Deal Breaker
Page 51
Jessica remembered Kathy’s school transcript. The terrible grades in her senior year and the beginning of college. Then the sudden turnabout back toward excellence that had started her second semester freshman year—when she met Christian. It added up with what Edward was saying.
So was the past irrelevant? Was this period of her life, as Edward had insisted, all behind her? Perhaps. But Jessica doubted it. If it were truly dead and buried, why was her picture now appearing in a pornographic magazine? And that of course led to the central question in all this:
What had made Kathy change in the first place?
Jessica still did not know. But she now had a pretty good idea who might.
Chapter 30
There were several things Myron enjoyed more than visiting Herman Ache. Having his eyeball removed with a grapefruit spoon, for example.
“I heard your press conference on the radio,” Win said. The top was down on Win’s racing-green Jaguar XJR. Myron was not big on having the top down. It was just a question of time before a bug got stuck in his teeth. “I trust that Christian was pleased with the deal.”
“Very.”
“The press still hasn’t picked up on Nancy Serat.”
“Jake hasn’t released her name yet. Once they do—”
“Party time.”
“Exactly.”
“Does Christian know?” Win asked.
“Not yet. He was so damn happy. I just wanted to let him enjoy it a little longer.”
“You should warn him.”
“I will. Jake promised to let me know the second it got out.”
“You seem to like this Jake fellow,” Win noted.
“He’s a good man. We can trust him.”
Win wiggled his fingers, regripped the wheel, accelerated. “I don’t trust officers of the law,” Win said. “It’s safer that way.”
The car was going very fast. The West Side Highway was not built for such speed—a four-lane highway with traffic lights every twenty yards. Plus the “ongoing” construction didn’t help. The construction had been going on for as long as anyone could remember. History books stated that Peter Minuit, the Dutchman who purchased Manhattan from the Indians in 1626, often complained about the delays around Fifty-seventh Street.
But none of that deterred Win’s hefty accelerator foot. The Javits Center was a blur. So was the Hudson River, for that matter.
Myron said, “Could you slow down a tad?”
“No need to worry. The car has a driver-side air bag.”
“Wonderful.”
They were getting closer to Ache’s office. Myron’s stomach knotted—not helped by the smog blasting into his face because the top was down. His nerves were as taut as a freshly strung tennis racket. Win, on the other hand, looked relaxed. Then again, Frank Ache didn’t have a contract out on his head.
Win’s car phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?” He handed the phone to Myron. “It’s P.T.”
Myron took the receiver. “What’s up?”
“Hey, Myron, how you feeling today?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Glad to hear it. Say, you’ll never guess what happened last night.”
“What?”
“Two of New York’s finest hit men were found dead in an alley. Sad, ain’t it?”
“Tragic,” Myron agreed.
“They worked for Frank Ache.”
“That a fact?”
“Forty-four Magnum with dum-dum bullets were used. Blew their heads clean off.”
“Such a loss.”
“Yeah, I’m losing sleep over it too. Anyway, word out on the street is, this ain’t over. Corpses don’t exactly waylay the wants of a guy like Frank Ache. The contract is still out on whatever ugly slob pissed Frank off.”
Myron said, “Ugly?”
“Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Myron. Take care.”
“You too, P.T.”
Myron hung up.
“The contract is still in place?” Win asked.
“Yep.”
“They won’t hit you in Herman’s office,” Win said. “He would never allow it.”
Myron knew that was true. There was a certain code, even among men who have probably ordered the deaths of hundreds of people. Some idiots believed that these codes were based on some sort of ethics. Not even close. The codes were two things to mobsters: (1) a device to make them appear almost human, and (2) a way of protecting themselves and their position. Ethics are to a mobster what honesty is to a politician.
A construction site slowed them near Twelfth Street, but they still made it with time to spare. The air smelled of pizza—probably because they parked in front of a pizzeria called The First Original Ray’s Pizza of New York, Really, We’re Not Kidding, Honest, We’re It. A tall woman in a blue business suit and fancy sunglasses strolled purposefully down the sidewalk. Myron smiled at her, and she returned it. He would have preferred a faint or even a small swoon, but you can’t have everything.
At two in the afternoon Clancy’s Tavern was already in full swing. Myron stopped right outside the door, fixed his hair, turned left, smiled, turned right, smiled, looked up, smiled.
Win looked a question at him.
“The feds take pictures of everyone who comes in here,” Myron said. “I just wanted to look my best.”
“Now you tell me. I look like hell.”
Clancy’s patrons were all men. Not exactly a swinging pick-up joint. A jukebox played Bob Seger. The decor was Early American Beer. Lots of those neon signs, the ones that spell out company names. Budweiser, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Lite, Schlitz. A clock courtesy of Michelob. A mirror from Coors. Coasters from Pabst. The mugs had Rolling Rock logos emblazoned across them.
Myron knew that there were probably a million FBI bugging devices in here. Herman Ache didn’t care. Anybody who said something truly damaging in the tavern itself was beyond stupid and deserved to get nailed. The real talk went on in the back rooms. Ache made sure they were swept for bugs every day.
Win drew a few curious glances when they entered. Prep was not exactly the “in” style of Clancy’s clientele. But no one stared too long. This was a bar where no one stared at anyone too long.
“Is that your friend Aaron?” Win asked.
Aaron was at the back of the bar wearing his customary white suit. This time he wore a shirt, albeit one of those pectoral-displaying sleeveless muscle T’s. It was as if Aaron’s wardrobe had entered some molecular transformer with issues of GQ and Pumping Iron. Aaron waved them to come forward with a hand the size of a manhole cover.
So was the past irrelevant? Was this period of her life, as Edward had insisted, all behind her? Perhaps. But Jessica doubted it. If it were truly dead and buried, why was her picture now appearing in a pornographic magazine? And that of course led to the central question in all this:
What had made Kathy change in the first place?
Jessica still did not know. But she now had a pretty good idea who might.
Chapter 30
There were several things Myron enjoyed more than visiting Herman Ache. Having his eyeball removed with a grapefruit spoon, for example.
“I heard your press conference on the radio,” Win said. The top was down on Win’s racing-green Jaguar XJR. Myron was not big on having the top down. It was just a question of time before a bug got stuck in his teeth. “I trust that Christian was pleased with the deal.”
“Very.”
“The press still hasn’t picked up on Nancy Serat.”
“Jake hasn’t released her name yet. Once they do—”
“Party time.”
“Exactly.”
“Does Christian know?” Win asked.
“Not yet. He was so damn happy. I just wanted to let him enjoy it a little longer.”
“You should warn him.”
“I will. Jake promised to let me know the second it got out.”
“You seem to like this Jake fellow,” Win noted.
“He’s a good man. We can trust him.”
Win wiggled his fingers, regripped the wheel, accelerated. “I don’t trust officers of the law,” Win said. “It’s safer that way.”
The car was going very fast. The West Side Highway was not built for such speed—a four-lane highway with traffic lights every twenty yards. Plus the “ongoing” construction didn’t help. The construction had been going on for as long as anyone could remember. History books stated that Peter Minuit, the Dutchman who purchased Manhattan from the Indians in 1626, often complained about the delays around Fifty-seventh Street.
But none of that deterred Win’s hefty accelerator foot. The Javits Center was a blur. So was the Hudson River, for that matter.
Myron said, “Could you slow down a tad?”
“No need to worry. The car has a driver-side air bag.”
“Wonderful.”
They were getting closer to Ache’s office. Myron’s stomach knotted—not helped by the smog blasting into his face because the top was down. His nerves were as taut as a freshly strung tennis racket. Win, on the other hand, looked relaxed. Then again, Frank Ache didn’t have a contract out on his head.
Win’s car phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?” He handed the phone to Myron. “It’s P.T.”
Myron took the receiver. “What’s up?”
“Hey, Myron, how you feeling today?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Glad to hear it. Say, you’ll never guess what happened last night.”
“What?”
“Two of New York’s finest hit men were found dead in an alley. Sad, ain’t it?”
“Tragic,” Myron agreed.
“They worked for Frank Ache.”
“That a fact?”
“Forty-four Magnum with dum-dum bullets were used. Blew their heads clean off.”
“Such a loss.”
“Yeah, I’m losing sleep over it too. Anyway, word out on the street is, this ain’t over. Corpses don’t exactly waylay the wants of a guy like Frank Ache. The contract is still out on whatever ugly slob pissed Frank off.”
Myron said, “Ugly?”
“Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Myron. Take care.”
“You too, P.T.”
Myron hung up.
“The contract is still in place?” Win asked.
“Yep.”
“They won’t hit you in Herman’s office,” Win said. “He would never allow it.”
Myron knew that was true. There was a certain code, even among men who have probably ordered the deaths of hundreds of people. Some idiots believed that these codes were based on some sort of ethics. Not even close. The codes were two things to mobsters: (1) a device to make them appear almost human, and (2) a way of protecting themselves and their position. Ethics are to a mobster what honesty is to a politician.
A construction site slowed them near Twelfth Street, but they still made it with time to spare. The air smelled of pizza—probably because they parked in front of a pizzeria called The First Original Ray’s Pizza of New York, Really, We’re Not Kidding, Honest, We’re It. A tall woman in a blue business suit and fancy sunglasses strolled purposefully down the sidewalk. Myron smiled at her, and she returned it. He would have preferred a faint or even a small swoon, but you can’t have everything.
At two in the afternoon Clancy’s Tavern was already in full swing. Myron stopped right outside the door, fixed his hair, turned left, smiled, turned right, smiled, looked up, smiled.
Win looked a question at him.
“The feds take pictures of everyone who comes in here,” Myron said. “I just wanted to look my best.”
“Now you tell me. I look like hell.”
Clancy’s patrons were all men. Not exactly a swinging pick-up joint. A jukebox played Bob Seger. The decor was Early American Beer. Lots of those neon signs, the ones that spell out company names. Budweiser, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Lite, Schlitz. A clock courtesy of Michelob. A mirror from Coors. Coasters from Pabst. The mugs had Rolling Rock logos emblazoned across them.
Myron knew that there were probably a million FBI bugging devices in here. Herman Ache didn’t care. Anybody who said something truly damaging in the tavern itself was beyond stupid and deserved to get nailed. The real talk went on in the back rooms. Ache made sure they were swept for bugs every day.
Win drew a few curious glances when they entered. Prep was not exactly the “in” style of Clancy’s clientele. But no one stared too long. This was a bar where no one stared at anyone too long.
“Is that your friend Aaron?” Win asked.
Aaron was at the back of the bar wearing his customary white suit. This time he wore a shirt, albeit one of those pectoral-displaying sleeveless muscle T’s. It was as if Aaron’s wardrobe had entered some molecular transformer with issues of GQ and Pumping Iron. Aaron waved them to come forward with a hand the size of a manhole cover.
