Chapter Fifteen

October 11

New York City

I n Manhattan, there were cop bars and sports bars, pubs for ex-pats, and saloons for wannabe cowboys. Byline was the watering hole for reporters. Set back in a Lower East Side courtyard, Byline had no sign, but journalists flocked to the vintage speakeasy to sit on stools once occupied by Jimmy Breslin and Walter Winchell.

The small space had a central rectangular bar dotted with backless vinyl stools surrounded by a smattering of tables and booths. It was quiet tonight, and Miles spotted Gordon Fine immediately. He was sitting in a back booth nursing a half-full mug of draft and laughing at something on his phone.

Miles slid into the opposite seat. He was overdressed for the establishment in khakis and a wrinkled button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.

“Hey, Gordie.”

“Long time, man.” Gordon held up his mug to the waiter and pointed to Miles.

After the waiter delivered the beer, Miles asked, “How’s the family?”

Gordon shook his head with a laugh. “Preston started walking last week. It’s like someone let a chimp loose in the apartment. Ruthie’s mom loves it. She keeps taking videos of him destroying shit and posting them. The old lady has eighty thousand followers.”

Miles laughed along. Gordon’s life was one he neither wanted nor understood. “Crazy.”

Gordon leaned on the table, cradling his beer mug. “So, what do you have?”

Miles slid a piece of paper across the scarred wood.

“What’s this?”

“Chug Ugentti.”

Gordon blew out a breath. “Forget it. The guy’s untouchable.”

“Come on, Gordie. He can’t have every editor and cop in the city in his pocket.”

“It’s not that.” Gordon sat back and took a swig of his drink. “People fucking love the guy. Last year, during the campaign , a buddy at The Post got ahold of a video of Ugentti kneecapping some guy in an alley. They couldn’t run it because they couldn’t positively ID Ugentti in the clip, but it was him. It got leaked on social media. People fucking devoured it. Every comment was shit like do that in Congress, Chug! His numbers went up in the polls. He’s the mobster politician.”

Miles spun his mug on the cardboard coaster for a moment. “I’m not trying to get him indicted. I just need to fire a warning shot across his bow.” He tapped the slip of paper he had pulled from an old file on a job he had done for Chug.

Gordon picked it up. “Who are they?”

“Interns Ugentti has screwed. A couple of them were teenagers. Legal but young.”

Gordie flicked the page, then pocketed it. “It’ll piss off his wife if nothing else. I have a buddy at The Herald who will love this.”

“Thanks.”

Gordon chugged the rest of his beer. “For what it’s worth, according to my FBI contact, they’ve been investigating Ugentti for over a decade and always seem to come up empty. Looks like Jersey has another Teflon Don.”

“Well, they nailed Gotti eventually. Ugentti will slip up at some point,” Miles said.

“Let’s just hope ‘eventually’ is before his presidential inauguration.” Gordon stood reaching for his wallet, but Miles waved him off.

“I’ll be in touch.” With a mock salute, Gordie took off.

As was their habit, they left separately. Miles finished his beer and threw some cash on the table. Outside, he took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Even the evening twilight was brighter than the dark bar. In the enclosed courtyard, a vaguely familiar man sat on a wrought-iron bench, smoking a joint and scrolling through his phone. The guy never looked up, never did anything out of the ordinary. Miles shook off his disquiet and walked out to the sidewalk.

The East Village was bustling as he made his way along 6th Street back to his Bronco. He navigated the crowd of NYU students and bar hoppers as he walked across town.

Outside a corner bodega, a black man with long dreadlocks was playing the bongos. Miles dropped a twenty in the coffee can-turned-tip jar and murmured his request to the musician. The man nodded without looking up, and Miles slipped inside the store. As he wandered the cramped aisles, the bell above the door jangled. Miles browsed the food and contemplated the situation. His ribs still ached from the beating, and he couldn’t yet take a full breath. Sensing a presence, Miles glanced up. The short aisle was empty. At the front of the store, the sales clerk was reading a textbook, unbothered. Miles looked the other way, seeing only the selection of chilled drinks in the wall coolers.

After grabbing a bottled water and a packaged muffin, Miles set his purchases on the counter. The cashier removed one earbud and rang him up. The young man briefly glanced over Miles’s shoulder as he handed back the change. Then, his eyes returned to the cash. Miles followed the clerk’s gaze, seeing only the empty aisles behind him. There was, however, the faint smell of weed in the air.

Out on the street, Miles set the muffin and the water at the bongo player’s feet, then slipped another twenty into the can as the musician confirmed his suspicion. Walking at an unhurried pace, Miles returned to his Bronco and climbed inside. He pressed the ignition, contemplating how Ugentti’s man had followed him.