Monkey in the Middle (20 page)

Well, it's over now, and Paulie feels safe enough to consider a family matter as he pilots his Caddy through heavy traffic on the Taconic Parkway. He's wondering if either of his other two kids, Mike and Rebecca, will give him a call, what with it being Christmas. Paulie's a grandfather who's never seen his grandchildren and probably never will. Neither of his children plan to come to New York and nobody's inviting him to visit.

Paulie doesn't like the fact that his kids are ashamed of him. No father wants that. But their judgment isn't the worst of it. No, with Paulie it's more about the money. Rebecca became a lawyer and Mike became an accountant, with Daddy paying for every credit. To Paulie's way of thinking, if they wanted to be rid of him so bad, they should've left home when they graduated high school. They should've made their way on their own.

Paulie carries these thoughts into a crowded visiting room at Sing Sing. He and Freddy, the good son, are sitting almost knee to knee.

‘What really busts my balls about the situation with Mike and Rebecca is the bullshit,' Paulie explains. ‘I mean the bullshit they tell themselves. You know what I mean, right?'

‘Pop, I don't have a clue.'

‘Mike and Rebecca, they think they're such fine, upstanding citizens. A lawyer, an accountant with an MBA? I wouldn't be surprised if they belong to country clubs.' Paulie leans a bit closer. ‘Other kids, they graduate with enough debt to keep them scrabbling for ten years. Mike and Rebecca put their salaries in their pockets from day one. All because of our thing, Freddy, our fuckin' thing. Without our thing, they would've been lucky to graduate from community college.'

‘OK, I hear what you're sayin'. But guess what? They didn't send me Christmas cards, either. Ya know, when I first went inside, I wrote Mike a couple of times, but he never answered. Same for Rebecca. Personally, I don't give a shit. What I say to that is good riddance.'

Paulie Margarine shakes his head. Freddy's even-tempered and that's fine. But he's still got a lesson to learn, a lesson about respect. You can't allow yourself to be insulted. Plus, there's the money. Paulie invested nearly a 150 grand in his kids' educations. He's entitled to a return.

‘What I think,' he tells his son, ‘is that I'm gonna take a trip out to the coast. Now that Rebecca and Mike are in the chips, there's no reason they can't pay me back.'

The sun has already set by the time Paulie approaches the address supplied by Lieutenant Epstein. Leonard Carter's address. He's not surprised when Carter steps out of a doorway before he gets within fifty yards. Nor by what Carter tells him.

‘You understand, if you've got backup waiting in the wings, I'll kill you before they get to me.'

‘No backup and I'm not armed.'

Carter frisks him anyway, frisks him thoroughly, right then and there. But, again, Paulie's not surprised. In fact, he's pleased. ‘Could we go somewhere and talk?'

‘Sure, I'll make you a cup of coffee. In fact, it's already brewing.'

‘That'd be great.'

Paulie allows himself to be led into Carter's apartment. He's surprised by the homey touches: hand-crocheted throw pillows, a knitted shawl draped over the back of the couch, a crystal vase on the dining room table, the heady odor of brewing coffee. Paulie would never have taken Carter for the domestic type and he figures the apartment is borrowed.

‘Take a seat and I'll get the coffee. How do you like it?'

‘A little milk, no sugar.' Paulie closes his eyes for a second when he sits down. ‘Man, that feels good. My knees are killing me.'

‘Fish oil,' Carter says from the kitchen. ‘I hear fish oil is good for the joints.' A moment later, he reappears with two cups of coffee. He sets one cup on the end table next to Paulie and carries the other to a facing chair. ‘And by the way, Merry Christmas.'

‘Yeah, Merry Christmas.' Paulie sips at his coffee, an impeccably brewed French roast. More homey touches. ‘So, you gonna ask me?'

‘Ask you what?'

‘How I found you? What I'm doing here by myself? Why I don't have you fuckin' whacked?'

‘The cops gave you my address, Epstein and his partner. You're here because you want to talk about something private, most likely a business proposition.' Carter stirs his coffee, moving the spoon in precise little circles. ‘As for why you don't have me whacked? Paulie, if I even smell a threat, I'll kill you.'

Paulie takes a minute to calm down. He tells himself that he deserves the response, that he shouldn't have asked the question if he didn't want an answer. Carter's not challenging him. Carter's only stating the obvious.

‘That thing you did in Macy's, you know, with Tony, it was beautiful,' Paulie finally says. ‘How many people you think were in the store?'

But Carter's not about to be drawn into a friendly conversation. Nor is he prepared to admit to a murder. He sets his coffee cup on a table in front of his chair.

‘You want to get to the point?' he asks.

‘A man of few words? That's good. I like people who know when to keep their mouths shut.' Paulie straightens in the seat. ‘Tell me something. Now that your deal with Thorpe is blown, what are you gonna do?'

‘I don't know. Money's not something I need to worry about right away.'

‘See, that's where you're makin' a big mistake.' Paulie Margarine's tone is almost paternal. ‘Everybody needs a life plan. You don't have a life plan, you get knocked around by any wind that happens to blow. You lean this way, that way. It's like trying to find an address without directions or a map. I saw that in a Samurai movie.'

Paulie stares at Carter, who says nothing, though he smiles faintly. ‘Anyway,' he tells the younger man, ‘I've got a proposition for you, something to think about. Now, I haven't worked out the details, but when I look at you and what you've done in the past few weeks, I gotta think you're a natural. This is what you were born to do. I won't say the word out loud because I know you don't wanna hear it. But this is you, this is your thing.'

Carter has heard this story before. From Montgomery Thorpe. But he's still intrigued. And it's nice to have some company on Christmas Day. He's honest enough to admit that, too. Nevertheless, when he finally responds, he doesn't address the issue of his vocation.

‘You don't have to spell out my end of the deal, Paulie. Just talk about yourself. What's your contribution?'

‘I'd be your agent.' Paulie rubs at his knee. ‘I mean, there's always been a demand for out-of-state talent and I have contacts across the country. I can get the jobs, you can do your thing. What's not to like?'

‘Contacts, huh? And exactly how would you contact me? When it was time for me to do my thing?'

‘What would make you comfortable? What works for you?'

‘E-mail. No contact other than that. No phone number, no address.'

‘What about payment?'

‘You do the collecting and wire my end to an account somewhere offshore.'

Paulie shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. ‘Computers, you know, they like remember everything, even when you tell them not to. I mean, that's the first thing cops do when they get a warrant. Seize your computer.'

‘Maybe so, but if you encrypt the hard drive, seizing the computer won't help them.' Carter suddenly rises. ‘Now, before we talk money, there's something I want to show you. In the kitchen.'

Yeah, Paulie thinks, like where you keep the knives. But knives or not, Paulie hauls himself to his feet and follows Carter. Paulie isn't kidding about the demand for Carter's services. In Paulie's opinion, most contract killers are complete knuckleheads. Their idea of technique is pulling up next to the target at a traffic light and blasting away. Carter is different. Carter is a skilled professional whose services will definitely command a premium.

‘So,' Paulie asks, ‘what do you wanna show me?'

Carter opens the freezer door to reveal the head and hands of Montgomery Thorpe. ‘Well, as long as you were nice enough to stop over, and as long as we're talking about jobs in the future, I was wondering how much you intend to pay me for this little job I did in the recent past.'

Paulie's dumbfounded. The shriveled gray skin, the crystalline frost gathered at the eyes, nostrils and mouth, the frozen blood around the edges of the wounds – it's too much to absorb at first. Even for Paulie Margarine.

‘I hoped to bring him to you in one piece,' Carter finally explains, ‘but he refused to come quietly.'

Though Paulie doesn't laugh, Carter's little joke sobers him and he takes a moment to weigh his options. They're talking money, after all. Paulie turns away from Thorpe's remains to look into Carter's eyes.

‘Five grand. That's my best offer.'

‘You expect me to do “my thing” for five thousand dollars? At that rate, I'd have to perform twenty things a year just to pay the rent.'

With no ready answer, Paulie looks back at Thorpe. The man's eyes are wide open. They're the eyes of a man who saw it coming. ‘Hey, blame yourself. When you burned down Empire Fencing, you crippled me. Now I got a negative cash flow that's gonna take a year to reverse.'

Paulie folds his arms across his chest, a gesture designed to indicate finality. But Carter's not biting. He remains silent until Paulie's forced to speak.

‘OK, ya prick, seventy-five hundred. But that's as high as I'm goin'. Now, what are we gonna do about them two fuckin' cops?'

Twenty-Five

S
olly Epstein is sitting in his living room when his cell phone rings at six o'clock in the evening. Sofia is snuggled up against him with her hands cupped beneath her swollen belly. The presents have been exchanged, Christmas dinner consumed and the dishes washed. It was Epstein who prepared the meal – roast suckling pig – with his wife supervising from a well-padded rocking chair. Ordinarily, Epstein's domestic skills are limited to scrambled eggs and spaghetti sauce poured from a jar. But the little pig had emerged from the oven perfectly cooked, the skin crisp and the meat falling from the bone.

‘Do you want to share the brains?' Sofia had asked from her side of the table.

‘Nah, you can leave my portion for Santa Claus.'

‘Santa came last night.'

‘Then how 'bout the Easter Bunny?'

After dinner, they'd retired to the bedroom, Sofia in search of a nap, Epstein in search of a little comfort. Talk about a rough week. Epstein felt like he'd been run over by a dump truck. And the game was by no means over. Having experienced Carter's skills first hand, Solly Epstein has no faith in Paulie Margarine's ability to overcome them. Most likely, the gangster is going to wind up dead. And then . . .

Epstein checks his phone's caller ID screen before answering: ‘PRIVATE NAME/PRIVATE NUMBER'.

‘Solly, it's Christmas.' Sofia knows that her husband gives his cell phone number to his snitches. ‘Don't answer it.'

Epstein wants nothing more than to comply, wants it like he wants to find his dick still attached when he takes a leak in the morning. Talk about your bad feelings. But it's those same bad feelings that force his hand. Solly's always been a proactive guy. Head in the sand is not his game.

‘What?' he growls into the phone.

‘You know who this is?'

‘Yeah, Paulie, I know who this is.'

‘Don't say my name on the fuckin' phone.'

‘OK, let's use codenames. I'll be Mr Wolf and you'll be Mr Lion. How's that?'

‘You laughin'? You havin' a good time? Because me and you, we got a mother-fucker of a problem.'

Epstein looks at Sofia and shakes his head. ‘Before I ask you what it is, tell me how you got my number . . . Mr Lion.'

‘You gave me your card, remember? At that thing with Bruno. Anyway, I'm not talkin' on the phone. We got a problem could bury the both of us and you gotta come out here and fix it.'

‘Paulie, it's Christmas.'

‘Didn't I just say not to call me by my name?'

Solly holds the phone away from his ear for a few seconds. A single evening of peace? With his wife and the child she carries beside him? Call him unreasonable, but one peaceful night doesn't seem like too much to ask.

‘Like I said, it's Christmas, so you're gonna have to be a lot more specific. Otherwise, I'm gonna stay right where I am.'

‘Specific? On the goddamned phone? You gotta be crazy. Look, I'm at that address you gave me, dealing with a problem you dropped in my lap. Now it's your turn to get involved. If you're too chicken-shit to come alone, call your partner. He's got balls enough for the both of ya.'

Epstein takes Paulie's advice. Over Sofia protests, he dials Billy Boyle's number. Billy arrives an hour later. He wishes Solly and Sofia a Merry Christmas, then lapses into silence. For Solly, it's not that simple. He and Sofia were married three years ago and they lived together for two years before that. These days, he can all but read her mind. She's telling herself that it's Christmas and she's nine months pregnant and her husband was utterly relaxed until he got a phone call. Now, he and Billy Boyle are running off to God-knows-where, to do God-knows-what. She's telling herself that this is not the Solly Epstein she married.

‘I'll be back in time to tuck you in.'

Epstein clips the holster cradling his Glock on to his belt. He wants to add something, but his mind has already turned to the problem at hand. Nevertheless, he pauses long enough to sweep the living room after he kisses Sofia goodbye. Epstein has always been proud of his Ethan Allen furniture, and never more so than now. True, the price tags had nearly blown him away on that particular shopping expedition. One look and he'd suggested a short ride to Macy's. But Sofia had been adamant.