Shamrock Alley (58 page)

“I wanted to speak with both of you first,” Biddleman said. Then, sensing John’s rebellion, added, “But our decision is final.”

“We have this guy nailed for over thirty years,” he said, jabbing a finger at Biddleman, “and you’re gonna let him plead to some shit-ass charge—”

“There are a lot of things involved here,” Biddleman insisted. “This decision was not made hastily—”

“Why?” He stared at Biddleman with such intensity he could make out the fine web of veins that ran across the bulb of his nose. “What the hell’s going on? This son of a bitch was your catch of the day and now, just like that, after all I went through, he’s not important anymore? Help me make some sense of that…”

Biddleman folded his hands on his desk. His fingers pressed hard into his skin, turning the tips white. “This is a complicated business,” Biddleman said matter-of-factly. “Targets change, priorities change. You did a great job. Without you, we would have never reached this point. It’s the next step.”

“So you’re gonna let this animal back on the street just to catch some ninety-year-old Italian guy ten years from now? You’ve gotta be out of your mind! Our informant was killed, a witness commits suicide, I put my family in jeopardy—and for what?” He pushed himself out of his chair, his face red, his hands threatening to fist. “And you keep pushing and pushing!”

Kersh lifted a hand. “John …”

He spun on Kersh. “You’re gonna sit here and listen to this?”

Kersh looked firm, impassive. “This isn’t your personal crusade. You’re wasting your time. I told you about this …”

“I’m not going for this,” he said. “I’ll go to the papers … be on every goddamn show.” He leveled his gaze on Biddleman, who watched him from behind his desk with the eyes of someone completely detached. “You’ll have to answer for this.”

“You do that,” Biddleman said simply, “and you’re history. I’ll have the FBI lock you up for obstruction.”

He didn’t want to be in here with Roger Biddleman a second longer. Just looking at the man, he was reminded of the months he spent on the streets and away from his family, while his father died and his wife sat home alone. “Where’s your boss?” he barked at Biddleman. “Get him in here. I wanna talk to your goddamn boss.”

Biddleman stood from behind his desk. Bulbs of perspiration dimpled his brow. His thin lips, too, were dotted with sweat, yet remained firmly pressed together. “You have to understand this is best for what we do. You know that, John. We work our way up the ladder. You did your part … and now we have to continue.”

“How stupid is that? This is not just a normal case! I know how it works—but this guy’s a maniac! You can’t work with him.”

“With O’Shay gone—” Biddleman interrupted.

“Mickey O’Shay was only half the problem! You’ve only cut out half the cancer! You let Kahn out, he’ll
grow
another Mickey O’Shay! You know what this guy is like!” He could feel his anger boiling at the pit of his stomach. He took a deep breath, and it burned his throat. “I’m telling you right now—you’re making a big goddamn mistake here.”

“I hope not. But that’s not your worry,” Biddleman told him.

“I don’t believe this …”

“John …” Kersh said beside him. He lifted himself from his chair. “I’m leaving. Let’s go.”

“You have nothing to say?” he said to Kersh.

“No,” Kersh said. “Let’s go.”

“What’s this?” Kersh said, stepping into the pit, his meaty arms folded about his chest. “I thought you hated coming down here …”

John looked up from the table. He had been sitting there smoking a cigarette, trying to cope with the information Roger Biddleman had dropped on him earlier that day. He felt so hollowed, gutted like a fish. Thinking about the case only managed to turn his stomach. In a way, it even embarrassed him, almost made him feel foolish and stupid.

“I can’t believe this,” he said to Kersh. “I just can’t believe it. Sitting here, thinking over this shit. I screwed myself on this.” He shook his head, blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Everybody made out on this but us.”

Kersh bit his lower lip. “I don’t think O’Shay made out too well,” he said. “Or those other assholes we got that can’t make a deal.”

“You’re a very practical man,” he muttered.

“The truth is often a terrible weapon of aggression,” Kersh intoned.

“So where do we go from here?”

“Don’t know about you,” Kersh said, “but I’m planning on going home and taking a nice hot shower, putting on a Charlie Parker record, eating some Frosted Flakes, and going to bed. I’m exhausted.”

Shaking his head, John crushed out his cigarette. “I wish I could handle this thing like you.”

“Eventually you will,” Kersh said, speaking now as if the words were unimportant. “But for now, our part is over. Biddleman was right about
that
, anyway.” His lips came together to form a smile. “But I know what you did, kid. And you impressed the hell out of me.”

Offering Kersh a tired smile, John pushed away from the table and leaned back in his chair, rubbed his face with his hands. His eyes fell on his father’s coat, slung over the back of one of the other chairs.

Kersh furrowed his brow and slowly unfolded his arms. “Ahhh,” he finally muttered, turning to leave, “go home, John.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“You knew,” John said. Back at Biddleman’s office when they’d gotten the news, Kersh had appeared disappointed … but not necessarily surprised, or even upset. “You knew this case was cursed from the start…”

Bill Kersh just shrugged. “Too many agendas, too many fingers in the pie. People lose sight of what the real deal is. I’ve seen it before. And it’ll happen again.” The older agent paused against the wall. “You never would have felt satisfaction on this case, John. You doomed yourself. You never would have gotten back what you put into it, and that was what I was trying to explain to you. But you didn’t listen because you had
your
agenda.” Kersh smiled without humor. He looked sloppy and tired and deep in thought. “Think about it.”

Rubbing his eyes with his hands, he said, “Think about what?”

Kersh smiled wearily. “Learn to put your heart in what’s important.”

There was nothing he could say to that.

“Good night, John.”

He watched Bill Kersh turn and walk away. From his seat at the table, he listened to the older agent’s footfalls retreat down the hallway until he could hear them no longer.

Again, his eyes fell on his father’s coat. It was folded messily over the back of a chair, half inside-out. He could see the inside pocket stitched into the lining … and could see something poking out from the pocket…

He leaned over and pulled the object out of the pocket. It was a thick white envelope with the raised Hallmark emblem on the back. Inside was a greeting card with a pair of cartoon mice propped against each other—an older mouse with glasses and a walking cane, a younger one with a propeller cap and a red balloon. He opened the card to find his father’s shaky, concentrated printing inside. A number of words had been scratched out and rewritten, but he could read it all easily enough:

“Christ, Pop.” He felt a swell of emotions rise up inside him—anger, frustration, sadness—and he found himself deeply hurt by the loss of time and by the words he’d never had the chance to say to his father.

I love you, Pop
.

Softly, he wept.

H
E ENTERED THE DARKENED APARTMENT IN SILENCE
, pulling off his wet shoes and leaving them by the front door. In socks, he moved down the hallway and slipped off his father’s coat, hanging it in the closet.

In the bedroom, he stood for several seconds beside the bed, listening to his wife sleep. Then, his body blue and pale under the moonlight streaming in from the bedroom window, he crept around to his side of the bed and sat down on the mattress, careful not to wake Katie.

She rolled over anyway. “Am I dreaming?” she whispered.

“It’s me. I was trying to be quiet.”

“You’re real or a dream?”

He smiled. “I’m real.”

“You had to work late again?”

“No,” he said. “I stopped by Dad’s house on my way home. I had to get something.”

Leaning over, he set a framed photograph on the nightstand beside the bed. He could not see the picture in the darkness, but that didn’t matter—he knew what it looked like from memory. His father stood, wearing his firefighter gear—strong, powerful, untouchable.

He peeled off his clothes and slipped beneath the covers beside his wife.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and kissed the top of her head. She wrapped her arms around him. Warmed by the feel of her body, his hands no longer felt cold, no longer felt numb. “I’m just … I’m sorry …”

“For what?” Her faith had never wavered, her trust and belief never been in question. She’d been so much stronger than he’d ever imagined. In many, many ways, much stronger than he.

“Never mind,” he said. “I’m taking some time off work for a while. I wanted to be here with you. I figured we could spend some time together, maybe have a baby.”

She laughed quietly to herself, and he could feel her hot breath on his neck. “Speaking of babies,” she said, “I thought of the perfect name.”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll name him John,” she said, “after his father.”

“And his grandfather,” he said. Tracing a finger lightly across the contours of her face, he said, “You’re sure this kid’s gonna be a boy?”

“One hundred percent. Are you nervous?”

“About being a dad? I guess so. Maybe a little. I don’t know.”

“You’ll do fine,” she told him.

He pulled her closer in the darkness.

“The best that I can,” he promised.

THE END

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