Head Wounds (37 page)

“For the next few months I did everything I could to cover the Town’s reduced working capital, but it was impossible. I hardly said another word to Roy Battiston, or Milhouser. The fools assumed I’d be able to keep a lid on everything, that I’d have to because my career and reputation were at stake. But I couldn’t.”

“So you cut a deal,” I said.

“It wasn’t easy. Milhouser was furious. But I got him to understand that while he had hooks in me, I had hooks in him. If we cooperated we’d get through it with minimum damage. If we fought, it’d be mutually assured destruction.”

“So,” I said, “the deal was you’d guarantee the bank wouldn’t press charges. You’d take the hit with the Town for sweeping the Town accounts, but he’d have to cop to borrowing the funds to collateralize his loan. Since they were stuck in a CD there was no way around that. You’d also threatened the bank’s board with a public relations nightmare if they made too big a deal over it. It was in everyone’s interest that the whole matter die out quickly and quietly. That included, of course, both you and Milhouser leaving Town government.”

“Very good, Sam,” said Zack. “You must know something about small-town politics.”

“Nah. But I’m a quick learner. Speaking of which, I think I also know what Roy got out of the deal.”

“My job,” said Zack, with a bitter laugh. “That was his goal all along. All he wanted was to trap me in something he could use to pry me out of there. I’d already put my neck in the noose the first time I made an unauthorized investment. Milhouser, a skunk of the same stripe, just facilitated the execution. I had to leave anyway. The bank manager worked out a resolution, which he agreed to do for the same PR reasons as the Town. But he needed my head as part of the bargain. I was happy to give it to him and get the hell away from Southampton. And Roy Battiston.”

“Not far enough, apparently,” I said.

“The second stupidest thing I ever did was not moving to Montana or Costa Rica. I tried, but my wife wouldn’t leave Long Island, and I couldn’t tell her why we should. As long as I was nearby, and in government, that noose was wrapped around my neck. I knew one day I’d feel the tug.”

He would have probably told me more, but Jackie’s cell phone rang. Or rather, played the first few bars of “I Wanna Be Sedated” by the Ramones. It took me a few minutes to figure out what was going on and once I did, how to answer the phone. It was Jackie.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Fine here. Why?”

“How close are you?”

“Half hour, give or take,” I said.

“Are you sure about the timing?”

“Do whatever you want to do, Jackie. I trust you.”

“Oh great. More pressure.”

Zack looked interested in my side of the conversation. When I ended the call he asked me, “So, are you going to tell me where we’re going? It’s only fair. I’ve told you a lot.”

“You have,” I said. “I appreciate it. We’re going to North Sea.”

As we drove he caressed his sports coat where it draped across his lap, his long slender fingers absentmindedly picking at the fabric and folding it along the seams.

“It was a good day when I heard Roy was going to jail for some real-estate scam,” he said. “I thought, there’s karma for you.”

“It must have been a big disappointment to hear from him again.”

Zack looked up from his sports coat.

“It was devastating. It was just an envelope with an old blueprint and a note telling me to hold on to it and wait for further instruction. I felt like those fellas in the movies who ask the Mob for a favor, and then twenty years later get the call. Payback time. It’s Faustian.”

It was getting close to dusk by the time we reached the outskirts of Southampton, marked by the narrowing of Route 27 from four lanes to two. Zack Horowitz had been quiet during the last leg of the trip, and I hadn’t pushed him to do any more talking. I needed to concentrate on the plan, if so grand a name could be applied to what I had in mind.

I turned left off Route 27 and after that merged onto North Sea Road. I wanted to feel more confidence, but couldn’t muster it. Too many variables. Too little leverage. But it was all I had.

Zack withstood the fun-house ride over Bay Edge Drive with less complaint than Jackie. When we got to Robbie’s project there were two pickups parked out front.

“Look familiar?” I asked him.

He nodded.

I had him walk in front of me as we went around to the back of the house, carefully stepping over the last of the construction
debris, some of which I scooped up and tossed to the side as we approached the French doors.

They were open to the bay, letting a soft breeze into the room, along with me and Zack.

“Look, guys,” I said to Patrick and Milhouser. “I brought a friend.”

Patrick had a big smirk on his face and shook his head in disbelief. Confusion and anger competed for possession of Jeff Milhouser.

“Where’s the Battiston woman?” he demanded.

“Her name’s Anselma,” I said. “She’s anything but a Battiston woman.”

“Hello, Jeff,” said Zack, stepping out from behind me.

“She called and said to meet her here,” said Milhouser, looking at Zack.

Patrick moved closer, staring at me. Milhouser touched his arm and he stopped.

“We’ve changed the agenda for the meeting,” I said. “But hang tight. We don’t have a quorum yet.”

“That mean she’s coming? And what’s he doing here?” Milhouser asked, pointing at Zack.

“Consulting on environmental issues,” I said.

Milhouser’s confusion deepened.

“You want some answers from this asshole, let me beat it out of him,” said Patrick, looking at me.

I pulled Zack across the room and planted him next to Milhouser.

“Do me a favor, and keep Jeff company while I take care of this,” I said, gesturing to Patrick to follow me outside.

The only light out there came from the room behind us. I turned and walked backwards, being very careful to keep my footing as I watched Patrick come at me, backlit. Before he got too close I rotated to the left, and I was glad to see him
rotate with me, so that in a few steps I had my back to the house and he was in the pale light.

I reached down and picked up a three-foot-long piece of two-by-four that I’d tossed there on the way in. Patrick looked surprised.

“You got to be kidding me,” he said.

I showed him I wasn’t by cracking him across the top of the head. He went down on his knees with his hands covering his head.

“Fuck,” he yelled.

I’d used a similar approach one time before on a thug named Buddy Florin, the last guy who thought being bigger, younger and stronger were the only deciding factors.

When Patrick tried to stand up I hit him on the right shoulder as hard as I could, knocking him into the mud where he rolled over and tried again to get back on his feet. I hit him again on the other arm, and as he fell back down, I kicked him in the face.

He pitched backwards, holding his face with his left hand, his right hanging uselessly at his side. I dropped down and stuck my knee in his chest. I gripped his shirt with one hand and held the two-by-four above his head with the other.

“Like I told you before, it only gets worse.”

“Some fucking boxer,” he said.

“Not allowed to box anymore, sorry. Doctor’s orders.”

I dragged him to his feet and held him by the back of his shirt. I shoved him through the French doors and told him to lie face down on the floor.

“You broke my fucking arm,” he said. “I need a doctor.”

“Good Lord,” said Zack.

Milhouser just snorted.

“We’ll take care of that after we have a little chat,” I said,
checking my watch. “If Jackie’s on time for once in her life, it won’t take that long.”

Milhouser had been holding his white golf jacket in his hand. He put it on and zipped up, looking ready to bolt.

“I don’t know what the hell this is about, Acquillo, but it’s not what I came here to do, so if you’d kindly …”

He was interrupted by the sound of Jackie calling from the front of the house. To my everlasting wonderment, she was actually ahead of schedule.

“Hi, fellas,” she said, as she walked in the sunroom. “What’s up?”

I introduced her to Zack Horowitz, while keeping an eye on Milhouser, whose confusion had moved through anger and now looked more like indecision. Patrick mumbled something into the floor.

“Zack,” I said, like I was kicking off a weekly staff meeting, “why don’t you outline for Jackie the statement you’re planning to give the Assistant District Attorney. Just the highlights for now.”

“I’m here to act as your attorney until you can pick one of your own,” she said to Zack, holding up a steno pad. “I’ll be taking notes.”

Zack nodded.

“I’ve been aware of a campaign by Mr. Milhouser to gain control through extortion of a large real-estate development in this area,” he said to Jackie in his softly modulated voice.

“You idiot,” said Milhouser.

Jackie looked up from her pad.

“If you don’t mind, sir. I don’t want to miss anything,” she said.

Zack started talking.

“A little over two years ago I received a document in the mail from Roy Battiston. It was an old drawing of a series
of storage cellars located on the site of a factory sitting at the center of this planned development. With it was a note from Battiston saying the cellars were full of toxic waste, heretofore undetected. With the drawing was a note from Battiston telling me to keep this information confidential until notified.”

Jackie held up her hand to stop him while she caught up. Then she nodded.

“One might ask,” Zack went on, “why the Assistant Regional Director of the New York State DEC would meekly comply with such an outrageous demand. One that would put him in direct violation of the duties of his office. As I said in the beginning, Mr. Milhouser was engaged in a campaign of extortion, and I was one of those on the receiving end.”

“Jesus, mercy in heaven, what a load of bull,” said Milhouser.

“So you sat on this thing like you were told,” I said.

“Yes. Until this gentleman paid me a visit,” he said, pointing down at Patrick.

“The gentleman Sam Acquillo is currently standing over with a two-by-four,” said Jackie. “Got it.”

“He said he was there to deliver a message from Roy Battiston. That I was to give the drawing of the cellars to Robbie and Jeff Milhouser. That the Milhousers would know what to do with it. He was clear that my personal safety, as well as my professional career, relied on following these directions to the letter.”

Patrick chimed in from the floor.

“More bullshit,” he said.

“After taking a day to recover from fear and self-loathing, I tried to reach Roy at the state penitentiary. I called several times, working my way through their system, and finally got
him on the phone. The first thing he did was warn me that the line wasn’t secure. But by this time I was so emotionally overwrought, I spoke freely. He said, ‘Just do what I asked you to do, then get out of the way. Or go eat a gun or something. I could care less.’ And then he hung up on me.”

Jackie was writing furiously in her steno book.

“So you did what he asked you to do?” she asked.

“Almost. I called Robbie, the thought of speaking to his father being unbearable. As I talked, it became clear the whole thing was news to him. So I explained, again quite freely, the situation. He cursed a little, and told me to come see him right away and bring the drawing.” Zack looked around the room. “He said to come here, so that’s what I did.”

“I’m not listening to any more of this garbage,” said Jeff Milhouser, unzipping then re-zipping his jacket to emphasize the point.

Jackie walked over to him.

“He wants you to stay put, Mr. Milhouser,” she said, jerking her head in my direction. “I would. Go ahead, Mr. Horowitz.”

Zack moved to the center of the room, closer to where Jackie now stood.

“I guess I was encouraged by Robbie’s confusion. I realized the drawing was the only leverage I had, so I didn’t dare bring it. I left it where it was, locked in a drawer in my office. When I got here it was well after dark. Robbie was here, and so was he.”

He pointed at Patrick again.

“They didn’t look happy with each other,” said Zack. “Robbie was very agitated. I think he’d been drinking. You could smell it. Robbie asked me what would happen if there really was toxic waste on the site. I said it could be anything from a simple disposal, to a massive cleanup, to a permanent
condemnation of the property. While we were talking Getty was on a cell phone in the corner. I didn’t think much about it until this one shows up.”

He pointed at Milhouser.

“I think it dawned on me and Robbie at the same time that Getty had called him. Robbie started yelling at both of them, saying things like, ‘What the fuck is going on here?’ and ‘Who’re you working for?’ directed at Getty, who didn’t say much. But Jeff Milhouser was talking plenty. He spoke with this belittling, condescending tone, telling Robbie to grow up and stop being a big dope. That they had a golden opportunity to take Battiston’s old project away from his wife, and if she resisted, they just had to wave the drawing at her. One whiff of ‘toxic waste’ and the whole deal would go down the tubes, he told his son. That just made Robbie angrier. He said they didn’t need to do anything that mean, that he was going to win her over honestly, that they were old friends. Jeff just sneered at him. He was pretty angry now himself. I admit, I was terrified. For some reason I picked that moment to blurt out that I hadn’t brought the drawing.”

Jeff Milhouser sat down on a pair of stacked sawhorses, his hands resting on his knees. His face was intent, calculations running freely behind his eyes.

“Robbie starting yelling at me, ‘You destroy that thing,’” said Zack. “And Getty walked over and grabbed me by the throat.” Zack’s hand involuntarily mimicked the attack. “He said we were going back to Stony Brook to get it. Jeff Milhouser stood next to him and called me a variety of names, though none as cruel and demeaning as what he called his son. That’s when Robbie grabbed Getty by the hair and pulled him off of me. I’d never seen two grown men, big men, actually fight before. I never imagined.”