Shamrock Alley (53 page)

Kersh returned with two Styrofoam cups of coffee. He set them on the table without saying a word, and eased his bulk onto one of the chairs that surrounded the table. On the tabletop, a detailed map of Coney Island lay before them. With grease pencils, Kersh had marked a number of street corners and intersections.

Looking at Kersh, John thought he could tell what the man was thinking. He was worried about tonight’s bust, but was also undoubtedly thinking about the slumped form of Francis Deveneau that Dennis Glumly had discovered in the bathroom of Deveneau’s club, his throat and part of his head blown apart. Also, after repeated unanswered calls to Tressa Walker’s apartment, Kersh had gone there himself to check out the situation. No one had answered the door when he’d knocked, despite the sounds of the television through the walls. Flashing his badge to the superintendent, he’d been allowed access to Tressa’s apartment. And the first thing he’d noticed upon entering had been that the television set was
not
on, and that the noise he had heard was coming from the bedroom, behind a closed door. It had been the crying of Tressa Walker’s baby, abandoned and dirty and hungry and alone in the back of the apartment—and suddenly everything had seemed a whole lot worse.

“Okay,” the older agent said now, sipping his coffee, “let’s run through this again.” He tapped the grease pencil against a scrawled star along Mermaid Avenue. “We’ll have the money car here—the Camaro—and we’ll have all four points covered by surveillance around it …” With the grease pencil, he drew four circles surrounding the star along Mermaid Avenue. “You bring Mickey and Jimmy to the money car, we got four teams ready to bust them.” He dragged the pencil down the map and paused along Surf Avenue, which ran the length of the Coney Island bulwark. “Nathan’s is … here,” he said, pressing the pencil point to the map. “We should have two more cars out here to cover you.”

“I think that’s too many,” John spoke up.

Kersh continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’ll be up here, on Surf and 15
^th
Street. I’ll have Veccio sit in the car, and I’ll walk the strip so I can keep an eye on things. We’ll have another car at one of the meters along Schweikens Walk. Mickey and Jimmy show up, you eyeball the counterfeit then take them right over to the money car. They don’t have the counterfeit on them—and it’s a lot, so they probably won’t—you don’t need to push the issue. Just take them to the car.” He put the pencil down; it rolled along the length of the map and stopped before rolling off the edge of the table. Not looking at John, Kersh said, “They want you to go someplace with them, don’t. Everybody’s gonna be on edge here—especially them. Chances are, if they have the money it’ll be in their car. Let them show it to you, then bring them right to the Camaro.”

“Pretty simple,” John said.

“Yeah, right.” There was no inflection in Kersh’s voice. “We should sit down with Chominsky again,” Kersh said.

“Bill,” he said, “I know you don’t want to do this …”

Sighing, sipping his coffee, Kersh said, “John, you’ve got a very important decision to make tonight.” Kersh would not look him in the face; he kept his eyes trained on the map of Coney Island. “You can handle this thing like a professional and do your job, or you can bury yourself in it and allow it to consume your entire life. I’m not your father, and I’m through trying to make you see things my way. You’re your own man. Just understand that this deal—this money, these West Side animals—these things are not the ultimate. What’s important,” he continued, thumping a hand against his heart, “is what’s waiting for you at home after all this is over.” He waved a heavy hand carelessly across the map. “Not this shit.”

He couldn’t say anything to that. How could he make Bill Kersh understand that he
needed
to do this,
needed
to succeed,
needed
to get to the end of the long race he’d started back in November? That he wouldn’t be able to look at himself in the mirror if he gave up on this thing? And oddly enough, his mind summoned the picture of his father in his fireman’s garb—the picture that had been on the workbench in the garage when he was a little boy—and how tonight was just a piece of what would make him whole, what would make him complete, what would make him worthy. It was easy to give up and go home; it was difficult to fight things to the end … and even more difficult to emerge the victor. He wasn’t out to win this case for Roger Biddleman or Brett Chominsky or Bill Kersh or anyone else. He was out there trying to win this thing for
himself
.

But he didn’t know how to explain those things to Kersh. Instead, he stood and began rolling up the map of Coney Island into a tube. He worked quickly and did not look up to meet Kersh’s eyes.

“Come on,” he said after a moment. “Let’s sit down with Chominsky before it gets too late.”

The phone rang a number of times before his wife answered.

“It’s me,” he told her. “Just wanted to say I’m thinking about you. You doing okay?”

“I’m fine. Glad you called,” she said. She sounded so small on the other end of the phone.

It felt good to hear her voice, though it sent a strong sense of impropriety running through him. He felt guilty, guilty for everything …

“It’ll be over after tonight,” he promised her now. “I know things have been crazy, but it’ll be different after tonight. I promise.”

“Don’t worry yourself thinking about me,” she said. “I’m okay. I trust you, John. You take care of this thing, then come on home to me.”

“I’ll try not to be too late,” he said, paused, then hung up the phone.

Outside, a strong wind shook the office windows.

C
ONEY
I
SLAND PULSED LIKE A HEARTBEAT IN
the night. The flashing lights of the bulwark illuminated a grand run of darkness and brought into impressive relief the mass of pedestrians along Surf Avenue. No weather was too cold, no hour too late, to keep people away. The boom of laughter was a constant melody. The shuffling of feet, the combined din of voices, the carnival music from the carousel, and the impatient growl and hum of impenetrable traffic along the avenue completed the soundtrack. Here, the aromas were both commonplace and unique: melted butter and popcorn, French fries and mustard, caramel and candy apples, hot sugar and the sharp roast of peanuts. And beyond, the caustic odor of the ocean and the noxious whiff of axle grease used to oil the amusement park rides.

John paused on the opposite side of Surf Avenue, staring across the street at the crowds of people and the panels of billboards that ran the length of the esplanade. The neon glitter of
Clam Bar
and
Sea Food
and
Delicatessen
converged in a blur of confused lights. The yellow and green Nathan’s awnings dominated the walk, filthy and old and colorful like aged prostitutes. Along the sidewalk, the gantries bustled with dark-skinned laborers catering to large quantities of hungry people, even in the cold. And above and beyond the gantries and the billboards, the colored lights of Astroland dotted the darkness. The Wonder Wheel pulled sluggish rotations; the Cyclone clung black and silent to a dark winter sky. And all around, the elated cries and screams and shouts of young children, teenagers, and adults alike filled the night.

He’d parked the Camaro—the money car—on Mermaid Avenue, surrounded by four invisible units ready to strike once he led Mickey O’Shay and Jimmy Kahn to the car. In the cold he trudged down the street toward Surf Avenue. In his leather jacket he had his gun stashed, as well as the cigarette lighter transmitter. Now, as he hurried through the darkened streets, he zipped up his coat, slid his hands into his pockets, and moved quickly with his head down.

He felt inspired. The bones in his body seemed to hum with an electrical excitement. He felt alive. For a brief moment, his wife’s voice reverberated in his head, but it was there and then gone, just as quickly as it had come. Everything was riding on tonight, and he did not want anything to clutter his mind.

He crossed Surf Avenue quickly, slipping through the spaces between car bumpers, and meshed with the crowd of people along the sidewalk. No one, from the lowliest bum to the wealthiest entrepreneur, was out of place in Coney Island. Limousines would pull up alongside dented pickups. Affluent businessmen and politicians brushed through mobs of the stricken and impoverished without a second glance. Young and old alike converged on every street corner. It was the only real attraction in the state of New York that catered just as much to the natives of the city as to the tourists.

A number of uniformed policemen stood in a cluster by a delicatessen embrasure, loud and boisterous in their conversation. He paused here, hands in his pockets, his hair hanging in his eyes. The smell of sugared cakes and candy and roasted peanuts accosted him. In the distance he could hear the roar of roller coasters mingling with the machinelike urgency of a passing El train.

To his consternation, he found himself now thinking of his father. As a child, John had come down here often with his father. And although he could not recall anything momentous about any of those day trips—at least, not at the moment—he could certainly remember subtle specifics: the cool summer breeze coming off the ocean and prickling the small hairs on his arms and neck; the calliope music, audible up and down the avenue; the puppet shows and stilt-walkers along the boardwalk; the heady perspiration stink of the Stillwell Avenue subway station. Standing here now, and despite those memories, he had difficulty comprehending that all of that had taken place within his own lifetime, and that he had actually been so young at one time.

Through the crowd, he made his way over to one of the Nathan’s carrels and stood beneath a giant yellow sign that said, “This is the original NATHAN’S Famous Frankfurter & Soft Drink Stand.”

Shivering against the cold, John perused the crowd. Beside him, a barker in an American flag top-hat was shouting at a group of teenagers. A large Hispanic man walked along the avenue carrying a small child in his arms, and bearing a stringy, pink slickness running the length of his back; the child had apparently gotten sick and vomited down the back of her father’s coat without his noticing.

Through a parting in the crowd, John saw Bill Kersh move down the sidewalk, pushing the last bit of a Nathan’s hot dog into his mouth and wiping his hands on his trousers. Though Kersh did not look straight in his direction, he knew the man was watching him even now. Bill Kersh had a certain voyeuristic,
vulturistic
quality about him.

Across the street, Kersh’s sedan was parked. A second unit was somewhere behind him, parked along the macadam of Schweikens Walk. The walk itself was a narrow, paved road aligned on both sides by parking meters that led straight down to Riegelmann Boardwalk, which, in turn, overlooked the ocean.

A strong gust of wind preceded a small child’s shout in the crowd …

Ahead of him, the crowd bisected and Mickey O’Shay pulled his way through. He was dressed in his usual garb: green canvas coat, unwashed khakis, scuffed black boots. His coat was zipped halfway, and John could make out the weave of thermal underwear underneath it.

Mickey kept his head down, hands in his pockets. His long hair was pulled out of his face in a ponytail. A loose strand hung over his right eye, streaming in the wind. With his shoulders slumped and his back hunched forward, he looked deceptively small. It was “Mickey’s Walk,” Mickey O’Shay’s way of fading into the crowd.

And it took him a second or two to realize Mickey was
alone
.

Roughly three feet from him, Mickey brought his head up. His eyes were like two agate stones, clouded with a multitude of blues, and stunningly clear. Beneath them, dark grooves clung to his peaked flesh like a mask. The bruise on his cheek had dulled to a sour purple-green. His lips were cut into a single sliver, chapped and peeling from the cold.

Even now, after all that had happened, John was still struck by how passionate he felt about locking Mickey up. Seeing him now, he was only prevented from slamming the bastard in the face by the very real possibility that Mickey O’Shay had before him a lengthy prison sentence.

“Where’s Kahn?”

“Back at the car with the money,” Mickey said. He looked like a child on a school playground, shunned and ridiculed by the other children, his eyes busy on his shoes. It was difficult to see him as the guy from St. Patrick’s Cathedral anymore; he was now the maniac from his apartment, the lunatic who’d pointed a gun at his head on a tenement roof. More than anything, he wanted to nail this son of a bitch …

“I feel like bustin’ your head open,” John said, eyeballing Mickey. “You pull any shit, I’m gonna open you right up on the street.”

“No shit,” Mickey said calmly enough.

“Then let’s go,” he said, anxious to move. “I’ll follow you.”

He was prepared for Mickey to insist he show his end first, but Mickey gave no argument. Instead, he simply turned around and began trudging through the crowd back in the direction from which he had come. John followed him, examining the faces of the people they passed, hoping to see that one of the faces belonged to Mickey’s partner.