“It was because of Cecilia,” he says suddenly.
“Your wife,” I say. “I heard. I’m sorry.” Cecilia Washington had been Lawrence’s high school sweetheart. Each was a refugee from a fractured household. Coming from a war-zone neighborhood, Lawrence and Cecilia had recognized in each other the same “I am better than this” spark of self-determination and pride. They married the month Lawrence graduated from the police academy, raised three daughters, sent them all to college, and saw them all married. This was common knowledge on the force and in the DA’s office, at least among those of us who worked cases with Lawrence. Also common knowledge was that Cecilia had developed a neurological condition that slowly robbed her of her health, then her mobility, then her life. It was an awful way for someone to die. And awfully expensive as well.
“I took her to every doctor I could find,” Lawrence says. “Every specialist, and everyone who claimed to be a specialist. We tried all the known therapies and drugs. Tried the experimental ones. I even flew Cecilia down to Mexico. Twice. About halfway through it all, I just plain ran out of money. Our savings were gone. Retirement account empty. Every cent of equity in the house used up. I had to find the money to go on. It was that simple. Guys I worked with knew all about it. One day, one of them came up to me. Said he knew of a way to help me out. Now, I knew that guy, and I knew that whatever he was serving up was gonna be rotten. But I didn’t even blink. I looked him right in the eye and said, ‘Where do I sign?’”
When Lawrence pauses, I get up and walk a few steps to a plastic Igloo cooler, pull out two bottles of beer, and bring them back to the table. Lawrence and I take turns throwing them back in the hot night air. The sun has set, and we’re surrounded by the constant sounds of the crickets and cicadas. Every now and then, a twig snaps nearby, a groundhog or maybe a fox making its presence known. When Lawrence and I finish our beers, I retrieve two more.
“So,” I say, handing Lawrence his bottle, “about Tommy.”
Lawrence unscrews the cap, takes a long swallow, then looks at me hard.
“Don’t judge him, Mick. He’s had a tough road.”
“I know all about Tommy’s problems, and I don’t judge him.”
Something flickers in Lawrence’s eyes. My brother clearly has problems I don’t know about, and he’s going to tell me about them, at least some of them, right now.
Before he has a chance to start, I jump in. “I’m still wondering what brings you here specifically. How do you and Tommy know each other?”
Lawrence smiles. “Got a nephew—Kyle. Shit for brains. High school dropout. A rap sheet longer than your leg before he was sixteen. A mouth that got him into trouble every time he opened it. At nineteen, the fool got sent up for hard time for aggravated assault and robbery. One day in the big house, he says the wrong thing to the wrong guys. Next thing you know, everyone’s playing kickball, and Kyle’s the ball. In the middle of the game, a white guy walks by. Big guy. Thick as a redwood tree. Doesn’t like the whole five-on-one thing and decides to break it up. Few minutes later, lots of guys lying on the floor, broken noses, cracked ribs, busted jaws. Redwood’s caused some damage. But he’s on the floor, too. There were five of them, after all.”
Lawrence takes a long draw on his beer, then continues. “Fast-forward about three years. Shit-for-brains Kyle’s on the street, one of his many short vacations from the state correctional system. My sister Catherine has prevailed upon me to take the boy under my wing, spend some time with him. So one night, I take my nephew to McCraven’s in North Philly. Cop bar, you know the place.”
I nod, thinking of the late Stanley Lipinski dying outside the same tavern’s front door.
“We’re there for a while when Kyle gets all excited, says, ‘That’s him!’ It was the guy who saved his ass inside.”
“Tommy.” I recall the one time I visited my brother in the prison infirmary. Now I know what put him there.
Lawrence nods. “So Kyle and I go over to your brother. I thank him. Buy him a beer, and we get to talking. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, we’re friends.”
Lawrence and I sit in silence, until he says, “I owed him.”
“Meaning what? You brought Tommy in on it? On the drug thing? You owed him so you thought you’d help him make some easy cash?”
“It’s more complicated than that.” Lawrence throws me a sharp look, stares until I look away. “You’ve heard of Jimmy Nutso.”
It’s a statement, not a question. James “Nutso” Nunzio is a powerful underboss in the Delaguardia crime family, whose turf includes all of South Jersey and Philadelphia. Every defense attorney in town—and every Philly resident who can read a newspaper—knows about Jimmy Nutso.
I nod.
“One of Jimmy’s guys who makes book is a gentleman by the name of Tony Oliviella, who works out of a storefront right over on . . . well, let’s just say he’s not too far away from the Melrose Diner. Now Tony’s own menu features the regular fare: ponies, boxing, college football, all the pro sports.”
I can see where this is going. Tommy gambled more than he should have, got himself in deep hock to the mob. He needed cash to pay his tab. I say as much to Lawrence, who confirms it.
“So one day, Jimmy Nutso himself placed a call to Tommy. No threats, of course—you never know when a line is being tapped. He just said, ‘Hi, Tommy. How you doin’? Maybe we can meet sometime. Or maybe there’s no need for that. It’s up to you.’ The message was loud and clear.”
“Jesus,” I exhale.
“Now, Tommy always has his ear to the ground. He hears things he probably shouldn’t. One of the things your brother found out about was our little escapade out of the Thirteenth. Tommy came to me one day and asked to be let in. I said no. He said I owed him, and I said I know I do, and that’s why I’m not letting you anywhere near this. Then he explained why he needed the money. I cursed him up and down, just like my shit-for-brains nephew. But, of course, I knew then that I had no choice but to bring him on board, because he’d be doing the Schuylkill River face-float otherwise.”
I think for a minute. “Has Tommy been inculpated, before the grand jury?”
“No, sir. And there’s no way he can be. I was Tommy’s only contact. My people knew I’d brought someone in to help transport the goods, but they didn’t know who it was.”
I lean back, exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. At the same time, I hear tires crunching over gravel behind me. I turn and see headlights approaching us from a little way down the road.
Lawrence stands. “I’ll let you two alone so Tommy can finish the story himself.”
“There’s more?”