Monkey in the Middle (5 page)

‘Ayyyy, Papi,' she says, ‘come to Mami, come to Mami.'

Epstein kneels beside the recliner and lowers his head to her belly. His son is awake, his little hands and feet thumping against his mother's womb. Epstein thinks again of the Macy's showroom window and the decorations inside and what he'll do with his living room on his son's first birthday.

‘This kid wants out,' Epstein says, more to himself than Sofia.

‘You think so?' Sofia runs her fingers through her husband's hair. ‘I think maybe he's a little genius. Maybe he's figured out that he's a lot safer where he is.'

Epstein responds by kissing Sofia. That life is filled with danger, unexpected and undeserved, is not a subject that an emergency-room nurse and her cop husband need discuss.

‘You think you can make it to bed?' Epstein asks.

Sofia grasps Epstein's hands and allows him to pull her to her feet. They embrace momentarily before staggering, arm in arm, into the bedroom. Gingerly, Sofia lowers herself to the bed and rolls onto her side.

‘
Por favor
,' she says.

Epstein lifts his wife's t-shirt and begins to massage the small of her back, gently at first, then with greater force. Sofia grunts appreciatively.

‘You know, I felt pretty good today,' she admits. ‘I was worried before, but now I know everything's gonna be OK.'

Epstein undresses quickly, then climbs into bed, spooning himself into his wife. He puts his arm around her waist, his hand coming to rest on her belly. A few minutes later, they're both asleep.

Seven

P
aulie Margarine has a thing about submission and he's had it for as long as he can remember. As a kid, he was barely under control. Even the nuns and priests at St Agnes's, try as they might, never brought him to heel. How many times had his old man been called to the principal's office? Giaco Marginella was a second-generation American. His family values were definitely conservative and he had heavy hands, which he didn't hesitate to use. But Paulie wouldn't bend. And even later, when he grew up enough to admit that nobody's invincible and there are times when you have to eat shit, it wasn't fear that moved him. It was experience.

Still, he's never become resigned, never once submitted without wanting to drive his fist into somebody's mouth, as he now wants to drive his fist into the mouth of the corrections officer who frisks him. Forget the fact that he's fifty-nine years old and his knees are ancient history. Paulie hates everything about the guard. He hates the man's dismissive blue eyes, his lipless mouth, his watermelon gut, his fat little fingers. Which, incidentally, come close enough to the family jewels to produce an involuntary flinch.

‘Awright,' the guard announces. ‘You can go in.'

Paulie walks into the visiting room. He's been here so often he can map the layout in his head: linoleum floors, green tile walls and a white plaster ceiling, Formica tables and plastic chairs scattered about. Good hard surfaces that reflect noise the way a mirror reflects light. You get enough conversations going and it sounds like you stuck your head in a beehive. Paulie's hearing isn't getting better as he ages, far from it. There are times, especially on weekends and holidays, when he can't understand a word Freddy says.

Freddy Marginella is Paulie's youngest child. He's sitting at a table at the far end of the room with his back to the wall. Paulie catches his son's eye and nods once before making his way around the tables that dot the room. His knees are killing him, but he doesn't limp. Concealment is a way of life for Paulie. You never tell anybody more than he has to know, not even your own kid. And you especially hide weakness.

Paulie slides into a seat across from his boy. He folds his hands on the tabletop and says, ‘What's new?'

‘Poetry,' Freddy responds. ‘I'm takin' a poetry class.'

At twenty-five, Freddy is tall and beefy. Like his father, he's a man of casual strength, with a wide face and high cheekbones that mask incipient jowls. Dark circles beneath his eyes make him look older than his years.

‘Haiku poetry,' Freddy continues. ‘Japanese, three lines.'

Paulie encourages his son with a nod, though he has no idea what the kid's talking about. ‘Yeah, and?'

‘And nothin'. I'll be up for parole in a year, so I'm workin' on a package for the board.'

‘You figure brown-nosin' some fag poetry teacher is gonna impress a parole board?'

‘Hey, Pop, you wanna hear my poem or what?'

‘Sure, go ahead.'

Freddy drops his elbows to the table and leans forward, his voice dropping to a whisper: ‘Pink light from a streetlamp/the shadow of rat in a trash can/broken teeth clatter on the sidewalk. Pay up, mother-fucker.'

Paulie tries to hold it in, but he can't help himself. He laughs until tears pour from his eyes. That's the good news about Freddy Marginella. He's got a sense of humor and everyone likes him. Paulie knows that times have changed and success is more about persuasion than fear. Paulie's two older children, Mike and Rebecca, are both successes. Mike's an accountant with an MBA, Rebecca a tax attorney. They live on the other side of the continent, as far from their old man's criminal activities as possible. Neither has been home for a holiday, any holiday, since their mother passed eight years before. That would be Marie the Martyr.

Freddy is Paulie Margarine's last, best chance. Paulie wants to back off, to retire without jeopardizing his income. His associates would never stand for that. For them, you're either in the life, sharing the work and the risks, or you're out. There are no free rides. On the other hand, a son who needs schooling might be persuaded to accept a moderate piece of the action in return for benefits to come.

Paulie wipes his eyes. ‘That's four lines,' he observes.

‘What?'

‘The poem, it sounded like four lines, not three.'

‘Naw, the last line is actually the title.'

‘Then why didn't you say it first?'

‘I didn't wanna ruin the punch line.'

Paulie consider this for a moment before changing the subject, ‘You hear about Tony?'

‘Yeah, it's all over the news. You think it was the raghead?'

‘If you asked me before all this started, I would've said Rachid Toufiq doesn't have the organization or the balls. I mean, he was distributing powder for me in Arab neighborhoods. Still is for that matter, because the ragheads only buy from each other. But it's gotta be somebody took Tony out, and the rest of 'em, too. They didn't commit fuckin' suicide. Besides, the way it's shapin' up, I'm gonna look weak if I don't make a move, and soon. Nobody's gonna pay me protection if I can't protect myself.'

Deep down, Paulie Margarine admires his son. Yeah, Freddy did something stupid. In fact, two somethings. He tried to pull off an armed robbery with no planning and he chose a partner with the intelligence and mentality of a starving reptile. No surprise that a clerk got roughed up pretty bad and Freddy was collared at the scene. And no surprise that Freddy drew five years, even with no record. But Freddy stood up. That's the good news. He never whined and he still doesn't whine. The screws, the food, the other cons? What Freddy tells his old man is that he just wants to do his time and get out.

Paulie's driving his Caddy south on the Thruway, taking his time in the middle lane, ignoring the traffic around him. On the stereo, Sam Cook launches into
You Send Me
. As Paulie hums along, his thoughts are mostly of his son and not the hard decisions he'll soon have to make. Against all odds, he feels relaxed and confident.

Or maybe not. When the cell phone tucked beneath the Caddy's front seat blares the opening notes of the
William Tell
Overture
, Paulie jumps so high the top his head pounds into the roof hard enough raise a bruise. Despite the blow, his mind leaps into high gear, thoughts ripping back and forth like bullets against the walls of a cave. Possibilities are thrown up, explanations galore, none of which he can stop long enough to examine. But Paulie Margarine's sure of one thing: that's not his fucking cell phone playing
The Lone Ranger
theme song.

Paulie keeps his eyes on the road while he fumbles beneath the seat. The
William Tell
Overture
continues to sound, the volume so high all he can think about is shutting it off. But when he finally scoops up the phone, he doesn't do anything for a minute. Just holds it up and stares at the little screen: ‘PRIVATE NAME/PRIVATE NUMBER'.

His first instinct is to heave the device out the window. Dump the phone, frustrate whoever's on the other end, make him show his face if he wants to communicate. One thing certain, the prick wants him to answer.

But Paulie has to know. He has to know who's on the other end, who planted a phone in his car when he might have planted a bomb. Until the cell phone began to ring, Paulie had no idea anybody had been near the Caddy. The Caddy that's been sitting in his garage for the last three days, locked and alarmed.

Paulie answers the phone, his eyes moving to the car's mirrors. ‘Who the fuck is this?' he growls.

‘This is the man who killed Tony Maguire, Shawn Peterson, Nomo Terrentino and Charlie Bousejian. You can call me Thorpe.'

Stunned doesn't begin to describe Paulie's reaction. The voice on the other end of the line is precise, not to mention confident, not to mention fucking amused. This is a man Paulie will kill at the earliest opportunity. This is a man Paulie will wait twenty years to kill. He will pass the responsibility for killing this man to his son and his grandson.

‘I realize this must come as a bit of a shock, my calling out of nowhere. But we needed to communicate over a secure line and I couldn't see how else to accomplish that. As it is, what we say is being encrypted on one end and decrypted on the other.'

Paulie takes a deep breath. The man has a slight accent, though Paulie can't place it exactly. England, he's thinking, or Ireland. Not a voice, anyway, that Paulie's heard before.

‘I'm gonna cut your balls off,' he says. ‘I'm gonna find you and cut your balls off. I'm gonna do it myself.'

‘No, you're not. And that's the essential point. You're not going to find me. You have no way to find me. I can damage your interests with virtually no risk to my own. Once you accept this, we'll be on the way to concluding our business.'

‘You and me, scumbag, we got no business.'

‘Oh, yes, we do, Paulie. Tony Maguire and the rest were all second rate and we both know it. So far, I've only pruned a few dying branches from the family tree. That will change abruptly unless we come to an understanding. I know I lack your talent for threatening speech. I tend to put my thoughts simply. But I don't make threats I can't keep. You'll simply have to pay up.'

‘Pay up?'

‘Now, I know you're a stubborn man. As I know you're a proud man. I know, also, how the extortion game works. I know that sometimes the mark doesn't pay, despite the consequences. That's all right with me. I'm content to be certain that you won't run to the police. Nevertheless, you should understand this. For the present, I'm content to disrupt your operations. But if I'm forced to roll up my blanket and move on, without doubt I'll kill you before I go. And by the way, how's Freddy?'

Paulie registers the threats, but doesn't react. Instead, he hangs up. He half expects the phone to ring again. The
William Tell
Overture
, all those trumpets. As a kid, he must've watched a thousand episodes of
The Lone Ranger
, hoping the masked asshole would get blown away. No such luck.

The phone remains silent and Paulie's attention gradually returns to the road. He's coming up on the tollbooths for the Triborough Bridge and he automatically seeks out the least-crowded EZ-PASS lane. He'll have to go underground now, him and everyone else in his crew. That's a no-brainer. But what will he tell them? Forget what the FBI says, Paulie Margarine isn't Adolph Hitler. He can't just order his men to hide in their homes until further notice. He has to tell them why they can't show their faces on the street. And that means war. That means he'll have to blame Toufiq, have to launch a counterattack. To buy time, if for no other reason.

Paulie rolls through the toll plaza and accelerates on to the bridge. He's outwardly calm, having swallowed his rage. Not that the fire has been extinguished. Paulie's anger is a smoldering lump of coal burning somewhere in his gut. Extortion? Pay up? Thorpe might as well have said, ‘Bend over and spread 'em.'

The Triborough Bridge provides a breathtaking view of the East River and Manhattan skyline, especially on winter afternoons when the breeze is up. But Paulie's mind is elsewhere. He's wondering how Thorpe knows so much about Paulie Margarine's business. How he knows where Paulie parks his car, knows about Freddy, even when Paulie's gonna visit. And that's the key. That's Thorpe's Achilles' heel. Who knew what and when did he know it?

Eight

F
irst thing, after Carter hits the bathroom the following morning, he plunks down in front of his computer, enters his password, and reviews three news stories on the Macy's Massacre, one from each of New York's major newspapers. He doesn't have to read every word. The headlines, by themselves, provide enough information. Tony Maguire's brain isn't functioning and it's never going to function. According to an unnamed source inside Bellevue Hospital, one who's apparently spoken to every reporter in town, Maguire will be officially and forever dead a few seconds after his family agrees to pull the plug. Good news, indeed.

Carter fires off an e-mail to Thorpe, arguing that the mark is deceased by any meaningful definition of the word, and that he, Carter, is entitled to compensation for his work. For good measure, he attaches the newspaper stories to the e-mail.