Dead Man’s List

“I’m not going anywhere with it. I don’t have any desire to cause Morelli a problem. You told me what happened, and that’s the end of it.”

Harry studied DeMarco’s face for a bit before saying, “What time’s your plane leave, son?”

“Four,” DeMarco said.

“Come on. Let’s go get some lunch, then I’ll give you a lift to the airport.”

Harry called for his car and they drove to a restaurant in lower Manhattan. The name of the restaurant was written over the door in letters so faded they were almost illegible, and inside the restaurant, the hardwood floors were scuffed and worn, the tables small and wobbly. The blue checkered tablecloths had been laundered, but the stains of a thousand meals were evident.

A man in his seventies who spoke English with a heavy Italian accent came over and embraced Harry as soon as they stepped through the door. DeMarco noticed the waiters were all men in their late fifties or sixties with Mediterranean complexions. The restaurant wasn’t crowded, only three other tables were occupied, and everyone—the owner, the waiters, the customers—were of a type: working-class Italians in late middle age or older. It was a place that catered to a thin slice of a particular generation, and when that generation passed, it too would pass.

The owner directed them to a table apart from the other diners, and they sat only a minute before they were served a carafe of strong red wine. They never saw a menu. Food just began to arrive, a different course every twenty minutes or so. DeMarco couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten so well.

During lunch, Harry told stories about Paul Morelli.

“He gets things done, Joe, like you wouldn’t believe. Most politicians, they don’t know how to solve problems—they make speeches. But Paul, he’s a genius. You need money to fix something, he finds sources. You need two parties to agree, he brings ‘em together. I’m not bullshittin’ you. I’ve never seen a guy that can make things happen like him.”

This conversation was repeated throughout the two-hour lunch. Harry told stories of day care centers built, of old people taken care of, of businesses rejuvenated. He told of blacks and whites working together, of stingy old men donating their fortunes to charity.

As they were leaving the restaurant, the owner came up to Harry, embraced him again, and kissed him on the cheek.

“I just wanna thank you again, Harry, for what you did for my Gina.”

“The only thing I did, Benny, was talk to Mayor Morelli.”

Harry looked at DeMarco and said, “Benny’s daughter needed a bone marrow transplant. The only acceptable donor was her brother, a complete thug, breaking rocks up at Attica. The kid was such a degenerate he wouldn’t help his own sister. I mentioned this to Paul, just in passing, and he personally goes up to the pen and talks the kid into donating. Didn’t promise him squat. After the kid’s paroled, Paul gets him a job with the teamsters. He’s been driving eighteen-wheelers for six years now, keeping his nose clean.”

Saint Paul of the Big Apple.

Harry waited until DeMarco disappeared inside the terminal at La Guardia, then pulled his cell phone off his belt. He flipped open the lid of the phone and his finger descended to punch the buttons, but then he stopped.

He really should talk to Paul about Joe. The fact that he was asking questions about Susan Medford wasn’t good and if it had been anyone other than his godson, he wouldn’t have thought twice about making the call. But Joe was his godson.

He also realized that he’d fucked up. Big time. Susan Medford had just been a name on a piece of paper, and Joe hadn’t really known anything about her until he shot off his big mouth. Paul would really be pissed if he knew what he had done.

But still—he should call Paul.

He unconsciously began to flip the lid of the cell phone open and shut, open and shut, oblivious to the little clicking sound.

If Paul should find out later that Joe had visited him and he’d kept it to himself…well, that wouldn’t be good. But what if Paul told him to go see the old man? He didn’t think that was likely, but you could never be sure. Jesus, he didn’t ever want to have to go see the old man about Joe. Joe was like a son to him.

Harry jerked in surprise when someone rapped on his car window, the sound like a man’s wedding ring tapping the glass. It was an airport cop, telling him to get moving, to get off the parking strip. Asshole. What did he look like? Some rag-head suicide bomber?

He closed the cell phone and clipped it back onto his belt.

Joe was a good guy. He wasn’t gonna be a problem.

Chapter 15 (#ulink_7f197c90-6f29-5b0f-812b-11311553835e)

The pit boss had been chewing out one of his dealers for showing up late when he saw Eddie. Aw, shit. What was he doing here? He was alone at a five-dollar blackjack table and that’s what he was betting: just five bucks a hand. He obviously wasn’t here to gamble.

Eddie had to be the broadest man the pit boss had ever seen. Not fat, just wide. The damn guy’s shoulders had to be a yard across, and his chest and waist weren’t much smaller. He was like a big, square chunk of concrete on two stubby legs. But it was his hands that were scary: the size of catchers’ mitts, the fingers like mangled sausages, all splayed and bent up funny, crisscrossed with thick, ugly scars. He’d love to know who had been tough enough to fuck up Eddie’s hands that way, but he’d never ask. And he’d also bet—he’d bet every cent he had—that whoever had done it was dead and had died very painfully.

Oh, no. Eddie had just looked at him and moved his head, a little get-your-ass-over-here motion. He wanted to talk. Christ, why’d he have to be on duty tonight?

He walked over to the blackjack table. “Stacy,” he said to the dealer, “go powder your nose. Five minutes, no more.”

Stacy stacked her cards and walked away without a word. She was like most of their female dealers, in her forties, still good-looking enough to turn a few heads but past her prime as a stripper. And like most dealers, the woman was a complete zombie. The cards would fly from her hands, and she’d tell the suckers whether they’d busted or not, and she’d pick up their chips if they lost or pay ‘em if they won, but the whole time her mind was a zillion miles away, thinking about whatever these friggin’ gals thought about while they worked.

“Hey, Eddie,” he said as soon as Stacy was gone, “long time no see. What can I do for you?”

Please, please God, let him say he wants a hooker.

“You see that guy over there?” Eddie said. “At the twenty-five-dollar table, the guy in the green jacket?”

The pit boss turned his head slowly, like he was just casually taking in the room while they talked. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s the doc. He’s in here all the time. Loser.”

“Not tonight,” Eddie said. “I want him to win big.”

Aw, fuck.

“How much?”

“Ten, fifteen grand. That’ll be enough.”

“Okay.” Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full.

The pit boss went back to his station in the middle of the blackjack tables, picked up his phone, and made a call. Five minutes later Ray was there, a man in his fifties, white shirt, little black bow tie like all the dealers wore—and fingers like a concert pianist. Ray was the best mechanic they had. Maybe the best mechanic on the boardwalk.

“Take over Dave’s table,” the pit boss said. “I want the guy in the green jacket to win ten grand.”

“You got it,” Ray said, eyes lighting up like a slot machine that had just paid off. Ray lived for this.

The pit boss spent the next two hours wishing he was someplace else. Anyplace else. He was pretty sure that he had just become an accessory to something, he didn’t know what, but whatever it was, he was sure it wasn’t good.

The doc let out another victory yell. The fuckin’ guy, he thought he was magic tonight. If he only knew.

The pit boss looked over at Eddie. He was still sitting alone at Stacy’s table, still betting just five bucks a hand. His eyes were focused on the doc, watching as the doc’s stack of chips grew taller.

Chapter 16 (#ulink_8c0a12b1-f10f-5da9-93a6-cd1fdc534bab)

DeMarco had just returned from his trip to New York and was sitting in his den, a vein throbbing in his temple, reading an op-ed piece in the Washington Post. The evil bastard who’d written the editorial was urging Congress to raise the minimum retirement age for federal employees to sixty-five, spouting baseless nonsense as to how this would save the taxpayers big bucks. DeMarco concluded that if he were running things, the first thing to go would be the First Amendment. Before he could work himself into a state of quivering anxiety thinking about the possibility of working for Mahoney until he was sixty-five, the doorbell rang.

Opening the door, he discovered one of his neighbors. She had lived in the house on the right side of his for about six months but he couldn’t remember her name. Ellen, Helen, something like that. He said hello to her and her husband when he saw them outside but that was as far as he chose to carry the relationship. She was a plump woman in her early thirties, normally pleasant and cheerful, but today looking as if she had been given a preview of Armageddon. She had a baby in one arm screaming its head off, the baby’s face the color of a tomato. Her other hand had a firm grip on the upper arm of a truculent brat who appeared to be about ten.

“Thank God, you’re home,” she said to DeMarco. “I didn’t know what I was going to do if you weren’t.”

“What’s the problem?” he asked, knowing he didn’t want to hear the answer.