Malone has to give her credit, though—at least she’s trying to kick again.
But she quickly disabuses him of that notion. “I tried to score but I couldn’t find my guy. Did you do something to him?”
“I didn’t hurt him, if that’s what you mean,” Malone says. “You get a doctor to give you something? Because if not, I got a guy—”
“Trauma doctor gave me some Robaxin,” she says.
“You’re not afraid he’ll dime you to admin?”
“After the shit I seen him do?”
“Is it helping?”
“Does it look like it’s helping?”
He’s heating up water to make some herbal tea. The herbs will do exactly shit, but the tea might warm her up a little.
“Let me take you to detox.”
“No.”
“I get worried, you know?”
“Don’t,” she says. “Alcoholics die in withdrawal, not heroin users. We just get sick. And go out and use again.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“If I was going to, I would have,” she says.
She finishes the tea. He wraps a blanket around her and then holds her, rocks her like a baby.
It was another guy, he’d have told him to cut this woman loose. A junkie, what you do is you hold a funeral like she’s dead, you grieve, and then you move on, because the person you knew ain’t there anymore.
But he can’t seem to do that with Claudette.
Chapter 13
Next morning, Malone goes into Rand’s down the street from the courthouse with a copy of the New York Post under his arm. A few minutes later, Piccone slides into the booth across from him and sets the Daily News on the table. “Page Six is good today.”
“How good?”
“Twenty thousand dollars good.”
It costs more to buy some cases than others. Simple possession, a couple of grand. Possession with intent to sell, you’re looking double digits. A heavyweight with intention could go six figures, easy, but then again, if the defendant has that kind of weight, he has that kind of money.
Weapons charges these days, it gets up there, especially if the defendant has a yellow sheet. Fat Teddy could be going for five to seven years, so this is a bargain.
Malone has to pin Piccone down, they told him. Pretend the conversation is being played for a jury. “If I get Michaels to sell the case for twenty, you good with that?”
Malone takes the Daily News, sets it down beside him.
“Only if you get him to drop, decline to prosecute.”
“For twenty K I can get him to say it was his gun.”
“What are you having?” Piccone asks. “The pancakes are sort of edible.”
“No, I gotta move.” He gets up with the Daily News, leaves the Post for Piccone. He goes into the men’s room and cuts $5K from the envelope inside the paper, puts that in his pocket and goes on the street.
Malone’s always thought that 100 Centre Street is one of the most depressing places on earth.
Nothing good ever happens in the Criminal Courts Building.
Even when the rare good, like a bad guy getting convicted, sneaks through the bad, it’s always behind a tragedy. There’s always a victim, at least one grieving family, or a bunch of kids whose daddy or mommy is going away.
Malone finds Michaels in the hallway. Hands him the paper. “You should read this.”
“Yeah, why?”
“Fat Teddy Bailey.”
“Bailey, he’s fucked.”
“Fifteen K get your dick out of his ass?”
“Did you take a finder’s fee?” Michaels asks.
“You want this money or you don’t?” Malone asks. “But it’s for a pass, not a plea.”
Michaels puts the paper in his canvas bag. Then he starts the show. “Goddamn it, Malone, this gets tossed on a Dunaway.”
Probable cause.
A couple of people glance over as they pass by. Malone glances over to make sure they’re watching and then for their benefit he yells, “Known felon, and I saw a gun bulge!”
“What kind of coat was Bailey wearing?”
“The hell am I, Ralph Lauren?” Malone says, playing it out.
“A down coat,” Michaels says. “A North Face down coat. You gonna stand there and tell me—no, you gonna tell a judge—you could see a .25 under that? I’m supposed to go in there and look like an asshole? A racist asshole, to boot?”
“You’re supposed to go in there and do your job!”
“You do yours!” Michaels yells. “Make a goddamn bust I can work with.”
“You’re going to put this mook back on the street.”
“No, you’re going to put him back on the street,” Michaels says, walking away.
“Pussy,” Malone says. “Jesus Christ.”
People look at him standing in the hallway. But it’s not unusual—cops and ADAs get into it all the time.
Malone goes up to the third floor of the old textile building in the Garment District where O’Dell has set up his operation.
A couple of desks and the hello-phone. Red boxes of files. Cheap metal cabinets, a coffeemaker. Malone hands him the five grand, shucks his jacket, rips off the wire and sets it on the desk.
“Did you get it?” O’Dell asks.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Weintraub grabs the tape, fast-forwards it to the conversation with Michaels. Listens and then says, “God fucking damn it.”
“This gonna do it?” Malone asks. “I put them both in the shit for you?”
“What, you feel bad?” Weintraub says. “You want to take their place?”
“Shut up, Stan,” says O’Dell. “You did a good job, Denny.”
“Yeah, I’m a good rat,” Malone says, heading for the door and out of that sickening fucking place, literally a rat-hole. And what’s this fucking “Denny”? he thinks. We friends now or something? It’s all “Stan” and “Denny,” like we’re on the same team now? And patting me on the head, “You did a good job, Denny”? I’m your fucking dog now?
“Where are you going?” O’Dell asks.
“The fuck is it to you?” Malone asks. “Or what, I’m not free to leave, you’re afraid I’m going to go warn the guy? Don’t worry, I’d be too ashamed.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” O’Dell says. “You’re going to be ashamed, you should be ashamed of what you were doing, not what you’re doing now.”
“I didn’t come here looking for your fucking absolution.”
“No?” O’Dell asks. “I kind of think you did. I think some part of you wanted to get caught, Denny.”
“Is that what you think?” Malone asks. “Then you’re an even bigger asshole than I thought you were.”
“You want to get coffee, a drink?” O’Dell asks.
Malone whirls on him.
“Don’t handle me, O’Dell.” You know how many informers I’ve handled, coddled, seduced, told them they were doing the right thing? I give them heroin, not coffee, and I know the cardinal rule of dealing with them—you can’t think of them as people, they’re snitches. You start falling in love with them, caring about them, thinking of them as anything but what they are, they’ll end up killing you.
I’m your snitch, O’Dell.
Don’t fuck up by trying to treat me like a person.
Claudette says pretty much the same thing to him when he goes to check in on her.