“For a thousand a month?” Malone asks. “Some assurance.”
“Go in peace,” Henderson says. “You have a force field around you since the Pena bust.”
“Check this Levin out, though, right?”
“You got it.”
Henderson pulls out.
Malone goes back inside and sits down.
“Levin here,” Russo says, “doesn’t know about the Easter Bunny.”
“I know about the Easter Bunny,” Levin says. “What I mean is I don’t understand the connection between your savior being nailed to a cross and then resurrected, which is a doubtful premise to begin with, and a rabbit coming around and burying candy eggs, especially as a rabbit is a mammal that does live births.”
“This is what they teach them in college,” Russo says. “What do you want us to bury, candy crosses?”
“It would make more sense,” Levin says.
Monty kicks in. “The Easter Bunny comes from a German pagan tradition that the Lutherans adapted as a judge to determine whether children had been good or bad.”
“Sort of like Santa Claus,” Russo says.
“Which also doesn’t make any sense,” Levin says.
“You’re just bitter,” Russo says, “because Jewish kids get fucked over at Christmas.”
“That’s probably true,” Levin says.
“An egg,” Monty says, “is a symbol of birth, new life. When you bury and then recover it, it’s a symbol of new life resurrected. But a rabbit can no more lay an egg than a man can come back from the dead. Both require miracles. So the Easter Bunny is a symbol of hope, that miracles—resurrection, a new life, redemption—are possible.”
“Hey, check it out,” Russo says, pointing to the television bracketed to the wall.
The mayor is standing out in front of St. Nick’s talking to the press.
“My administration will not tolerate,” he’s saying, “and this city will not tolerate, violence in our public housing.”
An old man sitting near the television laughs.
The mayor says, “I have instructed our police force to spare no effort in finding the guilty party or parties, and I promise you, we will. The people of Harlem, the people of New York City can know, and can trust, that this administration believes that black lives matter.”
“Bullshit!” the old man yells.
A couple of customers nod in agreement.
A few more stare at Malone and the team.
“You heard the man,” Malone says. “Let’s get to work.”
Back in the car, Malone sees the Sig Sauer P226 in Levin’s shoulder holster.
“What else do you carry?” Malone asks.
“This is it.”
“It’s a good weapon,” Malone says, “but you’ll need more.”
“It’s regulation,” Levin says.
“Tell that to some skel who just took it off you and is about to shoot you with it,” Malone says.
“You need a backup weapon,” Russo says. “And then something that’s not a gun.”
“Like what?” Levin asks.
Russo takes a leather sap out of one pocket and brass knuckles out of another and holds them up. Montague has a sawed-off baseball bat handle with lead poured down the center.
“Jesus Christ,” Levin says.
“This is Manhattan North,” Malone says. “The Task Force. We have one job—hold the line. The rest of it’s just details.”
His phone rings.
It’s Torres.
DeVon Carter will sit down with Malone today.
Chapter 7
Malone and Torres sit across a table from DeVon Carter above a hardware store on Lenox the dope slinger uses as one of his many offices. He’ll abandon it after this meeting, won’t come back for months, if at all.
So it tips Malone that Carter has something to gain from the meeting, if he’s willing to burn a location.
“You wanted to talk,” Carter says. “Talk.”
“You just took out an innocent old lady,” Malone says. “What’s it going to be the next time? A kid? A pregnant girl? A baby? You strike back for Mookie, sooner or later, that’s what it’s gonna be.”
“If I don’t answer back for Mookie,” Carter says, “I will lose respect.”
“I don’t want a war on my turf,” Malone says.
“Tell that to the Dominicans,” Carter says. “You know who they sent up here? Cat named Carlos Castillo, a certified headhunter.”
“It wasn’t a Dominican who shot Mookie,” Malone says. “It was a brother, maybe a Spade.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your Spades flipping on you and going over to the Dominicans,” Malone says. “Maybe they punched their ticket by doing Mookie.”
Carter is good at holding himself in, but there’s just a momentary look in the eye that tells Malone it’s the truth.
“What do you want me to do?” Carter asks.
“Call off the deal with the bikers,” Malone says. “Tell them you won’t be needing any more of their guns.”
Carter’s voice takes on an edge. “You stay out of that.”
He looks over at Torres.
So Torres knows all about the gun deal, Malone thinks. “No, I’m going to be all up in that.”
“I can’t fight the Domos without weapons,” Carter says. “What do you want me to do, just die?”
“Let us handle the Domos.”
“Like you handled Pena?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Carter smiles. “And what do you want for these services? Three thousand a month, five, a flat fee? Or just the ability to rip as much as you can get your hands on?”
“I want you out of the business,” Malone says. “Go to Maui, the Bahamas, I don’t care, but you retire and no one comes after you.”
“I just give up my business and sail away.”
“How much more money do you need to live?” Malone asks. “How many cars can you drive? How many houses can you live in? How many women can you fuck? I’m giving you an out.”
Carter says, “You know better than that, Malone. You of all people should know that kings don’t retire.”
“Be the first.”
“And leave you king?”
“Diego Pena killed your boy Cleveland and his entire family,” Malone says. “You didn’t do shit about it. That ain’t the DeVon Carter of legend. I think you’re past it already.”
“You know what I hear?” Carter asks. “I hear you’re dipping your pen in the inkwell. And I hear you ain’t the only white horse she ride, your Miss Claudette.”
He taps the back of his hand on his forearm.
Malone says, “You or any of your chimps go near her I’ll kill you.”
“I’m just saying”—Carter smiles—“if she gets sick, I can get her well.”
Malone gets up. “My offer stands.”
Torres follows Malone down the stairs. “What the fuck, Denny?!”
“Go back to your boss.”
“You leave the guns alone,” Torres says. “I’m warning you.”
Malone turns around. “Warning me or threatening me?”
“I’m telling you,” Torres says. “Leave the fucking guns alone.”
“What, you got a piece of that deal, too?”
He knows the bikers—white don’t like to deal with black, but they’ll deal with brown to deal with black.
Torres says, “For the last time, stay in your lane.”
Malone turns and goes down the stairs.
Manhattan North is a zoo.
You got the usual animals, but you also got a herd of suits up from One P, and a pack of functionaries from the mayor’s office.
McGivern is there.