Last Chance for Glory (44 page)

“Forget the bullshit, Sammy.”

“Brannigan was wrong. It’s that simple. If your actions are in any way predicated …”

“Predicated?”
Blake picked up the shotgun, tucked the stock under his arm, reminded himself to hold tight, to bring the barrel down to level after each shot. Then he flipped the toggle switch anchored to the top of the desk, watched the shadows at the far end of the room leap into focus under the glare of the strobes. “Predicated,” he repeated. “I like the sound of that. I think it means you believe I’m squeezing your nuts because of something
you
did. Better reconsider the old game plan, Sammy. I’m squeezing your nuts because of something I did. And, by the way, if you want to prove Kosinski’s still alive, you could always have him call me. You know where I am, right?”

“I do, but there’s a problem. Your partner was severely wounded. He’s on a respirator and he can’t speak.”

“I guess that’s what comes of being a drug dealer.” Blake glanced at his watch. “Listen up, Sammy. I want you out here in forty-five minutes. No excuses.”

“Marty, please, I’m on the west side of Manhattan. I’ll be lucky to get across the
river
in forty-five minutes.”

“Drive fast. And don’t forget to use the sirens. If you’re not here in three-quarters of an hour, me and those files you had stashed in the closet are gonna be long gone.”

Blake hung up, leaned back in the chair, allowed his thoughts to drift to Bell Kosinski. For the past twenty-four hours, he’d been deliberately keeping his partner at a psychological distance, fearing that grief (or rage) would make him careless. He’d come to love Bell Kosinski; the simple fact was undeniable, as solid as the floor under his feet. But that didn’t mean Kosinski’s voice would make him pack up and leave.

Kosinski had asked the essential question—
What’s in it for you, Marty Blake?
—on more than one occasion. And, of course, he had failed to provide an accurate response, even to himself. Initially, he’d declared himself a professional; he’d pretended to be in it for the money. After Billy Sowell’s death (after he’d done his job), he’d pretended to be outraged at Harrah’s arrogance. Now he’d put himself in a no-win situation and the only explanation that made any sense was that he was just as crazy, just as suicidal, just as committed to a childish sense of right and wrong as his alcoholic partner.

The good professors at City College had trained Marty Blake to write computer programs, the ultimate exercise in logical thought.
This,
then
this,
then
this,
equals
that.
If it didn’t, you’d know it the first time you tried to run the program. Blake had used that logic to force this particular resolution on Samuel Harrah; he’d given the man absolutely no choice in the matter, and he’d begun the process right after Billy Sowell’s death, before any threat to Bell Kosinski existed.

This is what I wanted right from jump street, he finally decided. To be sitting in this room, looking at a shotgun loaded with Vinnie’s bullshit ammo, waiting for the bad guys to show up for the showdown. I never left the bars, even though I stopped drinking; I never stopped crossing the line just to see what would happen. It didn’t matter how many stitches I took. Or that the State of New York almost sent me to jail. And I don’t have Kosinski’s excuse, either. I’m not a drunk, or a psychotic. I’m not
legally
insane.

He picked up the shotgun again, ran his index finger along the barrel, over the grip, to the end of the metal stock, then suddenly realized that Vinnie Cappolino might be already in the van, that he might be watching and laughing. A glance at the office monitor revealed a broad-backed man with a mop of curly hair cradling a shotgun against his chest like he was about to nurse it.

Blake got up and went to the window. He could see the Aerostar, but there was no way to know if it was occupied or not. Vinnie Cappolino, street-smart enough to fully understand the consequences of being caught in the act, would be huddled down out of sight. When the time came, he’d do his job and get in the wind. No muss, no fuss.

On impulse, Blake went back to the files in the closet. He’d emptied and copied the first of the three cabinets, more than one hundred individual files. That had been enough to fill two large cartons, as much as he could reasonably expect Vinnie to handle. Now, he searched under S in the third file cabinet until he found the name he was looking for: Steinberg, Maxwell.

The folder contained a single sheet of paper, an affidavit from a man named Robert Merkurian, a juror in a robbery trial. Merkurian claimed that he’d been paid five thousand dollars by defense lawyer Max Steinberg to hang the jury. The affidavit had been given with full immunity from prosecution.

Blake went into the bathroom, tore the affidavit into small strips, dropped the pieces into the toilet. He saw his actions as another nail in Harrah’s coffin. Steinberg had been humiliated, forced to eat Samuel Harrah’s shit, to admit the act to Marty Blake. Unleashed, he’d sink his fangs into Harrah’s throat and chew his way to the bone. If Harrah didn’t survive, Steinberg would eat his reputation. Either way, it qualified as insurance.

He flushed the toilet, watched the bits of paper spin, the water swirl, Steinberg’s criminal past disappear into a New York sewer. By the time the tank began to fill, he realized that his anger had followed the affidavit, as if he’d vomited it into the bowl. Steinberg, Joanna Bardo, his Uncle Patrick—they weren’t to blame. They’d lived in New York long enough to regard justice as just another childhood fantasy. A fantasy to be surrendered upon maturity, like Santa Claus and the monster in the closet.

“Naive” was the word for it, he decided as he walked back into the office, the word Steinberg and the others would use to describe my condition. Naive and a shade pitiful, like a handsome priest locked into celibacy. Or a teenage girl with a birthmark on her forehead.

He sat behind the desk, checked the monitors, glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes gone. It was time to set himself, to drop anchor. He began to run through the expected scenario, got as far as Samuel Harrah’s appearance in the hall monitor when the phone rang.

Blake stared at the plain, black instrument, listened to its insistent clamor echo in the closed room. He was certain Harrah would be on the other end, that he’d ask for more time.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Vinnie. They’re on their way up.”

“Where? The monitor’s empty.”

“That’s because they’re huggin’ the wall. Four of ’em. And their hot little hands are filled with .38-caliber revolvers. If I was you, Marty, I’d shoot first. Take ’em while they’re comin’ up the stairs.”

“Or maybe you could do them from behind, Vinnie. That’d most likely surprise the crap out of them.”

“Good luck, Marty. I’ll see you in hell.”

Blake looked down at the shotgun leaning against the desk drawers, then back at the monitors. He folded his hands and laid them across the switch on top of the desk. The tapes would prove that he’d faced Harrah with both hands in plain sight. That was the final nail.

He watched the door to the street open, saw Chief Samuel Harrah walk inside and shut off the alarm. Aloysius Grogan entered the hallway next, followed by two cops Blake didn’t recognize. All four men were in uniform and all carried their weapons in their hands.

They came up the stairs very slowly, four silhouettes against the open doorway below. Clearly unaware of the camera less than a foot away, they huddled for a moment on the landing, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Grogan came through the door first, holding his Police Special against his right thigh. Blake checked a powerful urge to dive for the floor, watched Harrah follow, then a blond, baby-faced cop who looked to be two weeks out of the Academy, and a tall, fat, grizzled veteran.

“Congratulations, Chief,” Blake said. “I was sure you’d forget the alarm.”

“Marty Blake.” Harrah drew himself up to his full height. “I’m placing you under arrest for the crime of assault on a police officer.”

“You got a warrant?” Blake paused for a response, gave himself time to realize he’d never been happier than he was at that moment. “No? Well, I can see why you wouldn’t want to put anything on paper. But, hey, despite what you may think about me, I’m a get-along kind of guy. If you want me to submit to an arrest, I’ll be happy to oblige. As long as the arresting officer is my uncle, Captain Patrick Blake. He’s at home if you wanna give him a call.”

“This is not a fucking joke.” Grogan was so enraged he could barely speak.

“Shut up, you moron.” Harrah took a step forward. “Poor Aloysius,” he said to Blake, “he should have retired years ago. As it is, he lacks resiliency. Every frustration goes right to his gut. By the way, you wouldn’t be interested in speaking with your partner’s physician?”

“You mean the one who works in the prison ward at Bellevue?”

Harrah smiled, nodded thoughtfully. “Point taken. But it does seem a shame.” His eyes swept the room. “You know, all this could be yours.”

“All?”

“Well, not
all.
Forgive the hyperbole. Are you interested?”

“Afraid not.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me? Marty, may I assume you’re recording this conversation?”

“No audio, Sammy. Cheap video was all I could afford.”

“Curse of the amateur.” Harrah chuckled sympathetically; his eyes were actually twinkling. He started to move forward again, stopped abruptly when Blake shook his head. “You’re a hard-headed man, Marty. Like your father before you. It must run in the family.”

“Does that mean your
father
was a blackmailing killer?”

“No more than it means that Matthew Blake was a rapist.” Harrah paused, clearly expecting a response. When he got none, he turned to Grogan and smiled. “Hard-headed. There’s no other way to describe him.”

Blake looked down at his hands, reminded himself that he had to keep them in view, that he couldn’t move first, couldn’t appear to move first.

“Why don’t we get to the point,” he said. “If there
is
a point.”

“The point is that we’ve compiled a good deal of information on Chantel McKendrick. The file runs to thirty pages. We interviewed her relatives, her friends, her criminal associates. Chantel, herself, is dead—of AIDS, naturally—but I believe we have enough to make a reasoned judgment as to your father’s guilt or innocence. Would you like to see the file?”

“Maybe you could just tell me about it. I forgot my reading glasses.”

“Nothing for nothing, Marty. You should know that.” Harrah shifted his weight; his smile faded. “Make me an offer.”

“How about twenty-five years in a state prison? Say, Attica.”

“You’re not giving me any options here.”

“That’s the whole point, Sammy. No options; no escape. We’re all in this together.”

Blake watched the four revolvers come up fast, much faster than he’d expected. He heard the first angry
crack
before he managed to jam his eyes shut. Then he flipped the switch between his fingers, grabbed the shotgun, and rolled off to the right.

He came up into a crouch a few feet away from the desk, jerked the shotgun into position, searched for Samuel Harrah’s face. The four cops seemed to be firing at random, but they were still firing as fast as they could, the shots coming almost on top of each other. Then the shotgun began to roar, as if demanding the stage for itself, repeating its message at half-second intervals until it was empty, until the room gradually filled with the complementary odors of cordite and human blood.

Dropping the shotgun, Blake took a step forward, felt his left foot slide away from him. He looked down at his leg, noted the soaked trousers, the blood streaming over his shoe and onto the floor. Momentarily disappointed, he glanced at Samuel Harrah, saw an elderly man with his hands clutched to his belly writhing on the floor.

“It’s not enough,” Blake said to himself. “It’s never enough.”

He leaned against the wall, slowly dropped to a sitting position, found himself wishing for a single moment of life. Wishing for another sixty seconds to enjoy the cries of his fallen enemies.

A
S BELL KOSINSKI DROVE
his ’88 Toyota Corolla down 154th Street, he rehearsed the story again. He’d been doing it several times a day since leaving the hospital just before Thanksgiving. Rehearsing exactly how he’d tell the story to Father Tim. They’d be sitting in Cryders, of course, on bar stools, maybe in the early afternoon before the regulars showed their faces. Caught up in that first glow (when you could still taste it going down, when the vodka was sharp and clear, the relief immediate), he’d raise his glass, toast the good doctors at Bellevue Hospital, begin his tale.

“Never try to poison a guy tied to a heart monitor,” he’d declare. “Not if there’s an Alka-Seltzer in the house.”

Father Tim would smile his tight, priest’s smile. “Proceed, my son,” he’d say. “And don’t leave anything out. A full confession is, so I hear, good for the soul.”

Ed, down at the end of the bar, would amble over, fill Kosinski’s glass. “For me,” he’d say, “Alka-Seltzer is life support. Between my head and my gut, I gotta buy it by the pound.”

“In that case,” Bell Kosinski would respond, taking a long pull at his drink, “you’re in good shape. As long as you’re tied to a heart monitor. See, Tommy Brannigan knew two things: first, that injected potassium will stop a human heart and, second, that potassium is metabolized very quickly, so it’s hard to find at an autopsy. But here’s what he didn’t know. When the alarm on a heart monitor kicks off and they call a code, the first thing they do—doctors or nurses, I never could get it straight—is pump your heart to circulate blood. The next thing they do is put a needle in your arm, draw a little blood, then inject you with sodium bicarbonate, which is what they have in Alka-Seltzer. I’m not gonna try to tell you how, because I don’t know, but sodium bicarbonate makes your cells take potassium out of the blood. When that happens, your heart, if it’s not diseased, kicks off again, like starting up a motorcycle. Altogether, I was only out for three-and-a-half minutes.”