Shamrock Alley (52 page)

“Don’t be so tough,” Mickey repeated. It was the voice of a robot, a machine, an unemotional foreign entity. Uninterested in his partner’s work, Mickey had not taken his eyes off John. To emphasize how serious he was, he pressed the muzzle of the gun to John’s temple. It felt cold and hot at the same time.

John didn’t blink, didn’t move. His right hand itched to knocked the gun away from his head and out of Mickey’s hand.

“What do you want?” he said, watching as Jimmy moved around to Katie’s side of the bed. Seeing him here in his bedroom hurt his mind. Jimmy and Mickey did not belong here. They were as out-of-place as two hyenas on the peak of an Antarctic iceberg.

Jimmy pulled back the bedspread and examined the sheets. Bending down, he peered beneath the bed.

“What do you want?” he repeated. He could feel the muzzle of the gun twitching against his forehead. Mickey was shaking. But not from fear; from exhilaration.

We’re all going to die tonight
, he thought.
All three of us, right here in this room
.

Jimmy stood and noticed John’s undercover wallet on the bed. He glanced in John’s direction, then went to the wallet, picked it up. He dumped its contents out on the bed and shuffled through some of the miscellaneous business cards and matchbook covers. Jimmy examined the driver’s license. Apparently convinced, he tossed it on the bed and moved around the baby crib. He peered over the railing.

“You got a kid?” Jimmy asked.

“What do you want?”

“You and me, we got a big deal coming up in two days, Johnny,” Mickey said, taking a step back and lowering the gun to John’s chest. “A lot of money involved. I just like to know who it is I’m dealin’ with.”

Jimmy slipped out into the hallway. A moment later, John heard the sound of kitchen drawers being emptied onto the floor. The cupboards next. A few dishes were busted. When Jimmy returned, he had one hand stuffed into his pants pocket, his other hand running through his hair.

To Mickey, Jimmy said, “This don’t look like no undercover joint.” Turning to John, he said, “Where’s your wife and kid?”

“Her mother’s place.”

“Lucky for her,” Mickey snickered.

Around them the walls were breathing—wavering in and out like plaster lungs. The carpet heaved; the lights faltered, blinked, sizzled in his mind. He was aware of every molecule in his body, was aware of the blood pumping through his veins and arteries.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Mickey took another step away from John. Behind him, Jimmy slumped against the wall, still running his fingers through his hair.

“Get on the bed,” Mickey said for the last time.

Some cerebral autopilot managed to kick in and take over the controls. He felt his body move on its own accord …

If Mickey hadn’t mentioned the million-dollar deal that was still set for two days from now, he would have never laid down on the bed. Instead, he would have knocked the gun from Mickey’s hands and ripped out the son of a bitch’s throat. Then he would have gone after Kahn, who would have most likely pulled his own gun and shot him dead on the spot.

He crept backward onto the bed.

“Lie down,” Mickey said.

He eased himself down on his pillow. The entire room seemed incredibly small. The ceiling seemed to press against his face. He could hear his breath whistling through his throat.

“You look like you’re in a coffin,” Mickey said. “You sleep here?” Pointing the gun at the vacant pillow to John’s left, Mickey said, “And I guess your wife sleeps here.”

Mickey pulled the trigger and fired a shot into the pillow. John winced and felt the whole bed vibrate.

“And your kid over here,” Mickey continued, pointing the gun at the crib and firing two more shots. One struck the mattress with a muted
whump!
while the other clipped the wooden railing, splintering it. “Get the point?” Mickey continued, leveling the gun back on him. “If you’re a cop or a snitch, you’re history. I don’t care if you’re the fucking commissioner. It won’t matter.”

“We’ll see what kinda balls you have,” Jimmy said, moving back into the hallway.

With the gun still pointed at John, Mickey slowly backed his way out of the room. A homicidal grin tore at his face, twisting and contorting his features. For one crazy moment, he looked like a Halloween mask with sunken pits for eyes and fangs for teeth.

“See you in two days,” Mickey said, disappearing into the hallway. “And don’t bother getting up. We’ll let ourselves out.”

Still feeling the vibration throughout the bed, John remained on the mattress, listening to Mickey and Jimmy’s footfalls recede down the hall. He heard the bolts turn on the front door, the door itself squeak open, then slam shut, rattling the frame. Distantly, he could hear their footsteps on the risers in the lobby hallway, and their muffled laughter through the walls.

On the nightstand beside the bed, the alarm clock read 1:28 A.M.

It was the first day of a new year.

GET ON THE BED
.

He could still hear Mickey O’Shay’s words sounding in his head, racking his mind. And he could still see the clap of fire erupt from Mickey’s gun, the first round slamming into Katie’s pillow right beside his head. Then the second shot—into the crib of his unborn child.

Get on the bed
.

Seated alone in the pit, his feet propped up on a second chair, John rubbed the side of his head with two fingers while his eyes stared blankly at the shelves of textbooks. Two nights since the events at his home, and his anger had dulled to a contemplative irritation, dispersed throughout his entire body with the malignancy of ingested poison. This morning, waking up in bed beside his wife at his father’s house (it had been decided they would remain there until the West Side boys were apprehended), he’d felt as if his body had been filled with shards of hot, broken glass and jagged stones. Beside him lay the silent and unmoving shape of his wife. She’d been in a stupor since that night and refused to talk about it, refused to talk to
him
. That bothered him the most. He wished he could take all her worry and hurt and fear and carry that on his shoulders, too, along with his own. Katie didn’t deserve any of this. And he hated himself for burdening her with it.

Yet there was no turning back from this thing now. He’d looked the beast in the eye—was the only man with a soul who had seen these animals up close and personal—and knew they needed to be stopped. It went beyond the job, beyond personal motivation. These guys were pure evil. And John knew he was the only man who could put an end to them.

For the past two days, Mickey O’Shay had been calling. John refused to answer the line. It was part of the undercover strategy but, in truth, the idea of talking to the son of a bitch sickened him. On the third day, after Mickey’s persistence began to let up, John called
him
. Just hearing Mickey O’Shay’s voice on the other end of the line was enough to get his blood boiling all over again.

“Where you been, John, I been trying—”

“Listen to me, you shithead. Dealing with you is the last thing I feel like doin’ after that shit you pulled at my place.”

Mickey snorted on the other end of the line.

“But I got a lotta guys waitin’ on this deal and a reputation at stake,” he continued. “We do it tonight. Then we’re through. After tonight, I don’t want to look at you again. You got me?”

Mickey sighed. “There’s a park over on—”

“Fuck that. You meet me tonight at Nathan’s in Coney Island. You’re done calling the shots. And I want Kahn there for the deal. I don’t trust you for shit. In fact, I don’t care if you’re there or not. No Kahn, no deal.”

“Jimmy’s—”

“He’s there, or I walk.”

A moment of silence passed over the line as Mickey considered the situation. In the end, he agreed and hung up the phone.

Following the call and a discussion with Bill Kersh, SAIC Brett Chominsky called John into his office. When he arrived, Kersh was already seated in one of the plush leather chairs before Chominsky’s large desk. John felt himself hesitate in the doorway. Then he stepped inside and took his own seat.

“Mickey knows the money’s gone,” Chominsky said without pause. “We’ve verified that through the wire taps. The fact that this thing is still on now can only mean one thing.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Here,” Chominsky said, pushing
play
on a tape recorder that rested on the edge of his desk. “Listen.”

The tape came on in mid-conversation. It was a recording of a phone conversation between Mickey and Jimmy—John knew their voices immediately—and as they talked, Chominsky thumbed the volume knob louder.

“We do this thing tonight,” Mickey was saying, “I’m gonna need you there. I ain’t gonna do this on my own.”

“I’ll be there,” he heard Jimmy say.

“All right,” Mickey said. There was a tremulous quaver to his voice, and he sounded very much unlike himself. “This thing goes good, we made a score.”

Chominsky clicked off the tape. Leaning back in his chair, he eyeballed John.

“They’re meeting with you to rip you,” Chominsky told him. “They don’t have the counterfeit, and they’re still talking about making a score. They’re not dealing, John. They’re planning on taking your money.” The distraught tone of Brett Chominsky’s voice also implied that he knew Mickey and Jimmy were planning on killing him, too.

“Not necessarily,” John said. “They could have another stash somewhere that we don’t know about.”

“They don’t talk about another stash,” Kersh interjected. John could tell this thing was weighing heavily on him.

“That doesn’t mean there isn’t one,” he said … although in reality, Chominsky and Kersh were probably right: Mickey and Jimmy were planning on killing him tonight and taking his money. Still, John was not obstructed by such thought. He felt smarter, quicker,
better
than Mickey O’Shay and Jimmy Kahn. And if he had to convince Chominsky and Kersh, then he’d convince them.

“John,” Chominsky said, “we have to look at all the scenarios and figure on the worst. It’s pretty evident this is probably a rip.”

“You don’t have to do this, John,” Kersh added.

“Yes, I do.”

“They’re gonna
kill
you, John,” Kersh said. “This thing got out of hand a long time ago. We should pull the plug.” He turned to Brett Chominsky. “This thing isn’t going to end well.”

“They’re not gonna do anything without seeing my money,” John assured Kersh. “We set up a money car a few blocks away from Nathan’s. I meet with them, ask to see the counterfeit, and whether they have it or not, I get conversation from Kahn. Then I take them to the money car. Once we get there, you bust ‘em.” Because he didn’t like the looks Kersh and Chominsky were giving him, he added, “You heard the wire. Kahn’s gonna be there. This is our chance to get him dirty in all this. Even if it’s a rip, we’ll have him on conspiracy. It’s still our play.”

“You think so,” Bill said. “O’Shay’s out of his mind. You have no idea what he might decide to do. A deal this big and the crap he pulled at your house, he’s probably worried
you’re
going to try and rip
him
. You don’t show up with the money, he might freak and turn out your lights right on the sidewalk.”

“He won’t do that,” he insisted.

“You don’t know that…”

“He won’t, Bill. I’m telling you. I’ve been around this guy enough to smell his moves. He’s nuts, but he ain’t gonna risk losing eighty grand.” To his own ears, it sounded almost as if he were trying more to convince himself. Truth was, he didn’t know
what
Mickey would do. The only thing he was certain of was his own refusal to let this thing go bad. He could handle it. “Trust me.”

“Against my better judgment, John, I’ve
been
trusting you,” Kersh said, “and that trust has gotten you up on a tenement roof with a gun pointed at your head and now, three nights ago, these animals break into your goddamn house. We’ve lost control of this.”

He hadn’t told anyone—especially Kersh and Katie—about how Mickey had held the gun to his face and made him lie on the bed, nor how Mickey had plugged his wife’s pillow and the baby’s crib. As far as Bill Kersh was concerned, Mickey and Jimmy showed up, asked a few questions, opened a few dresser drawers, and left. And as far as Katie was concerned, no one had ever shown up.

“I’m tired of trying to convince everybody,” he said finally. Turning to Chominsky, he said, “I’m tired of this whole goddamn case. You wanna throw in the towel now after all I’ve been through? Is that what you want? Because I’m not ready to do that. You think I’m on some suicide trip, that I’m an asshole, but this is our only chance to get Kahn dirty.” He glared at Bill Kersh.
“They’re
not walking away, and I’ll be goddamned if
we
are.”

“Ultimately,” Chominsky said, “it’s up to you, John. If you’re comfortable with this …”

“We can do this,” he assured the SAIC.

“What about wearing a wire?” Kersh suggested.

“No way. They find that, I’m
really
a dead man. I’ll take the transmitter.”

“Transmitter’s got limited range,” Kersh interjected.

“I’m not wearing a wire. They pat me down, find a wire—”

“All right,” Chominsky interrupted. “Brief the squad; get everybody ready. We’ll meet again in two hours.”

Now, some time later, he sat by himself in the pit, going over the details of the plan in his mind. It was quiet here, and the quiet bothered him. He’d asked Kersh once how he could stand such prolonged silence, and the older agent had simply replied, “Because I’m not afraid to listen to myself think.” He wasn’t afraid—he was convinced he’d be able to handle both Mickey and Jimmy—but there was still some gnawing at his gut, at the base of his brain. The pit’s unbroken silence afforded him too much time to dwell on too many other things in his life—Katie and his father at the forefront. He pictured Bill Kersh as the type of man who had no trouble falling asleep at night—who, when his head hit the pillow and his eyes closed, was already halfway off to dreamland. He, himself, could not remember the last time he’d gotten a good night’s sleep. Even now he felt wired, anxious to meet with the two West Side boys and put a lid on this thing.