Love or Honor (11 page)

“The Gent” became such a regular that Chris knew, sooner or later, the information Harry funneled to the DEA—Drug Enforcement Administration—would attract some federal people. From the way some strangers in the club walked and acted and looked around, he pegged them for feds. Chris and Gene had hired a bouncer to stand down at the door and screen people, but he wasn't very good at his job, perhaps because he usually had a girlfriend or two hanging around to keep him company. Chris couldn't blame the kid; he knew from experience that if the law wanted to get in a place, the law would find a way to get in. He assumed that he himself would turn up in surveillance photographs, and one night, when he left, he was sure the feds were on his tail.

Keeping an eye in the rearview mirror, he gunned the car past ninety and, just past an exit ramp, swerved sharply around as their car sped by. He drove almost sideways down the ramp, managing somehow to make it down without hurtling over. He pulled off the service road and parked under the ramp. Then he realized he should have kept going; if they got off the parkway now, they'd nab him readily. How ludicrous it would be to be hauled in for speeding. But no cars came down the ramp. He felt a little sorry for them, knowing how frustrated they must be feeling, having lost him. On the other hand, if he'd taken them home, he'd have had them parked outside his house forever. He hoped it would be a consolation to them when they got “The Gent,” as he heard they eventually did. He heard that Johnny was on his way to Greece, which had no extradition treaty with the United States, when the DEA forced his private plane down over Switzerland, which did.

Gene had been right when he said he knew “a ton of people.” He knew a short man who came in one night and motioned to Gene to move from behind the bar to their little office in back. Gene owed the guy's boss a lot of money.

Chris had been standing beyond the main door. When he saw the guy whip out a gun, Chris walked up behind him and stuck his little automatic in his back. “Put it away,” Chris said calmly. “If you hurt him, you are going to get killed. My partner needs a little more time. You'll get your money. In the meantime, just get the hell out.”

Except for being stared at by the occasional federal agent, Chris wasn't bothered by the law, as he had thought he might be. He'd always been a little worried about being recognized by a cop from the one-fourteen. He'd checked the precinct roster when he went under, and hadn't recognized any names. But you never knew when someone might be transferred there, someone who might know him. Harry was keeping an eye on transfers, but a guy might slip through without Harry noticing. Even if nobody from the precinct recognized him, Chris had expected some kind of crackdown, even a raid. With half a dozen Cadillacs sometimes double-parked on the narrow street at three, four o'clock in the morning, all the lights on upstairs, people coming and going, how could the cops not notice? He was always prepared for an official visit, but the only two visits he had from cops, as far as he knew, were on their own initiative.

The first time, he knew the man was undercover without knowing for sure how he knew. Maybe he'd seen him in the hall at Intel, slipping in or out of a windowless room. Or maybe it just takes one to know one, he thought, as the guy took a seat at the bar. He had a drink. As he ordered his second drink, he said quietly to Chris that he wanted to buy some stuff. “I don't deal in drugs,” Chris said, as sternly as a scoutmaster. “But I can steer you to somebody who does.”

The other two cops who came in were in uniform.

“Whose place is this?” one demanded.

“It's mine,” Chris said. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

The cop didn't answer. He walked around the room, then came back to the bar, where his partner was standing with Chris. He pointed out some building-code violations, including the lack of a banister at the top of the stairs. “You'll have to take care of that,” the cop said. “We'll be back to make sure you take care of it.”

Chris knew then why they had come, and he tried to tip them off. “You're better off leaving this alone,” he said. Looking a little confused, they left. Chris felt bad about it, but he had to report them to Harry. He never asked what had happened, and he really didn't want to know. He hoped they'd just gotten off with a warning. They were young, with their whole careers ahead of them. They needed a warning. Chris could never figure out why a cop would take a few bucks' bribe and then, maybe within the hour, bust into an apartment where he knew a killer with a shotgun was waiting, or venture out onto a tenth-story ledge to try to stop a suicide. And even now that he was on the other side of the fence, he still couldn't figure it out.

Not that he had much time for philosophical musing. Once the C&G Club got going, he rarely got home before sunrise. Sometimes he didn't get home at all, and just napped for a couple of hours on the sofa in the back office. His life was centered around the place. He came to know just about everybody who came and went, except for the two men who came in, just before dawn, when the place was nearly empty.

They looked as though they had stepped right off the screen, from the cast of every gangster movie Chris had ever seen on those Saturday afternoons when Mr. Zuckerman let him in free. They wore hats slouched down over their foreheads and long black overcoats. Chris could hardly believe his eyes. They were truly Damon Runyon characters.

The man who did the talking had a deep, gravelly voice. The other man had a punched-in face, like an old prizefighter's, with a wide, thick scar running down one cheek. He kept his right hand in his overcoat pocket, moving it around under the heavy clothes as though he were fingering a gun, which Chris assumed he was. The man who spoke seemed to have memorized a script, too.

“Who gave you permission to open this place?” he growled. “You guys must be crazy! You gotta have permission!”

Neither Chris nor Gene spoke.

“Who you with?” the man demanded. “The Big G wants to know who you're with. And if you're not with anybody, you're gonna be with us.”

Gene shrugged. “Well, who are you with?” he countered.

“Listen, pal,” the man said. “I know
I'm
with people, but I don't know about you. How much you make here?”

Chris spoke up. “Oh, a couple hundred a week.”

The man frowned. “Listen, we've clocked you, and we know you're doin' good. From now on, you gotta give us five hundred a week.”

Chris grinned at them. “Five hundred a week? Tell you what. You give us five a week, and you take the joint.”

“What are you, a smart guy?” the man growled. The other man moved his hand restlessly in his pocket, and for a moment Chris thought he'd gone too far.

“No, no, he's okay,” Gene cut in hastily. “We have to think about it. Give us a little time to think about it, okay?”

“Okay,” the man said. “You got time. You got one week.”

The two men turned and strode out, shoulder to shoulder.

“Jesus, what is this?” Chris asked Gene. “Is it the jukebox?”

“Naw, I took care of the jukebox guys, and the vending,” Gene said. “These belong to Kostos.”

“But they didn't look Greek,” Chris said.

“They're not. They're Italian,” Gene said. “But they're from Kostos.” He clapped Chris on the shoulder. “I'll take care of it, Curley. I'll call my pal Frankie.”

“But they said they'd be back in a week,” Chris said, trying to sound worried. In fact, he was delighted. He'd wanted to attract attention, to get to the higher-ups, and now they had attention, even though the one with his hand in his pocket had made Chris a little jittery.

“It'll be okay,” Gene assured him. “I'll take care of it.”

Chris's instincts had been right: The small-timers were the way to go. Gene's friend Frankie was the nephew of a Mafia figure who'd had an interesting, active career. His résumé included a position as chauffeur for the boss of the Luchese crime family at the famous crime convention in Apalachin, New York, when some five dozen high-ranking mobsters were rounded up by the law. Although he appeared to be semiretired now—“My uncle's out on Long Island, feeding the pigeons,” Frankie told Gene—he liked keeping a hand in, keeping up with things.

He told Frankie to tell the boys—Chris and Gene—that he'd set up a meeting for them with a man named Solly, at the restaurant and cocktail lounge of the Kew Motor Inn, farther out in Queens. “My uncle will take care of it,” Frankie assured Gene, who passed the word to Chris, who couldn't help thinking that the operating principle in OC seemed like that in any business anywhere: It wasn't so much what you knew, as who.

“What if I need to reach you sometime?” Liz asked. “What if there's an emergency or something?”

She pushed her food around on her plate with the tip of her fork. “I hardly ever see you, and I don't even know where to get in touch with you, if I need you.” She sounded tired and cross.

Chris was tired, too. “Have you needed to get in touch with me?” he countered.

“That's not the point,” Liz said. She paused. “No, as a matter of fact, I haven't needed to, and I haven't even
wanted
to. Because I know you wouldn't have anything to say to me.”

She got up from the table and took her plate to the sink. She scraped the food into the trash, put the plate in the sink and turned on the tap.

“Well, sometimes I call you and you're not home,” Chris snapped. “What if
I
need to reach
you?
I don't always know where you are, either.”

“You're smoking again,” Liz said, without turning around.

“That's right,” Chris said. “I'm smoking again.”

Liz turned off the water, dried her hands and walked out of the room.

Chris put down his fork. He wasn't hungry anymore, either. The happy evening he'd planned, a kind of reunion, was a disaster.

Liz had been delighted to find him home when she got in from the city, where she'd had a tryout for an industrial show. “I think I got it!” she said, hugging him. “I'm almost sure I got it! Oh, it's good to have you home. I'll take a quick shower and we'll go out to dinner.”

Chris hugged her, then stepped back. He should have said, “Hey, it's so good to be home, and I'm so tired, let's stay home together.” Instead, he told the exact truth. “I can't go out, and please don't ask me why. I just can't go out.”

Liz's smile faded as he continued quickly. “But I picked up some steaks, and stuff for a salad, and a good burgundy. You go relax—I'm the cook here.”

It hadn't worked. Now, Chris put away the food and roamed restlessly around the apartment. He heard Liz running a bath. He felt edgy and trapped. He wondered whether he might take a chance, patch things up with her, take her someplace to hear some jazz. If anybody saw them, Chris could introduce her as his girlfriend.

Of course he couldn't. He'd have to set her up with a story beforehand, without being able to explain why. That would make things worse. Better to stay home and try to coax her back into a good mood.

He poured two glasses of wine. When she came into the living room, he drew her down beside him on the sofa, and handed her a glass. “Let's not fight,” he said. “Let's just enjoy being together, okay?” Liz didn't answer, but she took the glass and settled down next to him. “Let's go in the bedroom and watch a movie on TV,” Chris said. “Stretch out and relax.” Then he leaned closer. “I've got a better idea. Let's just go in the bedroom.”

“I've missed you,” Liz murmured, as they lay nestled together. “I've missed you too,” Chris said.

“Are you coming at Christmas?” Liz asked softly.

“Hey, that's a long way off,” Chris said. “Sure I'm coming at Christmas. I wouldn't miss Christmas.”

Liz sighed contentedly. “Let's sleep late,” she murmured. “I want you in the morning.”

“Sounds good,” Chris said. Then his eyes flew open. “Dammit, I can't. I have to leave early.” He pulled himself out of bed and found the alarm clock. When he'd told Harry about the meeting coming up at the Kew, Harry had said to meet him at seven, at a post office in Manhattan, to talk about it.

He set the alarm for five-thirty, got back into bed and reached for Liz again. But she had turned her back to him. She seemed to be asleep, though Chris was sure she wasn't.

They should have gotten a bachelor for this job, he thought unhappily. A guy with no ties. He'd give her Harry's phone numbers in case she needed to reach him.

He should have thought of that before. He should have thought of a lot of things before. He should have remembered that in the real world, he was a married man. Liz must have noticed he wasn't wearing his wedding ring.

4

If anyone had ever told Chris that a time would come when he would appreciate Lieutenant Blanchard, he would have been speechless with disbelief.

Chris had hated only two people in his life. There were people he didn't like much, for one reason or another, and some he tried to avoid, but he'd actually hated, with a deep bitterness, only twice. As a child, he'd hated the woman who was godmother to one of his sisters. She was mean to him. She would hit him, for no reason that he could tell, whenever she had the chance. Chris's father had never hit him; his mother had given him a smack on the rear end, once in a while, if she felt he needed it. But this old woman had once slapped him across the face so hard, when his mother wasn't in the room, that his head spun to the side. He didn't cry; he just stared at her, hating her, thinking, you have no right to hit me, you old bitch. Even when he was grown, he would ask his mother to let him know when that woman was coming to visit, so he wouldn't be in the house.

Lieutenant Blanchard was his tactical officer in the army. When Chris enlisted, he was sent to Fort Dix, New Jersey, for his basic training. He found he liked the order and routine of military life. It seemed a rational, respectable way to live, and he decided to make the army his career. Since he didn't have a college degree, he had to take a test for Officers Candidate School. The test was hard, and Chris was pessimistic. The sergeant skimmed over the test papers as Chris stood by his desk, nervously.