The Barbed-Wire Kiss (8 page)

“That’s a surprise.”

“Bureaucracy is no friend to the steadfast and righteous. Verily, I say it unto thee. Pull up a chair.”

They sat down. Ray opened the envelope, took out four sheets of paper, slid them across the desk.

“Now you’re going to look at these,” he said, “and then we’re going to talk.”

Harry spread out the sheets. They were black-and-white copies of eight-by-ten photos, taken from about a half block away.

“These came in as part of a regular surveillance detail,” Ray said. “They were taken last week up in Bloomfield.”

The photos were in sequence, all apparently shot within minutes of each other. Each showed an elderly man standing on the sidewalk outside a storefront restaurant. Eddie Fallon was in all of them. In the first two, he and the old man were deep in conversation, heads inches apart. In the third one, they were embracing. In the last, Fallon was getting into the passenger side of a dark Lexus.

“Some coincidence, eh?” Ray said. “I call him out of the blue to ask about somebody and a day later these photos come across his desk. I didn’t tell him much, but I’m sure it aroused his curiosity. Recognize the goombah?”

“Just the type.”

“That’s Paolo Andelli. ‘Paulie One-Eye’ on account his left one is glass. Somebody put his real one out in a cellblock riot in Rahway in the fifties. He’s running the Scarpettis now since the feds put Al and his brother away last year. Funny thing is, before that, Paulie was a loose cannon, nobody wanted to put him in charge of anything. He was too much of a hothead.”

“Where is this place?”

“A restaurant where he holds court most of the time. That is, when he’s not at home pretending to be a grandfather or in a hotel bed with his mistress, trying to get it up. MCU, the feds, practically everybody knows about that restaurant. They watch it all the time. Andelli always goes outside to talk business, because the inside’s wired seven ways from Sunday. Everybody knows it. Makes you wonder why they bother.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“When I was with the OC Strike Force he was never more than a minor player. He’s been on the sidelines all these years, getting old, waiting for his turn to come. He runs a waste-hauling firm, a vending machine company, all the same shit you’ve heard a thousand times. He’s got a house in Florham Park, another down in Brick. Until they let the brothers out, which is not ever gonna happen, he’s the man.”

“When exactly were these photos taken?”

“Thursday morning.”

“Had Fallon ever shown up there before?”

“He was a new face, that’s why he caught their eye at MCU. They figured out who he was quickly enough, but I don’t think they’d placed him with Andelli before. Now, of course, they’ve taken an interest. Does all this mean anything to you?”

“Not really. Not yet, at least.”

“Would you tell me if it did?”

“Yes. I’m not jerking your chain here, Ray. Where Andelli fits into this, if at all, I don’t know.”

“Well, let me just say this, then. These are serious people, Harry. They have their hands in a lot of things. If your friend is mixed up with them in any way, it may be time to get someone else involved.”

“A little early for that. There might not be any connection at all.”

“No connection? Out of nowhere you ask me about somebody, and two days later I get photos of him up close and personal with a top LCN guy. You call that coincidence?”

“Might be.”

Ray frowned.

“Well, there’s something else interesting about these photos, anyway,” he said. “The last one, at least.”

Harry looked at it. Only the front half of the Lexus was in the frame, but the driver’s face was partially visible, his tinted window halfway down. Something about the profile jogged his memory.

Ray tapped the photo with the eraser end of a pencil. “Recognize him? You should.”

He looked at the face again. The feeling was stronger now, but the connection still eluded him. He shook his head.

“That’s Mickey Dunleavy,” Ray said.

Harry looked at the hard features, the short dark hair.

“Yeah,” he said. “It could be, I guess. I didn’t know him well.”

“It is. One of the MCU guys on the surveillance team had been with him in Troop D. That’s Dunleavy, all right. Landed on his feet as usual. They should have put him away when they had the chance.”

“I followed the trial in the papers. Hard to believe he got off.”

“No one wants to send a state trooper to prison, no matter how bad a guy he is. Far as the jury was concerned, he was a brave soldier in the War on Drugs. Hard to tell what side he was on, though.”

“What’s he doing with Fallon?”

“Good question. Last anyone heard, he headed down to Florida after the trial was over. A lot of people were hoping he’d stay there.”

Harry looked through the sheets again.

“I have to tell you that as far as our mutual benefactor at MCU is concerned, this is a quid pro quo arrangement,” Ray said. “For giving me these photos, he’ll be expecting something in return. Any information I get on Fallon or his friends that might pertain to an ongoing investigation, I’ll have to pass on to him. So don’t put me in the middle. You can tell these guys to go polish their knobs, but I’m a black man in a white man’s business. I’ve got to live with them. And keeping good relations with them makes my job a hell of a lot easier.”

“I’m not holding anything out on you. It’s just that it’s hard to see where this is going so far. If I find out anything that’s relevant …”

“… you’ll let me know.”

“Yes.”

Ray sat back. “Don’t forget me, Harry. And don’t forget my offer. You still have a taste for the Life. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be involved in this. You’re a natural to it. Why piss those skills away?”

“That a compliment or an insult?”

“Both, I guess. You’ve got to go back to work eventually, you know, some kind of job, whether you need the money or not. It’s not healthy, living out there by yourself, sitting on your ass all day, not doing a goddamn thing.”

“I’ve worked on the house, the car.”

“That’s not the same. You know what I mean. You’ve had some rough times. A lot of things that probably seem like they all came down at once. And maybe you’re a little bit scared. But you need to get out there again, Harry. You need to reconnect. Reengage.”

“Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do.”

He stood up.

“I appreciate your calling me,” he said. “If nothing else, I have a better idea who I’m dealing with.”

“Still sticking to the five P’s, eh? ‘Proper Planning Prevents Poor Performance.’ That was your mantra in the old days.”

“Yeah, I guess it was.”

“I hope it still is, partner. Watch yourself.”

As soon as he pulled into the lot of the shooting range, he could hear the unmistakable popping of a handgun.

He parked beside Bobby’s pickup, got out. Aside from another, newer pickup, the lot was empty. It was an outdoor range, with a shack for an office and a covered wooden platform that looked out on a long stretch of bare ground. At the end of the range were bulldozed mounds of dirt high enough to catch stray bullets. Beyond them were woods. He walked toward the sound of the shots.

Bobby had the firing platform to himself. He stood at a table behind the railing, the Glock in a two-handed grip, squeezing off shots, taking his time. Brass clattered onto the walkway and the smell of cordite was sharp in the air.

He fired twice more and the slide locked back empty. He ejected the clip, set the gun on the table.

“What’s that come out to?” Harry said as he stepped up onto the platform. “About fifty cents a bullet?”

Bobby looked at him. “More like seventy-five. I’m just finishing up. How’d you find me?”

“I called the boatyard and they told me you’d left early.”

On the table was another full clip, a leather handgun case, and a plastic spackle container, the bottom of which was already lined with spent shell casings.

“I had some comp time coming. I wanted a chance to get away, think for a little while.”

He took the full magazine, slid it into the grip until it seated. He thumbed off the slide lock, and the mechanism slid forward and chambered a round. He held the gun out, butt first.

“No, thanks,” Harry said.

Bobby stepped up to the railing, the gun in his right hand. He braced his wrist with his left hand, aimed at the man-sized paper target mounted on a pole about twenty-five yards away. Harry stepped back as he began to fire. The gun jumped in his hand, the crack loud and flat in the air. A casing flew between them.

Harry couldn’t see where the shot had gone. Bobby steadied off, closed one eye, and squeezed again. This time the bullet nicked the top right edge of the target.

“It pulls high and to the right a little,” Bobby said. “Like I said, it’s light, so it kicks.”

He fired three more times in quick succession, the bullets marching across the target from right to left. Gray smoke drifted around him. He paused again, adjusting his aim, and then began to fire steadily at one-second intervals, the gun rising in his hand, the sound of the shots echoing back at them from the wall of dirt. Star-shaped holes ran in a diagonal pattern across the center of the target.

“Not bad,” Harry said.

He counted seven shots before the slide locked back. Bobby ejected the clip, cleared the breech, set the gun on the table.

“I had a little luck today,” he said.

“How’s that?”

Bobby put the gun in the case, the two empty clips in an inner side pouch.

“Guy I know, I did some work on his boat on the side. He’s owed me money since January. I called him yesterday and he managed to come across with some of it today. Fifteen hundred.”

“That’s good.”

Bobby knelt and began to pick up shell casings from the walkway. He dropped them clinking into the bucket.

“And I went to the bank this morning too, cashed in a CD. Took a hit on it, but that’s another two thousand. So I’ve got thirty-five hundred I can give him right away.”

“That’s a start. I’ll make the call, set it up.”

“You don’t need to do that. Christ, I can take him the goddamn money.”

“Better if it’s me. Right now he’s a little nervous, and that’s to our advantage. I’m an unknown quantity to him, so he’ll want to be careful.”

Bobby tucked the gun case beneath his arm, picked up the bucket.

“You sure about that?”

Harry nodded.

They went to the office, where a half door opened onto the walkway. Bobby nodded to the old man inside, who handed him a clipboard, a ballpoint pen attached to it with string. On the wall behind the old man, Harry could see boxes of ammunition stacked on shelves, orange ear protectors hanging from nails. Bobby signed out, handed back the clipboard. They went down the steps to the parking lot.

“So why’d you come out here?” Bobby said.

He unlocked the tool chest welded to the bed of his pickup, set the gun case and bucket inside.

“I had some luck this morning too,” Harry said.

Bobby locked the chest again.

“What do you mean?”

Harry took a thick bank envelope from the back pocket of his jeans, held it out.

“What’s this?” Bobby said.

“It’s not much, but along with what you already raised, it should keep him quiet for a while. Consider it a loan. You can pay me back when all this gets settled.”

Bobby took the envelope, opened the end flap. He looked at the hundred-dollar bills inside.

“Take it,” Harry said. “If you don’t want to tell Janine about it, then don’t. I’m sure you’re good for it.”

“How much is in here?”

“Five thousand.”

“I can’t take this.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I’m the one who screwed up, not you.”

“Did I say otherwise?”

Bobby leaned against the tailgate, closed the flap of the envelope.

“Five is too much,” he said.

“I can afford it.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I don’t want to get into this with you, Bobby. Take the money. If you want to thank me, do it by getting this business straightened out before someone gets foolish. For Janine’s sake if nothing else.”

Bobby tapped the envelope against his knee, looked at it again.

“You’ll get this back,” he said.

“I know.”

Bobby looked away, squinting in the sun.

“But that’s not the only reason I came out,” Harry said. “Some new information turned up that you should know about.”

“What kind?”

Harry told him about the photos, about Andelli and Dunleavy. When he was done, Bobby took a long breath, let it out, and stared into the distance.

“This just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it?” he said.

“You needed to know.”

“So how does this affect me?”

“Maybe not at all. I’m not telling you this to scare you.”

“I’m not scared. Just pissed. Pissed at Fallon, pissed at myself. You know this Dunleavy?”

“By reputation mostly. We met once or twice. He chose to stay on the road as a trooper. Our paths didn’t cross much.”

“And what was his reputation?”

“Bad.”

“Meaning what?”

“He was the kind of trooper who specialized in stopping people for DWB.”

“DWB?”

“Driving While Black. When that whole racial-profiling issue broke a few years back, he was at the center of it. He already had half a dozen lawsuits against him for excessive force. Then he ended up in a shooting incident, down in Cocaine Alley.”

“Where?”

“Cocaine Alley. That’s what we called that stretch of Turnpike through Camden County. We used to catch a lot of drugs in motor vehicle stops there, people driving up from Florida with garbage bags full of pot in their trunk, that sort of thing. He worked that area for a long time, made a lot of arrests.”

“What happened?”

“One night he pulled over this van, two black guys in it. He later said he stopped them because they were driving erratically, but I don’t think anyone believed that. The way he told it, when he went up to the window, the driver reached beneath the seat, as if going for a weapon. He opened fire, killed the driver, wounded the passenger and a ten-year-old girl who was sleeping in the backseat.”