Monkey in the Middle (13 page)

‘What do you do for Thorpe?'

The question surprises Epstein. ‘I'm assigned to OCCB.'

‘OCCB?'

‘The Organized Crime Control Bureau. In the NYPD. I have access to their files.' Epstein pauses, hoping for a reply that doesn't come. ‘I feed Thorpe information. He calls me his intelligence officer.'

Carter's soft laughter is obscene. ‘If Thorpe wanted to warn me, he could have done it himself with a few key strokes. You came here to execute me. Do you deny that?'

When Epstein fails to answer, the tip of the knife cuts into his throat, releasing a drop of blood that slides over his Adam's apple. ‘What was the plan? Thorpe's plan for me?' Carter whispers the words into Epstein's ear. ‘The East River? A swamp in New Jersey?'

Epstein can't help himself. He swallows before speaking. ‘One bullet, in the back of the head. So the hit would look professional, right? Thorpe wanted you found and linked to Maguire's homicide. That would close the case for my bosses, the media and the public. Everyone gets to go home happy.'

‘Except me,' Carter points out.

Epstein doesn't want to be the first to speak, but he can't help himself. ‘Don't kill me,' he pleads.

‘Why not?'

Epstein's first instinct is to promise that he'll somehow bury the evidence, the DNA and the video tape, but the lie is so transparent he hasn't got the balls to say the words out loud. Finally, he says, more to himself than to Carter, ‘I want to see my son.'

‘Sorry, but it's too late for that.' Carter's tone is dismissive. ‘When you took Thorpe's money, you picked up the gun. You can't put it back down just because you have a family. Your family's why you shouldn't have picked it up in the first place. So, what's Thorpe paying you?'

‘Fifty grand, split between me and my partner. It was supposed to be for information.'

‘But then Thorpe's scheme encountered this little problem named Carter, this tiny hiccup, and he shifted to plan B. Well, the one good thing about Thorpe is that he's predictably treacherous. I was sitting outside when you and your partner walked up. Tell me how Thorpe keeps in touch with you.'

‘E-mail.'

‘Has Marginella paid off yet?'

‘I don't think so, but how can I be sure?'

‘Yeah, that's the whole point with Thorpe. You can never be sure.' Carter pauses, then adds, again with a laugh, ‘So long, cop.'

Initially, Solly Epstein maintains control. When he briefs Billy Boyle, while they search for, then find, Epstein's shield and gun in an alley behind the building, as he drives Billy from Astoria to OCCB headquarters on the west side of Manhattan, until Billy Boyle gets out. Then, with no witness to his breakdown, Epstein blubbers his way across Manhattan and Brooklyn, his eyes at times so blurred with tears that he wanders from lane to lane. He's still a mile from home when he pulls to a stop in front of a bar on Eighty-Sixth Street. Inside, he empties his bladder, then scrubs at his face as if trying to erase all memory of Leonard Carter. His skin is red and raw by the time he finally gives up. Epstein wants to know why he's alive. He wants some meaning or purpose to emerge from the experience. But the fear is still too great, the fear that he was about to lose everything in an instant, not only Sofia and Jonathon but the entire universe, every planet and every star, every asteroid, every black hole. Everything in an instant.

A thought emerges from this chaos, a shimmer at the edges of Epstein's mind. He thinks maybe he'll just walk away. Champliss and Radisson won't hold it against him, given Sofia's advanced pregnancy. He can retire to the safety of home and hearth, his life restored.

Epstein laughs out loud. The bosses hold it against him? How about Montgomery Thorpe? What will Thorpe do if Epstein stops delivering? Demand the return of his down payment and be on his way? Or will Epstein become a liability, another Carter? The sad fact is that Thorpe knows a lot more about Solly Epstein than Epstein knows about Montgomery Thorpe. The sadder fact is that Epstein's locked into a fixed address, a sitting duck, while Thorpe might be living on the moon.

This reality sobers Epstein and his eyes are dry when he discovers his wife in bed, sound asleep. Sofia's lying on her side, with her belly facing out, and she does not so much as stir when Epstein enters the room. Epstein kneels on the rug next to the bed and puts his ear to Sofia's belly. The child inside her, Jonathon, is as quiet as his mother.

The sounds of his home settle around Epstein, the refrigerator switching on, the furnace shutting off, the soft hiss of Sofia's breath, the rattling branches of the oak in his front yard. Epstein likes his little house. He likes the life he and Sofia live, a life he can't possibly maintain on a single paycheck, even without considering the baby. Epstein had crunched the numbers right after Sofia became pregnant, concluding that his family wouldn't survive the first year of his child's life without a loan from the Credit Union. And even when Sofia returned to work, a good chunk of her salary would be consumed by the cost of daycare. Meanwhile, the house needed a new roof, the washing machine barely functioned, the furnace was beyond inefficient and he'd postponed replacing his Toyota's struts a half-dozen times. And there was Sofia's sister, too, with her hand out: ‘Help me, help me, help me.'

Epstein has no pity for the likes of Tony Maguire and Bruno Brunale, and he holds OCCB in actual contempt. Early on, when Billy Boyle first outlined Thorpe's blackmail scheme, he'd examined his conscience thoroughly and the bottom line was simple: Fuck 'em. Thorpe wanted the files on a semi-prominent mobster and his known associates. He needed the files in order to formulate a plan of attack that didn't interest Epstein, who wouldn't be responsible for its implementation. Or so he'd told himself, captivated as he was by the prospect of financial gain.

‘What's Marginella gonna do, run to the cops?' The question had been posed by Billy Boyle over a lunch in Katz's deli on Houston Street, though the message was from Thorpe. ‘Boss, the guy's a sitting duck.'

Seventeen

T
he powder blue sky beneath which Paulie Margarine pilots his Cadillac is as innocent as the sky painted on the ceiling of Dr Morgan's waiting room. A bitterly cold wind out of the northwest has driven New York's pollution into the Atlantic, leaving the atmosphere crisp and clean. But Paulie Margarine's oblivious. He's recalling Dave Flannery and asking himself a question: if he could do what he did to the Flab and still fall asleep within seconds, how can he cave in to some pussy Englishman?

This is the main reason why Paulie didn't answer either of Thorpe's calls this morning. But there's another reason, another festering sore beneath Paulie Margarine's saddle. The ‘suspicious' fire that destroyed Titanic Fencing? Paulie's been assembling a chain of legit business operations for the past twenty years, and not only because he plans to retire. Paulie's watched more than a few of his buddies' transition from flush to broke on the day they were arrested and had to find a lawyer. Driven by necessity, they upped the tempo of their operations, a strategy that usually resulted in a second bust. Paulie's determined to avoid their fate. He plans to make like a boy scout and be prepared when the cops knock on his door, as they surely will. Thus, the attack on Titanic Fencing was an attack on a carefully nurtured strategy. That it should come after he agreed to pay up? There's an arrogance to Thorpe's operation that clings to Paulie's nostrils like a wet fart. The money isn't enough for Thorpe. He's got to humiliate Paulie, too.

Paulie guides his Cadillac around an SUV, a huge Lincoln Navigator traveling well under the speed limit. The SUV has been jacked-up and its body rides a yard above its axles. Despite the cold, the windows are open, the better to inflict the rap music blasting from the many speakers of the vehicle's mammoth stereo. Paulie's face tingles with each pulse of the bass.

The point, Paulie assumes, is to intimidate, but Paulie's not intimidated. He wouldn't be intimidated if the SUV was filled with black drug dealers out of Brownsville. He certainly isn't intimidated by four white teenagers barely old enough to shave. As he looks from one to the other, he wonders how they'd react if faced with the Flab's fate. The Flab was pretty tough. Toward the end, he wouldn't stop cursing Paulie no matter what Paulie did. But these kids? They'd have crapped their pants before Paulie walked down into the basement.

As Paulie draws closer to Sing Sing and a visit with Freddy, he re-examines his dilemma for maybe the ten thousandth time. He has the wherewithal to put fifty guns on the street, but nowhere to point them. He can't go to the cops, but even if he could, he has no reason to believe they'd be willing or able to protect him. He has the money to satisfy Thorpe, at least temporarily, but he can't bring himself to make the pay off. He's never allowed himself to be strong-armed, never in his life. You might get the best of Paulie Marginella some other way, but if you tried to muscle him, he'd fight until he couldn't fight any more. Then he'd jump you again the next day.

But there's no one to fight, and no one to talk to, either, not in the city. Paulie's afraid to discuss his problem with his closest advisors, men he's known for decades. He's worried about looking weak. And that's another piece of the puzzle. With a single exception, Thorpe has Paulie Marginella totally isolated. The exception is Freddy Marginella. Of Paulie's three kids, Freddy was the one Paulie could talk to. Even if he didn't always tell him everything.

True to form, some half-hour later, seated across from his son, Paulie omits a number of significant details from his tale of woe, like the Flab's demise and the account at Banco de Panama. But he's straightforward about Thorpe's ruthlessness.

‘The fire at Titanic, it was like killing a hostage. You know what I'm sayin', right? Keep the pressure on, not to mention turn up the heat. Titanic won't open its doors for six months, even if the insurance comes through. Meanwhile, our customers are searching for new vendors. Who's to guarantee they'll come back? I mean, I forgave a thirty grand debt for a piece of the company and I could end up in bankruptcy.'

Freddy leans forward, his mouth drawn into a frown. ‘How'd Thorpe link you to this company, Titanic Fencing? I didn't know myself.'

Paulie Margarine experiences a quick shot of guilt, followed by a sudden insight. Paulie's relationship with Titanic Fencing was known only to Paulie and his legit partner, Milton Fineberg. A connection between Fineberg and Thorpe? Paulie doesn't think so. You'd have to add another step, like Fineberg to the cops to Thorpe. Fineberg's afraid of his own shadow. If the cops threatened him with a racketeering indictment, the fink wouldn't stop talking until they wired his jaw shut.

A smile, the first in days, spreads over Paulie's face. His visit's already paying off. ‘I don't know who's ratting me out, and I really don't care,' he tells his son. ‘That's because Thorpe already has the information. Even if I eliminate the rat, it ain't gonna solve my problem.'

Freddy takes a moment to consider his father's response, then says, ‘If it was me, I'd pay the asshole, then spend the rest of my life trackin' him down. There are people out there who can find anybody. Sooner or later, the jerk'll surface.'

Paulie waves the remark away. This is familiar territory. ‘Yeah, fine. Meanwhile, you should watch your back.'

‘You think so?'

‘Freddy, this guy knows more about me than I do about myself.'

A loud argument between a convict and his female visitor interrupts the conversation. Paulie watches the screws descend on the prisoner. He's wondering if they'll hold back, what with so many witnesses, but they don't. They slam him to the floor, cuff him, yank him to his feet, drag him away. The show's over in thirty seconds.

Paulie and his son observe the performance without changing expression. And they don't comment afterward. Instead, Paulie asks about Freddy's poetry class, then watches his son repress a grin.

‘Mr Sandalowsky doesn't like my work, Pop. After I submitted my last poem, he told me not to come back.'

‘What was the poem about?'

‘About a male hooker with jock itch.' Freddy shakes his head. ‘A guy with Sandalowsky's education, you'd think he'd have more compassion.'

Paulie leaves an hour later, stepping through the last of a series of locked doors on to a wind-swept parking lot. The cold slices through his coat and he hustles to his car, his hands jammed into his pockets. Within seconds, his knees begin to ache. Nothing new here. The winters are getting tougher and tougher. But Paulie's feeling pretty good, though he isn't sure exactly why. Freddy has promised to speak to a guy who claims to know a guy on the outside who claims he can find anyone. Paulie's not impressed. Too many bullshitters in prison. Too many bullshitters on the street, too. He'd probably do better consulting a gypsy card reader, the way his wife did. That would be Marie the Martyr, whose psychic failed to predict the stroke that killed her client.

The Cadillac starts right up and Paulie shoves a CD into the player. Roy Orbison doing
Only the Lonely
. He adjusts the heater to blow on his feet and legs, then heads off to the Copperwood Diner on Route 133 for a quick lunch. Paulie doesn't care for the décor, too many hanging plants, or for the twenty-something waitress who introduces herself with, ‘Hi, my name is Cindy and I'll be your server.' Paulie gets enough of that in Manhattan. But the eight-ounce sirloin burger is juicy and the fries are crisp, as are the slices of red onion he piles on top of the burger. Even the coffee's halfway decent. Paulie tips well at the end of his meal, going so far as to return the waitress's smile when he tries to stand up and his right knee buckles.

‘Are you all right, sir?'