Shamrock Alley (51 page)

Phyllis Gamberniece stood staring at them from the doorway of her apartment. Her hair in rollers, her enormous body confined to a purple terry cloth robe decorated with embroidered sunflowers, the woman seemed to freeze as if suddenly struck dead on the spot. Then, without a sound, she disappeared inside her apartment and slammed, then locked, the apartment door.

Beside him, Katie did not say a word. Yet her eyes had moved to his gun, which he quickly replaced in his waistband.

The walk from the stoop to the street was only about a dozen paces, but it seemed like an eternity. The Camaro—their refuge—

like a ship that had just left port, too far to jump to, too far to swim.

Then, like a miracle, they were there inside the car.

At first he’d been thankful for his wife’s silence, but as they drove to his father’s house, he grew worried by it. Glancing at her in the passenger seat, he was struck by how innocent and frightened she looked; struck even more by her silence, her fortitude. Yet … how much was bravery and how much was stunned and terrified silence?

“Katie? Babe?”

“I’m okay,” she barely whispered. “Just drive.”

He rubbed her left knee. She felt unyielding and cold even through her sweatpants. Like a corpse.

“I want you to listen to me, okay?” His tone was beyond placation, almost insulting. But he’d never done this before and did not know how to act, what to say, or the best thing to do. “Katie?”

“I’m listening.” She kept her eyes focused on the street ahead, refusing to turn and look at him.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”
Irritation in her voice. The emotion—
any
emotion—was good to hear. At least she sounded alive.

“Bill Kersh is going to meet us at Dad’s house. There’ll be some other guys there, too. They’ll stay with you so you’re not alone, and then when I come back—”

“Back from where?” But she knew. “The apartment? You’re dropping me off and going back to the apartment?”

And what could he say? She was not Bill Kersh—she would not be quelled by the reasoning that appeased a seasoned agent, would not care about what was important to his undercover role, did not care whether or not Mickey O’Shay and Jimmy Kahn went to prison or not. In fact, despite how much they consumed his life, Katie had never even heard of Mickey O’Shay and Jimmy Kahn, didn’t know a goddamn thing about the vicious Irish hoodlums from Manhattan’s West Side. She was saved from all that, protected from all that. Partially, anyway.

But not anymore
, he thought, squeezing the Camaro’s steering wheel tighter as he burned through the streets.
Not anymore. Because now it’s come home to her, too
.

Home.
His
home.

Their
home.

“I’m gonna take care of this,” was all he could promise her. “Okay? I’m gonna take care of this.”

Katie said nothing.

Kersh’s car was already parked outside John’s father’s house when the Camaro pulled up. Leaving the Camaro running, John hopped out and hurried around to the other side to help Katie, but she wanted no assistance and managed to vacate the car on her own. At that moment, Agent Tommy Veccio swung around the street in an unmarked car and shuddered to a stop across the street.

Kersh moved quickly to John’s side, his ample gut protruding over the waistband of his pants. His face was gray and pasty in the moonlight. He looked like death.

With an arm around his wife, John ushered her quickly up the stoop, Bill Kersh at his side. John could tell Kersh was busting with information but didn’t want to explode in front of Katie.

Inside the house, Kersh radioed Veccio’s car and brought him up to speed on the situation. Katie, her coat still on, wandered into the kitchen, flicked on the lights, and leaned against one wall. John hurried past her, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table and beckoning her to sit.

“I don’t feel like sitting,” she told him flatly.

“Katie …”

“I don’t feel like sitting, John.”

Kersh called his name from the foyer. He felt torn, ripped down the middle, with both halves of his body in disagreement as to which direction they should move. His wife looked lost, petrified, angry. Looking at her, he could feel a small twisting burn at the pit of his stomach, corkscrewing through his guts. Finally, he told Katie he’d be right back and then met Kersh in the foyer by the front windows.

“About an hour ago Francis Deveneau was gunned down in the bathroom of his club,” Kersh said, his voice low. “There were no witnesses, but I got a strong feeling it was our guys. Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to reach Tressa Walker at home. Guess what?”

“No answer,” John intoned. That sinking feeling he’d felt back at the apartment had returned, augmented a thousand times over.

In his head, Tressa Walker’s voice filtered up through his brain like the vapors of a phantom:
They’re asking questions about you. I can’t give ‘em answers for all their questions, John. I’m gettin’ scared
.

And what had his answer been? Standing here now, he found he could not remember.

“They say anything over the phone about me being an agent?”

Kersh shook his head. His lips were pressed tightly together. “No. But that doesn’t mean anything …”

“I’m going back to the apartment to see if they come,” he said. “Stay here with my wife.”

“I’ll go with you, in case your cover is blown.”

“No, no—stay with my wife. Keep Veccio on the street. I want my wife safe. I can’t think otherwise.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket and handed it over to Kersh. “We don’t know what’s going on,” he said. “Not yet. This could all be unrelated. Let’s play it out.”

“So you’re not home when they hit the place, if they hit the place—”

“Bill,” he said, “I have to be there. They start trashing the place and find my real name on shit, find stuff out, then the case is dead and so is Tressa.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” Kersh said, gripping John’s arm with one hand. “What if they already know you’re an agent and they’re coming to kill you?”

Breathing heavily, his hand tightening on John’s arm, Kersh let his eyes bore into John’s. Seconds ticked away—too many of them. John could feel the ground being torn out from under his feet.

They’re asking questions about you
.

Another few seconds crept by. Outside, through the sheer curtains over the windows, the headlights of another unmarked car pulled up outside in the street. He could hear doors slamming and the muted murmur of conversation far off in the distance.

And although Kersh’s words made sense, he knew he could not allow it to end this way.

“Don’t worry,” he told Kersh. “Watch my wife.”

T
HERE WAS NOTHING UNUSUAL ALONG THE STREET
outside his apartment building. He pulled the Camaro to the curb and jumped out, moving swiftly up the front stoop. It was cold, the snow on the ground confusing his perspective. Clouds of moisture rose from the sewers and were carried away by the wind. Every bit of movement caught his attention.

As he entered the building, he pulled his gun from his waistband, pushing himself along the wall. The hallway was dark and soundless. Slowly, he crept up the stairs to his apartment. He winced with each creak of the stairs, his breath coming in slow, labored waves. At the top of the risers, he could see that the apartment door was still closed. Relief swam over him. They hadn’t come.

And maybe they’re not coming at all
, he considered.

But then he thought about Francis Deveneau and Tressa Walker …

At the top of the stairs, he tried the doorknob. It was still locked. More relief washed over him. He was beginning to calm down.

He would call his father’s house and let Katie know everything was all right. He’d hated that blank expression on her face, hated the way she hardly spoke as they left the apartment. Back at his father’s house, just before he’d left to come back home, he’d managed to get her to sit at the kitchen table. But she’d refused to take off her coat and shoes. He’d promised her everything was going to be fine, and he firmly believed that, but his words did little to allay her fears.

Sliding his key into the lock, he heard the bolt turn. He pushed the door open, his eyes wide and adjusting to the mixed lighting of the hallway. Only the hall light was on, casting shadows into the other rooms. If he’d been thinking, he would have turned on all the lights before he’d left. Still—there was no one here.

He pressed the door closed, locked it. Down the hallway, his shadow stretched the length of the black-and-white checkered floor. The palm of his right hand was moist and slick on the hilt of the gun; a roll of sweat trickled down his arm and soaked into the ribbed cuff of his jacket. He peered into the spare room off the hallway, running his free hand up the wall. It was cold; his breath came out in vaporous clouds. Yet his forehead was dimpled with beads of perspiration.

With the lights on, he winced and scanned the room. Nothing. The windows, too, were still locked. Moving against one window, he peeled the curtain away from the pane and scrutinized the dark streets. No movement.

At that moment, he was reminded of his father’s disapproval when he’d joined the Secret Service.
A glorified cop with a college degree
, his father had said.
A young, married guy, and you want to run around the streets risking your life? For what, John? Why? Do something better for yourself
.

He entered the kitchen, going over to the telephone, his hand reaching out for the receiver. Then freezing.

There was a loud, metal clanging sound coming from the bedroom.

Also—
why was it so cold in here?

He tightened his grip on the gun. At that moment, he was aware of the smoothness of the handle, the weight of the weapon, the indentations of the bolts and screws along the casing. He crept across the floor and paused before peering into the darkened bedroom. Yes, it was definitely cold. And that sound … that metal clanging sound …

With his gun held out in front of him, he turned around the doorway and stepped into the bedroom, his feet planted firmly in the carpet. The first thing he noticed was the moonlight reflected in the cheval glass on Katie’s side of the bed. His eyes darted to the opposite wall and noticed that the window had been broken, the carpet beneath it littered with shards of glass. Outside, the loose fire escape ladder swung in the wind, banging against the side of the escape.

Son of a bitch
—

Just as he went to turn, a great force slammed into his back, knocking him to the floor. He felt his gun spill from his hand and thump against the carpet. Propping himself up, he could feel the perpetrator’s hands on his back, a knee to the lower part of his spine. Foul breath accosted his face. Lights came on, temporarily blinding him, and he was hit with something in the back of the head and yanked violently to his feet.

Mickey stood before him, a fistful of John’s shirt in one hand, a large semiautomatic gun in the other. The muzzle of the gun was pressed against John’s forehead. Mickey was breathing heavily, his teeth chattering, his eyes like two busted fog lamps.

Behind Mickey and against the wall stood Jimmy Kahn, one hand still on the light switch. He stood motionless, like a wax figure, his eyes locked on John’s.

“The
fuck!”
he shouted, slapping Mickey’s hand away from the collar of his shirt. His heart was jackhammering in his chest; the sound seemed to fill the room. He exhaled a shuddered gasp and felt the room tilt slightly beneath his feet. He took two steps back toward the bed, breathing heavily. Mickey’s gun remained pointed at him. “What … the
fuck …
are …” His voice shook with anger—more anger than he had ever known.

“John,” Jimmy began from across the room.

“Fuck you,” he spat. “What kinda deal is this, bustin’ me up?

And who the hell are you, breaking into my
house
—
”

“Who the hell are
you?”
Mickey said. “Who the hell are
you
, Johnny?”

With his fists balled, his eyes boring into Mickey’s, it was all John could do to not take a swing and kill the son of a bitch right here. Gun or no gun, he’d rip the bastard’s face apart.

“Get that goddamn gun out of my face,” he spat. His voice was steady, unafraid, teeming with torrid rage. He squeezed his fists so tightly that his fingernails cut crescents into the soft flesh of his palms. “Do it now.”

Mickey’s hand shook. “Don’t be so tough,” Mickey told him.

“You don’t get that gun out of my goddamn face, nobody’s walking out of this apartment tonight. You understand me?”

Mickey did not falter. The gun remained pointed at John’s head. Against the wall, Jimmy took a few steps into the room, leaned over, and peered into the open closet. His boots left muddy footprints on the carpet. Casually, he turned and moved over to the dresser. He opened the top drawer and shifted through the clothes. Maneuvering the drawer from the dresser, he dumped its contents to the rug, kicked around balled socks and pairs of underwear with his foot.