“I know you are. I know you are. But this is my country, Eva. This is America. And you don’t run from America — you run to America.”
And he took her to bed where she slept under his good shoulder, and he tended to her as if she were the wounded one, which perhaps was right.
22. Rush
Christmas for Richie Roberts had not been half-bad. Laurie had invited him over to her folks’ for Christmas Eve and he was able to spend some “quality time” (to invoke the phrase Laurie had started using lately) with Michael. His capitulation at the hearing had won him some visitation time with his son, and a personal truce with Laurie. She would never love him again, and he supposed he didn’t love her anymore, either. But between them, now, was an unspoken respect for what they’d once shared, as represented by the boy they both still loved very much.
So all was right with Richie’s world, on that sunny January morning, the stained glass turning everything lovely shades of brown and yellow, and even having Detective Trupo troop in as if he and his black leather topcoat owned the squad room couldn’t spoil it.
Richie was at his desk and scarecrow Spearman came over, lifting an eyebrow, saying, “Said he’ll only talk to you.”
“Lucky me,” Richie said, and got up and joined the SIU detective off to one side of the big bullpen.
“How’s it goin’?” Trupo said, not offering a hand but giving Richie a friendly nod that indicated a whole new attitude.
“It’s goin’,” Richie said. “Christmas okay?”
“Yeah, cool. If in-laws was illegal, I’d be a happy guy.”
They moved to a nearby break table where they sat and had coffee, black.
Trupo sipped steaming hot liquid, then said casually, “Hear anything about this Lucas hit?”
Richie sipped at his own cup, then shook his head. “No. Just that whoever-it-was put Frank’s wife in the line of fire, which if you don’t a kill a guy can be a problem.”
Trupo, nodding, lighted up a cigarette. “From what I hear, it was maybe the Corsicans.”
“Yeah?”
“French Connection, Fernando Rey, the exporters Frank’s put out of business.”
“Makes sense.” Richie was wondering what this had to do with him, and for that matter, Trupo.
Trupo told him, in a brashly conspiratorial manner: “Now, I can watch out for Frank’s ass on the New York side of the bridge, but I don’t wanna have to worry every time he drives over to Jersey for whatever, and somebody takes another potshot at him.”
Richie was stunned that Trupo would talk this openly about his business ties to Lucas; but he gave nothing away as he said, “Hit went down in Chinatown, what I understand. Chinatown is not Jersey, last time I looked.”
“No. But now the radar’s up, my side of the river, and what I need to know is, you know, that yours is up over here.”
“I follow.”
“Good.” Trupo’s mustached grin had a certain charm, but Richie had to work at it not to shudder when the detective laid a chummy hand on his shoulder. “We need to start workin’ together, Richie. Need to step up, need to coordinate, our efforts. Next time whoever-the-fuck’s aim could be better.”
“Could,” Richie admitted.
Trupo’s laugh was damn near a cackle. He blew dragon smoke out his nostrils. “And, of course, we want to keep this cash cow alive, you know what I’m saying?”
“I know what you’re saying.”
Then, as luck would have it — bad luck — Jimmy Zee came waltzing into the squadroom through the back door; immediately the snitch caught a glimpse of Trupo, and hauled ass back out.
But Trupo had made him. “What’s that nigger doing here?”
“What, Jimmy? I don’t know. We had him in for questioning on some domestic beef a while back, and shook him loose. He comes in and lies to us now and then, and we pretend to believe him.”
Richie hoped that would pass muster.
Trupo was a lot of things, but a fool wasn’t one of them; his detective instincts were tweaked, and his eyes searched the squadroom, landing on the bulletin boards and the revised flow chart of drug criminals.
The SIU dick got up and wandered over to the bulletin boards. Richie followed. Trupo was taking a good long look at the table of criminal organization, and his eyes widened and his jaw dropped, when he saw Frank Lucas up top, in Public Enemy Number One position.
“Jesus,” Trupo said. “What the fuck’s this about? You’re not actually working to arrest Frank Lucas? What’s the matter with you, man? You fuckin’ crazy?”
“Yeah, matter of fact I am fuckin’ crazy,” Richie said pleasantly. “Haven’t you heard? Crazy enough to shoot somebody and make it look like an accident next time he comes over the bridge without my permission.”
Trupo’s shark eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, Roberts?”
“I’m saying, Trupo,” Richie said, not at all pleasantly, “get the fuck out of New Jersey.”
Trupo glowered at Richie for a long five seconds, and Richie looked back coldly; then the bent detective turned and went out quickly, before an accident could happen.
In Frank Lucas’s penthouse, in the bedroom where he was recovering, a big television set had been brought in down at the foot of the bed, so Frank could be propped up behind pillows and relax in front of the tube.
But the tube wasn’t cooperating: chaotic scenes of activity in Saigon told a story Frank did not want to hear, namely that the U.S. was pulling out of Vietnam. His pipeline in and out of the Golden Triangle was about to get seriously fucked up.
Dominic Cattano was in the process of paying Frank the rare honor of a personal visit, looking solemnly urbane in a dark suit and striped tie from Savile Row, and expressing concern about Frank’s recovery.
“Are you sure you should be getting out of bed? It was just two days ago, Frank...”
Frank had changed into a fresh shirt and slacks and was currently sitting on the edge of the bed, tying his shoes. “Two days in bed is plenty. Two days in bed is too much.”
Cattano stayed near the doorway; he hadn’t been offered a seat and the only one available besides the bed was at Mrs. Lucas’s dressing table. “If there’s anything I can do, Frank...”
Frank, on his feet now, gave Cattano a rictus of a grin. “Anything you can do? Why, Dominic, you’ve already done it — you’ve guaranteed me peace of mind, doing business with you.”
“Now, Frank...”
Rage barely controlled, Frank gestured to himself. “Do I look like a man with peace of mind to you, Dominic? They shot at my wife. Would they shoot at your wife, Dominic? Who does that?”
Cattano gave a small shrug; his expression was bland. Frank’s anger began to bleed out: “Who was it, Dominic, which of your people? I’ll take his gun away and shove it up his ass.”
Lifting a peacekeeping palm, Cattano said, “I don’t know that it was any of them, Frank. And neither do you.”
Frank came over and stood a foot away from the mob boss. “Then maybe I’ll kill them all. Just to make a goddamn fuckin’ point.”
With a faint smile, Cattano said gently, “You want to know who it was? I can tell you.”
“Who?”
“It was a junkie. Or a business rival. Or dumb-ass kids trying to make a name. Or someone who you forgot to pay off, or slighted without realizing it. Or even one of my people, unhappy with me doing business with a moolie. Or most likely? Somebody you put out of business by being too successful.”
Frank, still agitated, said, “You can afford to be philosophical, Dominic. They didn’t shoot at your ass.”