by Todd Merer
So now, it comes down to the final choice:
Which truth shall I act upon?
It is a very difficult choice.
I must consult my brothers.
CHAPTER 73
I had just gone through the Battery Tunnel tolls and was zooming toward the tube entrance when my phone rang. When I answered there was the electronic sound of call rerouting, then a woman’s accented voice said, “Mr. Bluestone?”
“That’s me,” I said. “Who’re you?”
“Hard hearing you, sir.”
“I’m on Bluetooth.”
“Blue . . . stone?”
But inside the tunnel, the call was totally lost. The calling number was indecipherably coded. By the time I emerged from the tunnel, I’d forgotten the call.
Then my phone rang again.
“Benn? Me, Billy.”
Ach. I’d totally forgotten I owed Billy a visit. “Actually,” I said, “I’m on my way to see you now.”
I got onto the FDR northbound, took the Triborough over to Queens, and got a temporary pass to cross the oversea highway to Rikers. The island houses more than a half dozen separate jails whose population hovers around ten thousand. There are no grimmer vibes than that of Rikers. I parked, then rode a Corrections bus to the OBCC facility, and ten minutes later was locked in a small room with Billy. The kid had always been thin, but now I could see the skull beneath his face.
“I’m praying to my momma and Bea and everyone else I knew that you’re as good as they say you are,” Billy said. “Cause I need help, big time. Haunty and the others, they’re putting the murder on me.”
What to say? The same story from a federal client with a quarter million in loose change bought my services to the bitter end. But Billy was a state-court defendant without a pot to piss in. I drew a deep breath. Held it. Said, “Here’s the plan. Stick with the public defender for now. You can trust her. Nothing is going to happen until trial—”
“It’s in July.”
“I know,” I said, although I didn’t. “Come July, I’m your lawyer.”
A tear ran down Billy’s cheek. To my annoyance, I gave a little sniffle, too. Poor kid. Never caught a break, and now this. All right. Soon as Bolivar’s trial was over, I’d shift gears to Billy’s trial. Rip Haunty and the other liars to mincemeat.
On the drive home, the woman with the accent called again.
“This is Mr. Bluestone?”
“That’s me, again.”
“Bennjamin Bluestone?”
A sales pitch, I thought, but her accent seemed northern European. Not the type who made cold calls.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Middle initial T? The Bennjamin with two n’s, middle initial T. Bluestone who maintains an account at MetroBank?”
“If you want to sell whatever you’re selling, you need to brush up on the natives. Today’s a big holiday in the USA. Memorial Day. Our banks are closed. So take the day off, too, wherever you are.”
“Sir, it’s not a banking holiday in Switzerland. My name is Ana Grundig, and I am calling on behalf of my client before transferring funds from their account to yours.”
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that. I suppose now you want my routing and account numbers: That’s how phishing works, right?”
“No, sir. We already have that information. This call is for security purposes to verify that this calling number is that of the same B. T. Bluestone who is the referenced MetroBank account holder.”
“Since you already know, sure. That’s me.”
“Thank you, sir. The transfer is approved.”
“Nice. How much is it for, again?”
But Ms. Grundig had hung up.
I got off the FDR and parked on East 114th, across from Rao’s, an old red-sauce Italian joint favored by cops and politicians. This part of Spanish Harlem was as safe as the White House. I opened my banking app, thinking Sombra had made an installment.
But my balance was unchanged—
Then the screen flashed. When updated, my balance had changed. Increased. Tremendously. By $20 million fucking dollars.
It had happened. My Biggy had landed.
First thoughts: I dared not touch the money. Not yet. First, let it lie undisturbed by a forfeiture complaint. By not participating, I was insulating myself with the lack of knowledge required for a conspirator. One alternative was to withdraw it all and run, but there was no place I might hide. If the feds didn’t get me, the Colombians would.
There was another alternative that was more disturbing. If I failed to accomplish my part of the bargain—whatever that was—my benefactors would demand a refund. Returning drug money could be construed as money laundering by an opportunistic prosecutor like Kandi. I gave an involuntary shiver.
Damned if I did and damned if I did not.
Extradite yourself from this, Bluestone.
CHAPTER 74
June 1 dawned with blast-furnace heat. I let Val do the driving while I sat in the back, plotting. We worked our way downtown. The first stop was a class B office building on Park Avenue South, a once-grand deco edifice that had long ago lost its way.
Same as its tenants.
The suite I entered needed carpeting. The receptionist was a Dominican woman named Carmen whose ass was the size of a bodega. Unfortunately, her butt was a too-familiar sight in attorney-visit rooms, where she was a paralegal hustling cases for the lawyer she fronted. On several occasions, I’d told her to stay the fuck away from my clients. She pretended not to know who I was, asked if I had an appointment.
“Tell Morty Benn Bluestone’s here about a matter.”
“The name of the matter?”
I spelled: “M-O-N-E-Y.”
Plitkin greeted me with a clap on the back. “Good to see you, Benn. Carmen says her intuition is you want to talk about a new case?”
“Carmen’s quick.”
“Why I use her. Ah, Benn. You know how many years I been asking myself how come we don’t give each other work?”
“How many?”
“Tell you the truth? I always wanted us to, but you’re always, like, what’s the expression? A lone wolf.”
“That makes you Little Red Riding Hood.”
Morty flashed his Chiclets. “Funny.”
“Morty,” I said.
“Yes, Benn?”
“You’re a lying thief.”
“Benn—”
“You never recommended me for the Bolivar case.”
“I mentioned your name. Favorably. I didn’t ask for a commission, remember?”
Morty’s a big lug: two inches taller than me, a fifty-pound paunch wider, but I got in his space and put a finger in his face. “Why didn’t you make the score yourself?”
“Believe me, I tried. But they wanted you.”
“Who did? Kursk? Jilly?”
“I don’t know them—”
I grabbed his tie and yanked his face down. He smelled of a half century’s worth of cigars. “I’m out of control, Morty. I got nothing left to lose. Fuck with me, and I’ll take you down with me. Who?”
“Okay, okay. Kursk, I met. We didn’t say word one. The one who wanted you was Kursk’s arm candy. Jilly, whatever’s her name. Leggo my tie.”
“Sorry.” I let him go. “Still friends?”
I held out my hand, and we shook. But I held tight to his hand and with my free hand gripped my right thumb and ground my knuckles against the back of his hand. It’s a not-so-tender touch that never fails. Plitkin gasped with pain.
“The blonde arm candy,” I said. “You got her a paralegal card.”
I ground harder, and he went to his knees. “Benn, please—”
“And then you sent her to visit my client, yes?”
“Ow! No. She isn’t visiting your guy.”
“No? So, who is she visiting?”
“Natty Grable’s codefendants. Natty gets off on the way all the guys in jail look at her, like he’s a big ladies’ man.”
“Boliv
ar and Natty. What’s their connection?”
“I don’t know. Benn, my hand—”
“Tell me about Kursk.”
“Natty works for him.”
“Why’s Natty going to trial if he can get probation?”
“The guy’s crazy. Benn, you’re really hurting me.”
I knew I was. It felt good. Hurting Plitkin was like hurting everything I hated about the business.
“How do I find Jilly?”
Tears of pain, or maybe of humiliation, streaked Plitkin’s porcine face. He said, “I don’t know. One time when I went to jail with Natty, we picked her up at some hotel downtown. In the Village somewhere.”
“Listen up good, fat boy. If anything happens to Jilly, I’ve got ways and means of putting you into the thick of it. Understand?”
“Understand. Benn, my hand, please . . .”
As I released Morty’s hand, I twisted off his pinky ring. I dislike pinky rings and the type of men who wear them. This one was a star sapphire set in white gold. I turned a metal wastebasket upside down, put the ring atop the bottom, and crushed it beneath my heel.
“Tell Carmen her intuition sucks,” I said as I left.
I hit the street feeling wild. Plitkin had read me right. I was a lone wolf. And right now, I was howling like crazy. I got into the back of the Flex.
“Someone follows us,” Val said.
“What are you talking about?”
“A big, black Mercedes.”
“There’s a ton of them.”
“We drive; they drive. We park; they park.”
“Show me.”
Val looked in the rearview. Frowned. Twisted in his seat and looked behind. Frowned again. “He gone now.”
“Keep going downtown,” I said.
CHAPTER 75
I’d avoided Fercho since returning from Colombia. Talking to him was, however indirectly, talking to Sombra. Yet just now I preferred a failure to communicate. Reason being—as I’d already made clear to Bolivar—I neither could nor would tolerate an iota of interference. I was going to live, breathe, and dream one singularity: Bolivar’s trial. But now, despite that, I visited Fercho.
The reason why gnawed at my gut.
Val dropped me outside the no-go perimeter on Mosco Alley, an alley descending from Mott Street in old Chinatown that opened on Columbus Park. Above the treetops was the dull bulk of the New York State criminal courthouse and the traditional granite tower of the Southern District at 500 Pearl. The park was crowded with old Chinese men watching matches of Go, a game vastly more complex than chess that dated to before the dawn of Western civilization. I wondered how many times I had gone up Mosco to scarf Chinese food, then hustled back to lawyering . . . in 100 Centre.
Ah, Billy. What am I gonna do for you?
The day was steaming hot. One minute out of the cooled Flex, and my shirt was plastered to my back. I walked in sunlight behind the State Supreme Court building. The MDC loomed ahead, and I quickened my pace, for once anxious to enter the cooler.
But the count was still on.
And Val was long blocks away. Which made me a mad dog in the noonday sun. I went over to Police Plaza and the only building that had nothing to do with what I did for a living.
St. Andrew’s Church was dim, cool, and empty. Nice. I hadn’t been in a church since the fateful day Rigo surrendered. I sat in a rear pew and felt the tension drain from my aching back. Above the altar, outlined against sun-illuminated stained glass, was a huge cross from which a sad-eyed Jesus regarded me. An unfamiliar emotion rose within me, one I didn’t know I had:
I’m sorry, Mady. Forgive me.
I felt as insignificant as the billions of dust motes hanging in the shafted light . . . but then they moved, as if the air were disturbed, and I turned and saw a man seated behind me, his thin lips parted in a smile.
“You, religious?” Evgeny Kursk said.
“Why have you been following me?”
“We need to have a talk.”
“You don’t own a phone?”
“Phones dangerous in this country. Many listeners.”
“And not in Russia?”
“There, too.” He chuckled. “But in Russia, I am friends with the listeners.”
I was uncomfortable with the circumstances. The US Attorney’s office was a stone’s throw away, and Kursk was connected to Bolivar, a circuit already dangerously overloaded. Another man stood at the church entrance. Kursk’s underling, Kyril.
“We have nothing to talk about,” I said.
He held a hand up so I could see the tattoo on the inside of his wrist. Crude jailhouse ink, faded but still legible: a red star with barbed-wire borders, within it a hammer and sickle. Murmansk-54.
“You received our bank wire?” he said.
That reinforced my fears. Murmansk-54 was now permanently networked deep in my life. Not that the transfer was illegal on its face, but if the case went south, my fee might well become forfeitable.
“Natty and Kyril and Andrey—may he rest in peace—we are brothers. We die for one another. Kill for one another. Understand?”
“Natty already told me. Shove your threats. We’re not in Moscow.”
“A bullheaded man with no fear. I admire that.”
“Another thing,” I said. “If you want my help, make sure nothing happens to the girl.”
“What girl is that?”
“Mrs. Sholty.”
“Ah, her. We have no problem with her, but if you must hear it—”
“I must.”
“Nothing will happen to her. Now that we’re clear, continue your trial preparation. If some other opportunity arises, be prepared to grab hold of it.”
“What kind of other opportunity?”
“A figure of speech. Free Bolivar, and you will be richer than you ever dreamed. We are like Henry Ford at the threshold of a new era. We have the opportunity to control emerging markets.”
I didn’t reply. Unless I was a total sucker—a distinct possibility—he really didn’t care about Jilly. He stood and left. After a few minutes, I did, too.
The count had cleared. For the second time in recent days while signing in the legal-visit book, I spotted a disconcerting entry. A disappointment I tucked away for future reference.
Fercho was in a good mood. “Good morning, Benn.”
I hit him hard and fast. “Lose the shit-eating grin. You’ve got yourself a big problem. I just returned from Colombia. Word is, you’re going to give up Sombra.”
His eyes widened. “No one would think that.”
“They asked my opinion,” I said, cold eyed.
“You told them it wasn’t possible, yes?”
Fercho had gone as pallid as cheap copy paper. Tough on him. I was tired of him yanking my chain. Manipulating me. My turn now. The only way to get anything out of him was by squeezing.
“I told them it was possible. I’d let them know.”
“You must tell them it’s not true.”
“The endgame. What is it?”
“You already know.”
“Tell me again.”
“Bolivar walks.”
“And the girl?”
“What girl?”
I stood to go, but Fercho gripped my arm. There was something in his expression I hadn’t seen before. Desperation.
“Benn, please. What girl?”
It occurred to me that he didn’t know Jilly and probably knew nothing about her. Sombra compartmentalized his DTO, so no single person knew anything meaningful. I thought of the same name I’d seen in the Manhattan MDC legal-visit book.
“You’re a snake, Fercho. For five years, I’ve been busting my ass trying to save yours. And you go behind my back and talk to Dreidel.”
“I . . . How did you know?”
“The question is, why?”
“You’re under a lot of pressure. Your investigation, the trial—”
“Your point being?”
“If things don’t go well
for you, I’ll need another lawyer. I wish you the best, Benn. But if I’m going to need another lawyer, I need to put the process in motion now.”
“You’ve hired Dreidel?”
“No. But if I have to, I will. I know Dreidel’s a thief. But he worked for the feds a long time; he knows how the system works. For money, he’ll do anything. Just like you.”
Again, I stood, gathered myself to leave.
“Benn, straighten them out about me.”
I didn’t respond as I walked out. Fercho thinking he was a dead man walking provided perverse satisfaction. But nothing else. He was of no use in helping Jilly, and he’d only confirmed what I already knew was the hard work cut out for me:
I had to walk Bolivar.
And, somehow, Billy.
CHAPTER 76
I was concentrating on Bolivar’s file when Traum unexpectedly showed at my office. I tried turning him away at the door.
“We need to talk, Benno,”
He brushed past me, stuck an unlit stogie in his mouth, and sat. The heat wave was continuing, and he was carrying his jacket. His belly strained against his short-sleeved white shirt, and although I couldn’t see the telltale bulge of a recorder, he could have been wired a dozen other ways.
“I’ve got nothing to say,” I said. “Say your piece, and scram.”
“No problem, kid. I can guarantee you win the Bolivar trial.”
I kept mum. There was no legitimate way anyone could guarantee a verdict . . . the key word being legitimate, which was why I dared not respond aloud.
He fired up the stogie.
I held my tongue.
“Naturally, it’s gonna cost you. But you can afford it, the kind of bucks these people been paying you. See, I know about your wire transfer.”
I pressed my lips together, but my leg was shaking. It seemed impossible that Traum could get into the Swiss banking system, but then again, he probably knew people who could. Like Nelson Cano.
“I’m a realistic guy, Benno. I don’t expect you to pay for something until it happens. So here’s the deal. After you win the trial, you pay me half your score.” He held up both hands, spread all ten fingers, and mouthed, Ten million.
That really freaked me. Not only that he knew the exact number, but that he wanted half of what I’d put my life on the line to get.