Fireplay

by Suzanne Chazin

  “He claims he isn’t,” said Georgia. “He said he was just doing a favor for Louie Buscanti.”

  “DeAngelo works for Buscanti?”

  “Rick says he doesn’t work for Buscanti. He’s an electrical contractor. He says Buscanti got him work wiring a hotel.”

  “Did he mention Sullivan?”

  “No, sir.” She felt Krause’s scrutiny and it embarrassed her. He had to be wondering what kind of people she ran with in her youth. She was wondering the same thing. “Look, I don’t want to compromise the FBI’s case,” said Georgia. “I think it makes sense for me to resign from the investigation.”

  Krause didn’t respond. He steepled his fingers and stared out the window at a passing group of students. After a few moments, he turned to her.

  “Do you think DeAngelo told the Green Warriors that you’re a cop?”

  “He didn’t then. Now, I don’t know,” Georgia admitted.

  “Interesting,” said Krause. “He could have blown the entire operation right then and there last night. Three years of work—out the window.”

  “I think that’s what Freez—Michael McLaughlin—was banking on,” said Georgia. “That, or that I wouldn’t come clean and tell you about Rick.”

  “Do you think DeAngelo will try to make contact with you again?”

  “I don’t know,” said Georgia. “He knows he’s in trouble.”

  “He could offer us some very valuable information.”

  “He says he doesn’t know anything about the Green Warriors.”

  “He has a relationship with the kingpin of South Jersey mobsters. If we could tie Buscanti into the Green Warriors, we could take down two major public threats with one informant.”

  “I don’t think he wants to become an informant, sir.”

  “Would he prefer spending a big chunk of his future in prison for the murder of Jamie Sullivan? Because if that’s the threat the FBI has to hold over his head, then that’s what we’ll do.” Krause’s pager went off. He looked down at the number, then decided to ignore it. “Tying Louie Buscanti to the Green Warriors would be a major feather in your cap, Marshal. A major feather. I don’t see how the FBI could stand in your way on acquiring McLaughlin if you succeeded in getting DeAngelo to work with us.”

  “If he testified against Buscanti, he’d have to go into the witness protection program, wouldn’t he?” Richie would lose any chance of having Rick in his life forever.

  “It’s possible.”

  “That’s a big step,” said Georgia.

  “I realize that,” said Krause. “That’s why I’m only asking you to meet with him. Tonight, if possible. Feel him out. I can arrange it so that I’m a short distance away if you need me.”

  “Is this the only way?” asked Georgia.

  “Keep your priorities straight, Marshal. We both want to see the fire department get justice for those dead firefighters. You get Rick DeAngelo to cooperate with us, and I will do my damnedest to see that that happens.”

  30

  Georgia called Rick’s business number—the same one that was scribbled on the pad in Sully’s apartment. As soon as he heard her voice, he went ballistic.

  “Gee Gee—what in hell’s name are you trying to do to me here? Some guy from the FDNY called me this morning and told me I’m a suspect in a murder investigation. I don’t even know who the bastard was I’m supposed to have murdered. All I did was give a ride last night to two punks. And now I’m supposed to be a terrorist and a killer?”

  Georgia forced herself to remain calm, but inside, she was shaking. “I think we should meet and talk about the offer I made last night.”

  “That’s no offer. That’s a death sentence. Tell your bosses I’ll take my chances with Buscanti before I take ’em with them. I didn’t kill anybody. I didn’t blow anything up. And I’m not gonna end up a cement slab under some parking garage just ’cause somebody thinks I did.”

  “You were at that Green Warriors meeting, Rick. And your phone number was scribbled on a pad in the dead man’s apartment, beneath an appointment that looks like it was set up with you.”

  “Well, it wasn’t.”

  “You want to tell that to a jury?”

  He took a deep breath. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Meet with me,” said Georgia. “Let me help you try to sort this out.”

  “What? You, me and twenty thousand listening devices? No way, Gee Gee.”

  “No wires, Rick. No listening devices. Just you and me.”

  He laughed. “Man, talk about a reunion that won’t be warm and fuzzy.”

  Georgia set up the meeting with Rick for six P.M. at the diner right near the George Washington Bridge in Fort Lee. She called Krause with the details. Then she called her mother to plead with her to watch Richie for the evening.

  “I can’t do it,” said Margaret. “I told you weeks ago that I was going to the Woodside Irish League’s Christmas party tonight.”

  “I’ll get home early.”

  “I don’t care if you get home before you go.” An Irishism, as Georgia called them—a nonsensical saying. Her mother had dozens of them from, “I’ll kill you if you die in a motorcycle accident,” to so-and-so was “the picture of health at his wake.”

  Georgia got off the phone and ran through the possibilities. In the end, there was only one. She felt guilty about asking him, given that he was working two jobs. And, especially, given whom she was meeting.

  “Mac?” she said when he picked up the phone at Manhattan base. “Any luck with those case files from the D.A.’s office?”

  “I’ve got the stack on loan in my car,” he said. “I figured we could grab some dinner and maybe go through them later.”

  “I’ve got a big, big favor to ask you.”

  “What?”

  “I know it’s your only night off. I know you’re seeing your own kids tomorrow.” She took a deep breath. “But I’ve got to work.”

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “On a Sunday night?”

  “I’ve got to meet someone connected to the FBI case—at a diner in New Jersey. I won’t be late. Maybe we can see each other at my place afterward. My mother’s not going to be home until very late.”

  “Where will Richie be?”

  Georgia took a deep breath. “That was my big favor.”

  “You want me to baby-sit?”

  “I’m in a bind, Mac. I wouldn’t ask otherwise. I’ll look at those files with you when I get home. Please? You guys can work on the race car.”

  “I’m exhausted. Scout.”

  “This is really important,” said Georgia. “If tonight goes well, we may be one step closer to getting McLaughlin.”

  “Man,” he sighed. “Sometimes I wish you did have an ex. At least he could baby-sit now and then.”

  Georgia decided not to answer that. “Ma will let you in. There’s plenty of food in the house. And I won’t be home late—I promise.”

  She was supposed to meet Rick at six P.M. at the diner. It was 6:10 and dark already by the time she stepped out of her car—a dark blue Chrysler sedan with a busted antenna, on loan from the FBI. There was no sign of Rick’s truck. Punctuality was not one of his strong suits. He rarely made the previews of a movie. He missed Richie’s birth. In fact, the only time she’d seen him be early to anything was the morning they took the firefighter’s physical.

  She took a seat in a booth at the far end of a row. The short, gray-haired man who seated her grimaced. “Minimum two people in a booth,” he said in heavily accented English.

  “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Wait at door.”

  Georgia opened her purse and slapped a twenty on the tabletop, still wet from being sponged down. “I’ll take a coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich, and you can keep the rest if my friend doesn’t show.”

  The man wrote down her order, pocketed the twenty and then disappeared. It was another thirty-five minutes before Rick showed up. By then, Georgia had picked at
the sandwich, finished two cups of coffee and made a smiley face on her plate with the pickle and tomatoes.

  She glared at Rick as he sauntered over, baseball cap pulled low across his face. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt beneath a down jacket. He looked like he needed a shave. He hadn’t exactly dressed for the occasion. Georgia, on the other hand, had redone her makeup and slipped into her favorite pants suit—silky pants with a stripe of blue and gray and a matching jacket. He slid into the booth and picked up the menu like he was right on time.

  “You haven’t changed, have you?”

  “I just sat down to order—you already got a problem?”

  “You’re forty-five minutes late.”

  He made a face. “I spent last night with terrorists, got accused of murder this morning and raced halfway up the state in rush-hour traffic to meet my pissed-off ex-girlfriend who’d like nothing better than to toss my ass in jail. I think I deserve credit for even being here.”

  “That’s not the point. You could have called…Oh, forget it.” She sat back in the booth and folded her arms. They had reverted right back to their old habits. He had an answer for everything and she sulked over each of them.

  He removed his baseball cap and did a quick scan of her makeup and clothes. He looked embarrassed as he rubbed a hand along his cheek. “I didn’t have time to shave or change,” he apologized. “I mean, if the FDNY is going to bust me, what’s the difference?”

  “I didn’t need a meeting to arrest you, Rick. If that’s what anybody wanted, it would already have happened.”

  “I figured maybe you wanted to have the pleasure.”

  “You think that’s what this is? A pleasure?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” Rick, she noticed, hadn’t removed his bulky down jacket.

  “You’re not carrying, are you?” she asked him.

  “A gun? Of course not. I don’t even hunt anymore.” He removed his jacket, then his sweatshirt. Beneath them he wore a bright blue T-shirt tucked into his jeans. He still had a nice body—not as tall or broad as Mac’s but lean and muscular just the same. She noticed him looking intently at her and basked a little bit in the attention. Beneath her jacket she was wearing a soft gray silk sweater—form fitting, with a scooped neckline, of course. She hoped Corinne was fat.

  “You’re not wearing a wire, are you?” he asked. So that was the reason for his scrutiny. Georgia felt herself deflating.

  “No.” She pulled at the neckline of her tight sweater. “See?”

  Rick grinned. “I remember when I saw a little more.”

  “I’m sure you see enough at home.”

  “Are you…?” He played with a fork in front of him.

  “Am I what?”

  “I know you’re not married, Gee Gee. But are you—you know—involved with anyone?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Hey, no sweat. I’m only asking because I really want your life and Richie’s life to be happy.”

  “You’re asking because you want to feel off the hook, Rick. And that can’t happen. I can move on. I have moved on. But it’s different for Richie. You’re still his father.”

  Rick looked down at his place mat. There was a map of the turnpike on it. “You think I’m a monster, don’t you?” he asked. He’d now started playing with his spoon as well. If the waiter didn’t take his order soon, Georgia was sure the silverware would end up on the floor. And she thought only Richie could be this fidgety.

  “I think you’re irresponsible and selfish.”

  “I gave you that six thousand dollars—most of my inheritance from my grandmother—before I split. It’s not like I left you with nothing.”

  “Six thousand dollars over eight years, hmmm,” said Georgia. “That works out to about…” She did the calculations on a napkin. “Less than sixty-five dollars a month. I couldn’t keep a dog on that.”

  “It’s all about the money, isn’t it? That’s why I never came around after a while. You made me feel…worthless.”

  “Oh, blame me now.”

  “I’m not blaming you, Gee Gee. I’m embarrassed—can’t you understand that? I want to offer Richie something he deserves—something I haven’t got.”

  “I’m sure your family isn’t starving.”

  “You want to see my tax returns? Want me to give you—or some lawyer—a blow-by-blow description of my finances?”

  “Forget it,” said Georgia. “Just forget it. It’s not about the money anyway.”

  “It sure sounds like it is.”

  Georgia closed her eyes and fought for control. The hurt had nothing to do with money—or with her, for that matter. “What I wanted most from you,” she said softly, “was for you to be a father to Richie. I can sort of forgive you the money, Rick. It’s a lot harder for me to forgive you for not being there to help him grow up.”

  The waiter appeared at Rick’s elbow, and he mumbled his order without looking up: a bowl of chili, no onions, black coffee and a side of coleslaw. Rick had always loved coleslaw.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said into the place mat after the waiter left. “I wasn’t ready to get married, never mind be a father.”

  “Do you think I was?”

  “No,” he said. “But you and your mother were so mad at me, I couldn’t imagine how I was going to visit a toddler around the two of you—especially when I was always out of work. I put it off, Gee Gee. And then I moved to Toms River and got married and Gracie came along and I was so busy with her. And then Becky and—”

  “Whoa,” said Georgia. “You have two daughters?”

  He looked up. “Yeah. I thought you said Robbie told you everything.”

  “He didn’t tell me about the second one.”

  “Gracie’s five and Becky’s two.” He looked suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Georgia said unconvincingly.

  The waiter put coffee, chili and coleslaw down in front of Rick. “Look, Gee Gee—tell me what you want and I’ll try to do it.”

  “Are we talking personally? Or professionally?”

  “We’ll get to the professional in a minute. Right now, I want to know what you’d like from me as a man. You want an apology? I’m sorry. No jokes. No bullshit. I really, truly am sorry. I wish I could have been more mature. I wish I could erase everything and start over. You want me to leave you and Richie alone forever? No sweat—I’ll respect your wishes. You want me to give you some bread? I’ll try to scrounge up something, though it’ll probably create World War Three with Corinne. Gee Gee—I’ll do whatever you want. I’m hoping that maybe—just maybe—you might give me a second chance with Richie.”

  Georgia didn’t say anything. She just fiddled with her coffee cup.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Rick. “That I’ll just ride in and play dad when I feel like it. That he’s better off not seeing me at all.”

  “That’s pretty close to it,” Georgia admitted.

  “Believe it or not, I’m a good dad to my girls.”

  “I’ll make sure to send you a card next Father’s Day.”

  “You’re still angry at me.” He made it sound like an unjust accusation.

  “You’re damn right I’m angry with you. Do you have any idea what it’s like to raise a child by yourself? When you’re not even twenty-one years old?”

  “You had your mother.”

  “That’s not the same, Rick. I’ve been through the three A.M. bouts of colic. The stomach flus and earaches. The time he broke his wrist. The two weeks I spent combing lice out of his hair.”

  “No one’s taking any of that away from you.”

  “Oh, goody.”

  “Gee Gee—you’re still his mother. You’ll always be his mother. I could never be to him what you are.”

  His food was getting cold. Georgia nodded to it. “Just eat, okay? We’ll talk about this stuff another time.”

 
He stirred through the coleslaw, picking out the tiny shreds of carrots. “You still hate vegetables except for coleslaw and potatoes, huh?” she asked.

  “Yep. Some things don’t change, right?” He smiled and shook his head. “I’m still broke and you’re still beautiful.”

  “You’re still a bullshitter, too.”

  He ate about half his chili before he spoke again. “I can’t do it, Gee Gee,” he said finally.

  “Do what?”

  He put down his spoon. “I’ve been turning it over in my mind the whole drive up here. I can’t go against Buscanti. I came here to tell you that. The guy’s all-powerful in South Jersey. Anybody who went against him would wind up dead.”

  “I can get protection for you.”

  “The only kind of protection that would work is to relocate me and my family to some godforsaken hick town somewhere in another part of the country. And I’m not doing it. No way. Corinne has a big family. She could never be separated from them like that.”

  “You could’ve told me all this on the phone,” said Georgia. “Saved me the trouble of coming out here.”

  “I was hoping to talk you into letting me see Richie.”

  Georgia changed the subject. “How about at least finding out from Buscanti who set you up?”

  “Are you kidding?” asked Rick. “You want me to walk up to the most powerful man in the construction business in South Jersey and ask him who his underworld friends are? Come on, Gee Gee, get real.”

  “You only have to ask him one question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ask him if Mike McLaughlin called him to arrange your presence at that meeting.”

  “Who’s Mike McLaughlin?”

  “You met him at the construction site the other night. He was the man with me. And that’s all I’m going to tell you about him. But I think he set you up.”

  He pushed his food aside and leaned in close across the table. “You never answered me about Richie.”

  “That was my answer.”

  “You don’t want me to see him? Ever?”

  “Not while you’re in this mess. The ‘ever’ part will have to wait.”