Live Wire (17 page)

Win didn’t know if he meant the point of taking the drug or committing suicide or even trying to prevent the suicide. He also didn’t care. “I have a favor to ask,” Win said.

“Were we ever buddies?”

“No.”

“So?”

“Favor,” Win said again. “As in, you do one for me, I do one for you.”

Frank Ache stopped. He sniffled, used a once-giant hand to wipe his face. His receding hairline was gone now, though big tufts stayed on the side. His dark olive skin was now the gray of a city street after a rainstorm.

“What makes you think I could use a favor?”

Win did not answer that. There was no reason to elaborate. “How did your brother slither out of an indictment?”

“That’s what you want to know?”

Win said nothing.

“What difference does that make?”

“Humor me, Frank.”

“You know Herman. He looked classy. Me, I looked like a dago.”

“Gotti looked classy.”

“No, he didn’t. He looked like a goomba dressed up in expensive suits.”

Frank Ache looked off now, his eyes wet. He put his hand up to his face again. It started with another sniffle and then the big, scary man’s face crumbled. He started to cry. Win waited for him to regain his composure. Ache cried some more.

Finally: “You got a tissue or something?”

“Use your neon orange sleeve,” Win said.

“You know what it’s like in here?”

Win said nothing.

“I sit alone in a six-by-eight cell. I sit in it twenty-three hours a day. Alone. I eat my meals in there. I crap in there. When I go out in the yard for one hour, no one else is outside. I go days without hearing a voice. I try sometimes to talk to the guards. They won’t say a word back to me. Day after day. I sit alone. I talk to no one. That’s how it’s gonna be till the day I die.” He started sobbing again.

Win was tempted to take out his air violin, but he refrained. The man was talking—needed to talk, it seemed. This was a good thing. Still: “How many people did you kill, Frank?”

He stopped crying for a moment. “Me myself or that I ordered?”

“Your pick.”

“Got me. I personally whacked, what, twenty, thirty guys.”

Like he was talking about parking tickets he beat. “I’m feeling sorrier for you by the moment,” Win said.

If Frank took offense, he didn’t show it. “Hey, Win, you want to hear something funny?”

He kept leaning forward as he talked, desperate for any kind of conversation or contact. Amazing what humans, even ones as wanton as Frank Ache, crave when left alone—other humans. “The floor is yours, Frank.”

“You remember one of my men named Bobby Fern?”

“Hmm, perhaps.”

“Big fat guy? Used to run underage girls out of the Meatpacking District?”

Win remembered. “What about him?”

“You see me crying in here, right? I don’t try to hide it anymore. I mean, what’s the point? You know what I mean. I cry. So what? Truth is, I always did. I used to kinda go off and cry alone. Even back in the day. I don’t know why either. Hurting people actually made me feel good, so that wasn’t it, but then, like one time, I was watching
Family Ties
. You remember that show? With the kid who’s got that shaking disease now?”

“Michael J. Fox.”

“Right. Loved that show. That sister Mallory was a hot number. So I’m watching it and it must be the last season and the father on the show has a heart attack. It’s kinda sad and see, that’s how my old man died. It’s no big deal, I mean, it’s a dumb sitcom, and next thing I know I’m bawling like a baby. Used to happen to me like that all the time. So I’d make an excuse and go off. I’d never let anyone see me. You know my world, right?”

“Right.”

“So one day when I go off like that, Bobby walks in on me and sees me crying.” Frank smiled now. “Now me and Bobby, we go back. His sister was the first girl who let me go to third base. Eighth grade. It was awesome.” He looked off, lost in this happy moment. “So anyway, Bobby walks in and I’m crying, and man, you should have seen his face. He didn’t know what to do. Bobby, he kept swearing he’d never tell anyone, not to worry, hell, he cried all the time. I loved Bobby. He was a good man. Nice family. So I thought I’d let it slide, you know.”

“You were always such a prince,” Win said.

“Right, sure, I tried. But see, now, whenever I was with Bobby, I felt, I don’t know, ashamed or something. He didn’t do or say nothing, but now suddenly he was jumpy around me. Wouldn’t meet my eye, that kinda thing. And Bobby smiled a lot, you know, he had this big smile and loud laugh. But now, when he smiled and laughed, I’m thinking maybe he was making fun of me, you get what I’m saying?”

“So you killed him,” Win said.

Frank nodded. “Used a fish-line garrote. I don’t use that too often. Nearly sliced Bobby’s head off. But I mean, can you blame me?”

Win spread his hands. “How could anyone?”

Frank laughed too hard again. “Nice having you visit.”

“Oh yes, good times.”

Frank laughed some more.

He just wanted to talk, Win thought again. It was pathetic, really. This former mountain of a man was that broken, desperate, and thus Win could use it. “You said before that Herman looked classy. That he appeared to be more legitimate than you.”

“Right, so?”

“Could you elaborate?”

“You were there, you know how it was with me and Herman. Herman wanted to be legit. He wanted to go to fancy parties and play old golf clubs like yours and he got the midtown office in the nice high-rise. He put dirty money into real businesses, like that suddenly made the money clean or something. So toward the end, Herman only wanted to handle gambling and loan sharking. Guess why?”

Win said, “Because there was less violence?”

“No, if anything, they’re more violent, what with collecting and stuff.” Frank Ache leaned forward, and Win could smell the decay on his breath. “Gambling and loan sharking felt legit to him. Casinos do gambling and they’re legit. Banks do loans and they’re legit. So why can’t Herman do the same?”

“And you?”

“I handled the other stuff. Whores, drugs, like that, though let me tell you, if Zoloft ain’t a drug that don’t work better than blow, I’ll suck off a hyena. And don’t get me started on whores being illegal. Oldest profession. And when you think about it, what man doesn’t pay for sex in the end?”

Win did not argue.

“So why you here?” Frank smiled and the sight was still eerie. Win wondered how many people had died, their last sight being that smile. “Or maybe I should ask, whose ass has Myron stuck his finger up now?”

Time to show his hand. “Evan Crisp’s.”

That widened Frank’s eyes. “Whoa.”

“Yes.”

“Myron met up with Crisp?”

“That he did.”

“Crisp is nearly as deadly as you,” Frank said.

“I’m flattered.”

“Man, you going up against Crisp. Should be fun watching that.”

“I’ll send you the DVD.”

Something dark ran across Frank’s face. “Evan Crisp,” he said slowly, “is one of the main reasons I’m here.”

“How’s that?”

“See, one of us—me or Herman—had to go down. You know how RICO is. They needed a scapegoat.”

Scapegoat, Win thought. The man has no idea how many people he personally murdered, including one for seeing him cry. But he’s a scapegoat.

“So it was either me or Herman. Crisp worked for Herman. Suddenly Herman’s witnesses vanish or recant. Mine didn’t. The end.”

“So you went down for the crimes?”

Frank leaned forward again. “I got thrown under the bus.”

“Meanwhile, Herman lives on, happy and legit,” Win said.

“Yep,” Frank said.

Their eyes met for a moment. Frank gave Win the smallest nod.

“Evan Crisp,” Win said, “is now working for Gabriel Wire. Do you know who that is?”

“Wire? Sure. His music is pure, one hundred percent, grade-A crap. Does Myron rep him?”

“No, his partner.”

“Lex something, right? Another no-talent.”

“Any clue why Crisp might be working for Gabriel Wire?”

Frank smiled with small teeth that looked like Tic Tacs. “In the old days, Gabriel Wire did it all. Blow, whores—but mostly gambling.”

Win arched an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“The favor?”

“Done.”

Nothing else said on that. Nothing else needed.

“Wire owed Herman big,” Frank said. “At one point—now I’m going back before he started the Howard Hughes act, what, fifteen, twenty years—his tab was more than half a million.”

Win considered that for a moment. “There are rumors that someone messed up Wire’s face.”

“Not Herman,” Frank said with a headshake. “He ain’t that stupid. Wire can’t sing a lick, but his smile could unsnap a bra from thirty paces. So no, Herman wouldn’t mess with the breadwinner.”

Outside the room and down the hall, a man screamed. The guard by the door did not move. Neither did Frank. The screaming continued, grew louder, and then it was cut off as though with a switch.

Win asked, “Do you have any thoughts on why Crisp would be working for Wire?”

“Oh, I doubt he’s working for Wire,” Frank said. “My bet? Crisp is there for Herman. He’s probably on the scene making sure Mr. Rock ’n’ Roll pays up.”

Win sat back, crossed his legs. “So you believe that your brother is still involved with Gabriel Wire then?”

“Why else would Crisp be watching him?”

“We thought that perhaps Evan Crisp had gone legit. Perhaps he took a cushy security job for a recluse.”

Frank smiled again. “Yeah, I can see how you might think that.”

“But I’m wrong?”

“We never go legit, Win. We just become bigger hypocrites. The world is dog-eat-dog. Some get eaten, some don’t. All of us, even your buddy Myron, would kill a million strangers to protect the few he cares about—and anyone who tells you different is a liar. We do it every day in one way or another. You can either buy that nice pair of shoes or you can use that money to save some starving kids in Africa—and yet you always buy the shoes. That’s life. We all kill if we feel justified. A man has a starving family. If he kills another man, he can steal his loaf of bread and save his kids. If he doesn’t kill the man, he doesn’t get the bread and his family dies. So he kills the man. Every single time. But see, the rich man doesn’t need to kill to get a loaf of bread. So he says, ‘Oh, it’s wrong to kill’ and makes up rules so no one hurts him or takes the million loaves he’s saving for him and his fat family. You hear what I’m saying?”

“Morality is subjective,” Win said, making a production of stifling a yawn. “What a philosophical insight, Frank.”

Frank chuckled at that. “I don’t get many visitors. I’m enjoying this.”

“Wonderful. So, pray tell, what are Crisp and your brother up to?”

“Truth? I don’t know. But it might explain where a lot of Herman’s money came from. When the RICO guys came crashing down, they froze all our assets. Herman had a cash cow somewhere paying for the lawyer and, hell, for Crisp. It could have been Gabriel Wire, why not?”

“Could you ask?”

“Ask Herman?” Frank shook his head. “He don’t visit much.”

“Ah, how sad. You two used to be so close.”

That was when Win felt his cell phone double-vibrate. The double-vibrate was a specific setting for emergencies only. He took out the cell phone, read the text, and closed his eyes.

Frank Ache looked at him. “Bad news.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have to go?”

Win rose. “Yes.”

“Hey, Win? Come back, okay? It’s good to talk like this.”

But they both know that he wouldn’t. Pathetic. Twenty-three hours in a cell alone. You shouldn’t do that to a man, Win thought, even the worst. You should take him out in the back, put a gun behind his head, and fire two bullets into his skull. Before you pulled the trigger, the man, even one as broken as Frank, would beg for his life. That was how it worked. The survival instinct always kicked in—men, all men, begged for their lives when faced with death. Still, putting down the animal was cost-effective, wiser, and in the end, more humane.

Win nodded to the guard and hurried back toward his plane.

M
yron watched Kitty walk tentatively through the mall, afraid the ground might give way. Her face was pale. Her once-defining freckles had faded away, but not in a healthy way. She kept cringing and blinking, as though someone had raised a hand and she was bracing for the strike.

For a moment, Myron just stood there, the tinny mall acoustics roaring in his ears, flashing back to those early tennis days, when Kitty was so confident, so sure of herself, you just knew that she was destined for greatness. Myron remembered taking Suzze and Kitty to a mall like this one when they had downtime before a tournament in Albany. The two budding tennis greats strolled the mall like, well, two teenage girls, dropping the adult pretenses for a while, using “like” and “you know” in every sentence, talking too loudly, laughing about the dumbest things, just as two teenage girls should.

Would it be too hackneyed to wonder where it all went so wrong?

Kitty’s eyes darted left and right. Her right leg started to shake. Myron needed to make a decision. Should he make a gradual approach? Should he just wait and follow her back to her car? Should he try direct confrontation or something subtler?

When her back was turned, Myron started walking toward her. He hurried his step, afraid she’d turn, see him, and bolt. He angled himself to block any such quick getaway, heading toward a corner between Macy’s and Wetzel’s Pretzels. He was two steps from Kitty when he felt his BlackBerry vibrate. As though sensing his approach, Kitty began to turn toward him.

“Good to see you again, Kitty.”

“Myron?” She recoiled as though slapped. “What are you doing here?”