JM02 - Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home (33 page)

“Yeah, great work, Stevie. Now go watch the front room— and close the door behind you.”

Stevie stared at us harder, in what I realized was supposed to be a tough look. “You got a problem here, Uncle Marty? Something I could help with?”

“Go!” Czerka barked. Stevie colored but did as he was told. Czerka stubbed out his smoke and looked at Neary and chuckled. It was moist and mocking.

“Since when are we such old pals that you waltz in here calling me Marty? And since when do I give a shit about you or your friends or their problems or whatever the hell you’re in the market for? You may not be a Feeb anymore, but you still got that Feeb attitude, that’s for damn sure.”

He took a loud breath and laughed some more.

“You got a lot of fucking nerve coming in here, thinking I got something to sell you. What, you think you’re the only stand-up guys in the world? You think the rest of us lowlifes are just looking for a chance to roll on a client?” Czerka got winded and his laughter dissolved into a racking cough.

Neary nodded at him. “I didn’t realize your sensibilities were so refined, Marty,” he said. “You have my deepest apologies. And now we can talk cash money, or I’ve got some business I could push your way, or we could do some of each. Or maybe you’re interested in something else. But if you are, you’ve got to tell me, because I can’t read minds.” Neary paused and smiled. “So, do you want to do yourself some good here or not?”

Czerka flicked at us dismissively and dug through the bags on his desk. He pulled a brick-sized package in white butcher’s paper from one, tore back the wrapping, and hoisted a sloppy pastrami on rye to his mouth. Grease bled down his hands and left his chin and mustache wet, and the smell of meat and fat rose to mingle with the other delicate aromas in the room. He put the sandwich down and pulled a cigarette from somewhere and lit it even as he chewed, open-mouthed, on the pastrami. Jesus.

“Forget it, Neary,” he said, and bits of food fell from his mouth to the desk. “Your pockets aren’t deep enough to make it worth the trouble.” He glanced at me and shook his head. “Even his aren’t deep enough. Now get the fuck out of here and let me eat my lunch.” He picked up his sandwich again.

Neary looked at me and shrugged. I took a deep breath and tried not to choke. I spoke quietly. “Mesmerizing as it is to sit here while you smoke and fart and smear yourself with lard, I’d be more than happy to go get myself steam-cleaned and leave you in peace, believe me. But I’ve got a client who’d really like to know what’s going on, and frankly so would I. I know you don’t give a shit about who wants what, but my client has some resources, and I do too, so maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss. Maybe you should get your brains out of your fat ass and reconsider.”

Czerka stared at me, his sandwich poised above his desk. He was quiet and his blue eyes were hard beneath their folded lids. Red patches spread over his cheeks, and his shoulders and fat arms began to shake, and then a gurgling sound came from his open mouth. Czerka put his sandwich down and shook and laughed for almost a minute, until his face grew dark and there was a hissing in his breath. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Son of a bitch!” Czerka laughed, “Fucking steam-cleaned, huh?” He looked at Neary. “See— your pal thinks I’m dog shit, just like you do, but he comes out and says it. He can barely stand to breathe the same air as me, but he puts it right out there. I got to say, I kind of like that. But sweet talk won’t get you into my pants, March.” He looked at me as he said my name, but I managed to keep my composure. Czerka laughed a little more and took hold of his sandwich again. After a while he glanced up.

“Door’s right there, boys,” he said.

We walked out of Czerka’s office, past Stevie and his bandages. He tried to give us another hard stare as we went by, but it came off looking like constipation.

On the elevator, Neary sighed loudly. “Not just another pretty face, is he?” he said.

“But a great personality. My guess is he won’t have a lot of second thoughts.”

“He won’t have any. We’ll pull together a list of the people my crew has ID’d and see if anybody in my shop knows any of them. If they do, that might give us a place to start.”

It was warmer outside, but compared to Czerka’s office the air seemed fresh and clean. We walked back to Broadway in silence and stopped outside the subway station.

“What do you think happened to Stevie?” I asked.

“Tripped over a barbell maybe?”

“Maybe it outsmarted him.”

I was still trying to clear my lungs when I pushed open the glass and wrought-iron door of my building and stepped into the entry vestibule. And then I stopped. There was a large manila envelope taped to my mailbox. It was blank except for my name, which was printed in capitals, in black marker. I peeled it off the mailbox door. It was light. I opened the flap. There were just a few sheets of paper inside. I slid them out and felt a rush of heat in my face and a surge of blood through my temples.

They were photographs, in color, printed on plain paper. Their quality was mediocre at best, but the subjects and their surroundings were clear enough and so were the little date-and-time stamps in the corners.

“Jesus.” My legs felt shaky and my heart was pounding, as if I’d just run a long way. I leaned against the wall for a moment. “Jesus.” I pulled out my cell phone.

My fingers felt clumsy as I punched her number. Jane’s phone seemed to ring forever, and I looked down at the photos while I listened. Her assistant finally answered.

“Jane Lu’s office.”

“Is she there?” My throat was tight and it was hard to get the words out.

“Hi, John. I’m afraid she’s not available right now.”

I ground my teeth. “Is she in, though— actually in the office now?”

“Oh, yes. She’s in the conference room, in a meeting.”

“You’re sure of that? You’ve seen her?”

“I just saw her go in.” She sounded puzzled. “Is something wrong, John?”

Something loosened in my chest. “No, nothing. Just have her call me when she gets out. First thing, okay? Tell her it’s important.” I hung up and punched another number. Janine answered.

“Johnny— you must’ve read my mind. I was just about to give you a call.”

“Are the boys at home, Janine?”

“They just this minute walked through the door,” she said.

I let out a deep breath.

“They’re still washing up, so they haven’t opened them yet.”

My throat tightened up. “Opened what?” I said.

Janine laughed. “The presents you sent. They came about an hour ago. But what’s in them, Johnny? And what’s the occasion?”

23

“Tell me what the hell this is if not a warning shot,” I said to Tom Neary. I tossed the envelope in his lap and got into the back of the Volvo sedan. It was double-parked in front of Jane’s office on West 22nd Street, and Sikes and Pritchard were sitting up front. “And tell me who it’s from, if not that bloated bastard.”

Neary took out the photos. There were three of Jane— leaving our apartment building, entering her office building, getting into a cab someplace in midtown— and three of my nephews, Derek and Alec— outside of their apartment building, in the park, and leaving their school. Neary studied them carefully and I looked along with him, until another wave of anger came over me and I turned away and stared out the window. But it did no good. The scene uptown kept playing in my head.

Janine had met me in the lobby of her building. Her face was pale and she was rigid with worry and embarrassment. Her voice was a stiff whisper.

“What is going on, John?”

“Where are the boys?” I asked. The doorman and the concierge were casting sidelong looks at us, and Janine took my arm and led me to the sidewalk.

“They’re around the corner, at the Miltons’. What is this about?”

“You left the packages upstairs?”

Janine’s blue eyes narrowed and flashed. “Yes. Now for God’s sake tell me what’s happening.”

“I don’t know who sent them, but those packages are a message— a warning— to me. They go along with some photos I received today.”

“Photos of what?”

I took a deep breath. “Some were of Jane … and some were of the boys.” Whatever color was left in Janine’s face drained away. Her eyes went wide and her hands went to her mouth.

“Jesus Christ,” she said, and stepped away from me. A long black car pulled up to the curb and Ned got out of the back. His face was rigid. He looked at Janine and then at me.

“What the hell is going on here?” he said. I told him about the photos and the packages and what I thought they meant, and as I did he shook his head and ran his hand through his gingery hair. When I finished he stared at the pavement for a long time and said nothing. Then he turned to Janine.

“Why don’t you sit in the car, Jan?” he said softly. Janine murmured something and moved to the curb. Ned’s driver jumped out and held the door. Janine glared at me coldly as she climbed inside.

“If you give me the keys, I’ll get the packages and get out of here,” I said to Ned. He nodded and fished in his pocket.

The packages were in the foyer, in a plain brown shopping bag, and both of them were wrapped in gold paper. They were rectangular, about the dimensions of a medium-sized phonebook but much lighter. Janine was still in the car and Ned was still standing by the curb when I returned. His face was lined and sagging. I handed him his keys.

“I’m sorry about this,” I said.

“You know, you’ve terrified Janine and the kids. And you’ve certainly scared the hell out of me. My God, Johnny, what kind of a life are you leading that this sort of thing happens? What kind of thing have you brought to our door?” He stopped and took a deep breath and softened his voice a little. “Janine’s upset right now and so am I, and she— we both— think maybe it’s best if you don’t come around for a while.”

I looked at Ned for a moment and nodded. “Sure,” I said, and walked away.

“What was in the packages?” Neary asked, bringing me back to the car.

“Jigsaw puzzles, one of a talking train and another of that furry dinosaur. Somebody’s idea of funny.” I looked over at Neary. “Tell me it’s not a warning shot,” I said again.

“To back off of Danes?”

“It’s the only thing I’m working on.”

Neary shook his head slowly. “I’m not so sure it’s Marty.”

“Who else can it be? Are you saying that somebody else is running a tail on me, and your guys somehow missed it?”

Neary sighed, and Sikes and Pritchard shifted uncomfortably in the front seat.

“Marty’s boys were the only ones we saw out there, and I’m pretty sure they’re the ones who took these photos. But I’m not sure Marty organized all this. And if you’d calm down a little and think about it, you might agree.”

I took a deep breath and ran my hand across the back of my neck. It was warm and sticky. “Okay, all calm now. What am I supposed to think about?”

“The timing, for one thing,” Neary said. “Not even an hour went by between the time we left Marty’s office and when you found those pictures. Do you think he had that stuff ready and waiting and that he sent Stevie racing uptown to deliver it as soon as we left?”

I shook my head. “I think he’d set it up already. Our showing up when we did was a coincidence.”

Neary raised his eyebrows at me. “You think Marty could be that cool, knowing what was happening while we were sitting in his office? He’s not a total idiot, but he’s also not that smooth. And what about genius-boy Stevie? He clearly recognized you, even though it took him a while and he didn’t know enough to keep it to himself. You think that’s the response you would’ve got out of him if he knew this shit was going down today?”

I rubbed my eyes. “Maybe he didn’t know about it,” I said. “Maybe Czerka doesn’t trust him to know about this stuff.”

Neary wasn’t buying. “I don’t know that Marty trusts anyone, but I do know Stevie does all his fetching and carrying. If Marty arranged this bullshit, Stevie would’ve known about it, and he would’ve pissed his pants when he saw you today.”

I looked out the window at the doors of Jane’s building, and thought about what Neary had said, and grudgingly agreed. The timing didn’t make sense and neither did Czerka’s behavior, or Stevie’s. But my anger wanted a focus, and if not Czerka …

“Then who?” I said aloud.

“If we assume Marty’s boys took the pictures— and I don’t know who else would have— there are only two choices as to who set this up: one of Marty’s guys or Marty’s client.”

“His guys would have no reason to do it,” I said.

“None that I can figure.”

“Which leaves his client.”

“Which leaves his client.”

A surge of frustration closed my throat, and I slapped my palm against the window glass. “Which leaves us exactly where we were before— with no fucking idea of who that might be.”

“Maybe not exactly where we were,” Neary said evenly. “If Marty doesn’t know about the pictures, I can use them to shake him up a little and maybe shake something loose.” My cell phone trilled and I answered it. It was Jane, ready to leave.

“I’ll meet you out front,” I told her. I hung up and looked at Neary. “I notice you said I can use them, not we can use them.”

Neary sighed and was quiet for a while. “I think you’re wound a little tight right now, John,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t want you doing anything … counterproductive.”

I stared at him. “How hard will you go at him?”

Neary’s eyes narrowed and Sikes and Pritchard shifted again in their seats. “As hard as I need to,” he said. We were quiet for a moment, watching the street.

“When are you going to talk to him? It should be soon—”

“Today,” Neary said, cutting me off. “I’ll do it today.”

“How about the nephew, Stevie? He might go easier than Czerka. He—”

“I’ll do what needs doing, John.” Neary’s voice was tight.

“And that means what?”

“That means part of what you’re paying for here is my judgment. That means I’m not going in there high on my own adrenaline and with my head up my ass. That means if what you’re looking for is somebody to kneecap these guys, you’re on your own.” Neary stared at me, and his eyes were flat and unmoving.