Chapter 1
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The waitress was in her fifties, dressed in a tight black miniskirt, white blouse, and black high heels. Parts of her spilled out of every item of clothing she wore, making her look like she had swollen mysteriously sometime between dressing and arriving for work. She called me “darlin’ ” each time she filled my coffee cup. She didn’t say anything else, which was fine by me.
I had been sitting at the window for over ninety minutes now, watching the brownstone across the street, and the waitress must have been wondering exactly how long I was planning to stay and if I was ever going to pay the check. Outside, the streets of Astoria buzzed with bargain hunters. I had even read the New York Times from start to finish without nodding off in between as I passed the time waiting for Fat Ollie Watts to emerge from hiding. My patience was wearing thin.
In moments of weakness, I sometimes considered ditching the New York Times on weekdays and limiting my purchase to the Sunday edition, when I could at least justify buying it on the grounds of bulk. The other option was to begin reading the Post, although then I’d have to start clipping coupons and walking to the store in my bedroom slippers.
Maybe in reacting so badly to the Times that morning I was simply killing the messenger. It had been announced that Hansel McGee, a state Supreme Court judge and, according to some, one of the worst judges in New York, was retiring in December and might be nominated to the board of the city’s Health and Hospitals Corporation.
Even seeing McGee’s name in print made me ill. In the 1980s, he had presided over the case of a woman who had been raped when she was nine years old by a fifty–four–year–old man named James Johnson, an attendant in Pelham Bay Park who had convictions for robbery, assault, and rape.
McGee overturned a jury award to the woman of $3.5 million with the following words: “An innocent child was heinously raped for no reason at all; yet that is one of the risks of living in a modern society.” At the time, his judgment had seemed callous and an absurd justification for overturning the ruling. Now, seeing his name before me again after what had happened to my family, his views seemed so much more abhorrent, a symptom of the collapse of goodness in the face of evil.
Erasing McGee from my mind, I folded the newspaper neatly, tapped a number on my cell phone, and turned my eyes to an upper window of the slightly run–down apartment building opposite. The phone was picked up after three rings and a woman’s voice whispered a cautious hello. It had the sound of cigarettes and booze to it, like a bar door scraping across a dusty floor.
“Tell your fat asshole boyfriend that I’m on my way to pick him up and he’d better not make me chase him,” I told her. “I’m real tired and I don’t plan on running around in this heat.” Succinct, that was me. I hung up, left five dollars on the table, and stepped out onto the street to wait for Fat Ollie Watts to panic.
The city was in the middle of a hot, humid summer spell, which was due to end the following day with the arrival of thunderstorms and rain. Currently, it was hot enough to allow for T–shirts, chinos, and overpriced sunglasses, or, if you were unlucky enough to be holding down a responsible job, hot enough to make you sweat like a pig under your suit as soon as you left the a/c behind. There wasn’t even a gust of wind to rearrange the heat.
Two days earlier, a solitary desk fan had struggled to make an impact on the sluggish warmth in the Brooklyn Heights office of Benny Low. Through an open window I could hear Arabic being spoken on Atlantic Avenue and I could smell the cooking scents coming from the Moroccan Star, half a block away. Benny was a minor–league bail bondsman who had banked on Fat Ollie staying put until his trial. The fact that he had misjudged Fat Ollie’s faith in the justice system was one reason why Benny continued to remain a minor–league bondsman.
The money being offered on Fat Ollie Watts was reasonable, and there were things living on the bottom of ponds that were smarter than most bail jumpers. There was a fifty–thousand–dollar bond on Fat Ollie, the result of a misunderstanding between Ollie and the forces of law and order over the precise ownership of a 1993 Chevy Beretta, a 1990 Mercedes 300 SE, and a number of well–appointed sport utility vehicles, all of which had come into Ollie’s possession by illegal means.
Fat Ollie’s day started to go downhill when an eagle–eyed patrolman familiar with Ollie’s reputation as something less than a shining light in the darkness of a lawless world spotted the Chevy under a tarpaulin and called for a check on the plates. They were false and Ollie was raided, arrested, and questioned. He kept his mouth shut but packed a bag and headed for the hills as soon as he made bail, in an effort to avoid further questions about who had placed the cars in his care. That source was reputed to be Salvatore “Sonny” Ferrera, the son of a prominent capo. There had been rumors lately that relations between father and son had deteriorated in recent weeks, but nobody was saying why.
“Fuckin’ goomba stuff,” as Benny Low had put it that day in his office.
“Anything to do with Fat Ollie?”
“Fuck do I know? You want to call Ferrera and ask?”
I looked at Benny Low. He was completely bald and had been since his early twenties, as far as I knew. His glabrous skull glistened with tiny beads of perspiration. His cheeks were ruddy and flesh hung from his chin and jowls like melted wax. His tiny office, located above a halal store, smelled of sweat and mold. I wasn’t even sure why I had said I would take the job. I had money — insurance money, money from the sale of the house, money from what had once been a shared account, even some cash from my retirement fund — and Benny Low’s money wasn’t going to make me any happier. Maybe Fat Ollie was just something to do.
Benny Low swallowed once, loudly. “What? Why are you lookin’ at me like that?”
“You know me, Benny, don’t you?”
“Fuck does that mean? Course I know you. You want a reference? What?” He laughed halfheartedly, spreading his pudgy hands wide as if in supplication. “What?” he said again. His voice faltered, and for the first time, he actually looked scared. I knew that people had been talking about me in the months since the deaths, talking about things I had done, things I might have done. The look in Benny Low’s eyes told me that he had heard about them too and believed that they could be true.
Something about Fat Ollie’s flight just didn’t sit right. It wouldn’t be the first time that Ollie had faced a judge on a stolen vehicles rap, although the suspected connection to the Ferreras had forced the bond up on this occasion. Ollie had a good lawyer to rely on; otherwise his only connection to the automobile industry would have come from making license plates on Rikers Island. There was no particular reason for Ollie to run, and no reason why he would risk his life by fingering Sonny over something like this.
“Nothing, Benny. It’s nothing. You hear anything else, you tell me.”