by Jason Pinter
“You new here?” he asked. Four rotted teeth jutted out from his black gums. “If you’re new here, you gotta pay a toll. I’m the tollbooth collector. Have been for two years. Last guy died. Tragedy. You can’t live on this block unless you pay the toll.”
I absently went for my wallet, then thought better and headed toward the street. A voice behind me yelled, “Hey, you didn’t pay the toll!”
Morning had broken. The sun was hot and bright. A beautiful early summer day. I checked my watch. It was eight fifty-three. I was due at work in seven minutes.
Every breath brought pain. I stopped in front of a building with a waist-high brick outcropping. Lifting up my shirt, I saw a mild discoloration under my armpit. Nothing too bad, nothing broken. Just black and blue where I’d been savagely kicked.
As I stood there, regaining my composure, winking away the dizziness, visions of last night came to me like a swarm of locusts. A man was dead because of me. Whether I’d pulled the trigger or not—it was all so fast, but I remember his finger in the trigger guard—I was responsible for another man’s death. It hadn’t sunk in yet, merely hovering around the fringes of my subconscious.
I tried to help Luis and Christine. And now a man was dead. In my heart, I knew I wasn’t to blame. He could have killed them both. He would have killed me.
My first stop had to be the police. They’d understand the situation, know the Guzmans were in mortal danger and I acted in their defense. He had the gun. He attacked two people. If I hadn’t been there, he might have killed them. I was a hero. My picture would be in the papers, bold-faced copy that could never be erased.
Pride swelled in my chest as I stumbled down the street. I checked my backpack, took out my cell phone. It wouldn’t turn on. It must have broken during the fight. I looked for a pay phone to call 911. Then I began to notice something odd.
Pedestrians were staring at me, vague recognition on their faces, mouths pursed like they were trying to pick someone out of a lineup. An unsettling feeling crept over me, but I dismissed it, assuming last night had shocked my senses into overdrive.
But still…
The body kept popping up in my head like a jack-in-the box with a busted spring.
A man was dead because of me, and nothing else mattered. Two people were hurt, severely perhaps, hopefully being tended to. But there was still an 800-pound elephant in the room. What was that man looking for last night?
He was at their apartment with a purpose. Christine seemed to know what he was talking about, but denied having anything in their possession. Luis was incoherent. But still, she knew…
Perhaps there was a story in all of this. Maybe I could talk to the Guzmans, find the answers to the questions I’d gone back for last night. Approach Wallace with the story of a lifetime. A story few reporters my age would have the guts to go after. It could make my name. Maybe there really was a silver lining in all of this.
But first I needed to call the cops. The truth had to be told.
I found a pay phone on the corner of 89th and Broadway next to an aromatic delicatessen, and stepped into the booth. A couple walking a tiny dachshund eyed me suspiciously. The man, wearing a visor and Black Dog shirt, put his arm around the girl and hurriedly ushered her away, dragging the yelping dog behind him.
Something was wrong. New Yorkers weren’t shocked that easily. It’s not like I was covered in blood, or tarred and feathered. If anything I was a bit disheveled, but nothing to elicit that kind of reaction. Something spooked them, but I couldn’t figure out what. My heart began to beat faster.
The deli on the corner reminded me of how hungry I was. Maybe I’d get a bagel after setting the record straight. Food would feel good. Something to fill the empty feeling in my gut.
Looking through the deli’s window, I saw an Arab man with a thick mustache and thinning hair talking on the phone. The hole in my stomach seemed to spill out burning acid when I noticed that he was staring at me as he spoke, his mouth moving in exaggerated, cartoonish gestures. Flamboyant nods. He mouthed the word “yes” several times. His eyes were deadlocked with mine.
I was going crazy. That was the only explanation. After last night, paranoia was a normal response. My senses were overloaded, jumping at the slightest buzz. There was nothing to be worried about.
Deep breaths, Henry. Everything would be fine.
I picked up the phone and dialed 911. One ring and a woman’s voice picked up.
“9-1-1 emergency response. How can I help you?”
“I…”
Then I saw it.
My mouth fell open. My saliva dried up. I forgot to breathe.
This wasn’t possible.
Oh, my God. Please, no.
No.
Slowly I sank to my knees, tendons and muscles melting. My breath came in short bursts. My head felt light, as though a helium tank had been emptied into my skull.
I heard a tinny voice from the receiver.
“Hello? Sir? Hello?”
The phone fell from my hand and swung aimlessly.
The man in the deli had hung up the phone, but his eyes were still fixed on me.
Run.
A woman walked by, chirping on her cell phone. Her eyes found mine, a flicker of recognition in them, then she picked up her pace and rounded the corner. Fear. There was fear in her eyes.
“I’ll call you back,” I heard her say.
Run.
The man in the deli had come outside. He was holding a baseball bat. Three younger Arab men were standing in front of the store with their sleeves rolled up. They were all staring at me.
Run.
My eyes reverted back to what had caught my attention in the first place.
A newspaper vending machine sitting on the corner. Fifty cents on a weekday. I had no change on me.
I walked over to the newspaper rack in front of the deli. The Arab men watched every step I took.
“Just leave,” one of them said.
“Take what you want and go,” said another. The owner gripped his bat tighter.
I grabbed a newspaper from the top of the pile.
This was impossible. It couldn’t be happening. Looking at the front page, I felt like someone had scooped out my insides and replaced them with hot lead.
Staring back at me was my face. I recognized the picture from my driver’s license.
Next to my smiling, youthful grin were two words, printed in big, black, bold letters.
Cop Killer.
9
B lanket walked through the wrought-iron gate, said hello to the ugly guy whose name he could never remember—fucker always wore a beret like he was Irish or something—and heaved open the unmarked wooden door. He ducked down so as to not smack his head—the last lump was subsiding, thank you very much—and was met by Charlie, the odor of heavy designer impostor cologne pouring off him in waves.
“Charlie.”
“Blanket.” The two men shook hands and exchanged a brief and solemn embrace.
“I assume Mike’s seen the paper.”
“Never seen the guy read the New York Times before. Think he spent twenty bucks buying every paper he could. Spilled his Folgers all over the carpet, first time he seen it.”
Blanket took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it. “I’m guessing that saying he’s pissed is a mighty understatement.”
“Pissed was two hours ago. Wait’ll you see what he is now.”
Blanket sighed as they went down the metal steps, his boots echoing in the narrow stairwell. Blanket knew full well that Charlie resented him, resented that he’d climbed the ladder so quickly. More responsibility equaled more cash. Charlie had been dealt the short end of the stick, a measly nine-hundred-square-foot apartment in Soho, none of the high-heeled women who circled Blanket’s apartment like vultures after a massacre. Cash was a sign of importance, a symbol of respect. Blanket started out as a page, running picayune errands for greasy tips. He spent too much money on spiffy ties from Barney’s, showi
ng off to his friends who’d been weaned on Goodfellas. The salespeople had been reluctant to wait on such a young kid. Until he whipped out that money clip crammed with fifties. Blanket still had most of those ties, frayed and worn, now ugly as sin. They were a reminder of just how far he’d come.
When they reached the bottom of the stairwell, Charlie knocked four times, then twice, then three more, and a large door swung inward. A beefy man in a turtleneck—ironic since Blanket didn’t think he had a neck—nodded slightly and ushered them along.
The corridor was sparsely lit, a filmy yellow sputtering from a few low-wattage bulbs. Blanket walked behind Charlie, Charlie looking over his shoulder every few feet as though worried Blanket might fall behind.
“What’s your man say about the Parker kid?” Charlie asked.
“I think I’ll save that for Mike,” Blanket said irritably.
The loathing wafted off Charlie, almost as strong as his cologne, and just as repugnant.
“The fuck. You can tell him but you can’t tell me?”
“Exactly.”
“Asshole,” Charlie whispered.
Blanket grabbed Charlie by the shoulder and spun him around. Charlie resisted, and Blanket clamped down hard on the man’s neck, squeezing his fingers around his collarbone until the man’s knees buckled.
“Get the fuck off me!” Charlie yelped, his fingers struggling to break Blanket’s grip. Blanket eyed him sadly, like a dog who didn’t know any better than to pee on the rug. Charlie looked like he’d spent about thirty seconds in the gym his whole life. Probably couldn’t bench-press his dick. Blanket could probably do biceps curls with the pudgy little dump-ling.
“You know this, but I’m gonna remind you again since your thick fucking head seems to have missed the memo.” Blanket relaxed his grip on Charlie’s shoulder. “I don’t say shit to you. I decide what you need to know. You make one more comment like that, I’ll be scraping your balls off the bottom of my Cole Haans.” Charlie groaned. “You get me?”
“I got you. Now let go.”
Blanket let Charlie hit the floor. He got up, wiped his knees, rubbed his shoulder.
“You have anger issues, man. You gotta control that….”
“Are you saying something?”
“No, Blanket. I ain’t saying nothing.”
Blanket smiled, ran his fingers along the dusty brick corridor. He could hear voices from the other end, a mixture of panic and calm. Blanket took a deep breath, swallowed the phlegm in his throat. He knew he was about to walk into a buzzsaw. Meetings like this didn’t happen often. Seeing Michael DiForio in such spur-of-the-moment circumstances was like spotting one of those rare white elks or Haley’s comet or some shit.
They came to a metal door, green with rust, a grated slat on top. Blanket knocked. The slat opened. A pair of eyes popped into view.
“Hey, Blanket. Charlie. Mike’s waiting for you.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. How bad is it?”
“He forgot to eat breakfast this morning.”
“Fuck me, that’s bad.”
The man gave a nervous laugh, threw back a dead bolt and opened the door.
A large mahogany conference table was set up in the middle of the nondescript gray room. It smelled of ammonia and dust. The table looked out of place, like a de Kooning on the wall of a prison cell. Water pitchers lined the table. There was no alcohol. This wasn’t a social gathering. A dozen men were seated, and appeared to be in various states of unease. All older men, gray hair slicked back and oily. Dull ties. Questioning eyes. Waiting for answers. One man sat at the head of the table, facing the doorway. His green eyes were serrated blades.
“Blanket,” Michael DiForio said.
“Boss.”
Blanket looked at the man’s face: thin nose, arched eyebrows. Olive complexion. Trim in his tapered suit. He looked hungry. Now sixty-one, more athletic than most men half his age, Michael DiForio was vying to lead his family and usher in a new era of prosperity. Like Gotti before him, DiForio was a legend in his hometown, and a savvy real estate developer to boot. Everything about the man commanded respect, and in return he would offer his friendship. He was smart, ruthless, vicious, but always in control. Except for today. Today, DiForio looked like a man who, for the first time, had to question everything.
Now Blanket stood opposite this man, and all eyes waited.
Michael finally spoke, his voice calm.
“What’s the news?”
Blanket cleared his throat and tried to speak in a confident voice.
“Well, my sources told me…”
“Fuck the pussyfooting. Speak.”
Blanket toed the floor, looked up.
“The cops don’t have Parker yet. That’s a fact. He fled the scene before the boys in blue showed up. This morning some towel head at a meat market called 911, claimed Parker stole a newspaper after threatening his sons. Cops’re combing the area, but they couldn’t find a doughnut if they fucking sat on it. Rumor has it since they killed a cop, the Feds will be called in soon.”
DiForio looked like he was about to swear, then held back. “Have they locked down the building on 105th yet?”
Blanket nodded. “Place is tighter than my old lady.”
“Fuck,” DiForio spat. It startled Blanket, this sudden loss of composure. DiForio rubbed his temples. “What are Parker’s outs?”
Blanket scratched the back of his neck and looked at Michael. “Well, Port Authority’s out of the question. There’s no way he’s buying a bus ticket out of New York without a thirty-eight going up his ass. Airports, not a chance. Guy’s a college grad, figure even nowadays that’s worth something, so he’s too smart to try and use a passport.”
“What else?”
Blanket coughed.
“The Path could be a tough one. They’re sending cops to cover entry points at 33rd and Union Square, but there’s a definite chance he could have made it to Jersey.” The Path was an underground train service running to and from New Jersey. It was as hard to monitor as the subway system and ran just as often. There were several stations in the city, and a constant, bustling stream of crowds. “The kid doesn’t have any relatives there, maybe some college friends, who knows. Definitely nobody who’d take a bullet or get sent to lockup for him.”
“He got a girlfriend?” DiForio asked. Blanket stayed silent. Michael stood up, pushing his chair back. Metal scraped against metal. His voice effortlessly thundered in the small room. “Blanket, does he have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? He like transvestites?”
“Actually, boss, I’m not sure about that yet. Cops’re checking phone records, my man at the 24th said he’ll tell me whatever they find, but they’re still looking. We’re not gonna know anything until they do.”
DiForio picked his chair up and heaved it across the room. A dozen pairs of eyes watched it fly over their heads and clang against the wall. Michael walked around the table and approached Blanket, his chest mere inches away.
Dom Loverro stood up. The man weighed three hundred, three-fifty easy. Body fat percentage hovering around ninety-five. He said, “Mike, you want us to take care of it? Find this prick Parker?”
DiForio looked at him with contempt. “If I need a fat asshole to walk up behind a deaf and dumb guy and hit him in the back of the head with a crowbar, I’ll let you know. I need to chase down a fugitive thirty years younger than us, something tells me I’ll need a guy who can see his toes.”
“Mike?” Blanket said.
“The package from that junkie shutterbug,” DiForio said. “Where is it?”
Blanket’s heart caught in his throat. He blinked rapidly, felt sweat leaking through his pores. “The cops don’t have it. It wasn’t at the scene.”
DiForio slowly turned around, taking two steps away from Blanket. Then in the blink of an eye, he spun around and slapped Blanket across the face.
Spit flew from his lips. He tasted salty blood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, took it in stride.
“So, would you find it safe to say that since Luis Guzman doesn’t have my package, and the cops don’t have it yet, either…you see what I’m getting at you stupid fuck?”
Blanket spit a cluster of blood and phlegm onto the concrete. “Parker,” he said. “He must have taken it last night when he ran.”
DiForio nodded. “Blanket?”
“Yeah, boss?”
“Call the Ringer.”
Blanket felt a shiver, an electrical pulse, course through his body. A smile crept over his busted lip. He felt no pain, only a sense of satisfaction. At that moment, Blanket wouldn’t have traded places with Henry Parker for all the riches on earth.
10
F ederal Plaza felt like 3:00 a.m. during a graveyard shift, everyone walking around like zombies. Many of the agents knew the man who died last night. And they were all looking to Joe Mauser to bring Henry Parker to justice.
Mauser banged open the office door. The younger agent, Leonard Denton, was already there. Clean shaven, smelled like a bottle of Drakkar Noir threw up all over him. Joe offered an imperceptible nod and sat down at the table. He sniffed, grimaced, the younger man’s aftershave reeking like holy hell. Hygiene be damned, Joe didn’t care much about anything at this point. Parker was still out there. Goddamn NYPD had the kid pinned like a rat and let him squirm away.
Leonard Denton had a squeaky clean rep in the department, squeaky to the point where people almost assumed he would flip out one day and go postal. He was efficient and by-the-book, admirable qualities. But being admired and having admirable qualities were two totally different animals. Denton requested this case for that very reason, to prove to the rank and file that he would take down a man who killed one of their own. When it came to tracking down a fugitive cop killer, you set the book on fire and laughed at it while it burned. And Mauser could tell from Denton’s face that the man was completely prepared to do that.
Denton had requested that he partner with Mauser. Joe obliged. This would be their first time working together. And as much as a longtime partner could bring familiarity to a case, Joe wanted to be kept on his toes. Denton was six-one. A little too skinny. Probably drank too much coffee, didn’t eat much, worked out like crazy. He didn’t wear a wedding ring. Never talked about a girl, serious or just someone he was banging on the side. His life was streamlined for the job. The kind of guy you’d want to track down Henry Parker.