by David Gordon
They rode in silence as Joe steered them onto the BQE, heading to Queens. Finally he spoke: “You know you’re going to have to leave town for a while. Heather Kaan will tell someone about you after we take her diamonds, if she hasn’t already.”
“Only if she lives,” Yelena pointed out and tossed her cigarette out. It sparked as it jumped along the road behind them and died. “But, yes, I have to go. It’s not smart for me to be here or in Russia, not for a time.”
“Where will you go?” Joe asked.
“First on a vacation. Caribbean maybe? Or a Greek island no one even knows the name of. Why?” She smiled at him. “You want to come, Joe?”
“Maybe.” He grinned at her. “Send me a postcard.” He looked back at the road. Wind and the low hum of tires filled the car. He gestured at the backpack on the floor by her feet. “You should take those,” he said. “Sell it. You’ll need the dough.”
She looked at him carefully, then unzipped the bag and, with the knife Joe had bought her, opened the tightly wrapped plastic bundle to pull out a kilo, a vacuum-sealed brick of pure smack. She held it up to him.
“You’re saying this is all mine, Joe? To do with what I wish? You’re giving it all to me as a gift?”
“Why not?” Joe said, with a shrug. “It will do you a lot more good than me, that’s for sure.”
“Okay then,” Yelena said, and she slit the bag open, shaking it out the window. It vanished instantly in the wind, and then she let the empty bag go. She looked back at Joe, defiantly, as if challenging him to object. He said nothing and drove.
“I don’t like this stuff, Joe,” she said finally. “Not for my mother and not for you.”
“Okay,” he said quietly, then said nothing more as she cut open and dumped the rest, both backpacks, a small, multimillion-dollar dust storm on the highway. When she was all done and had wiped and replaced her knife, Joe looked over at her and smiled. “Maria is going to be pissed.”
Yelena shrugged. “I don’t like this woman either.”
Joe laughed. “Yeah, she’s not at the top of my Christmas list.” Then: “Send me your overseas account number. I will wire your share of the money from the stones.”
She waved him off. “I will send it to Juno.” Then after a beat she asked, in a different tone: “Have you ever been to jail, Joe?”
“Sure. But never a serious bit.”
“I have. I will not go back.” She patted the gun at her side. “I will go this way instead.”
Joe nodded. “You will hold court in the street.”
“Explain this? I don’t understand,” she asked.
“It’s a saying, among criminals, who vow never to be taken alive. They’d rather just have their trial in the street and settle with the law there, instead of going up in front of a judge.”
“Yes.” She nodded in approval. “I will hold court in the street. But I will be the judge.”
42
Joe and Yelena drove past the address Juno had texted—it was Club Layali, some kind of Middle Eastern restaurant—then parked in front of a hydrant down the block and walked back, entering through the front door. The manager greeted them with a smile.
“Good evening. Welcome. I am Mohammed. Table for two? Perhaps a quiet table upstairs?”
Joe looked around, taking the place in. “You know, I think we will check out the bar first. Then maybe sit down and eat.”
“I love belly dance,” Yelena explained.
“As you wish,” the manager said with a smile and a gesture of welcome. “If you need anything at all, please just ask for me.”
“We will. Thanks,” Joe said, as Yelena led him by the hand to where the drinking and dancing were going on in the rear of the huge space. But instead of joining the fun, they wandered to the back and then followed the restroom sign downstairs.
“Juno said the signal was coming from underground,” Joe said. Then: “Meet you back out here?”
Yelena nodded and went into the ladies’ room while he checked the men’s. There was nothing of interest. Together they walked past a janitor’s closet and a disused old phone booth to another door. Trying it carefully, Joe found it unlocked, and he stepped in slowly. She followed. It was a storeroom, crowded with cartons and shelves but too small to contain any other doors or stairways.
“What do you think?” he asked her. She shrugged.
“Well, look who’s here,” a voice said. It was Heather, stepping from behind a stack of crates, holding a gun on them. Immediately Vlad stepped out from another angle, also pointing a gun. Heather smiled at Joe. “What a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you again.” She kept the gun on them while Vlad frisked them both and took their weapons. “What’s that?” she asked and he handed over Yelena’s knife.
“Cute,” she said and pocketed it. “Now Yelena, pull that mat up. And Joe, you open the trapdoor. You’re just in time for our going-away party. It’s in the private lounge downstairs. Your pals are already here.”
*
Mohammed watched the white couple cross the restaurant—the tall, thin, dark-haired American man and the blond Russian woman—frowning to himself when, instead of going into the bar like they said, they went downstairs to the restrooms. And when they did not return, he knew it was bad. He knew that the people who had come in and taken control of the club that afternoon were trouble when the clearly terrified owner had ordered him to say nothing and to stay out of the storeroom tonight, taking out any supplies he might need first. He didn’t know their names or their plans, but he knew it was something he wanted no part of. None of his concern. Then these two walked in. And he knew this man’s face and his name.
He was Joe somebody. They called him Sheriff or the Bouncer. Who knew why? All Mohammed knew was what people said: he had killed Adrian Kaan and the others in his terror cell. He had stopped an attack, a big one, using biological weapons. He had saved many people: New Yorkers and tourists. He had also saved Mohammed, his family, and his friends a lot of pain and suffering. Because when the terrorists attacked, killing Americans in the name of Allah, who did the Americans come to take vengeance on? Them. Ordinary people. Real Muslims, who understood that Islam was peace, that it was haram, a grave sin to kill, that Allah wanted them to live in love and understanding with all people, that faith was freely chosen, and that it is through kindness and compassion that one serves the highest will. Who rejected violence, having been its victims, and the reign of horror in the lands controlled by the ignorant fanatics who committed barbarities in Islam’s name, mainly upon Muslims. Who just wanted what every immigrant in New York wanted, what half of Queens wanted: to live and work and raise his family in peace, without the horror of history following him here. New York was a free city; here, truce was declared.
So when that man, Joe, whoever he was, went downstairs with his Russian girlfriend and never came out, Mohammed did what he had to do. He took a break, went outside, lit a cigarette, and with trembling fingers he called someone he knew who knew people, an older man, an Egyptian who’d lived here for decades, who helped restaurants and clubs like this open, get licensing, get connected with suppliers and garbage pickup, who smoothed things with the inspectors and settled disagreements with the Greeks who also ran this neighborhood.
When he got the call, the Egyptian was smoking a hookah upstairs from a private club where men were drinking tea and gambling over backgammon. He thanked Mohammed and told him he’d done the right thing and to forget all about it now. Then he called a black Muslim from Harlem he knew and from him got the number he needed. “I want to leave a message. It’s very urgent,” he told the voice that answered. And when the voice asked, very politely, “May I ask for whom you are calling?” he said a name that he had known and heard for years but had never had any reason to say himself. “For Mr. Gio Caprisi.”
43
Gio arrived at his office. He parked downstairs in his personal spot, although the lot was empty at that time of night, except for Paul’s car, his Porsch
e, the indulgence for which Gio teased him. Then he took the gun he had stashed under the seat and stuck it in the back of his waistband.
Gio would never so much as cross a street carrying a weapon that had been used in a crime. And the gun he had now was clean and untraceable, with the serial number filed off. If by chance police were to suddenly jump out from behind the potted plants and grab him here, then the most he’d be guilty of was possession of an unlicensed firearm, and even that, by the time his lawyers got done with it, would end up at worst as a fine. Probably the cops would end up having to come to him and apologize.
That was Gio. That was how he did things. He was careful and he was smart and no one fucked with him. Until Paul. Paul had made him reckless and stupid. And now Paul, whom he had trusted and loved, had fucked him over. And for that he would die.
Gio unlocked the door and walked upstairs instead of waiting for the elevator, and when he got to the office it was unlocked and the lights were already on. Paul was waiting in his private office to go over some banking reports and, no doubt, Paul assumed, to be together after as well. To do what they did together, what they shared, and what no one else knew. The idea that the one person in the world he’d trusted with this side of himself had betrayed him made him physically ill, and he had to swallow bile as he opened his private office door. Then he put a big smile on and said hello to Paul.
“Hi Gio,” he said as he walked in. “You’re late. I tried to get as much done as I could.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Gio said. “I got stuck at my last meeting. Though actually, I wanted to skip work tonight. I wanted to do something else.”
Paul smiled. “You want to play? Me, too. I was thinking about you all this time. And about Gianna.”
“No,” Gio said. “I want to try something different tonight. I want you to be Paula. I want to see how pretty you look in one of those dresses.”
“But …” Paul look confused. For the first time some kind of shadow came over those clear blue eyes. “I mean I’ve done drag before, of course, but we never … I didn’t know that was your thing.”
“I just want to try it,” Gio said and sat. “I want to watch you undress and change into a girl. I want to just look at how beautiful you are.”
Paul smiled, flattered despite himself. “Okay,” he said. And he started to disrobe. Gio held his hand out for his shirt, and as Paul removed each article, he carefully smoothed and folded it. When he was nude, Paul went to the closet and got out a dress, choosing the blue sequins. He stepped into it and pulled the straps up over his shoulders. Gio had to admit, even without a wig or makeup, he looked a lot better in it than he did, a lot more like a real girl. He showed himself to Gio, even did a little twirl.
“Like me?”
“Yes,” Gio said. “I love you.” Then, clearing his throat, confident now that Paul was not wearing a wire, he asked him: “Did I mention why I was late?”
“Yes,” Paul said, a bit self-conscious now, sitting down and crossing his legs that were covered in blond hair. “A meeting that ran long?”
“Right. Exactly. Though it didn’t really go that long. I took care of it quickly. It was with Pat White. You know him, don’t you?”
Paul shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“No?” Gio asked. “I thought you did. I was worried the news about our meeting might upset you.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because he’s dead. He’s full of bullets. I killed him and right now he’s getting bagged up and thrown out like trash.”
Paul stared. Gio had never discussed this side of his business with him before. Paul was just a numbers guy, a money launderer. He knew nothing about where the money came from or what Gio had to do for it. Nor did he want to know. And now Gio had confessed to a murder.
“Gio, I …”
“What about a guy named Powell, a CIA agent, do you know him?”
“No, I …”
“No? That’s weird. Because you just answered an email from him and it sure sounded like you knew him. And Pat, too.” He’d been staring hard at Paul, deadening his expression and speaking in a flat, neutral tone, but now he had to look away for a second. Paul was crying.
“Gio, please, let me explain. I did it for us. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
“For us?”
“It was Pat White. He set me up. You’re right. I knew him. He was a client. I’ve been moving money for him for a few years, and he fed me to Powell. So when Powell came to me, he already had me cold. But he offered me a deal.”
“So you traded my life for yours.”
“No. Never.” He was shouting now. He was angry, indignant, standing up. “I made a deal for us both. If I cooperated, fed him information like Pat did, then you and I could both be allowed to disappear.”
“WITSEC?”
“Better. Much better. It’s the CIA. They can give us new identities, new passports, even new birth certificates, real ones. And he said we could keep the money, too, the overseas accounts. Don’t you see?” Paul knelt, still crying, and crawled over to grab Gio by the legs. “This is our chance. To get out. To be free. To live together. In the open. Like real lovers. To have our own lives. Baby,” he said, looking up at Gio. “This is our chance.”
Gio smiled. He couldn’t help it. There were tears in his eyes. He stroked Paul’s hair. He was actually relieved at the realization: he could never kill Paul. It didn’t matter what he’d done. He loved him. That was it. He cleared his throat.
“You have to go, Paul. You have to leave tonight. And never come back.” He stood up and crossed to the cabinet behind his desk, then got out a glass, poured himself a big shot of scotch, and drank it down. Then he took out the gun that he knew he’d never use and laid it on the desk. Paul stood, pacing around.
“Okay, fine. We’ll go. Fuck Powell. What can he do now? We’ll get our own papers; there’s plenty of money.”
“No, sorry, kid. That’s not going to happen.”
“What do you mean?” He stopped and faced Gio.
“I can’t go. I can’t leave my family. You know that. And you know it’s all over for you if you stay here. So you have to go. Take the money. The accounts in Switzerland, they’re yours. My gift.”
“No, please, Gio,” Paul said, his voice cracking. Gio crossed the room and held him, held him up, and kissed him. Then he let go.
“You have to go, Paul. Now. And don’t come back. Please. Not ever. Because then I really will have to kill you.”
Paul started to speak, but then he looked into Gio’s eyes and he saw that this was the truth. He seemed to slump, to surrender. Silently he changed back into his street clothes while Gio watched without moving. Then he stepped toward the door. At the last minute he turned back to look at Gio once more, smiling at him while his eyes shone with tears, and suddenly a look of terror broke across his face. Gio turned just in time to see Carol, his wife, coming through the door from the bathroom. She grabbed the gun Gio had left on the desk and shot Paul through the heart.
*
Even after she’d stopped shooting and Paul was clearly dead, flung back on the floor, Carol was shaking so badly that Gio was afraid the gun would misfire, that she’d kill herself or him.
“Give me the gun,” he said softly, and, as if she had forgotten about it, she looked down and let him take it from her hand. He put the safety on and slid it back into his waistband.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” Gio said. “It’s me. It’s my fault … all my fault … I can explain.”
She shook her head. “No. You don’t have to. I heard. I know.”
“Carol, I can take care of this; don’t worry. I can clean this up and then we can talk and then if you want me to leave, to move out, I’ll understand.”
She put her fingers over his mouth, still shaking her head. “No,” she said. “You don’t understand. I heard. About that man you killed tonight. About the CIA agent. About the money. I c
ouldn’t just let him walk out. Don’t you understand? I had to do it. I saw that you loved him. I knew you could never do it, so I had to. I had to protect our family.” Then she kissed him softly on the lips and went to sit on the couch, where she began to sob. Gio stared at her, as if he had never seen her before. Then his phone buzzed. It was Nero.
“Yeah?”
“Boss, it’s me.”
“I know. The phone told me. What is it?”
“I just got an urgent call about Joe.”
Gio listened, then he hung up and while his wife wept and his lover’s dead body bled out, he tried to think. For a moment he felt paralyzed, weak, like maybe this was finally too much, even for him. Then he did the only thing he could think to do. He called Special Agent Donna Zamora.
44
Heather liked Yelena’s new knife.
They were in the subbasement, an old storage room, left from back in the early 1900s when this was a warehouse serving the waterfront and hidden later when this chamber was used by bootleggers during Prohibition. The room was deep in the foundation, the walls were raw stone and cement, the ceiling low, the air damp and lit with dusty bulbs behind wire mesh. There was a rough worktable of old, thick planks and, anachronistically, a few metal folding chairs. There was a large cage the size of a small room, where they used to lock up the expensive booze. It was old but strong, with iron bars and a big, old-fashioned lock. Now it held Cash, Juno, and Yelena. Felix stood leaning against the bars, holding his gun. Armond and Vlad were both gripping Joe, though one of Vlad’s arms, the size of an elephant leg, would be enough to hold him; Armond was really just helping to keep him still for Heather, who was planning some delicate work.
As soon as Heather and Vlad got them downstairs, Juno and Cash had started yelling their apologies. But Joe saw the cuts and bruises on their faces and the phones and iPad on the table, along with the velvet bag containing the diamonds and the rusty key to the cage.