“You always close down the place when you come in?”
“I do. I find it discourages unwanted interruptions.”
Unwanted interruptions was a funny way of saying People trying to kill me, Hendricks thought.
Even among criminals, Nick Pappas was legendarily paranoid. Hendricks supposed he would have been too if his family were as fucked up as Nick’s was. Until recently, the Pappas crime family was small potatoes-ignored by the larger New York outfits because their business interests were limited to Astoria’s Greek community-but their reputation for infighting was positively Shakespearean.
Nick’s uncle Theo had assumed control of the family business eleven years ago after Nick’s grandfather took a tumble down the stairs of his Crescent Street town house and broke his neck. It was Theo who discovered the body and called it in.
A year later, Nick’s father, Spiro, took over when Theo was found facedown in his morning yogurt, a bullet in his head. Though there were six people in the house at the time-family members all-and to a one, they claimed to’ve neither seen nor heard a thing.
Spiro had ruled until three years ago, when a hit-and-run left him in a persistent vegetative state. Nick and his five siblings spent months after his so-called accident jockeying for control of the family. By the time Nick claimed the throne, one of his brothers was dead, and his little sister had fled to points unknown.
Hendricks imagined Pappas family holidays were pretty tense.
Jealousy aside, Nick’s remaining siblings had little to complain about; they’d profited mightily with him at the helm. His business acumen had expanded their empire exponentially and elevated the Pappas clan from small-time crooks to major players on the national scene.
Pappas’s meteoric rise didn’t go unnoticed by New York’s other crime families. Some threatened war, but most saw him as a kindred spirit, which was how he’d wound up the youngest voting member in the history of the Council.
The Council was a group of representatives from each of the major criminal outfits operating in the United States. Though their organizations were often rivals, Council members convened whenever their respective organizations’ interests aligned.
Killing Hendricks was one such interest.
Hendricks’s business model was…unconventional. When someone was marked for death, Hendricks would make sure that person’s would-be killer wound up in the ground instead-so long as the intended victim paid up, that is. Ten times the price on the client’s head was his going rate. Always up front, nonnegotiable.
His buddy Lester, with whom he’d served in Afghanistan, was the operation’s tech guy. He ID’d the clients and gathered intel on their targets. Hendricks handled the wetwork. For a while, business was booming. Then the Council caught wise and sent a hitman to hit him back. The man they sent-Alexander Engelmann-was tenacious, sadistic, and hard to kill. Hendricks managed to do it, barely, but not before the bastard tortured Lester to death. Ever since, Hendricks had dedicated every waking moment to determining who, exactly, was on the Council so he could take them down.
But without Lester’s computer chops to rely on, Hendricks was forced to resort to old-fashioned detective work, and leads were scarce. Council members ran tight ships. Their street-level employees were largely kept in the dark, and those in their inner circles knew better than to run their mouths. Those who did usually wound up dead.
Thankfully, Pappas’s crew was new to this and not as disciplined as they should be. Thirty-six hours into a meth bender, one of his lieutenants blabbed to a call girl he was sweet on. Hendricks had saved that call girl’s life once-she and her first pimp didn’t part on the best of terms, so he’d paid a guy five hundred bucks to take her out-which meant she was more than happy to pass along what she had learned.
“I guess this is my cue to leave,” Hendricks said to Pappas, knowing damn well that it wasn’t. He’d been watching Pappas for months, trying to figure out how to get close to him. Pappas never went anywhere without his personal security detail. He had several properties he split his time among-a penthouse in midtown Manhattan, the family home in Astoria, freestanding houses in Guilford and Oyster Bay-none of which had his name on the paperwork, and each of which had its own dedicated security staff. He varied his daily routine to avoid ambushes. He wasn’t married. He had no children. His girlfriends were under constant lock and key.
But a few times a month, he liked to pop into one of his restaurants for a lavish meal.
Even then, though, Pappas was careful. He showed up at odd hours and never called ahead. When he arrived, he locked the doors behind him and picked up the tab for everyone already inside. Hendricks had figured the best way to get close to Pappas was to be inside one of his restaurants when he got there-and soft-pedaling his interest in staying would get him closer still.
“Not at all!” Pappas said. “Have you eaten?”
Hendricks feigned confusion at Pappas’s interest. “I haven’t,” he said.
“Then I insist you stay. We’re having one of everything sent out. Would you care for a drink while we wait?”
“I wouldn’t turn one down.”
“Excellent. What’s your poison?”
“Whatever gets the job done. Today I’m drinking whiskey.”
“Milos,” Pappas said, “do me a favor and fetch our new friend James a drink.”
One of Pappas’s men ducked behind the bar, reached up, and grabbed an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue from the top shelf. The pistol he wore at the small of his back showed as he did. When he cracked the seal and poured Hendricks three fingers-a hundred bucks’ worth at most establishments-Hendricks licked his lips with exaggerated anticipation.
“Please,” Hendricks said to Pappas, “call me Jimmy.”
Pappas beamed. His men smiled too and appeared as at ease as hired goons could ever be while on the job. That was good, helpful.
They wouldn’t look so happy when the night was through.
3.
SPECIAL AGENT CHARLIE Thompson hovered awkwardly on the threshold of her parents’ kitchen. The dangly earrings her mother had gotten her for Christmas tugged uncomfortably at her ears. Pots bubbled on the stove. The air was warm and humid and redolent with spice.
“There must be something I can do to help,” she said.
“Don’t be silly,” her mother replied. “Kate and I have this well in hand. Why don’t you go bring your father a beer?”
Thompson’s face creased with worry as she watched Kathryn O’Brien mangle the onion she was trying to dice. “You sure you’re up to this?”
O’Brien cocked an eyebrow at Thompson and smiled. “You heard your mother,” she said. “Beat it!”
Thompson shrugged and grabbed two cans of Narragansett from the fridge. Then she headed out to the garage.
The overhead door was open, the cars, as ever, in the driveway. A workbench took up half the narrow space, and tools hung from pegboards above it. Thompson’s father crouched over a partially disassembled lawn mower, his hands blackened by grease.
Thompson popped the top on both beers and handed one to him without a word. Foam gathered on his mustache when he drank.
“You gotta work on this right now, Pop?”
“Is there something else I oughta be doing? Ain’t like your mother wants me in the kitchen.”
“Join the club-she just threw me out too. Asked Kate to stay, though.”
“You don’t look pleased.”
“A little leery, is all.”
“Why?” he snapped. “You think your mother’s gonna say something inappropriate and embarrass you?”
“No,” Thompson said carefully, “I’m worried Kate’s gonna take off a finger. Her knife skills leave a bit to be desired.”