Kings of Midnight (9 page)

“Not sure I can this time. How well do you know Cavanaugh?”

“Not very. Can you make it work?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Anything new from Texas?”

“Not yet. I'm hoping for an update soon. Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“A place to live. I'm in New Jersey, at a motel, but I want something else. A house, condo maybe.”

“Where?”

“Down at the Shore. It's good here now. No one around. I'll sign a lease if necessary. I can do a cashier's check for the security.”

“I'll find something. So, you're going to go through with this other thing?”

“I have to,” she said. “I have no choice.”

*   *   *

The money was in a brown paper shopping bag with a reinforced bottom and sturdy twine handles. She'd laid a cheap T-shirt over the top, kept the bag between her feet, half hidden beneath the park bench.

She was looking out over New York Harbor, the Statue of Liberty. This stretch of Jersey City along the river had been turned into a park. There were benches and bike paths, a flagstone promenade. Across the Hudson, the late-afternoon sun lit the Manhattan skyline, flashing off skyscraper glass. There were whitecaps on the water, a stiff wind pushing them along. A loose sheet of newspaper blew past her feet.

She knotted her scarf tighter, zipped up her jacket. She was alone in the park. Out in the shipping lanes, she could see a freighter making its way into the harbor, a city block's worth of containers lined up on its deck.

She heard a car, looked behind her to see the BMW pull into one of the diagonal spaces. Her Fusion was parked a few spots away. There were no other cars in the lot.

She looked back over the water. Gulls squawked above her. Two of them landed, strutted around an overfilled trash can, picking through bits of garbage on the ground.

She tightened her grip on the .32 in her pocket, heard a car door open and close. Romero came around the bench. He wore a belted trench coat, hands in his pockets.

“Cold,” he said. He sat beside her.

“I want news by the day after tomorrow,” she said. “Friday at the latest.”

“Four days? You like to push it, don't you?”

“Friday or we've got a problem.”

“That a threat?”

“No.” She stood up. “Just the way it is. I'll call him tomorrow, see where we are.”

“Whatever.” He was looking across the river. “Nice view.”

“Enjoy it.”

At the car, she looked back, saw he'd pulled the bag closer. He picked up the T-shirt, looked in, then covered the money again.

She got in, started the engine. He stayed where he was, looking out at the harbor. He didn't turn when she drove past.

EIGHT

The next day, she made the ten-minute drive from Belmar to Asbury Park. The retirement home was twenty stories of concrete facing an empty stretch of boardwalk, the beach beyond. The wind was coming in strong off the ocean, blowing spray from the top of the waves.

She parked in the lot, took the gift-wrapped package from the seat beside her, got out. Near the entrance, wind whipped an American flag high on a pole.

A visitor's pass from the main desk, then an elevator ride to the tenth floor. The corridor smelled of disinfectant and floor wax. She could hear someone crying softly behind a door at the opposite end.

She walked past half-open doors, low TV sounds coming from within. Through one doorway, she saw an ancient white-haired woman propped up in bed, skeletal hands folded on the sheet in front of her. She stared at Crissa as she went past.

That might be you someday, Crissa thought. If you live that long.

Jimmy Peaches's room was at the end of the hall, the door ajar. She knocked, looked in to see a man leaning against a dresser, arms folded. He was in his thirties, dark, muscular, wearing a polo shirt, jeans. He nodded at her, said, “Come in.” Then, “
Nonno,
your date's here.”

When she came in, Jimmy was seated beside the bed. It took her a moment to realize he was in a wheelchair.

He smiled when he saw her. “There you are. Let me look at you.”

“Jimmy,” she said.
“Come sta?”

He stirred as if to get up, then stayed where he was. He looked frailer than the last time she'd seen him, but immaculate as always. Buttoned-down pale blue shirt with the monogram
JCF,
yellow slacks, shiny black shoes. But his white hair, combed straight back, was thinner, and she could see patches of pink scalp. His bony arms seemed lost in the shirtsleeves.

He raised his hands, let them fall. “Forgive me for being rude. First time in my life I haven't been able to stand to greet a lady.”

“It's okay, Jimmy,” she said. “Stay where you are.” She set the package on the bed, took one of his hands. He squeezed, but there was little behind it.

“I've been worried about you since the last time we talked,” he said. “It's good to see you. Anthony, get her a chair.”

Anthony took a hard plastic chair from a desk, brought it near the bed. The room was smaller than she'd expected, with only a couch, a table, and a flat-screen television. Railings on the sides of the bed, the left one unlocked and hanging down. A walker folded shut and leaning against the wall.

She pulled the chair closer, sat. “How are you, Jimmy?”

He shrugged. “You can see. Not so good. But I guess it's all relative, right? I'm alive. This is my grandson, Anthony Falcone. You've heard me talk about him maybe.”

She looked at Anthony, nodded.

He said, “All good stuff, I hope.”

She gestured at the big window facing the ocean. “I see you've got the best room, as always. You still running the place?”

“He practically does,” Anthony said.

“They moved me up here last month. I used to be down a couple floors. Bigger room, much nicer. Then I had my fall.”

“What happened?”

“Ah, it's not even worth talking about.”

“Tell her,” Anthony said.

“It was stupid. Coming out of the bathroom. Slipped, I guess, went down. I couldn't even tell you how. Woke up on the floor.”

“You hurt yourself?”

“A little.”

“Broken hip,” Anthony said.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

Jimmy shrugged. “Like I said, stupid. All my fault. My age, though, they don't like to operate. So I've got the therapy three times a week, and maybe someday, if I'm lucky, I'm back on the walker and out of this chair.”

“You'll get there,” Anthony said. “You just gotta do what they tell you.”

“Whatever,” Jimmy said. He looked at the package. “That for me?”

“Yes. Although now I'm having second thoughts.”

“I'll be the judge of that. Let's have a look.”

She handed him the package. It was wrapped in simple green paper, tied with string. He had trouble working the knot, the knuckles of both hands knobby and bent. She started to help, but Anthony shook his head. She sat back.

Jimmy got the knot untied, undid the tape, peeled back the paper to reveal the ornate white and gold box beneath.

“Portofinos,” he said. “Nice. Thank you.”

“The last time I was here, you said you hadn't had a cigar in a long time, couldn't afford them.”

“He exaggerates,” Anthony said.

Jimmy fingered the broken seal on the box. She'd closed it with tape. “You try one of these yourself?”

“No. I put a little something extra in there. It's not much. I owe you more, for all your help last time.”

Anthony went to the door, shut it.

“You don't owe me anything,” Jimmy said.

“I feel I do. But should you be smoking these days?”

“I'll have Anthony sneak me out. Take a stroll on the boardwalk when the weather's nicer. Time was, I could light one up in the sunroom out front. Staff would look the other way. These days, forget about it.”

He undid the tape, opened the box. It was full, twenty-five cigars in thin metal tubes.

“They're a little more high-end than normal,” she said.

“Are they?” He unscrewed one of the tubes, saw the edge of the bills with the cigar tucked in the center. She'd put two hundreds in each tube, five thousand dollars in all. It was money from her original stake, nothing from the ATMs.

“Very generous,” he said.

“Least I could do.”

He closed the tube, replaced it in the box. “I'm glad you're doing well. I was worried about that other thing. I saw some of it in the papers.”

When she didn't respond, he said, “We can talk freely. Anthony knows all my business. But he'll leave if you want him to.”

“Up to you,” Anthony said to her. “Either way's fine with me.”

“No, that's okay,” she said. “Stay.”

“I told him a little about you,” Jimmy said. “He can be overprotective sometimes. I only gave him as much as he needed to know, of course. Nothing past that.”

“Thanks a lot,” Anthony said.

“It's all right,” she said. “I understand.”

She'd never met Anthony's father, Jimmy Junior, but knew he was in federal prison in Illinois, a long bid on a RICO case. As far as she knew, Anthony was Jimmy's only grandchild.

“So,” Jimmy said. He set the box and loose paper on the bed. “What are you doing these days?”

“Was down south for a while. Back up here now, trying to get some things together. I've got a line on a place nearby, maybe moving in tomorrow.”

“How'd that thing last year play out?”

“It cost me. Money. Resources. But I think it's done. No more blowback. No long-standing consequences.”

“Good. And our friend in Texas?”

Back in the '90s, when she and Wayne had worked the Northeast, Jimmy had steered them to a long string of high-dollar scores. Then Wayne had gone to Houston with a three-man crew on what was supposed to be a give-up job at a jewelry wholesaler. It had gone bad fast. Wayne took a bullet in the shoulder, and their driver wiped out during the getaway, put himself through the windshield and both of them into prison. The third man, a pro named Larry Black, had gotten away.

“There's a hearing at the end of this month,” she said. “We'll see what happens.”

“How are his chances?”

“Good, I think. I've tried to help pave the way, spread some cash around down there. I'm hoping it'll pay off.”

“Lawyers, judges,” Jimmy said. “You can never trust them, even when you're filling their pockets. They get an idea there's some sort of principle involved, then they turn around and fuck you anyway, keep your money. Excuse my French.”

“Let's hope that's not the case.”

“I'm sorry. I don't mean to be negative. If you talk to him, see him, give him my best.”

“I will. Can't do it right now, though. That trouble up here, it dead-ended a couple things for me. I need to start over, get a stake together.”

“How are you set right now?”

“Got a little cash saved up. Enough to pay the bills. There's some more I'm trying to turn over quickly. I'll have to take a hit on it, but there's not much I can do.”

“Who's handling it?”

“Friend of a friend. Don't know him, but there wasn't time to shop around.”

“Be careful.”

“If that doesn't work out,” Anthony said, “let me know. Maybe I can help.”

“Listen to him,” Jimmy said. “Mister Kingpin.”

“I'm just saying.” He looked at Crissa. “I run a restaurant. Handle a lot of cash.”

“Thanks,” she said. “But I'll be fine.”

“Don't get the wrong impression,” Jimmy said. “Anthony likes to talk like he's Nicky Newark sometimes, but he isn't. He went to business school at Rutgers. He's got a good head on his shoulders. He's just lucky no one's knocked it off.”

“Just making the offer,” Anthony said.

“I'll keep it in mind.” She touched Jimmy's hand. “I need to get going, but I'll try to come back soon. Maybe later this week. Anything I can bring you?”

He nodded at the box. “You've done more than enough already.”

“It's a gesture, that's all. I'll give Anthony my cell number. It'll be good for a while. If you need anything, call. When it changes, I'll get the new one to you as well.” She stood.

“Grazie,”
he said. “Anthony, get the door for the lady.”

“I got it,
nonno.
” He took a suitcoat from the back of a chair. “I'll walk you out.”

She took Jimmy's hand in both of hers, felt the birdlike bones beneath the skin. “Take care of yourself, Jimmy. I'll be in touch.”

He squeezed weakly.
“Statti bene.”

At the elevator, Anthony said, “I appreciate your coming by like this. It means a lot to him.”

“We go back. How's he doing, really? I know you couldn't talk much in there.”

“He's eighty-two, what can you say? Every time something happens, it takes him longer to recover. He's a fighter, though. Hope I'm half as strong at that age. Whether he's going to walk again or not, that's another question.”

“I'm sorry.” They got on the elevator.

“Right after the fall, he wasn't doing so good,” he said. “I thought we were gonna lose him for a while. But he's been coming along slowly. He perked right up when you called. He was looking forward to seeing you.”

In the lobby they returned their visitor's passes, walked out into the wind. There were only a half dozen cars in the parking lot.

He nodded at the Ford. “That your ride?”

“For now. It's a rental. You don't live around here, I take it?”

“Nah.” He got a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, dealt one out, offered it to her. She shook her head. “I'm up in Nutley, but I'm down here two, three times a week now.” He took out a lighter, got the cigarette going after two tries, hands cupped against the wind. A metal halyard clattered against the flagpole.