He leaned past Sheila and whispered to Laurie, “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the kind of life you wanted.”
Her eyes went sideways to him, her expression as startled as if he’d honked his horn.
He went on: “I’m... I’m sorry it was never enough. You have plenty of reason to complain. But, please, don’t punish me for being honest. Don’t take my son out of my life.”
Laurie was staring at him now — he couldn’t read her face, other than the surprise there at him talking to her in the middle of all this.
Now she leaned over and her eyes went fiery and she wasn’t whispering at all as she said, “You think I left you because you were honest and didn’t take money like every other cop in New York? That’s what you’re saying?”
Up front, the bailiff gave them a look, but Laurie clearly didn’t give a shit — she was well off the launching pad.
“Let me tell you, Richie Roberts, why you don’t take money. You don’t take money because in some sick, twisted way, you think that pays back you being dishonest about everything and everybody else in your pitiful life. And let me tell you, that is way worse than taking money nobody gives a damn about — drug money, gambling money, that nobody’s gonna miss.”
All eyes in the courtroom were on this little drama now.
And Laurie, center stage, ranted on: “I’d rather you took that dirty money, not because I’m greedy or want better things... but because maybe you’d’ve been honest with me, then. Or don’t take that stupid money, I don’t care, I don’t want it; but just don’t play Mr. Clean while you’re cheating on me. Don’t cheat on your kid by never being around. Don’t go out getting laid by all your slutty snitches and secretaries and strippers and... her...”
Laurie was indicating a stricken Sheila.
“I can tell just by looking,” Laurie said with utter contempt, “she’s one of them, too.”
Sheila looked like she wanted to crawl under her pew, with so many eyes and ears in the courtroom taking this in.
But Richie, good Jewish boy that he was, accepted this punishment, knowing he deserved it.
And Laurie was winding up now: “You think you’re going to heaven, ’cause you’re ‘honest,’ do you? Well, you’re not. You’re a liar and a cheat and a selfish prick, and you’ll be going to the same level of hell as the crooked cops you can’t stand.”
“All rise,” the bailiff said, putting a blessed end to Laurie’s diatribe.
Soon they were before the same judge who’d willingly received petty paper-clipped bribes the last time Richie and his lawyer had come into this courtroom.
Sheila, on her feet next to the seated Richie, did her best, saying, “Your Honor, a lot has been said here today about how unsavory an environment Mr. Roberts offers a child. How dangerous that environment is. Well, I’m sorry, Your Honor, but the world is dangerous. Still, it’s where we live, and yet we tell Richie and men with guns and badges like him, ‘Protect us.’ We give the Richie Robertses of our world that dangerous responsibility and then we say, ‘Oh, but you can’t bring a child into that — we can’t trust a man like you to raise a child, we don’t think you’re fit for—”
“I’m not,” Richie said, in a clear loud firm voice.
The chamber was draped in silence. The judge started reaching for his gavel, but froze instead. “Do you have something to say, Mr. Roberts?”
“I do, Your Honor,” he said, getting to his feet. “But not to you, sir.” He looked at Laurie, whose astonished eyes were on him. “You’re right, babe. It’s no place for Michael, being around me. Take him. Take him, and the farther away the better. Better for him, I mean. Just please don’t remove him completely from my life, because I do love him, and would like him to grow up knowing that... That’s all, Your Honor.”
And Richie sat back down.
And Laurie Roberts was suddenly remembering how and why she had first fallen in love with her ex-husband.
21. Revenge
The snow was still white and fresh, New York not getting its chance to apply grime just yet, and the Christmas feeling in Manhattan was like everybody was living inside that old movie, A Miracle on 34th Street. The towering tree at Rockefeller Center had been turned on earlier that evening, its blinking red and blue and green lights casting a Yuletide glow on tourists and New Yorkers alike, who applauded as if electricity in the 20th century was still a miracle. Certainly Christmas was.
Frank Lucas did not delegate Christmas — he was still, at heart, a country boy, and the holiday meant something to him, not so much in a religious way as a time for family and friends. He had shopped at Saks Fifth Avenue for Eva, and at Macy’s for his momma, his brothers and the help. By the time Doc rolled up outside Frank’s penthouse, the car was piled with wrapped presents in the front and back, and though he wore not red and white but a tan cashmere topcoat, he felt just like fucking Santa Claus.
Too bad a Grinch had parked itself at the curb outside Frank’s building: Detective Trupo, in the replacement Mustang the detective had bought, no doubt, with some of the proceeds from that heroin he’d helped himself to.
“Frank...,” Doc began.
“Yeah, I see them. Not a problem. Pull in behind.”
Doc did as he was told. There was a big Christmas tree tied to the roof of the Town Car and the doorman came over to help Doc free the pine. In the meantime, Frank selected from among the presents two bottles of Crystal with festive bows choking their necks, and got out and went over to Trupo’s car.
The Zapata-mustached detective was behind the wheel, and in the rider’s seat was one of his partners. Frank had not bothered to learn any of the names of Trupo’s team — they were insects to him.
Still, he handed in both bottles and gave the pair his friendliest smile, his breath pluming in the chill. “Here you go, boys. Merry Christmas. One of my guys will drop by your restaurant with a little green for the season, next week.”
Trupo handed his bottle over to his rider for safekeeping, then returned Frank’s smile, wished Frank and his family a happy holiday, and the new Mustang rolled off into the gently snow-flecked night.
In honor of the season, Frank did not mutter anything under his breath about the evil pricks.
Half an hour later, with Christmas music playing softly on his stereo, Frank was in his vast, high-ceilinged living room on a ladder stringing lights. His old friend Charlie Williams, in sweater and slacks, was seated on a nearby sofa sipping a beer — nothing fancy for Charlie. No wonder Bumpy had loved the man so.
“It’s part of the game,” Charlie said philosophically, “greasing these palms. Price of doing business, Bumpy always said. Imagine how bad it would be for us if the cops weren’t crooked assholes?”
Frank reached up to loop the string of lights around a branch; he loved the strong pine scent — that, too, brought back memories of the backwoods.
“Paying cops is one thing,” Frank said. “I understand that. Hell, I been payin’ ’em since I was ten — put more of their fuckin’ kids through college than the National Merit Award.”
“You got that right,” Charlie chuckled.
“But this is different, these Special Investigation Unit dicks.” He cast his eyes over his shoulder, gazing right at Charlie. “These fuckers think they are special.”