ensure your silence.”
“No,” she said, but she didn’t look at him when she said the word. “Can I go now?”
DeMarco couldn’t think of anything else to say to make her talk. “Yeah, you can go.”
Tyler immediately rose to leave, wanting only to get away from DeMarco as fast as she could. He felt like a thug leaning on her the way he had and because of this, he said, “And don’t worry, Janet. I promise I’m not going to do anything to harm your family.”
DeMarco had no idea if he could keep the promise he’d just made.
“Did you check the fingerprints I sent you, Marv?”
“Yeah. Why are you asking about these men, Emma?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“Well, shit, Emma. I can’t just—”
“You know, Marv, maybe the media won’t care. I mean, how long has it been? Ten years? Twelve? Yeah, maybe after all this time they won’t care that you guys stole a suitcase of heroin from a DEA evidence locker and then traded it for Russian surface-to-air missiles. Now that wouldn’t have been so bad, except maybe the part about stealing the dope, but then you gave the missiles to a terrorist and he used one to shoot down a helicopter carrying a Philippine politician. And the real bummer was, the politician was on our side. Oops.”
“We didn’t know he was a terrorist,” Marv whined.
“I know. You went way beyond stupid on that one, Marv.”
“You’re bluffing, Emma. That op was classified then and it’s still classified, and if you leaked that story, you’d go to jail.”
Emma laughed. “Like you could ever prove I leaked it.”
The phone was silent for a moment. “Okay, fine,” Marvin said. “Their real names are Carl van Horn and James Suttel.”
“Are they agents?”
“God, no. They’re just a couple of mutts we used a few times.”
“Used for what?” Emma said.
“You know, stuff. Stuff we didn’t wanna be tied to. The last time it was a banker down in Haiti. He was funneling money to the wrong people and we tried to get the Haitian government to put a stop to it, but the banker was bribing too many people. So we sent van Horn and Suttel down there. All they were supposed to do was scare the banker a little, but van Horn, he bricked the guy’s kneecaps. He said he needed the brick to get his attention.”
“Good Lord,” Emma said, shaking her head. The CIA just amazed her—and terrified her.
“Are they working for you now?”
“No, we haven’t used them since Haiti. Look, these guys are basically hoods, Emma. They could be working for anybody. Now are you going to tell me why you’re asking?”
“Of course not,” Emma said.
“Hussein Halas is trapped in the nine rings of immigration hell,” Neil said.
DeMarco had called Neil after he spoke to Janet Tyler. He wanted to know more about her fiancé and Neil had worked his magic.
“He’s been trying to get his citizenship papers for almost ten years but he can’t because he has a wife back in Jordan. And the fact that he’s a Muslim doesn’t help. But the catch-22 is, he has to go back to Jordan to divorce his wife, but if he does that, they won’t let him back into the U.S.”
“But Immigration could probably deport this guy in a heartbeat if they wanted to,” DeMarco said.
“Oh, you betcha,” Neil said.
Harry Foster claimed to be a political consultant—it said so right on his office door.
But what Harry really was, was a guy who always knew a guy who knew a guy. If you needed a politician on your side, Harry knew who was for sale. If you wanted a building permit to slide through the system, Harry knew where to apply the grease. Your no-load brother-in-law needs a job? No problem. Harry knew a guy at the union hall. To get things done in New York you could play by the rules, but if you wanted to win you hired an old-time, backroom boy like Harry Foster.
Harry had helped Paul Morelli get elected mayor of New York City.
Harry was sixty-five now and was one of those people who looked better at sixty-five than he had at twenty-five. He was a bit shorter than DeMarco, slim and in good condition. His once black hair was now a handsome shade of silver, receding at the temples, giving him an attractive widow’s peak. His skin was pockmarked from old acne scars, but a good tan maintained in a sun worshiper’s coffin minimized this small blemish. His hands were manicured, his hair perfectly trimmed, and his face was scented with something rich and subtle.
You could still hear traces of Flatbush in Harry’s speech but he had come a long way from Brooklyn. He and DeMarco were seated twelve stories above Fifth Avenue in an office fit for an urban prince, drinking coffee from bone china cups. Below them was Central Park in all its autumn glory, and from their height the view was unmarred by muggers, winos, and the great unwashed.
As DeMarco had told Paul Morelli the night they met, Harry was DeMarco’s godfather. DeMarco’s dad and Harry had known each other as boys—an Italian kid with iron fists and his Irish friend with a silver tongue. DeMarco’s father made a wrong turn somewhere along the twisted road of life and became an enforcer for a mobster in Queens named Carmine Taliaferro. Harry took a different route, going to work for a crooked Bronx borough president, and ending up where he was today, rich and covered in a thin mantle of respectability.
Whatever bond Harry and DeMarco’s father had formed as boys held them together in their later years. Harry would occasionally visit DeMarco’s boyhood home in Queens, and he and his dad would sit there in his mother’s kitchen, drinking coffee, while Harry made jokes about the old days when the nuns used to twist their ears. And while they talked, DeMarco’s mom would glower at Harry, as if it was his fault that her husband worked for the mob. And maybe it was.
Harry and DeMarco’s dad remained friends until the day Gino DeMarco was cut down in his prime by gunmen from a rival gang.
“It’s been a long time, Joe,” Harry said. “What’s it been? Almost two years?”
“About that, I guess. I’m sorry we don’t get together more often.”
“Hey,” Harry said and shrugged. Men were busy.
“I was just visiting my mom,” DeMarco lied, “and decided to stop by.”
“And how is your lovely mother?” Harry asked, a wry smile on his face. They both knew DeMarco’s mother’s opinion of Harry.
“She’s doin’ fine. Hard as a hickory bat.”
Harry laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.” He studied DeMarco for a moment. “You seem a bit antsy, son. Can I assume there’s a purpose to this visit, something more than just dropping in to say hello?”
Though DeMarco’s mother had never approved of him, Harry had been there for DeMarco when his dad was killed. He had sent him money on occasion when he was in college and had been a source of comfort when his marriage failed. Harry was the closest thing he had to a father, and now he wanted a father’s advice.
“I need to ask you something about Paul Morelli, Harry.”
“You want to talk about Paul?”
“Yeah. I like the guy but…”
“Well, shit, who doesn’t,” Harry said.
“…but