by Brian Meeks
“Everyone, listen up.” The room quieted. “As you all know by now, Mike is in the hospital. He's in bad shape, but I am told he should make it.” A restrained cheer went up, but the captain waved his hand for silence. He had much more to say. Everyone settled down. “This wasn't just an attack on Mike; it was an attack on the badge.”
There were nods of agreement.
“I want Mike's neighborhood canvassed, then I want every scumbag in the city rousted. Get me answers and get me them now.”
Each man felt a sense of urgency. The speech, while not especially eloquent, hit the mark. Some of the men had just finished their shifts but were staying; two of them were coming off a double and were staying, too. There weren't any complaints, and each was ready to scour the city to find those responsible.
“One more thing. Don't take anything for granted. Right now all we know is Mike was beaten by, at the very least, three guys. This might be the start of something bigger. Watch each other's backs." The captain paused and took a breath, “I want every man to keep their gun with them at all times. The sergeant will take it from here.”
The noise started up again. The sergeant had a map of Mike's neighborhood up on the wall. Other boards, containing photos of all the people killed in the gang wars, were pushed aside. Some thought it might be related, but they agreed it was best to consider every angle.
CHAPTER 26
Tommy kissed his wife goodnight, mostly out of habit. He didn't like her much anymore nor did she care for him. She found him revolting, but they were devout Catholics and had learned to tolerate each other over the years. Tommy left. He said he was going for a drive, but she knew he wouldn't be back until morning. It was fine with her.
The snow was pretty bad, but he didn't care. He needed to think. Since the day he gutted his first scumbag for finking to the cops, he had wanted to be the boss. Now it wasn't so much fun anymore.
Killing came easy to Tommy. He viewed it as a gift. He remembered watching other guys get their first kill. They would be shaken up, trying to hide it and look tough, but wanting to get sick. He always knew that when it was his turn, he would be much stronger.
Tommy drove along through the snow and remembered those early days. At 19, there were but a few broken arms on the resume. He was eager to get his chance and would often daydream about what it was going to be like. He pictured the look on the guy's face. He could hear him begging for his life. Tommy would let him go on for a bit and maybe let the poor bastard think he had a chance, then 'bang' right in the forehead. Other guys would make them turn around first and shoot them in the back of the head, but not Tommy. He wanted to look the guy in the eyes.
His first kill hadn't gone at all like he had imagined it would.
Jimmy, his first boss and, as it would later turn out, his 22nd kill, called him into the office. “I need you to go take care of that Polack on 82nd Street; the one with the dry cleaners. He has some unfortunate debts, and we gonna make an example of him. You know the guy?”
Tommy knew who it was and couldn't wait. Three other guys, much older, went along, but Tommy was to pull the trigger. It was a test. The guys gave him a hard time about 'bustin his cherry.' Tommy just sat in the back and took it because that was part of the deal. They laughed, betting on whether his hand would shake before pulling the trigger, and one guy joked he might wet himself.
When they mentioned the gun, Tommy felt sick. His gun wasn't loaded. He had been cleaning it when Jimmy called and had left the bullets at home. The rest of the drive he tried to figure out what to do. He couldn't ask for bullets; the ridicule would be unbearable. If he did, he was sure they would start calling him 'Tommy Blanks' or something like that. It was the sort of nickname he would never be able to wipe off.
He was still thinking about it when they arrived at the apartment. The four of them walked in, and the man turned white. The three older guys started talking about how he owed them money and his time was up. He pleaded for his life. They laughed. After a while, the moment arrived. Tommy didn't hesitate. He took a heavy kitchen knife and, standing behind the guy, reached around and plunged it into is gut. The man gasped. Tommy wrapped him in a bear hug. When the final shudder passed, he lifted him up on his shoulder and said, “Let's go.”
The three old guys were stunned. They just stood there looking at this kid, his pants covered in blood and his shoulder turning crimson. One of them finally said, “Tommy 'The Knife' just popped his cherry.”
The other two roared and patted him on the back. The name stuck.
Tommy walked up to his girlfriend's apartment and pounded three times. She was on the couch sleeping, and the radio was on. She said sleepily, “Coming." She opened the door. She was wearing a silk robe, loosely tied. He wandered in, feeling anxious, and went straight for the bar. She followed him and wrapped her arms around his chest, "You came over to visit me. I love a surprise visit."
"You're my girl." He dropped a couple of ice cubes into the glass and poured the scotch, his mind still thinking about the journal. "What you been up to, doll?"
"I was listening to the radio but fell asleep. You want to take me dancing?"
"Nah, we staying in tonight. I got some thinking to do."
She knew better than to ask about his business, so she went into the kitchen to make him something to eat.
Tommy knew what his next move was; he didn't need to discuss it with Sal. He would send some of his boys out in the morning. Once it was set right in his head, he relaxed. His girl brought him a sandwich. They sat on the couch for a while, then went to bed.
CHAPTER 27
Once the blood started to spill, it became a flood. It started with the attack at the restaurant, which led to Tommy's rebuttal. Within a few days, it had escalated to the point where two families were now vying, seemingly daily, for Tommy's head and his turf. The Isle of Manhattan was on edge. The papers were covered with reports of the violence, some of it not actually related to the fighting. Everybody feared it would only get worse.
Tommy had lost 13 men; another 20 or so were wounded. He had the largest crew, but fighting two families was taking its toll. Morale was low. Most of his men were running on adrenaline, afraid of the next attack, and even more terrified of Tommy's rage.
On Long Island, with six bays, Eddie's Garage was where all the families went. He fixed the cars, repaired the holes, and had a poker game running for longer than anyone could remember. Eddie Jr. ran the garage now; his father passed away in '47. Eddie Sr. was a loud and well-liked man. Eddie Jr. was more reserved, but he and his crew got the job done.
Bones got his nickname from rolling 'the bones.' He never met a game of craps he didn't like. Today they played poker. Bulldog, Joe, and Nicky Toes sat in the corner of the garage smoking cigars. An old pool table lamp hung over the table at an odd angle. Behind them stood a Coke machine and a wash basin filled with ice and beers. The sound of tools was mixed with the laughter and swearing of the game.
The doors to bays four and five opened up. Two black sedans, both of which had seen better days, rolled in. Sal and his driver got out of one, and two men got out of the other. The mechanics all stopped working when Nicky Toes racked a shotgun. Joe, Bulldog, and Bones drew their guns. Bones knocked his chair to the floor when he jumped up, making a horrible racket. Sal's three guys all had their guns out, too. A great silence reigned in the garage. Eddie almost said something, but Sal walked forward and said, “I'm off the clock. We can shoot each other tomorrow.”
Bones gave a nod. His guys put their guns down. “Beer?”
Sal didn't say anything, which was his norm, but he did smile and took one from the tub. He popped off the cap and took out a wad of bills, “Deal me in.”
The tension was gone. The noise of bullet holes being fixed and engines under repair returned to their normal levels.
CHAPTER 28
Henry walked into the DA's office. The secretary asked for his name and quickly popped her head into the boss's office to announce
Henry’s arrival. She told Henry he could go right in. District Attorney Mark McKinley had been in his job for longer than most. He didn't seem to have the political aspirations that many of his predecessors possessed. Smiling broadly, he stood and shook Henry's hand. They had met before, but this was the first time Henry had been in his office. Mark offered Henry a seat and sat back down behind his desk.
Mark McKinley was popular around town. He could trace his lineage directly to the 25th President of the United States, William McKinley. Mark had graduated at the top of his class from Michigan Law and had been a young star in NY from the day he wandered into his first courtroom; combining handsome and charming with brains made him unstoppable. Few were surprised when he became the youngest DA the city had ever seen. He settled into a comfortable life.
"It is good to see you, Henry. Frankly, I have been expecting you. Mike said you had some proof, a journal or something, which is going to put Tommy 'The Knife' behind bars for a good long time."
"I don't have it with me. But I can get it,” Henry said.
"Why didn't you bring it with you? I need that journal. I can't convene a grand jury without it, and things are getting pretty bad around here," Mark said. His voice struck Henry as less than calm.
"I am playing this one close to the vest. There is too much at stake. When I am ready, I will bring the journal to you."
"Listen here, Henry, if you are withholding evidence, I will throw you in the can, and you can rot there," Mark said, standing and pounding his fist on his desk.
Henry didn't move nor was he moved by the threat. "Who knows about the journal other than the three of us?"
"I haven't told anyone. I only found out a couple of days ago myself. Now are you going to give it over or what?" Mark said. An awkward silence hung in the room. He sat back down, realizing that Henry wasn't going to be intimidated.
"You know what happened to Mike, I assume," Henry said, leaning forward and lowering his voice.
"Of course,” Mark whispered back.
"I am not anxious to get found by Tommy, and I don't know who to trust. Are you sure you can keep the journal safe?"
"I guarantee it. Now when do I get it?" Mark said hurriedly.
"I have a couple of things to work out..." Henry paused, then continued,” I don't think it is safe for me to be wandering around your office. Can you meet me tomorrow night?"
"Yes, sure, where and when?" Mark said. He seemed suddenly at ease.
Henry grabbed the yellow pad and wrote down the address of his new office and 11 PM on the pad. He slid it across the desk, then said, "Come alone. As I said, I don't trust anyone."
Henry got up and left without another word. The secretary was filing her nails as he walked out and didn't bother to look up. Forty minutes later, Henry sat down across from Luna and a piping hot pizza.
"What did he say?" Luna asked
"About what I would expect. He wants the journal," Henry said, grabbing a slice of pie."Did you get a hold of Sylvia and Winston?"
"Yes. They are being careful and will meet us at your office,” Luna said.
Henry noted the change of tone in her voice. "Is something wrong?"
"No."
Henry let it go, and they ate in silence. A lot of things remained to be done and not much time, and he knew the odds were stacked against them. Henry had made a list when he got up in the morning. Visit the DA was at the top. Quite a few more items still needed to be crossed off, and they would need to get started after the pizza was gone.
CHAPTER 29
Francis Le Mange had known Mike since meeting Henry. Though the three of them would occasionally have a few beers together, he and Mike always seemed to be at odds. As a rule, the mere sight of Mike put him in a mood to argue.
Francis sat in the waiting room with a dozen or so of Mike's friends. He didn't know any of them. There was a small, elderly Catholic woman who, after praying with her rosary, picked up a Sports Illustrated. Two couples huddled around a small table and spoke in hushed tones. The rest seemed to be alternating between sitting and standing, hoping the change would stifle some of the worry.
The rallying of support cast a new light on the man. Francis doubted that, if it were he, there would have been more than a few visitors. He then felt guilty for thinking about himself. Now it was his turn. The two officers watching the door were reporting directly to Sally Mae. She allowed each visitor no more than five minutes. As soon as she sensed Mike was getting tired, the visit ended.
Francis set the flowers among the others. “You are looking a little rough.”
Sally Mae gave Francis an angry look and crossed her arms. Mike smiled, “I've been better, but Sally Mae is taking good care of me. I'll be back in the game before you know it.”
“I am sure you will. You are a tough cookie.”
“Leave it to you to speak in food.”
Francis smiled, “It is what I do.” Then there was silence.
Neither of the men was sure how to have a civil conversation with the other. Sally Mae sensed that it was getting uncomfortable, so she announced it was time for Mike to rest.
Francis went home and rolled a sheet of paper into his Underwood. It had been his dream to write a novel some day, but fear and self-loathing kept the dream at bay. With his head in turmoil, he turned to his words and began. It didn't go well. Without any real ideas for a plot or characters, he wandered aimlessly across the page. Before long, he had a poor man's Faulkner running for a couple of pages. He read it and thought, Stream of unconsciousness; rip and crumple.
Nothing came of his writing session, save a much deeper desire to write beyond the inches allowed by his editor. He dressed and went out for dinner, but the sadness for Mike persisted. He would go see him again tomorrow.
CHAPTER 30
Luna had asked Sylvia and Winston to come to Henry's office around 2 pm. She hadn't told them why, mostly because she didn't know. Henry had a plan, though, and she trusted him. After they finished lunch, she and Henry went back to his sparsely furnished office. He asked her to keep an eye on things while he took a walk to clear his head. She thought it was a pretty easy task as there wasn't much to look at save for the painting of the White House that hung on the wall in the outer room. Henry had once mentioned that he liked fine art. This was not an example of such, but she gave the artist credit for having captured the essence of 'better than a blank wall.' She sat and kept an eye on the wholly unremarkable painting.
Henry had a plan. Actually, he had a vague idea of something that might work or might completely blow up in his face. After the beating Mike had taken, he didn't feel he could continue to search for the missing pieces of the codex. He needed to make a move. Tommy 'The Knife' appeared to be getting desperate; the rival gangs seemed to think this was the time for an all-out war to topple Tommy. The constant speculation in the newspapers was turning the city of Manhattan into a powder keg about to blow.
Henry walked a little farther and came to the familiar steps of the library, which held the key to it all. It was unseasonably warm, and the snow that had covered everything was now a gray, melting coat of sludge. He stopped and lit a cigarette, casually puffing on it, while he looked around to see if anyone had followed him. Henry didn't smoke, but he always kept a pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter on him for just such an occasion. The little white sticks gave one a perfect excuse for stopping anywhere and pausing to take a drag or two.
It was clear nobody cared about Henry, so he flicked the butt into the gutter and went into the library. He stopped at the card catalog and waited a few more minutes. If anyone were following him, they would move quickly to get inside lest they lose him. Nobody else passed through the doors. He felt safe. Back into the stacks he went, past rows and rows of books about everything known to man. He loved the smell of books and the sounds of a library. Everyone thought of libraries as being perfectly quiet, but they weren’t; they had their own language. The chatter of chair legs on marble floors, pages being turned
, muffled whispers of overworked students at the tables, the echo of feet walking here - it was like a quiet sonata to his ears. Henry normally found it comforting. Today, he listened for anything out of the ordinary and took no comfort in bringing the journal from its hiding place.
Down the steps, past more rows, right turn, left turn, past some study tables, and down another hall. Two more flights of stairs down, and he finally arrived in a section rarely visited. It was filled with rare books on economic theory, mathematics, and science. He pulled out the 'Principles of Political Economy and Taxation' by David Ricardo. It was a first edition from 1817. It had slightly less dust than its brethren on either side and, behind this rare and wonderful tome that explained labor theory of value, rested the journal. Henry pulled the journal out, wrapped a small towel that he had brought with him around it, and tucked it under his overcoat. He indulged himself with a brief glance at Ricardo's masterpiece, then he lightly blew the dust off and carefully placed the book back on the shelf.
He walked back through the library and exited into the afternoon damp. A light rain waited. The sky was darkening, and there was a general air of dread all about. Maybe it was just his own dread he was sensing? Henry was especially alert now. He had the journal and worried that he might get jumped by some of Tommy's thugs before he could meet with the DA. He covered the distance between the library and his office in half the normal time. Almost running, Henry went up two flights of stairs and down the hall to 309. Henry was glad to be back to the office.
When he opened the door, he saw Winston and Sylvia had arrived. Winston was examining the painting while Sylvia and Luna were sitting at the receptionist desk chatting. The three turned to Henry with a collective 'Did you get the book?' look on their faces. Henry gave a nod and walked into his office. Gathered around the desk, they shared a sense of anticipation and dread. He brought forth the journal as if it were as fragile as bone china. Henry carefully took off the wrapping and set it down for them all to see.