American Gangster (23 page)

Her hands were in the pockets of the fur, and she
was hopping on her heels a little, shivering, her breath visible. “Frank, it's cold. It's just down on the corner—
go!
Get the keys.”

He knew arguing with her was pointless right now, so he headed back; seemed to him the snow was coming down harder by the second. A drab-looking Chevy went by, a little too fast for the weather, catching Frank's attention. He was about to go in the restaurant when he glanced back, toward Eva, and saw the Chevy down there round the corner.

Though the vehicle had apparently moved on, something had the nape of Frank's neck tingling. He did not go in the restaurant to help Doc, who was paying and getting yellow sauce, his arms already filled with a bunch of stained sacks.

For some reason, Frank just stood out in the snow and the cold and waited, and then he saw the car coming back around that corner, and he ran, placing every step carefully so as not to slip and fall and not make it to Eva in time. He could see her standing next to the car, her expression turning curious as she saw him running toward her.

Then he had her by the wrist and she didn't have time to ask him why, as he ran with her toward that restaurant, the only door they could get into on this block. The Chevy was almost on them, gunning its engine, and then Frank pushed in through the doors with Eva, and Doc—arms full of sacks—saw his boss dive for the grimy floor and take his wife with him.

The windows shattered under an explosion of gunfire, a grease gun most likely, and patrons were screaming,
and cooks and waitresses were chattering in Chinese as if gibberish could make the threat disappear.

Doc had ducked down himself, the sacks of food spilled all over the place, and had a pistol in either hand, firing out at the car through the now open window. He hit the Chevy a couple times, puckering metal, and the vehicle—which had slowed to a near stop to make the hit—screeched off.

Like a presidential bodyguard, Doc gathered Eva and Frank up off the floor and hustled them out of the decimated hole-in-the-wall and down to the car and piled them in back.

Blood had soaked through Frank's topcoat on his left shoulder, but he didn't feel anything but anger. “What the fuck was
that
?”

“Are you hit?” Doc asked.

“Just drive.”

Doc did.

Christmas Eve or not,
security was stepped up at Frank's penthouse, Frank's own people including his brothers as well as cops on the payroll—not SIU, of course—patrolling not just the Lucas floor but every floor of the building.

An older black doctor who had been Bumpy Johnson's medic of choice attended Frank in the master bedroom. His brothers hung around on the periphery as the doc worked on Frank's shoulder wound. Stretched out on top of the covers, Frank had been given some painkiller and felt fine, except for somebody having the fucking
nerve to shoot at him . . . and to launch the hit when he was out with his goddamn wife. That was fucking low.

Upon getting back to the penthouse, Eva had disappeared, and an hour had passed before she returned bearing early editions of the papers. She'd gotten these in the lobby, from a flunky Frank had sent to gather them. Now, having made her delivery, she was perched on her side of the bed, supportive of her husband but staying out of the doctor's way.

In Frank's lap—hurting him way more than any shoulder wound—was a front page with a big nasty tabloid picture of Charlie Williams gunned down on the floor of a jazz club toilet. The only thing lower than those SIU cops, Frank figured, were the reporters who thrived on tragedies like this.

Brother Huey was pacing at the foot of the bed. “Was it Nicky did this? You think it was
Nicky
, Frank?”

Frank said nothing.

“To think I thought that guy was . . .” Huey, tears in his eyes, was trembling with fury. “I'll fuckin'
kill
that bastard, whether it
was
him or not, you tell me to. Say the word, Frank. Just say the word.”

Frank said nothing.

Huey gestured with two hands, pleading. “What do you want me to
do
, Frank? Your brothers are just waiting for the word. We can't just sit here and—”

“Hitting me, I understand,” Frank said, reflectively. “But
Charlie
? Who did Charlie ever hurt? And who didn't like Charlie?
Everybody
liked Charlie. . . .”

Expressions were exchanged among the brothers:
somebody didn't.
But no one said it.

Eva said, “I feel bad about Charlie, too, Frank. But what I'm wondering—who shot at
us
?”

Frank said nothing.

“You're right,” Eva said, and she smiled—as icy a smile as Frank had ever seen from her. “It doesn't matter. Because we're leaving. Are you finished, Doctor?”

The doctor blinked at the woman of the house. “Yes. I can wait in the living room, to discuss medication, if you'd like some time alone with your husband. . . .”

“I would. Please leave us. Everyone?”

Frank said to Huey and the others, “Go home—go see your kids. Christmas Eve, for Christ's sake.”

The brothers and bodyguards and various onlookers filed out, and Eva went over and shut the door on those loitering in the hall.

On her way to her dresser, Eva flicked a look at Frank, saying, “It doesn't
matter
who shot at us. Because we're leaving.”

She yanked open a drawer and took out their passports, slapped them on the dresser; then she went to the closet and got two suitcases and began packing.

He was too weak to get out of bed, but his voice was strong: “Where did you
go
? Where have you been? You go out
alone
, after we get shot at?”

She said nothing, going to the closet again and carefully picking out items, quickly and efficiently, like a skilled shopper at a fire sale.

“Eva, what are you doing?”

“We can leave from here. Money's in the car.”

Frank blinked. “What money?”

“Everything you stashed at your mother's house.”

“In your
car
? The Corvette?”

“Yes. That's what I said, isn't it?”

“And where
is
your car?”

“Out front.”

“With ten million dollars in it?”

She shrugged. “I guess. I didn't stop to count it.” He climbed out of bed; he was weaving, but his concern and anger fueled him. “Are you crazy, woman? We gotta get that cash back to Teaneck. Who went with you?”

“Nobody.”

She was at the dresser getting stuff from drawers and he could look over her shoulder into the mirror at her—not that her eyes met his that often.

He said, “You went out driving around without security? After what went down out there? . . . Doc'll take you back.”

She had one bag packed and started on another. “We're not going to Teaneck. We're going to the airport.”

“The airport.”

“We're leaving the country.”

“To
where?
No, we are
not
leaving the country.”

She turned to him and her eyes were wild. “Frank, Charlie's dead. And they tried to kill us. What
else
has to happen before you come to your senses? We have all the money we could ever—”

He took her into his arms and held her close and calmed her like a child. “Come on now, baby. Everything's gonna be fine.”

She wasn't crying, but she was close; and when her
breathing slowed, he asked her, “Where are we going, anyway? Spain? China? Which fuckin' place is it to be, girl?”

Her chin got crinkly. “We can go anywhere we want. We can live anywhere.”

“We can run and hide,” Frank said, “is what you're saying.”

“You make it sound—”

“Like something I would never under any circumstance do. Listen, baby—this is where I'm from. This is where my business is. Where my family is, my mother. This penthouse, this is
my
place,
our
place, too.”

Tears pearled her eyelashes. “I'm scared, Frank.”

“I know you are. I know you are. But this is
my
country, Eva. This is America. And you don't run
from
America—you run
to
America.”

And he took her to bed where she slept under his good shoulder, and he tended to her as if she were the wounded one, which perhaps was right.

Christmas for Richie Roberts
had not been half-bad. Laurie had invited him over to her folks' for Christmas Eve and he was able to spend some “quality time” (to invoke the phrase Laurie had started using lately) with Michael. His capitulation at the hearing had won him some visitation time with his son, and a personal truce with Laurie. She would never love him again, and he supposed he didn't love her anymore, either. But between them, now, was an unspoken respect for what they'd once shared, as represented by the boy they both still loved very much.

So all was right with Richie's world, on that sunny January morning, the stained glass turning everything lovely shades of brown and yellow, and even having Detective Trupo troop in as if he and his black leather topcoat owned the squad room couldn't spoil it.

Richie was at his desk and scarecrow Spearman
came over, lifting an eyebrow, saying, “Said he'll only talk to you.”

“Lucky me,” Richie said, and got up and joined the SIU detective off to one side of the big bullpen.

“How's it goin'?” Trupo said, not offering a hand but giving Richie a friendly nod that indicated a whole new attitude.

“It's goin',” Richie said. “Christmas okay?”

“Yeah, cool. If in-laws was illegal, I'd be a happy guy.”

They moved to a nearby break table where they sat and had coffee, black.

Trupo sipped steaming hot liquid, then said casually, “Hear anything about this Lucas hit?”

Richie sipped at his own cup, then shook his head. “No. Just that whoever-it-was put Frank's wife in the line of fire, which if you don't a kill a guy can be a problem.”

Trupo, nodding, lighted up a cigarette. “From what I hear, it was maybe the Corsicans.”

“Yeah?”

“French Connection, Fernando Rey, the exporters Frank's put out of business.”

“Makes sense.” Richie was wondering what this had to do with him, and for that matter, Trupo.

Trupo told him, in a brashly conspiratorial manner: “Now, I can watch out for Frank's ass on the New York side of the bridge, but I don't wanna have to worry every time he drives over to Jersey for whatever, and somebody takes another potshot at him.”

Richie was stunned that Trupo would talk this
openly about his business ties to Lucas; but he gave nothing away as he said, “Hit went down in Chinatown, what I understand. Chinatown is not Jersey, last time I looked.”

“No. But now the radar's up, my side of the river, and what I need to know is, you know, that yours is up over here.”

“I follow.”

“Good.” Trupo's mustached grin had a certain charm, but Richie had to work at it not to shudder when the detective laid a chummy hand on his shoulder. “We need to start workin' together, Richie. Need to step up, need to coordinate, our efforts. Next time whoever-the-fuck's aim could be better.”

“Could,” Richie admitted.

Trupo's laugh was damn near a cackle. He blew dragon smoke out his nostrils. “And, of course, we want to keep this cash cow alive, you know what I'm saying?”

“I know what you're saying.”

Then, as luck would have it—bad luck—Jimmy Zee came waltzing into the squadroom through the back door; immediately the snitch caught a glimpse of Trupo, and hauled ass back out.

But Trupo had made him. “What's that nigger doing here?”

“What, Jimmy? I don't know. We had him in for questioning on some domestic beef a while back, and shook him loose. He comes in and lies to us now and then, and we pretend to believe him.”

Richie hoped that would pass muster.

Trupo was a lot of things, but a fool wasn't one of them; his detective instincts were tweaked, and his eyes searched the squadroom, landing on the bulletin boards and the revised flow chart of drug criminals.

The SIU dick got up and wandered over to the bulletin boards. Richie followed. Trupo was taking a good long look at the table of criminal organization, and his eyes widened and his jaw dropped, when he saw Frank Lucas up top, in Public Enemy Number One position.

“Jesus,” Trupo said. “What the fuck's
this
about? You're not actually working to
arrest
Frank Lucas? What's the matter with you, man? You fuckin'
crazy
?”

“Yeah, matter of fact I am fuckin' crazy,” Richie said pleasantly. “Haven't you heard? Crazy enough to shoot somebody and make it look like an accident next time he comes over the bridge without my permission.”

Trupo's shark eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, Roberts?”

“I'm saying, Trupo,” Richie said, not at all pleasantly, “get the fuck out of New Jersey.”

Trupo glowered at Richie for a long five seconds, and Richie looked back coldly; then the bent detective turned and went out quickly, before an accident could happen.

In Frank Lucas's penthouse,
in the bedroom where he was recovering, a big television set had been brought in down at the foot of the bed, so Frank could
be propped up behind pillows and relax in front of the tube.

But the tube wasn't cooperating: chaotic scenes of activity in Saigon told a story Frank did not want to hear, namely that the U.S. was pulling out of Vietnam. His pipeline in and out of the Golden Triangle was about to get seriously fucked up.

Dominic Cattano was in the process of paying Frank the rare honor of a personal visit, looking solemnly urbane in a dark suit and striped tie from Savile Row, and expressing concern about Frank's recovery.