Absent Friends (39 page)

P
HIL
'
S
S
TORY

Chapter 13

The Water Dreams

November 1, 2001

Early morning at the Y, but no game today, so Phil was running. Long rhythmic strides, faster than comfortable so it wouldn't get easy. Though this track, tenth of a mile, God he hated it. The same thing, past the same point, forty times, you have to be kidding. Before, even in bad weather, he ran outdoors. Down from his place, through the streets to a park. Either side of the island, up along the river. But now you couldn't run downtown. The ash, the rubble, the trucks. The nervous National Guardsmen. The smell. He couldn't breathe that air. Not like you breathed when you ran. Couldn't take it in, deep in his lungs. Couldn't make it part of him. He'd tried, early on. It had made him sick.

Sixteen.
The track, braced on angles, circled the gym. Volleyball practice today, some league team. These guys were good. Long volleys, sharp smashes. Worthy distraction. But not a game Phil took to. You stayed in one place, any given play. Doomed it for him.

Twenty-four.
Heart pounding. Runner's high starting. He lived for that. Since September 11, the only time, the only place, he ever felt there was a point: a run, a game. In court? For the clients, so he kept at it. For himself? No. Now, just here. What this point was? No idea. All brain chemicals. Sure, he knew. Supplied by evolution, thank you, ma'am. So you'd run across savannahs. Away from predators. Toward your prey.

Thirty.
Could he talk to Sally? Kevin? And say what? Last night, with Kevin: to do that again? But suppose he knew? If he could know, prove it was true? McCaffery, what he did? Phil was the messenger. First urge, kill the messenger.

Thirty-two.
Talk to Spano. This might work. With Kev. Take him, show him. Might work. High getting higher. Phil's favorite chemical, always came last, flooding his brain: kicking in hope.

Thirty-seven.
Faster, the last three faster. Breath burning, heart hammering. Outrunning thought. Sally, cold voice on the phone. Kevin, back turned. Spano. Huge vast generous fresh breeze of hope. Outrun it all.

Thirty-eight.
Pain everywhere, lungs desperate. Legs still pumping. Why? He couldn't remember. Maybe that's the reason.

Forty.
Hallelujah.

Slow the pace.

Spano.

Heart pounding.

Find the truth.

Jog one.

For Sally. For Kevin.

Sweat dripping.

Walk one.

Enough.

L
AURA
'
S
S
TORY

Chapter 14

Sutter's Mill

November 1, 2001

Afterward, whenever Laura reviewed her tapes—and she'd had both recorders going, of course she had, and both recorders played back exactly the same sounds, told exactly the same story, of course they did (it was like watching the film of the second plane hitting, the footage looped endlessly on TV and you watched it over and over, helplessly hoping this time it would be different)—none of the early part, the interview when she'd been sitting alone with Eddie Spano, sounded familiar to her. It was as though she were listening to the sound track of a film she hadn't seen. It wasn't until the knock, the creaking open of the trailer door, the new voice, that the images started to come; and even then, they were spotty. Until the shouting started. This she remembered. This sprang into full view. The rest of the morning from that point on was clear and sharp to her, full of detail, unrolling in perfect sync with her tapes, and no matter what she did, she was sure—she was afraid—she would never be able to stop seeing it.

Here, at the beginning, on the tape, was Eddie Spano, just as she entered his office. (He'd been sitting behind his desk, a bald, pudgy man. Had he looked up? He must have. Had he stood? No, he hadn't.) Impatient growl: “What?”

Her own voice, words she'd said a million times but didn't now remember saying to Eddie Spano. “Laura Stone,
New York Tribune.
”

“Great.” A snort, caught for all time. “Go ahead, sit down. Or stand, I don't care. This isn't an interview. This is an order. Lay the fuck off.”

(A rustle on the tape. Laura sitting down?)

“Mr. Spano, my paper has information—”

“Your paper hasn't got shit.” (A small sound, a slap? Spano, irritated, closing the file in front of him; it might be that.) “I hardly knew Jimmy McCaffery, I don't know that goddamn lawyer, I never gave Keegan's widow any fucking money. I don't know anything about any of this shit, and I'm tired of seeing my name every fucking day in your fucking paper. Is that clear enough?”

Her voice again, persistent. “What was your involvement in the death of Jack Molloy?”

“You don't listen, do you?”

“If I'm wrong, show me where. What was your—”

“Zip. Zero. Nada. None. I make my point, or I have to draw you a picture?”

“I'm interested in the truth, Mr. Spano.”

“Bullshit. You and your paper are interested in smearing shit all over me. I don't know what I ever did to you, but, sweetie, people who play with fire get burned. Ask Jimmy McCaffery.”

“What can you tell me about the negotiations going on before Jack Molloy's death?”

“Negotiations? Jesus Christ, lady, what's wrong with you? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You and Molloy were making some kind of deal. What was it?”

“Deal?” (A change in Spano's voice. This must be when he adjusted his game to Laura's, to her tough-broad-reporter, to her cold eyes that told him she'd faced down nastier specimens than Eddie Spano. At least, that's what her eyes were supposed to be saying. That was how, heading over in the cab, she'd decided to approach him. Had she? It sounded like that, on the tape. But she didn't know. She didn't know.) “What was this ‘deal' supposed to be about?”

“After Jack Molloy died, you ended up with a lot of the Molloy empire.”

“
Empire?
Shit, you're killing me. Molloy was a punk, his old man was a small-time ass-wipe.”

“But you don't deny you wound up running the Molloy rackets?”

“Rackets? You learn to talk like that from the movies?”

“You don't deny it?”

“Of course I deny it. I don't know anything about any ‘rackets.' I'm a businessman.”

“What kind of business?”

“Real estate. Insurance. I have investments all over this island.”

“So did Big Mike Molloy. Drugs, gambling—”

“Lady, are you too stupid to live?”

“Was Harry Randall?”

“What?”

“Too stupid to live. Someone murdered Harry Randall. He was breaking this story, and—”

“Fuck this shit! Lady, that's enough. One more word of this shit in the paper, and—”

Now—there, on the tape—now the knock, now the hinges whining.

Now the pictures started.

Eddie Spano, swinging his flushed face from Laura to the door. “Oh fuck, what now? Who the hell—?”

And the new voice. “Phil Constantine, Mr. Spano.” A pause, and then, “I work for you.”

Laura could see them standing just inside: the lawyer tall—taller than he'd seemed in his own office, and she remembered thinking that was odd—suit and tie, mud spots on his polished shoes. The young man—this must be Kevin Keegan, she realized, the center of this storm—red hair, muscled, and leaning on crutches. This picture was a snapshot, though, not a movie yet.

But the sound track went on.

“You work for—wait, you're that lawyer fuck? Jesus! What is this? Are you as psycho as she is? You do not work for me. I don't know what the hell you people want—”

“I just want to hear you say it, Eddie.” Constantine was smiling. Laura saw that. Smiling. A glittering, hungry grin. “I've been your bagman for twenty years, and I just want to hear you say it. I want you to tell Kevin what it's all been about.”

“Look. Shit. I don't know what you people are up to, but I've had enough.” A scraping sound as Spano pushed back his chair. Laura had an idea he'd been about to say something else, but Constantine's eyes had caught hers, and Spano saw that. “Fuck,” Spano said instead. “What? You two in this together? This some kind of shakedown? Get the fuck out of here. All of you. Out.”

“Ms. Stone, that means you,” Constantine said. “We'll leave soon, too, Eddie. But I passed your money to Sally Keegan for eighteen years. I was a good boy. I didn't ask questions. Jimmy McCaffery said it was his, I closed my eyes and covered my ears and passed it on.

“I'm likely to be disbarred, Eddie. I may even go to jail. I just want to know what it was all about. I want Kevin to know. Ms. Stone.” Now Constantine turned to Laura, and the details filled in, spreading from the center to the farthest edges as Constantine said to her, “Ms. Stone, get lost. Mr. Spano wants this off the record. So do I.”

Laura was not about to get lost. What reporter could leave a scene like this? But she was thinking furiously. It was obviously her presence that was making Spano deny he'd used Constantine to pass the money; what reason would he have to lie to Constantine, even if McCaffery had been their go-between, even if the two had never met? If she left, so they could have this out alone, could she hide somewhere, lurk under the windows, eavesdrop? Outside a trailer on concrete blocks in the mud of a building site? The men with the American flag decals on their hard hats would spot her, circle toward her, surround her like a pack of wolves.

No, she'd stay until Spano had her physically thrown out (and maybe he wouldn't; after all, think how that would look in the paper) and play them off against each other. She'd done that before. It wasn't so hard. Everyone wanted to come out looking good, everyone wanted his story to be the one that was believed.

That was Laura's plan. “If you—” She never got any further than that.

“Fuck that!” Keegan exploded. “Let her stay! Let her hear it, let everyone hear it!”

“Kev—”

“No, Uncle Phil.” Keegan's voice took on a different tone, a tone Laura knew. She'd heard it in the voices of people she'd interviewed in those first days after the towers fell, people coming to accept what they had been desperately fighting: that the “missing” posters, the hospital searches, the frantic digging at Ground Zero, could not help them. It was the voice of someone admitting the shattering truth that a loved one was gone, and in that voice Kevin Keegan said, “No, Uncle Phil.”

L
AURA
'
S
S
TORY

Chapter 15

The Way Home

November 1, 2001

“Kevin.” Constantine spoke quietly to the young man, as though the two were alone. As though they stood on some wind-blasted height where nothing grew and nothing lived and everything had been torn away but the truth.

Keegan shook his head. “Don't. Don't tell me more lies, Uncle Phil. No more. You lied all my life.”

“Not about what was important.” Like voices on the tapes Laura had heard of calls made from the upper floors of the towers, people who understood they were certainly doomed but were determined to maintain contact until the end, Constantine's voice was calm. “Not about what mattered.”

“To
you
!” Keegan shouted. “What mattered to
you
! Me and my mom—oh, fuck. Fuck you!”

The young man looked wildly around, as much, Laura thought, to break the spell of Constantine's eyes as anything else. He spotted her but moved on, too furious to care who she was or what she'd heard. Constantine's eyes watched the young man the way you'd stare after a priceless possession torn away in a hurricane.

Keegan fixed on Eddie Spano. “You,” he said hoarsely. “I want to know. My dad, Uncle Jimmy, what was it about?”

“I don't know what the hell—”

“Don't do that! Don't lie like him, no more bullshit! Who shot Jack Molloy? Was it Uncle Jimmy?”

“Kid, I—”

Constantine said, “Kevin—”

“Why did my dad go to jail? What was the money for?”

From Spano: “I got no fucking idea!”

From Constantine: “Kev—”

“Uncle Jimmy's papers,” Keegan hissed at Spano. “What he wrote. Is that what's in them?”

“Papers? What fucking papers?”

“You lying bastard!
Tell me!
”

“Get the fuck out of here! You're fucking crazy, all of you! Get out!”

Keegan, green eyes blazing, swung forward on his crutches with a speed that took Laura by surprise. He shoved Spano against the wall before anyone could move. The whole trailer rocked. “Tell me the truth!” The crutches clattered to the floor. Keegan squeezed Spano's throat. Spano clawed Keegan's face as Keegan shouted, “What did my father do? Why did he go to jail? Tell me the truth! Tell me! Tell me!”

Spano pushed and twisted; Constantine grabbed Keegan, tried to pull him away. “Kevin! Come on, Kev, come on!”

Keegan swung at Constantine. The blow was unbalanced and badly timed but had the unstoppable force of betrayal behind it. Constantine's head snapped back. Keegan, weight shifting to his bad leg, fell forward, seizing Spano again.

Spano struggled half out of Keegan's grip. Keegan pounded and punched. Laura wasn't sure if he knew who he was hitting, what he was screaming. Spano was shouting, too. And Constantine, not shouting, talking, talking to Keegan, blood on his face as he wrapped his arms around the young man, trying to make him stop, trying at the same time, Laura realized, not to hurt him.

Laura had jumped up but had not neared the struggling men. She was a reporter, she stood apart. Her chair had fallen over, but she was in the spot she'd been in since she arrived and so was in the perfect place to see when Spano, still caught in Keegan's grip, pounded, screamed at, bloodied, yanked open the desk drawer. He shouted, “Fuck you, you fucking lunatic!” and there was a gun in his hand.

From the
New York Tribune,
November 2, 2001

FIREFIGHTER SLAIN IN
SHOOTING INCIDENT

Survived Fall of North Tower

by Hugh Jesselson

Probationary Firefighter Kevin Keegan, who was pulled to safety by fellow firefighters from under burning debris when the World Trade Center's north tower collapsed on September 11, was killed yesterday in a shooting incident on Staten Island. Keegan was hit in the chest by a single bullet. He was taken to Staten Island Hospital, where he died three hours later.

Police have arrested Edward Spano, of Pleasant Hills, a reputed organized crime figure with alleged ties to the Bonnano crime family. Spano has been charged with manslaughter and reckless endangerment.

The shooting happened yesterday morning in Spano's office at Chapel Pointe, a luxury Staten Island residential development. The circumstances surrounding the shooting are still under investigation.

Spano, as first reported by the
Tribune
on October 29, is believed to have been the source of payments made over nearly two decades to the dead man's family. These payments were made through attorney Phillip Constantine, a longtime Keegan family friend. Constantine, present at the scene of yesterday's shooting, was injured but refused medical attention. He was taken into custody and released this morning with no charges filed against him.

Also present was
Tribune
reporter Laura Stone, who was interviewing Spano at his office when Constantine entered with Keegan.

When Spano ordered the three to leave, a fight began. Spano pulled a gun from his desk and pointed it at Keegan. Laura Stone said, “It just made him madder. He jumped on Spano and choked him. Constantine tried to pull him back and the gun went off.”

Police have subpoenaed the bank records for the escrow account Constantine maintained for the Keegan family. It is alleged by some sources that the cash for the payments was passed from Spano to Constantine by FDNY Captain James McCaffery, who died on September 11.

Edward Spano will be arraigned today on Staten Island. He is expected to enter a plea of self-defense.

The investigation is continuing.