Hardware (31 page)

“I have no problem with that.”

“Good,” I said.

“I mean, look, use your judgment and all, Carlotta, but remember this: Joey's my brother. I got three brothers, luck of the draw, but Joey's the one. If you can see your way to cutting him a break, do it.”

I leaned down and kissed him full on the lips.

“Mmmmm,” he said. “We could try again.”

“Someday,” I said lightly, “Paolina wants you to be her dad.”

“What that really means is she wants you to be her mom, don't you think?”

Shit. I have psychiatrists coming out of my ears.

I dialed my Little Sister from a waiting-room pay phone. I told her that Sam was going to be fine. It would just take time.

Time.

THIRTY-NINE

My opinion of meter maids who ticket near hospitals is unprintable. I shredded the orange slip on the spot. That I didn't earn another one on my flight back to Cambridge proves my point: too many meter maids; not enough traffic cops.

I didn't notice any unfamiliar cars on my block. Maybe Joey had taken a cab, like Lauren Heffernan. Maybe he hadn't put in an appearance. Lauren's promise could have been a diversionary tactic. Maybe she sat in Joey's corner now, not Sam's.

An extra coat hung on the hat rack: a leather jacket, smelling of musk.

“Frank”—Joey—sat on the sofa, relaxed and smiling, a glass of O.J. in his left hand. His jeans were tucked into cowboy boots. Lizard-skin boots. Expensive. But not to him; he hadn't paid for them, worked for them. Why bother, when he could rip off legit credit-card holders? Or the Mob. His shirt was of Western cut with a design of flapping eagles. Buzzards would have been more appropriate.

I wondered whether Lauren or Roz had played hostess. I remembered the gray pallor of Sam's skin, the tremble in his hand, and I wanted to knock the glass out of Joey's grasp, slap his face hard.

“Mooney called,” Roz said. Her voice seemed to bubble up from underwater; I could barely hear her through my anger.

“He wants you to call him back,” Roz said.

I crossed to my desk, lifted the phone, but didn't dial the police. Maybe I should have. Instead I called Sam's ward at the hospital, asked Leroy whether the reserves had arrived. They had, so I gratefully freed Leroy to return to his sister's bedside.

“How's it going, Joey?” I said, after hanging up. “Or would you prefer some other name?”

“Joey's the best,” Joseph Frascatti responded cheerfully. “Better than all the aliases I've used.”

“And what were those?”

“Frank I liked. Frank sounds honest. Georgio. George was too Waspy for a guy looked like me. Roger. Like in roger, over and out. I was Yves in Cannes one year.”

“In Germany?”

“Gerhardt. Yeah, Gerhardt.”

“And the whole time you were skimming from the Mob?”

“Well,” Joey said, smiling, “almost the whole time.”

“You had ambitions,” Lauren said quietly, her mouth set in a bitter line. “Excuse my naïveté, but I think you called them ‘dreams.'” Seated in my aunt Bea's rocker, she propelled herself rapidly back and forth. “Why?” she snapped angrily.

The smile shut off and Joey was instantly on the defensive. Mercurial, this man, as well as clever. “I never thought about being homeless, you know. Or if I did, it didn't mean jack shit to me, Laura. I never thought about being lonely. I never thought about being penniless.”

“You never thought,” I shot back. “Your German friends didn't like you when you didn't have unlimited money anymore?”

“Oh, they liked me fine. I learned a hell of a lot from them. Good thing I'm one lazy, apolitical son of a bitch. They were into heavy shit. Hackers from the dark side. Logging into army systems on MILNET, some deep spook stuff. Names, addresses, phone numbers for CIA personnel. Saleable goods, you know what I mean? There for the asking.”

“You helped them ask?” I said.

“Why endanger myself when all I wanted was money? There was plenty of Mob money. They were begging people to take it off their hands, clean it for them. I scammed what I could. I set up phony holding companies. I ‘invested' for them. I did ‘drug deals' for them, only the product always wound up missing. Fortunes of war, you know, Laura. Fortunes of war.”

“Call me Lauren.”

He didn't seem to hear her.

“It got easier and easier, wires and electronic transfers and stuff. It was a breeze. I was always a couple steps ahead. And then one day I thought, why should I be on the run, holding multiple passports, planning for a new name, a new pair of shoes to jump into just in case the heat came down. It was simple. I could go home. I wanted to see my friends again—hell, I wanted to see my enemies again—live in a neighborhood where everybody knew me, where I knew everybody.”

“You hated the North End. It was corrupt. You hated it,” Lauren said.

“I was fucking nineteen. I didn't know shit. I'd heard all this crap about ‘earning an honest buck' from my best buddy, Sam Gianelli. One day it came to me: I wanted to be who I was, who I was born to be, not who he thought I was. I wanted to see my dad before he died. Make him proud of me. That's such a horrible thing?”

He stared at Lauren as if he could look straight through her, said, “You cheated me out of so much.”

“What the hell do you mean?” she said.

“Don't get cute. You wanted me out of the way as much as I wanted to leave, right? So you could have Sam all to yourself. You were jealous, Laura.”

She glared back through narrowed eyes, clenched her fists. Maybe she wanted to hit him as badly as I did.

“You know,” he continued offhandedly, “at some point, I started keeping tabs on my family. One brother, he owns power boats. I mean, lots of power boats. Another married some fucking heiress, some Italian shipping magnate's daughter. My sister's got a house in Gloucester, right on the shore, with an Olympic-size pool in case the ocean's a little rough that day. What do you figure the prodigal son should get when he comes home?”

“We helped you,” Lauren insisted. “Sam and I could have wound up in jail.”

“You don't get it, Lauren,” I said. “Sam's the fatted calf. Right, Mr. Prodigal Son? You sent the message, Joey. E-mail. You got Sam to the garage in time for the explosion.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, lady.”

“I'm talking about this: No way could you come back from the dead without giving the family a fall guy.”

He shrugged.

“It's total bullshit, you being two steps ahead. They're gaining on you,” I said. “You needed somebody to give the Mob. An embezzler. You decided on your old pal, Sam. Dead, he couldn't mount much of a defense.”

“No way,” Joey said.

Lauren said, “I don't understand.”

“Did you tell your family about Sam?” I asked Joey. “Write your old man a note? About how Gianelli's kid was stealing from all the families?”

“I didn't do squat,” Joey said.

“Except move money through Green and White.”

“Christ, I never thought anything like this would happen,” Joey said. “Sam's father's got clout; I assumed he'd protect him, get him out of the country, maybe.”

“You didn't care, did you, Joey?” I said quietly.

He smiled. “Well, let's say there are a lot of ways it might have gone down. I didn't think they'd whack him. But, hey, he lived a good life, huh? It's my turn.”

“He's not the same person I knew,” Lauren muttered, shaking her head. “The drugs, or something …” Her voice petered out.

“So, Joey,” I said. “If Sam were here, what would he say?”

Joey grinned. “He wouldn't believe it.”

“Would he want you dead, Joey?”

“Dead?” he echoed. His posture didn't change so much as freeze. Sprawled on the sofa, holding a half-filled glass of O.J., suddenly still, as if someone were about to take his photograph.

I took the .40 out of my waistband. “You're already dead, aren't you?”

“Hey,” Joey said. “Wait.”

I watched him carefully. No move toward a cowboy boot. No motion. I didn't think he was carrying.

Lauren stared at the gun like she'd never seen one before. “Sam would let him go,” she said shakily.

You'd figure he'd jump on the wagon. Instead he heaped more scorn. “Oh, yeah. Angel of fucking mercy, Sam. I never understood that, Laura. Why'd you bother screwing a guy with no balls?”

I sighted down the barrel. I hadn't even taken the damn thing out on the firing range yet.

“Sam would let him go,” Lauren insisted. “He'll go back to Europe, to Australia. He can still make a life for himself.”

“Lauren, I'm fucking pushing forty.”

“Life begins at forty, Joey,” I said. “Or it can end.”

“What do you want?” he said. “You're not going to shoot me, so what do you want?”

“I like your choice of words, Joey. I wish I were as confident as you are that I won't shoot you.”

“Put it away.”

“Tie him, Roz. Rope in the closet. My hands are getting tired. If I'd bought the Glock, I'm sure I'd have killed him by now. Glock's got a light touch.”

“Laura,” Joey said. “She's crazy.”

“Oh, Joey,” I said, “you don't know the half of it. Would you be so kind as to move to this chair? Please.”

“What the fuck you want?” Joey asked.

“That's what I like to hear,” I said.

I motioned with the gun and he moved to the vacant chair at my desk.

Roz approached from the rear and bound him to it before he could struggle.

“Tie his elbows to the arms of the chair,” I said. “Leave his hands free.”

“Why?” Roz asked.

“It's time to have fun with computers.”

FORTY

I did it for Sam, but I admit I took advantage. I've never been one to gaze longingly at gift horses.

Trojan horses came to mind more than once as I watched Joey work his keyboard wizardry. I stared at the screen. Roz stared at the screen. He could have slipped one past us. Easily. He may have been too vain to try. He'd been on his own so long, he lapped up admiration like a puppy laps milk.

“I gave you a damned good machine,” he crowed. “Not that you can appreciate it. Amiga Two Thousand with an IBM card and Mac emulation. What more could you want?”

I shrugged and blinked, wondering how his eyes could stand the glare from the screen.

“I can do more than this,” he kept offering. “I can clean your credit. You got car payments you want made? Mortgage? Rent?”

“I'm not a crook,” I said.

“You got a gun pointed at my head,” he said. “Excuse my confusion.”

“I'm not a cheap crook,” I amended.

He excised the FBI's file on my mother. I watched my name disappear off mailing lists.

“Want to watch me crack a missile range?” Joey asked. “I can log in through Aiken at Harvard. They'll never do a trace-back.”

“No, thanks,” I said.

“How about ARPA? Advanced Research Projects Agency. Part of DOD. Don't you want to see where your tax dollars are going? Have you no curiosity?”

“Not about the Department of Defense,” I said. “They keep their secrets, I keep mine.”

“That's just it,” he said. “They don't. Keep secrets. Not well. I have trapper programs planted in so many systems—”

“Trapper programs?” I said.

“To catch accepted passwords. Trap them. Trapper programs.”

“Don't you ever get caught?” I asked.

“It's getting tougher,” he admitted. “More of a challenge. The Internet's got CERT.”

“CERT?”

“A Defense Department operation. Computer Emergency Response Team.”

“Are they good?”

“Not as good as me. I could teach you to do this,” he said earnestly. “Do it for good or for bad or for kicks or for money. For power. Just because you
can
do it. Don't you see? This is it, what I do. This is my fuckin' skill, my art.”

I'd seen locksmiths like him. Carried away by the ability to gain entry. In prison.

“You have an art for betrayal, Joey,” I muttered to myself. “Roz, Lauren, you mind leaving me and Joey here alone for a little while?”

Roz lifted one eyebrow skeptically.

“Roz,” Joey said. “I got an idea. You take the gun with you. Carlotta and me, we won't need it.”

“Yes we will,” I said. I didn't speak again until the women's footsteps trailed upstairs.

“Now, Joey,” I said, “I have money I want deposited to a new account, no questions.”

“We all have our little secrets, eh?”

“We do,” I agreed.

“No questions from me, or no questions from the IRS?”

“Both,” I said.

“Where's the money now?”

“In the house.”

“Cash? You're talking
cash?
”

“About forty-two thousand.”

“Sam know about this?”

“No questions.”

“Five trips to the bank,” he said, echoing Roz's smurfing advice. “Once it's in the system I can manipulate it. Here, it's toilet paper.”

“Makes me feel good about banks,” I said.

“What should I do?” he said. “It's hard to type like this. Stupid rope's rubbing my arms raw. Can I log out?”

I said, “Joey, move forty-two K of
your
funds into something I can access.”

“Huh?”

“I'll give you the cash. On the lam, you'll need cash.”

“I never said I was running away.…”

“Entirely up to you. Your choice. Lawyers like cash,” I suggested. “Defense attorneys. That's one way to get the dough back into circulation.”

Angrily, he punched keys. “Okay. I stashed it in two accounts,” he said, lips tight. “Caymans. T and C. That's Turks and Caicos, a new island tax haven.”