Lush Life (40 page)

"Let me just ask, just for my own . . . This Eric Cash . . ."

Fuck.

"Just . . ." Billy reading his mind. "You're him, OK? Now . . . The guy shot your friend, knows you're the only eyewitness. Wouldn't you be worried that that guy might be coming back to tie up loose ends? Wouldn't you be in fear for your life? Wouldn't you get the hell out of Dodge until the cops catch this guy? But this Cash, correct me if I'm wrong, he doesn't do that."

"Billy . . ."

"As far as I know, he still lives where he lives, works where he works, goes about his business like there's nothing, nobody out there to fear. Why is that?"

"Don't do this to yourself," Matty said.

"Can you say to me one hundred percent that he didn't do it?" Squinting up at him.

"That what?"

"Is that the real reason they didn't give him immunity?"

"Look, it's an open homicide. They didn't give him immunity because they don't give anyone immunity. They wouldn't give you immunity. Do you understand that?"

"But still, can you say to me, 'Billy, one hundred percent, the guy didn't do it.' "

"Listen-"

"Say that to me. Say, 'Billy, one hundred percent.' "

"I never say that."

"OK, then." Bobbing his head. He seemed almost happy.

Over his shoulder, Nina's face was smeared into the heel of her hand as she watched the people passing by on Pitt.

"But this time I will. One hundred percent, he didn't do it."

Flustered, Billy stepped in place like a counting horse.

"I mean, I'm not saying he's the guy, like, pulled the trigger," Billy talking to himself now as much as to Matty. "I'm just ... I think maybe he's got something to hide."

Did you hear what I said?" Matty leaned in to him.

"Had a bad day," Billy muttered. "Yeah, true, no kidding, I'll grant him that. He had a very bad day . . ."

"Billy, listen to me."

"But you know who had the worst day of all? My son. My son had the worst possible day you can have."

And with that, Billy returned to the car, Matty watching him go. As nuts as he was, Matty thought, the guy at least had some pep in his step, and why not . . . For today at least, he had found his demon.

Just as Big Dap said, "What the fuck I tell you about that shit?" to Little Dap, who was putting the finishing touches on a laundry-marker dick in the ear of the soldier on the bus-shelter recruiting poster, the corner of Oliver and St. James became awash in the fluttering light atop the Quality of Life taxi; both Daps and everyone else automatically and forbearingly turning their eyes skyward as if posing for a religious painting.

"You tell him to do that?" Lugo asked Big Dap as he stepped from the taxi, Daley, Scharf, and Geohagan exiting after him in a triple slam of car doors.

"What?" Big Dap said, raising his hands. "Nah."

"Vandalize government property?" Lugo began patting him down. "Sabotage the war against terror?"

"Tell his ass," Big Dap drawled, roughly jerking his chin towards his brother; Little Dap in for it now.

"Who, Lex Luthor here?" Daley muttered, going into Little Dap's pockets. "This kid ever had an original thought, it would die of loneliness."

Standing off to the side, Tristan watched a play that he'd seen more times than he could count. Ever since Big Dap got away with leg
-
shooting that cop last year, half the squad cars in the precinct had his mug pasted to the dash; as in, ball-break on sight.

"Holy cow there, Dap," Lugo said, pulling a fat wad of cash from one of Big Daps knee-high basketball socks. "What's the what on this?"

"I got to buy a crib," Big Dap murmured, looking off.

"An apartment?"

"Naw, a crib. For the baby."

"You got a lot more here than just for that."

"I don't know how much it cost."

"Trust me. I'm a veteran. But so, where'd you get all this?" "Bank."

"You have a bank account? Which bank?"

"On the, by Grand Street there, it's my mother's bank. I don't know the name of it."

"First Horseshit?" Scharf said. "Could be."

"We should voucher that," Geohagan said. "As' my mother, man."

"We will," Lugo said. "In fact, if this is her money, she can come down to the Eighth and claim it."

Big Dap shook his head in sorrowful amusement. "Come on," Lugo said. "Let's count it together so we both know how much we're talking about."

Dap looked away, drawled, "Motherfuckers prolly take it anyhow." "Prolly what?" Lugo squinted, his mouth open in concentration. "Nothin', man."

"Please." Lugo leaning in to get up in his face. "I'm a little hard of hearing."

"Hey, man, do what you gonna do." Dap craning his neck to get some space. "'Cause y'all are like that anyhow." "Like what?"

"Go on, man, you take it and I'll see you when I see you." "Excuse me?"

"I'll see you when I'll see you." "Are you threatening me?" "What?"

"Did he just threaten me?" Lugo asked Tristan.

Lugo abruptly stepped on Big Dap's foot just hard enough for him to have to swing an arm forward to try to keep his balance; assaulting an officer; then chest-popped him to the ground.

Hey, shooter." Lugo standing astride him. "You know what this is? This is the song that never ends. I got no fucking qualms with you."

Lugo tossed the wad of dough backhand onto Big Dap's chest, then along with the other Quality of Lifers returned to the taxi and peeled out without looking back.

Big Dap ignored the money sliding off his body as he got to his feet and brushed himself off, everyone around him suddenly animated with outrage, Little Dap, in for a beatdown now, the loudest, cursing out the cops as he raced around picking up the strewn dollars.

Tristan stood quietly on the sidelines watching him hop around like a Chinatown chicken.

"Jimmy Crack Corn motherfuckers," Little Dap muttered. "Yo, Dap, you best count this."

"Just pick the shit up." Waving him off.

"Ey, yo," Tristan murmured. "Come here, man."

"You see me here?" Little Dap stalk-eyed as he continued to bob for dollars.

Tristan just waved him over again, then waited.

"What"

"I want that whistle back," Tristan murmured, looking off.

"The what? Hell no. I told you that's my insurance against you bitching out."

"I want it." Not even looking at him.

"Yeah, huh?" Little Dap started to walk away.

"You can give it to me or I'll fuckin' come get it," Tristan said as if talking to himself.

Little Dap turned back and stared at him.

"All right." Tristan shrugged, then started for home. "I guess I'll see you when I see you, hah?"

Little Dap continued to stare after Tristan until his own brother said, "What the fuck I tell you about doin' that stupid shit," then met his turning head with a punch to the temple that had him dancing halfway across the street.

The chirp of his cell had Matty upright and blinking in the dark, the time on the cable box 3:15. "Yeah."

"Well, they finally went and did it." Lindsay, his upstate ex, sounded hysterically perky. "Did what."

"Got themselves arrested."

"What?"

"I just said."

"Who did. The boys?"

"Yes. The boys."

"What happened." His scalp coming alive.

"I just told you."

"What did they get arrested for."

"For?"

"For. Like, what are the charges." He swung to the side of the bed. "I don't know. It was pot." "Possession, distribution . . ."

"I don't know. By the way, thanks for having that man-to-man with them when they were down with you, it really paid off."

"Where'd this happen?" Matty got to his feet, promptly banged into the corner of something. "In town."

"In town. Lake George?" "Yeah. That's where we live."

"OK. Matty Junior, he has his union attorney, doesn't he?"

"I guess. Isn't that automatic?"

"How about Eddie?"

"How about Eddie what?"

"You're killing me, Lindsay."

"Excuse me?"

He held up his hands in surrender, as if she could see through the phone. "Does Eddie have an attorney."

"I don't know. Wouldn't Matty Junior's guy cover him too?" "Not at all."

"Well, wouldn't Matty Junior get him one?" "If he's looking out for him, but . . ."

He felt his way to the balcony, wrestled open the sliding door, the night air racing up his boxers.

"You know what? Just give me the number up there." Then, through gritted teeth, "Thanks so much."

"Lake George Public Safety, Sergeant Towne."

"Hey, how you doing, Sarge. This is Detective Sergeant Matty Clark, NYPD." Then, wincing, "I understand my sons were arrested, Matthew Clark, Edward Clark?"

"You understand right."

"May I talk to the arresting officer?"

"He's out in the field."

"How about his supervisor?"

Towne breathed through his nose, muttered, "Hold on."

Matty assumed that the cops up there were probably talking to the boys right now, and no way would they want him in the mix; if he were in their shoes, and he had been, too many times to count, he wouldn't want himself in the mix either; a kiss-my-ass New York City detective on top of everything else, Matty telling himself: Step lightly or listen to the dial tone.

"This is Sergeant Randolph, how can I help you?"

"Yeah, hey, Sarge, this is Detective Sergeant Matty Clark, NYPD. I understand you're holding my sons?"

"We are."

"Can I ask on what charge?"

"We're still working on that. Basically CP."

"CP ... CP one? CP five? Ballpark . . ."

There was a long pause, then, "Like I already said, we're working on that."

"I understand," Matty said mildly. "Can you tell me how much weight we're talking about?"

"No, I really can't."

"Do you know if they have representation?"

"No one's called that I know."

"The older one's got a union rep though, correct?"

"I would imagine so." The guy enjoying this.

"Can I speak to them?"

"Well, ones sleeping right now, the others being fingerprinted, so . . ."

"If its not too much trouble, can you wake up the sleeping one? I'd really appreciate it."

"How's about I have him call you when he gets up on his own."

Matty stared at the phone in his hand.

"All right, look, I have been doing this for twenty years. I have been on your side of this conversation for twenty years. And if I had your sons in custody and you were calling me

"My sons are four and eight," Randolph said.

Breathe.

"Sarge, as a professional courtesy, I'm asking you . . . Don't talk to them without representation. Do the right thing here."

"We always do the right thing."

"No doubt. And, I would truly appreciate, again, as a professional courtesy, speaking to one of my sons. Please."

There was another power pause, then, "You're from New York City?"

"Yes. I'm from New York City."

"Went there about five years ago? Charged me nine dollars for a domestic beer."

"Well, you probably went somewheres near your hotel. Next time you're in town I'd be happy to take you around my neck of the woods, we can knock back all the three-dollar beers you can handle."

Another power pause, then, "Hang on."

Now that he was about to get his wish, Matty felt himself abruptly crashing; he had no real desire to talk to either of his kids.

Still on hold, he glanced down and saw a lone figure dressed in what seemed to be tinfoil, striding north on otherwise deserted Essex Street.

"Hullo?" It was the big one, his voice thick and slightly glottal.

"Hey, it's me. You OK?"

"What do you think?" Like Matty was the idiot.

"What do I think? I think you have a serious problem. I think at the very least you just lost your tin."

"I got woken up to hear this shit?"

"Are you talking to them, Matty? Tell me you're not talking to them."

Tm not a fool." "No?" "What?" Breathe.

"How much weed they get you with?"

"Youre asking me on the phone?"

"You have your attorney?"

"He's coming."

"What about your brother?"

"What about him?"

"What about him?"

"I believe Mom's handling that."