Monty is still in a coma and unresponsive. He had a “coronary incident” but they managed to stabilize him. What the fuck for, Malone thinks, feeling guilty as he thinks it, that it would have been better if they’d just let him go.
Yolanda is slumped in a chair, dozing. Machines hum and beep, their tubes running into Monty’s mouth, nose and arms. His eyes are closed; what Malone can see of his face where it isn’t bandaged is purple and swollen.
He puts his hand on Monty’s.
Leans over and whispers, “Big Man, I’m so sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry for everything.”
This time he can’t stop the tears. They pour down his face, drip onto Monty’s hand.
“Don’t blame yourself, Denny.” Yolanda has woken up. “It’s not your fault.”
“I was in command. It was my fault.”
“Monty’s a grown man,” Yolanda says. “He knew the risks.”
“He’s strong. He’s going to make it.”
“Even if he does,” Yolanda says, “he’s going to be a vegetable. I’m going to have my husband in my apartment drooling in a wheelchair. His disability insurance isn’t going to pay for all he needs, not to mention three sons. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
Malone looks at her. “Yolanda, did Monty ever talk to you about the money?”
She looks confused.
“The extra money.”
“From the moonlighting jobs? Sure, but—”
Shit, Malone thinks.
She doesn’t know.
Malone bends down, puts his arms around her, says quietly, “Monty has over a million dollars stored away. Some in cash, some in investments. He didn’t tell you?”
“I always thought we lived off his salary.”
“You did,” Malone says. “I guess he was saving the rest.”
“Where—”
“You don’t need to know,” Malone says. “Phil knows where it is, how to access it. But talk to him tonight, Yo. Tonight.”
She looks into his eyes. “The Job, it doesn’t leave you anything, does it?”
He squeezes her hand and walks out.
Russo sits in the little lounge outside ICU, leafing through an old copy of Sports Illustrated.
“We gotta talk,” Malone says.
“Okay.”
“Not here. Outside.”
They walk through the hospital to a back door out by the service entrance. Dumpsters overflow with garbage, cigarette butts are grouped on the asphalt in little arcs where the chain smokers stood.
Malone sits on the stoop, puts his head in his hands.
Russo leans against a Dumpster. “Jesus Christ, who knew something like this would happen?”
“We did,” Malone says.
“We didn’t kill that kid, and we didn’t shoot Monty,” Russo says. “The Domos did.”
“The hell we didn’t,” Malone says. “Let’s at least be honest with each other. This thing has been no good since Billy died. Sometimes I think that was God punishing us for what we did. This ends tonight.”
“The fuck it does,” Russo said. “Our partner’s dying in there. We have to respond.”
“It’s over,” Malone says.
“You think this is just going to go away now?” Russo asks. “A shooting board? IAB? Homicide will be all over this and they’ll be looking for a motive. It could open up the whole Pena thing.”
“We’re finished,” Malone says.
“The only people who can give up anything about Pena are right here,” Russo says. “As long as we stick with each other, they can’t touch us. It’s just you and me now, that’s it.”
Malone starts to sob.
Russo steps over, puts his hands on Malone’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Denny, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.” Red-faced, his cheeks streaked with tears, he looks up at Russo. “It was me, Phil.”
“It’s not your fault. It could have happened—”
“Phil, it wasn’t Levin. It was me.”
Russo stares at him for a second, then he understands.
“Oh, fuck, Denny.” He sits down beside him. Sits quiet for a long time, like he’s stunned, like he got hit with something. Then he asks, “How did they get to you?”
“It was stupid shit,” Malone says. “Piccone.”
“Jesus Christ, Denny,” Russo says, “you couldn’t do four years?”
“I would have. I kept you out of it,” Malone says. “Then Savino flipped. The feds threatened Sheila. Said they’d put her away for tax evasion, receiving stolen property. I couldn’t . . .”
“What about our wives?” Russo asks. “Our families?”
“They promised to keep all our families out of it if I gave you up,” Malone says.
Russo arches his back. Looks up at the sky. Then he asks, “What did you give them?”
“Everything,” Malone says. “Except killing Pena. It would go down as a felony murder for the three of us. And I got you on tape, talking about the bust, the money . . .”
“So I’m looking at what, twenty to life?” Russo says. “What’s your deal? What did you get for flipping on us?”
“Twelve years,” Malone says. “Confiscation. Fines.”
“Fuck you, Denny,” Russo says. Then he asks, “When are they taking me?”
“Tomorrow,” Malone says. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you until a few minutes before.”
“That’s fucking big of you.”
“You can run,” Malone says.
“How am I gonna run?” Russo asks. “I have a family. Christ, when my kids see me . . .”
“I’m sorry,” Malone says.
“It’s not all on you,” Russo says. “We’re grown men. We knew what we were doing. We knew where it could go. But how the fuck did we get here?”
“A step at a time,” Malone says. “We were good cops, once. Then . . . I dunno . . . but we just put fifty kilos of smack out on our own streets. That’s not what we started out to do. It’s the exact opposite of what we started out to do. It’s like you light a match, you don’t think it’s going to do any harm. Then the wind comes up and changes and it becomes a fire that burns down everything you love.”
“I loved you, Denny,” Russo says, getting up. “Like a brother, I loved you.”
Russo walks away and leaves him sitting there.
Chapter 31
Malone walks through the front door of what used to be his home on Staten Island to find O’Dell standing there waiting for him.
“What are you doing in my house?” Malone asks.
“Keeping your family safe,” O’Dell says. “The better question is, why aren’t you?”
“Maybe you heard,” Malone says. “I had a couple of brothers shot. One’s dead, the other might as well be.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah?” Malone asks. “You have a piece of that, laying a rat tag on Levin.”
“I was trying to save your ass.”
“You were trying to save your investigation.”
“I didn’t send him through the door,” O’Dell says. “You did.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” He pushes past O’Dell and walks into the kitchen.
Sheila sits at the breakfast bar with her head down.
Two feds in suits stand against the wall, one looks out the kitchen-door window onto the backyard.
Sheila’s been crying, he can see the red puffiness under her eyes.
“You guys want to give us a minute?” Malone asks.
The two agents look at each other.
“Let me rephrase that,” Malone says. “Give us a fucking minute. Go help your boss guard the living room.”
They leave the kitchen.
Sheila looks up at him. “You got something you want to tell me, Denny?”
“What have you heard?”
“Don’t play me!” she yells. “I’m not some skel! I’m not IAB! I’m your wife! I deserve to know!”