot John a look, then turned to Glumly. “Who’s backing them?”

  “The gang is Mickey and Jimmy,” Glumly said. “They have a few steadies, but everyone else is just a straphanger, a nickel-and-dimer. They can grab any kid in the neighborhood. These jerks have a hell of a reputation on the streets, and they attract more shit than the can at Port Authority.”

  “They’re a cancer spreading across the West Side,” Peter Brauman added.

  “Never in a million years did I think anyone could get inside,” continued Glumly, this time almost to himself.

  “What do you want?” John asked Glumly, feeling both Kersh’s and Chominsky’s eyes suddenly upon him.

  A humorless grin threatened the corners of Dennis Glumly’s mouth. He was a man, John realized, who appreciated such directness. “I want you to put them away for us,” Glumly said flatly. “For everyone.” He raised one hand, as if taking an oath. “I understand you’re pushing your counterfeit case,” he added, “but you’re in there now and you can get a hell of a lot of info, and you’re a witness that will testify. We can build some case on them.”

  “Wait, wait—hold on,” Kersh quickly interrupted. “Our concern is bringing these guys in on counterfeit charges, and flushing out their source.” Kersh turned, now addressing John more than anyone else. “If they’re this nuts, our best bet is to get in and out quickly.”

  Glumly was adamant. Still looking at John, he said, “You got the keys to the kingdom here, kid. We’ll never get another shot
at these guys. We’ll do whatever you want to help. John, you can make two years of wasted time turn into something.”

  “That’s not the reason John’s in there,” Kersh insisted.

  “Wait,” John told Kersh. Already Kersh did not like his tone. “Why not take advantage of this? I’m in there. As long as things are cool—”

  “John …”

  “No.” He turned from Kersh and looked directly at Chominsky. “Boss, what do you think?”

  The agent in charge sat forward in his chair, elbows on his desk. “Let’s think it over,” Chominsky said.

  Before the end of the day, John was called into Roger Biddleman’s office. It was a meeting he’d been expecting, although he would have gone home a happy man had he not heard from the attorney all day. The call from Biddleman came exactly twenty minutes after John and Brett Chominsky decided John would go for it.

  As the light of day dimmed over St. Andrews Plaza, Assistant U.S. Attorney Roger Biddleman sat behind his desk in a haughty three-piece suit, reprogramming the speed-dial on his cell phone when John entered his office.

  The first thing he noticed was Biddleman’s friendly new smile. “John,” Biddleman said, stretching out his name until it achieved maximum significance. He quickly stowed his cell phone away in his desk. “Have a seat.”

  He dropped in a chair that had been deliberately placed less than two feet away from the front of Roger Biddleman’s desk.

  “How’ve you been?” Biddleman asked.

  “Got a pretty bad hangover, actually.”

  “Uh …” The attorney’s left eyebrow cocked. Quickly averting his eyes, he began rifling through a series of computer printouts lifted from his desk. “Brett Chominsky brought me up to speed on your dealings with Mickey O’Shay and Jimmy Kahn. Your stunt with that liquor was a nice touch, by the way.”

  Stunt? he thought. Go take a shit.

  Reading from his notes, Biddleman said, “You’ve got them for selling counterfeit money on … two occasions …”

  “No.”

  Biddleman looked up. “I’m sorry?”