Last Chance for Glory (32 page)

He waited until Blake nodded agreement, then got out of the car, opened his jacket, and crossed to the outer doors of the Oxford Arms. Once again, he wiped all expression from his face before pushing the doors open and striding directly to the concierge’s station.

“May I help you?”

Kosinski flashed his ID, snapped the billfold shut, announced: “Kosinski. To see Johan Tillson.”

“John Tillson?”

“Whatever.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“Unless you’re him, it’s none of your business.” Kosinski paused long enough to flash a thin, triumphant smirk. “And you’re
not
him.”

Directly challenged, the man let his eyes drop away from Kosinski’s. Unfortunately, they fell to the revolver tucked beneath Kosinski’s armpit. “I’ll announce you,” he said. “Would you repeat your name?”

“Kosinski.”

“And your first name?”

“Mister.”

The man picked up an ordinary telephone receiver, then punched three digits into the console on his desk.

“John, it’s Augie. There’s someone here to see you. Says his name is Kosinski.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Mr. Tillson wants to know what you want.”

Kosinski leaned over the desk and took the receiver from Augie’s hand. “Why don’t I tell him. It’s a lot more efficient that way.” He turned his back, smiled to himself. Now that he’d gotten this far, he was sure he’d be able to talk his way upstairs. It was only a matter of applying the right pressure. “I don’t know if you remember me, Mr. Tillson. I was one of the cops who interviewed you after your wife died. The reason I’m here is because some new facts have come to light and I’d like to run through them with you. I mean, as the victim’s husband, you definitely got a right to know.”

Kosinski pictured the short, dumpy, moon-faced businessman on the other end of the phone. He remembered bracing Tillson in Kennedy airport on the night of his wife’s murder. The man had collapsed into the arms of a Port Authority cop. Yet, despite the grief, he’d refused to reveal the name of his wife’s lover, even on that first night when he was yet to speak with Edward Green or Samuel Harrah. Maybe he was simply embarrassed. Or maybe the fact that Sondra Tillson, the woman he loved, had died in another man’s bedroom was too painful to be spoken aloud.

“I don’t believe I want to hear what you have to say, Mr. Kosinski. As far as I’m concerned, it’s over and done with.”

Kosinski dropped his voice to a whisper. “Ya know somethin’, Johan, I can appreciate your position. Believe me, if I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t wanna hear the truth either. Unfortunately, you’re faced with a nut case—namely myself—who’s gonna speak his piece whether you like it or not. If you won’t see me face-to-face, I’ll say what I have to say right here in this lobby. And I’ll say it very fucking loud, Johan. I mean it’s the least I could do for Uncle Augie here. The jerk’s leanin’ so far over the desk, he’s gonna wind up with a crease in his dick.”

“I don’t appreciate being threatened,” Tillson muttered. “But, if you must …”

Kosinski handed the phone to Augie, then took off for the elevators. He was peaking, now that the end
(his
end, at least) was in sight. The funny part was that he was sure his soon-to-be conversation with Johan Tillson was entirely unnecessary, that he didn’t have to provoke Tillson into calling Harrah, because they’d already spoken. The importer had been far too calm and collected for Kosinski’s appearance to have come as a surprise.

As the elevator rose, Kosinski found himself wishing he knew exactly where apartment 19E was. He wanted to step out of the elevator, stride directly to the importer’s door, and pound away. Instead, he’d be peering at every number, fumbling his way to the big confrontation.

The elevator came to a stop with a sudden thump. Kosinski glanced at the lighted panel, saw that number 19 was lit, turned back to find his old partner, Tommy Brannigan, standing in the open doorway. Standing there with a vintage Colt .45 in his left hand.

Kosinski smiled to cover the surprise, noted that his heart was pounding against his rib cage like a demented speed bag, that he could feel the blood drumming in his temples and throat. Terrified, he realized, was the obvious word for it. So why was his mind clear and sharp? Why did he feel relieved? What did his body remember that his brain had forgotten long ago?

“I guess this means that Johan doesn’t wanna speak to me. Too bad, Tommy. Because I was looking forward to asking him if he found out that his wife was fucking Edward Green before or after Green slashed her throat.”

Brannigan motioned Kosinski into the far corner of the elevator, then stepped inside and pressed the door-open button. “Christ, that’s a big hole,” Kosinski said, pointing at the .45. “That barrel is what I’m talkin’ about. It’s impressive—I admit it—but wouldn’t a .22 have been more practical?”

“You’re sick, Kosinski. You need help.”

“I wouldn’t argue the point, Tommy, but I gotta say the therapy here is a bit radical. And not real, real effective. I mean whatta ya think’s gonna happen if you pull that trigger? How many fingers’ll dial nine-one-one in the first thirty seconds? This ain’t the ghetto, Tommy. These folks still believe in law and order. That’s because they don’t know you.”

Brannigan shook his head, smiled his familiar shit-eating grin. “Credit where credit is due, Bell. You broke the case wide open. The thing I can’t figure out is
why.
It can’t be the money, because you could get ten times as much from us.”

“Well, Tommy, I’m not entirely sure myself, but I think it has something to do with penance.” He hesitated, gave it a second to sink in. “But you’re not gonna kill me, are ya?”

“Not here,” Brannigan admitted, “for all the reasons you just named. But I did wanna show you the gun that’s gonna do the job.” He held up the .45 for Kosinski’s inspection. “Nice, right? Pre-war. It’d be worth a lot of money if it had a serial number.”

“Are you supposed to be scaring me, Tommy?” Kosinski found himself wishing he was wired. They’d tossed it around, he and Blake, and decided to go without it. The decision had been a mistake, a mistake his partner was sure to take badly.

“Hey, Bell, you can’t blame a guy for tryin’, right?” Brannigan’s smile dropped away. “I wasn’t kidding before. About credit where credit is due. And I have to admit, like everybody else, I thought you were a hopeless drunk. But now that it’s done, now that you proved you’re still the best, why not let the deal go? Your partner and your boss are smart enough to accept reality. Blake’s out there beggin’ his old boss for scut work and Steinberg’s petitioning the governor to have Sowell posthumously pardoned. But you, Bell, you keep on pushing, like you could raise the kid back from the dead by taking me down.”

“You sayin’ if I walk away, Sammy Harrah will just forget the whole deal? Because, being as I can bury him any time I want, I find that hard to believe. Men like Harrah, they can’t live with a sword hangin’ over their heads. Not if they’ve been the ones wielding the sword for as long as he has.”

“Nobody’s lookin’ for revenge here. If we had to … to silence you just because of what you know, then we’d have to go after Blake and Steinberg, too. It doesn’t take a genius to see where that leads.” Brannigan stepped out of the elevator. “Give me something, Bell. Something I can take back to my boss.” He put his foot against the door to keep it from closing. “I don’t want to kill you—it’s not in my nature to kill another cop—but you’re not leaving me with a whole lot of options.”

“No option means no decision to make. You should be grateful. And thanks for the information.”

“What information?”

Kosinski folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the back of the elevator. “How many cops are there assigned to the Intelligence Division, Tommy? Four hundred? Five hundred?” He took a step toward Brannigan, let his hands drop to his sides. “See, I was a
little
worried that Harrah might send an army after me. I say a little worried because it didn’t seem likely that Harrah would’ve let a whole lot of people know about his blackmail scam. But now I don’t have to worry at all.” He took another step, grinned his nastiest grin. “Because there’s no way on the face of this holy fucking Earth that Chief Samuel Harrah, if he had anybody at all, would send a complete jerk like Tommy Brannigan to kill a man.”

“I
T’S BAFFLING, MARTY. REALLY.
It’s right outta ‘Unsolved Mysteries.’ I mean, the minute I saw the gun, my body started to pump adrenalin. Like I thought my heart was gonna squeeze out between my ribs, that’s how bad it was. So how come the adrenalin didn’t get into my brain? Being as the same blood that goes to my heart goes to my head?”

“No mystery,” Blake said. He was threading the Taurus through the perennial construction on the Cross Bronx Expressway, marveling at the layers of dirt and debris on the steep hillside beside the sunken roadway. New York had been a dirty city for as long as he could remember, but parts of the Bronx seemed absolutely abandoned.

“Then maybe you can explain it.” Kosinski held his right hand in front of his face. “See, I’m still shakin’.”

“Simply a case of vapor barrier. That’s all it is. When the alcohol evaporates in your brain, it sets up a barrier that kills adrenaline. And any other normal response to somebody putting a gun in your face. I thought everybody knew that.”

“And I thought you were finished with the booze jokes.”

Blake, to his surprise, found himself taking the question seriously. His relationship with Bell Kosinski had come full circle, that was obvious enough, but something else had changed as well. As his admiration for the pugnacious Kosinski had grown, the anger directed at his father had diminished. It wasn’t a reaction he’d decided to have (any more than Kosinski had decided not to be afraid), but he couldn’t deny it either. He knew if he explained it to his mother (which he definitely wouldn’t), she’d call it growing up. And she’d use her snottiest voice to make the point.

“You were unbelievable,” Blake announced. “With McGuire. You were just fucking great. I won’t say I wanted the judge to do what he did, but you went through him like a tornado through a trailer park.”

Kosinski saw no reason to comment. His part was over and, win or lose, he’d done his job. Which didn’t mean there wouldn’t be any consequences. He felt the tension sliding away, wondered where the bottom was.

“What’s going on, Marty?”

“Pardon?”

“You took the wrong exit. We should be goin’ over the Whitestone Bridge, not the Throgs Neck.”

“That depends on where we’re heading.” Blake glanced at Kosinski. He could sense the ex-cop’s warning antenna begin to vibrate.
Bullllll-
shit,
Bullllll-shit, Bullllll-shit.
That was something else Kosinski and Blake’s father had in common. Whereas Marty Blake had always been able to con his mother, despite her generally cynical nature, he’d never been able to fool Matthew Blake.

“Tell me something, Bell. Do you believe Brannigan?”

“About what?”

“How do we know he wasn’t throwing up a smoke screen?” Blake slowed for the toll, fished a token out of the ashtray. “Suppose they’ve already found the tap in Tillson’s basement. Harrah would have to know you didn’t put it there. That you aren’t his only problem.”

Kosinski rolled down the window, let the cool air wash over his face. “I don’t think it matters. If Harrah comes after me, he’s gonna have to come after you and Max, too. Brannigan as much as admitted it.”

“That’s why you have to vanish.” Blake flipped the token into the basket, then accelerated onto the bridge. “Because Harrah’s not gonna make a move against me or Max until after he takes you out. Remember, I only need a few days to put it all together. Once it hits the papers, there’s nothing Harrah can do but grin and bear it. I spoke to Steinberg this morning. He thinks there’s a good chance Harrah will try to contact him. If that happens, Max is gonna promise to call you off. Or, at least, to try. Add it up, Bell—you disappear; Steinberg kisses some ass; we buy the time we need.”

“When did you make all these decisions?”

“The last day or so.”

“And you made ’em without me bein’ there?”

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“What’s it look like?”

Blake glanced at his partner. Kosinski’s face was flaming. “You were pumped, Bell. I didn’t wanna do anything to bring you down.” He hesitated, finally said it. “I couldn’t take a chance.”

“But you did, Marty. You did take a chance.”

Kosinski was right, of course. Blake knew there was
every
chance that his partner would simply refuse to hide. That Bell Kosinski’s attitude was genuine and the final confrontation was the only part that really mattered to him. The rest of it was just foreplay.

If that’s what it takes, Blake thought, to see it through to the end, then so be it. He’s got as much right to his motives as I have to mine.

Blake exited the Clearview Expressway at Northern Boulevard, made a left at the light, began to work his way east. Kosinski sat quietly, waiting for the bottom line to become clear. He’d left the job convinced that he had nothing more to lose, but the day’s events had rekindled a supposedly dead appetite. And the worst part was that he hadn’t stumbled, that he couldn’t hide behind failure. Blake had ordered him to stampede the cattle and that’s exactly what had happened. That was why Tommy Brannigan, for all his breezy attitude, had been frightened enough to show a gun in a public place.

“Home Sweet Home,” Blake said.

Kosinski looked up to find Blake’s Taurus parked in the courtyard of the Adriatic Motor Inn.

“At least you could have picked a motel with hot and cold running whores,” he said.

“Sorry, Bell. You’re gonna have to settle for HBO and a case of Absolut. The room’s paid for the next three days. Hopefully, it won’t take longer.”

Blake led the way up a flight of stairs and along a ramp to room 9B. He unlocked the door, handed the key to his partner, and walked inside. The single room was done entirely in brown. Chocolate rug, beige walls, tan bedspread, mahogany-stained bureau.

Kosinski looked around, then shook his head. “I’m wearin’ a blue suit,” he said. “It don’t go with the room.”