Sinner's Ball (2 page)

Nick had done a nice job putting Feeney's back together after the bomb that took Dave's hand had gutted the joint. The mahogany bar, the Wurlitzer, the tin ceiling with a fleur-de-lis hammered into every panel—everything looked as good as new.

The same couldn't be said for my brother.

Feeney's was where Dave did business, and as usual, he was dressed for it. Navy blue pin-striped suit. Crisp, white shirt. Soft gray tie. But that's where the resemblance to the
old
Dave ended. His eyes were listless recesses set in a face that had lost its certainty. The stump of his left hand was encased in a sheath of black leather, which he rubbed furiously against the pebbled remainder of a port-wine stain on his cheek. It was an endlessly humiliating blotch of congenital graffiti that even laser surgery couldn't completely erase.

When Dave rubbed his cheek, bad things were in the offing.

After the Israeli's bomb had nearly taken my brother out, he had become a lot more cautious. He and Anthony sat at a back booth that afforded him a panoramic view of everything that went on at the saloon.

After the bombing, in some truly convoluted act of loyalty, Anthony had decided he wanted in. Another thing Dave never saw coming. In a truly screwed-up act of parenting, Dave agreed.

It won't last
, he said.
The kid's too soft for the life. Doesn't have the stomach for it. He'll be back in Hanover carving ice sculptures at the Winter Festival in under a month
.

That made my brother oh for four in the prediction department.

Now Anthony, the avid apprentice, sat by the master's side soaking up the ins and outs of organized crime. He flashed me a cold smile he had probably spent weeks rehearsing in front of a mirror.

Dave threw me a bemused look.

“Cisco couldn't make it in on his own?” he said.

“You forgot to leave my name on the guest list.”

He smiled and shook his head. “And people say
I'm
on a hair trigger.”

“So, how're you doing?”

“Living the dream.” His voice was a scrape of sandpaper, so low I had to lean in to hear it.

Anthony giggled as if it were the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

Anthony was the family hope, and I loved him like a son. A gentle boy with brains and a heart who was a sure bet to make us proud. And he threw it all away. The sight of him working hard on becoming his father's Mini-Me was enough to make me sick. I shot him a look and the stupid giggle froze in his throat.

Our little byplay didn't escape Dave's notice.

“What're you so pissy about, Jake?” he said, using the nickname he'd tagged me with when we were kids.

“If you don't know, I'm sorry for you.”

My brother waved his hand dismissively. “Don't worry about it,” he said. He looked at his watch. “You're late.”

“Really? Last time I checked, I'm not on your payroll.”

“That may be about to change.”

That got my attention.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“How's Allie?”

“Fine. As soon as I finish here, I'm meeting her and DeeDee for lunch.”

Allie Lebow and DeeDee Santos were the two women in my life. Allie was my current and future love. DeeDee
was my best buddy and kind of a surrogate daughter. She and her father lived in my building. Unfortunately for DeeDee, he was a frequent guest of the city's penal institutions. And her mother had split to the Dominican Republic. That left DeeDee pretty much on her own, and headed for a life on the streets. No way would I let that happen. Now she was a sophomore at one of the most prestigious high schools in the city.

“Allie's a keeper. And DeeDee, too,” he said, smiling now. “That kid has some mouth on her. Always liked her.”

“She'll be thrilled to hear it. Now, can we get back to that
payroll
thing again?”

“Remember that fire I had over at my warehouse?”

His tone was dismissive, as if it were a kitchen flare-up that took out a couple of oven mitts, rather than a three-alarmer that turned three squatters into stains on the floor and took the lives of two New York City firefighters.

“Sure. Christmas Eve.”

“The DA is saying it was arson, and that I did it for the insurance money.”

“You don't need the money.”

“Right.”

“And his evidence?”

“Far as I know, zip. But our esteemed DA always plays things close to the vest.”

“That he does,” I said.

“The warehouse was insured by Pytho. Their guy who investigated the fire was supposed to be here by now.”

“But he's not.”

“He called. Running late. I want you to hear what he has to say.”

“I'll drop by after lunch.”

“That works. Look, you know how this is going to go down. The DA is all about expedience. He looks at my line of work, puts two and two together, and comes up with the brilliant deduction that I torched the place. I take the fall for felony murder, another case cleared. Crime wave over.”

Sad to say, my brother's analysis was dead right. This was an election year, and politics trumped everything. The DA had been in office since there were trolley cars. But he wasn't quite ready for a retirement home. There was one last hurrah on his to-do list. A high-profile case starring my brother, the reigning Hell's Kitchen's Kingpin of Crime, would fit the bill very nicely.

“You pretty much summed it up,” I said.

“My lawyer tells me that an indictment is about to come down.”

“Based on what? Someone who could place you at the scene?”

“Not possible. I wasn't there.”

“And you have an alibi.”

“Are you kidding? Airtight.”

“Then its gotta be coming from the competition. What's the word on the street?”

“Nada. The doers could be the Guineas, the spics, the Russians, or some other flavor of asshole thinking about trying me on for size. Since the uh, incident”—he stroked
his cheek with the stump of his hand—“the jokers probably think I'm, you know, vulnerable. But they don't know who they're fucking with, do they?”

They surely didn't.

He smiled a crooked smile. “When I find them, I'm going to rip out their eyes.”

Nothing ever changes.

“Have you heard from Franny?”

His face went cold.

“She's yesterday, so screw her. From here on in it's just the two of us. Just like old times.”

Just like old times!

Something in my brother's face sparked an unsettling thought.

“You've told me everything?” I said.

He smiled. “See you after lunch.”

“W
hy do I do this to myself?” Allie said.

Café Buffo was a watering hole for folks in the ad business. Every year, on the third Friday in January, the restaurant honored the industry's movers and shakers. Their caricatures went up on the walls, and their names were attached to menu items. Allie had yet to make the cut. This year was no different. The winner was busy taking his bows when I arrived.

“No luck, huh?” I said, easing into a seat opposite her and DeeDee, who suddenly looked older to me. Maybe it was the lighting. Or maybe it was something new.

DeeDee had always been kind of a tomboy, wearing whatever was handy. But today she wore freshly pressed jeans and a black tank top, and her long black hair was lustrous and neatly combed. Most disturbing, her eyes
sported just a hint of mascara. Allie noticed my confusion and greeted it with a raised eyebrow and a
things are changing and you better get used to it
smile.

Even in the depths of depression, Allie, the love of my life, looked terrific. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back in a ponytail. And under a furry vest she wore a T-shirt that announced
WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I GIVE A DAMN
?

“Ignored again,” Allie said. “The winner, an unctuous little brain with a Brit agency, walked off with top honors for a campaign for fly-front adult diapers.”

“Fills a need, I guess,” DeeDee said. “Who wants to see grown men with wet blotches all over the front of their pants?”

“I think you're missing the point, kiddo,” I said.

“Out of the mouths of babes,” Allie said. “It's target marketing at its best. Zipper. Button. And Velcro. An incontinent's dream.” She shook her head. “To top it all off, he's maybe thirteen, and doesn't even shave.”

“Why do you put yourself through this?” I said.

She looked over at the winner posing with his caricature as cameras flashed.

“Look at him. Besides being totally bereft of talent, there's no sign he's hit puberty yet! I lost to a brainless fly-front-adult-diaper schlockmeister child.”

“Why do you care what these imbeciles think?” DeeDee said. “Besides, he looks retarded.”

She did have a mouth on her.

“Good question. Maybe, it's a Rift Valley–size masochistic streak. Or maybe, it's a yearning for the occasional pat on the back for writing ads that make the cash register ring. Do you know what it's like to write copy and then have it turned into a rag by clients, account schmucks, researchers, lawyers, and other assorted
experts
who turn to Hallmark for help in saying happy birthday?”

She plucked a pencil-thin breadstick from the breadbasket and inserted the tip between her teeth. For Allie this was lunch.

“It must suck,” DeeDee said.

“You think? Imagine wildebeest at a lion buffet.” Allie threw up her hands. “What's the use?” She shook her head and tried for a smile. “How's your day going, Steeg? Battling the forces of evil and keeping the world safe from itself?”

This wasn't going to be pretty. My brother wasn't exactly on Allie's fave list.

“In a manner of speaking. Dave has a … situation, and needs my help.”

Carefully placing the breadstick with the barely nibbled tip on her plate, she took the news without expression. “You're going to work for your brother,” she said.

After a too-long pause punctuated by a really deep sigh, she continued. “Why?”

“Hate the sin, love the sinner,” I said, using one of the many stock lines I had developed over the years to deflect that specific question.

“That's too pat by half, Steeg. Look, because he's your brother I tolerate him. But he has this little problem that I find a tad vexing.”

“And that is?”

“His vocation is killing people.”

“No one's perfect,” DeeDee said, rising to my brother's defense. “Besides, he's always been nice to me.”

I could have kissed her! For DeeDee it was all about family—and Dave was family.

“Wonderful! Look, it'd be bad enough if he just killed his own kind. But the bomb that was meant for Dave nearly cost Steeg his life.” She turned to me. “So I ask again, why?”

Not a bad point. I was outside of Feeney's when the explosion ripped it apart.

“Two reasons.”

I told her about the fire.

“I have a really serious problem when justice is asymmetrical.”

“What does that mean?”

“When the DA decides to pin someone to his personal butterfly collection board—especially an easy target like my brother—things like guilt or innocence go out the window.”

“Maybe the DA is balancing the scales for the other crimes your brother's gotten away with.”

“Not supposed to work that way. Besides, if it were Dave's handiwork, there wouldn't be any bodies to find.”

“Good point, Steeg,” DeeDee said.

“Dear God!” Allie said, shaking her head.

“You wanted honesty.”

“And the other reason?”

“You're an only child, right?”

“Where's this going?

“Call it the pull of blood. I'm all he has.”

“You've got to give him that,” DeeDee said.

“I would if this were a debate, DeeDee, but it's not. It's that little thing we call life.” She turned back to me. “That's very noble, Steeg.”

“Not really. Sometimes the law is an axe poised over the wrong bare neck.”

“And that's where you come in.”

“Pretty much.”

Allie thought about that for a few moments, trying hard, I guess, to understand what life with me really meant.

“All right,” she said. “For now. But there's one thing you have to promise.”

With Allie, you were never quite home free.

“Name it.”

She reached over and ran a fingertip across my cheek.

“Be careful,” she said.

Once again, all was well with the world.

“I can't believe that warehouse burned down,” DeeDee said.

“Things happen,” I said.

“I was there right after it was closed. Nick took Justin and me there a few months ago. Said he was getting rid of stuff and told us we could have anything we wanted.” She fingered the hem of her tank top. “Where do you think I got this?”

A tiny little paternal alarm bell went off.

“Who's Justin?”

DeeDee's cheeks reddened just a bit.

“Justin Hapner,” she said, in a way that made his name glow like neon. “He goes to Devereaux Academy with me. He's a senior.”

Devereaux was the city's premier private school and had had the good judgment to give DeeDee a full scholarship.

“Where does he live?”

“Brooklyn. Bensonhurst.”

With that address, I figured Justin for a scholarship kid too.

“How come you never mentioned him?”

“Enough with the questions.”

“I like to know about your friends.”

She glanced out the window, and jumped up from the table.

“I've gotta run.”

“Where're you going?” I said. “You haven't even eaten.”

“Justin's outside,” she said, pointing to a gangly kid in a hoodie pacing out in the street. “We're going to a concert at the South Street Seaport.”