“You’re a good man, Johnny,” he said. “Always were.”

  Johnny picked up the sweatshirt, pulled it back on.

  “Lindell,” Joey said. “Viktor, Tuco. Give us a moment. Please.”

  Lindell came over to him, put his hand out. Johnny caught it in the soul shake, and Lindell pulled him close, patted him on the back. It felt stiff, formal, as if done for Joey’s benefit alone.

  “Catch up with you later,” he said. Then to Joey: “I’ll be downstairs.”

  When they were alone, Joey gestured at the door. Johnny closed it. Joey sat back down behind the desk.

  “United Fucking Nations,” Johnny said.

  Joey laughed.

  “Yeah, land of opportunity, right? Have a seat, man. It’s been a long time.”

  Johnny pulled the chair closer to the desk, sat down. Joey picked up the cigar, then seemed to think better of it, put it back in the ashtray.

  “First things first,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “What happened down there.”

  Johnny shrugged, took his cigarettes out of the field jacket.

  “They offered me a deal,” he said. “I told them to go fuck themselves.”

  “I know.”

  Johnny got a cigarette lit. Joey pushed the ashtray toward him.

  “I had no idea what was going on down there,” he said.

  “With Cardosa. I should have figured he’d be a fucking rat too, on top of everything else.”

  Johnny looked around the office.

  “Don’t worry. I get it swept once a week. Phones too. We’re clean.”

  “New faces around.”

  “Not that many. You know Tuco, right?”

  “Looks like he’s come up in the world since I’ve been away.”

  “You left a vacuum, Johnny. Big shoes to fill. Not that anybody could fill them. But you were missed, you know? So I brought him up a little. Balls like a bull, that guy. Not the smartest, but he’ll do any goddamn thing I tell him and not ask twice.”

  “That what you used to say about me?”

  “That’s not even funny, John. There’s no comparison.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “Viktor? Just over here a year or so. Only twenty-eight but he was in the Russian Army. Tough kid. Came over here not speaking a word of English. Now he runs this place for me. Fast learner.”

  “Russian.”

  “Yeah, but none of that Organizatsiya bullshit. Just a guy looking to make a living. His girlfriend was over here, working at one of my places up in North Jersey, dancing. He used to come around. That’s how I got to know him. Half of the girls in those places now are Russian, Polish.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “But Viktor, that guy never took a fall in his life—at least not in the States. He’s got a green card and everything. That’s why he’s useful to me. Things are a little different around here now.”

  “That’s what Lindell was telling me.”

  “That bullshit in Florida, with Cardosa, it was like a wake-up call. A fucking twenty-grand deal and the whole thing blew up in our faces. I mean, look at what you went through. And for what?”

  “I wondered that same thing myself.”

  “The way it fell out … it made me reevaluate some things. I mean, guys like Cardosa, you deal with them, you don’t really know what you’re getting into, do you? Who could have known the guy was working for the Feds down there? Lowlifes like that, there’s no sense of honor. Who could believe the guy would get up in open court, testify against you?”

  “Maybe he felt he didn’t have anything to lose. Being as how I tried to kill him.”

  “Regardless. You trade with people like that, you run a risk. You’re better off without them.”

  “Too bad you didn’t figure that out before I went down there.”

  Joey raised his hands.

  “Who knew? Like I said, if I’d had any idea, I would have done things differently. But if it’s any consolation, that fucking guy got what was coming to him anyway.”

  “I heard.”

  “And nobody shed a tear, including the Feds. They probably felt he’d served his purpose anyway, you know? So they saved the time and expense of putting him in the WitSec program, starting a new life for him out in Bumfuck, Iowa. They’d probably thank me if they could.”

  Johnny nodded at the door.

  “Tuco?”

  Joey smiled.

  “Balls like a bull, like I said. But the point is, that lying motherfucker Cardosa is never coming back. And I did that for you. Out of respect.”

  “Thanks.”

  “At that point, the other things, the money, I could have written it off to experience, you know, moved on. It wasn’t worth the trouble. But what happened with you … there was no way that was going to stand. Even with the risk. There was a principal involved. Loyalty.”

  Johnny leaned forward, tapped his cigarette in the ashtray. The cigar had gone out.

  “It hurt me when you took that fall, John. Nine fucking years. I couldn’t believe it.”

  Johnny shrugged, sat back.

  “Lindell talk to you?” Joey said.

  “A little.”

  “Then you know things have changed. I used to have to ask permission, get blessings, to make a move. I don’t anymore.”

  “What about your uncle?”

  “What about him? He’s still around, but for how long, who knows? He’s practically retired already.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Believe it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s still my uncle. He hooked me up in the past, protected me when I needed it. And hey, I’m not foolish enough to think his name didn’t grease some wheels for me. But that was then. The landscape’s different now.”

  “Hard to imagine Tony Acuna like that, retired.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it. Someday, maybe, I’ll want to do the same. He stays at home, grows his grapes, takes his cut, what gets kicked up to him. He doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t work for it. But what are you gonna do? He gets to relax now, go back to Italy once a year. He’s happy. He leaves me alone to do my business.”

  “What about his crew?”

  “You can hardly call it that anymore. The ones around him—that fucking Frankie Santelli and the others—they’re all old men, like him. So my uncle keeps a small slice of the pie, some stuff out at the Port, but it’s nothing. A gesture. It just rolls in; he doesn’t have to do shit.”

  “So who’s calling the shots these days?”

  “Nobody. That’s the beauty of it. Those old parasites are off our backs. The Scarpettis, they used to have their hands in everyone’s pockets. You couldn’t do shit without them taxing your ass. They’re out of the picture almost totally now. That crazy old fuck, Paulie One-Eye, he’s under indictment. If he goes in, he ain’t never getting out. His crew’s a shambles. So there were all kinds of things on the ground, waiting to be picked up. And other things they’d never even thought of.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Hey, when I started putting things together, I did it my own way, handpicked my own people—by reputation, by brains. Not because of their uncle’s mother’s maiden name or what part of the Boot they came from. What I’ve got going is business—a real business. And I run it that way. I’m into a lot of things now, Johnny. Things that were just a dream a few years back.”

  Johnny lit a new cigarette off the old one, pinched out the butt and put it in the ashtray.

  “But being able to get to that position … I owe a lot of that to you. You gave seven years of your life to solve a problem for me, let me get another couple of rungs up the ladder. I took advantage of that opportunity. I won’t forget your sacrifice.”

  He opened a drawer in the desk, took out a bulky manila envelope and a cardboard box the size of a hardcover book, set both beside the ashtray. The box had weight to it.

  “Go ahead,” Joey said, pushing the envelope forward. “Have a look.”

  He sat back again, smiling.

  Johnny left the cigarette in his mouth, took the envelope. He looked at Joey and then undid the clasp. Bank-wrapped currency slid into his lap.

  “I still owe you fifteen for what you did down there,” Joey said. “I put it aside, computed the interest, seven years at the current prime rate as of Monday, plus a bonus. So that’s twenty of what I owe you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And there’s another fifteen there as well.”

  “What for?”

  “A gesture. And a retainer.”

  Johnny looked at the stacks of money, riffed the edges of one of them. Hundreds.

  “If you want me to put some of that to work,” Joey said, “I could double it for you in six months’ time.”

  “On the street?”

  Joey shook his head.

  “I have so little money on the street now, I couldn’t care less. It’s a fraction of what I’ve got working for me.”

  “Then what?”

  “Real estate. In terms of the investment-to-profit ratio, you can’t touch it. Things are going through the roof in this state now, and land is the one asset that never depreciates. I own about a dozen properties in Monmouth County alone. Christ, I own half of Asbury Park. With the redevelopment that’s going on there, it’s a gold mine. Already I’ve got a couple deals that are turning over money like somebody was printing it.”

  “Scams?”

  “Little of this, little of that. Most of it’s straightforward. Quick things, though. In and out and cover your tracks afterward. I have a sweet deal I’ve been working with properties in niggertowns all over the state. It’s absolutely untouchable. And no one has any idea it’s happening. I even have an office in Middletown. Mortgages and shit.”

  He waved a hand to encompass the room.

  “I almost never come to this place anymore. No reason to. Only reason I did tonight is because I thought you might be more comfortable here, since it was a place you knew.”

  Johnny put the money back in the envelope, worked the clasp.

  “What’s in the box?”

  “A present. Go on, open it.”

  Johnny bent forward and picked up the box, knew what it was. He set it in his lap, opened the flaps, lifted the lid. Inside was a thin sheet of gray packing foam. Beneath it, nestled in more foam, was a Sig Sauer 228, nine-millimeter, flat black with plastic grips. Alongside it, resting in silhouette grooves, were two clips.

  “Sweet, isn’t it?” Joey said. “Your favorite, right?”

  He had used a Sig in Florida, had been forced to drop it into a canal near his motel a half hour before the Feds arrested him. They’d dragged the canal but hadn’t found it. The gun in front of him was a mirror image of the one he’d lost. He took it out, hefted it.

  “Brand-new, at least as far as it goes,” Joey said. “I’ve had it for three years, waiting to give it to you. Never been fired.”

  The Sig was unloaded, the clips empty. Johnny pointed the muzzle at the floor, worked the slide. The action was smooth, easy, oiled.

  “Well?” Joey said.

  “It’s good.” He put the gun back into the foam. “Thanks.”

  “Least I could do. So what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking there’s a reason you gave this to me. And it’s got nothing to do with real estate.”

  Joey laughed, sat back.

  “It’s a gift. Really. To replace something you lost. That’s all.”

  He opened another drawer, took out two cardboard boxes of shells, set them on the desk.

  “Almost forgot these,” he said. “Save you some trouble trying to buy them.”

  Johnny took one of the boxes, slid it open, looked at the brass cartridges standing nose up inside. He closed the box.

  “I need another favor too,” he said.

  “Name it.”

  “I’m looking for Nikki.”

  “Who?” A pause. “You mean that chick you used to be with? Back in the day?”

  “Yeah. Her.”

  “If you want a woman, John, I can make a phone call, take two seconds.”

  Johnny shook his head.

  “It’s not that way. I want to talk to her. She used to dance the circuit—Partylights, the Heartbreak. You owned a bunch of those places.”

  “Not anymore. I sold off the last one a couple years ago. And I haven’t had a piece of the Heartbreak in five or six. I don’t do business in a strip club anymore, you know? I do it in an office.”

  “You still know people. You can ask.”

  “John, I hardly remember her. I met her once or twice, but that’s it. Tell the truth, I probably wouldn’t know her now if I saw her. You might not either. Chicks get old fast in that business.”

  “Do me that favor, though? Put the word out low-key. I don’t want her to know I’m looking.”

  “She worth the hassle? After all these years?”

  Johnny didn’t answer.

  “Okay,” Joey said after a moment. “I think it’s a waste of time, but if you want that, you got it. I’ll have Lindell look into it. If she’s around, he’ll find her.”

  Johnny stood up. He pulled his field jacket on, slipped the boxes of shells into his pockets.

  “Lindell has my number,” he said. “Where I’m staying.”

  He tucked the box with the Sig under his left arm, picked up the envelope.

  “Thanks for this.”

  “I wish I could do more for you, Johnny.”

  “You said the money’s a retainer.”

  “Something like that.”

  “You need some work, you need me to prove myself to you—”

  “John, I don’t need—”

  “What I’m saying, you have some work for me, then you just tell me what it is. I’ll take care of it.”

  Joey nodded.

  “We’ll talk soon,” he said.

  Johnny started for the door.

  “And John …”

  He stopped, turned.

  “It’s good to see you. Take care of yourself.”

  “I will,” he said.

  13

  The face on the computer screen was older than the one in the photo, harder.

  “That’s him,” Harry said.

  Ray scrolled.

  “Harrow, John D.,” he read off. “DOC number 672775. Birth date 11/23/69. Release date, November 23, this year.”

  “Can you print all that out?”

  “I will. Let’s see what else we’ve got here.”

  They were at Ray’s desk, chairs pulled close. Once they’d gotten onto the Florida Department of Corrections site, Ray had punched in the name and the page had come up immediately. At the top of it were three pictures of Harrow—left profile, right profile and front—taken the day he was booked into the Glades Correctional Institution.

  “Tattoos,” Ray said. “‘Sacred Heart. Left chest.’ What’s a Sacred Heart?”

  “It’s Catholic. The heart of Jesus.” He traced a figure on his chest with a finger. “You’ve seen it. A heart with a crown of thorns around it.”

  “Religious man then. Here’s his sentence and offense history, but it’s only Florida. Attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon. Convicted, sentenced to nine years. Out in seven.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. It’s not in here. Seven years for attempted murder isn’t bad, though. I know people have done less for first-degree in Jersey.”

  Ray touched a button, pointed to a printer on the credenza next to the window. It began to chatter, spit paper.

  Harry walked over, picked up the first sheet, the photos in color, looked at that face again.

  “What about his New Jersey record?” he said.

  “Had it faxed to me,” Ray said. “It’s right here.”

  He sat back, took a pair of faxes from a plastic “In” basket, put them on the edge of the desk. Harry went over, picked them up.

  “Not a whole lot on there,” Ray said. “Did a juvenile stretch in Jamesburg. Not sure what for. Record’s sealed. He was only nineteen when he went down for grand theft auto, did nine months at Southern State in Cumberland. Twenty-two when he shot a guy in a bar in Keans-burg. Gun charge and attempted murder, but the guy ended up refusing to testify. He got three years on the gun charge.”

  Harry looked through the sheets.

  “Three years in Rahway,” he said. “That’s hard time. That’s like ten somewhere else.”

  “Yeah, you get old there quick.”

  “So, guy’s in his mid-thirties, most of his life has been spent behind walls in one way or another.”

  “Old story,” Ray said. “You go into Jamesburg at fifteen, sixteen, you don’t come out a Boy Scout. Your options are limited.”

  Harry put the papers back on the desk.

  “So here’s how I read him,” he said. “Guy’s in and out of stir his whole life. One of his brief periods out, he meets a girl, they get something going, she gets pregnant. Then he throws it all away by shooting some guy down in Florida, goes back to prison. Why?”

  “You’re trying to put normal logic to work here, Harry. This guy’s a career felon. Do you think he even knows why he does what he does?”

  “So he gets out finally, the girl’s gone, the baby’s gone. His youth is gone. And he’s pissed off about it all. Hard to blame him.”

  “No, it’s not. You can play psychologist all you want, but he made his choices. You start feeling sorry for these guys, you can feel sorry for everyone—Hitler, Bin Laden. Everybody has their reasons.”

  “I’m just thinking. Putting myself in his place. Threat assessment.”

  “Whether he’s an actual threat to this woman or not, I think we have to deal with it as if he were. My gut feeling? We wait long enough, the situation will take care of itself. These kind of people chase their own destruction like they’re on a game show. We protect the woman, wait for him to fuck up on his own, end up back in stir. Give him enough time, it’ll happen.”

  “If it was parole it would be different,” Harry said. “He could get violated just for leaving the state or on some bullshit ‘associating with known felons’ charge. But if he maxed out in Florida—which is what it looks like—then he’s free and clear. He’ll have to do something, get caught at it.”