Chapter 68 Eddie

68

Eddie

I got the text from Jimmy with the meet location.

It was to be held in a garage on the corner of 43 rd Street and Berrian Boulevard, in the Ditmars-Steinway neighborhood of Queens. I knew the area well. Any criminal defense attorney does.

Not far from 43 rd Street is the visitors' center for Rikers Island, where you board a transport bus to take you across the Rikers Island Bridge over Bowery Bay to New York's largest jail. I'd visited clients there many times. It's the ass end of Ditmars-Steinway, a hip neighborhood that gave the world Steinway pianos and had been home to Telly Savalas and Tony Bennett.

The north part of the neighborhood, where I was headed, didn't have much in the way of culture apart from the old piano factory and the Steinway mansion, which was now an arts center on 41 st Street. The garage faced the Bowery Bay Wastewater Treatment plant. There were a lot of commercial buildings here – construction-vehicle hire, ironworks and garages.

It was almost ten p.m. when I pulled in at the side of the curb. The garage roller doors were open and I could see light spilling onto the sidewalk. No one was around. You didn't walk these streets at night. The nearest living soul was probably three blocks away.

A quiet place for a meeting.

I got out of the car and picked up the two envelopes from the passenger seat and took them with me. I stood outside the garage, taking time to make sure I was seen. Buchanan and the rest of New York's Finest would be on edge and I didn't need to give them any more of an excuse to pull a trigger in my face.

A tall, thin man in a denim jacket came to the entrance and beckoned me to come inside. Before I could walk underneath the roller doors, he put his hand out to indicate I should stop. He reached behind his back, and I tensed. He had a long black device in his hand, which he switched on. A hand-held metal detector. He ran it over me and I held my arms out. The device beeped as it passed over my jacket. He felt the inside pocket where the device had registered my phone. He took the phone, made sure it was turned off and left it on a small table just inside the entrance. The metal detector wasn't just to sweep for guns or knives. They weren't worried about that. They were worried in case I was wearing a wire. He continued to move the metal detector over me. It beeped over my chest, in the exact place someone would wear a mic. I didn't move.

‘Unbutton your shirt,' he said, stepping back. This time, he dropped the metal detector, hitched up his jacket to hold the .22 revolver he had tucked into the waistband of his pants. With one hand, I unbuttoned my shirt to reveal the Saint Christopher's medal I wore every day. He swiped the medal, it beeped. He let go of the gun. Ran the detector over the envelopes I'd brought. Satisfied, he nodded and gestured I should go on inside.

I left my phone on the table, and walked into the garage. Soon as I stepped inside, the thin man hit a button on the wall and the roller doors began to come down. As they rattled closed, I felt the sudden urge to duck and run back out before they clattered shut.

Instead, I got a hold of myself and studied the garage. It was a large rectangular space, lit only by a single bulb in the center of the room. Racks of tools on the wall to the right. The other three walls held steel racks of tires. There were two inspection pits cut into the concrete and they had been covered with steel plates. Some jacking equipment and car lifts stood on the left side of the space.

An aluminum table had been placed below the single bulb and a very large man sat on one side of it. A metal folding chair faced him. I'd never met Buchanan, but knew him by reputation. He had been a brutal patrol cop, with a string of excessive-force complaints. Of course, he was much loved by his fellow officers so none of those complaints ever went anywhere. His head was big and square, his body too. A nose spread over his face and put his thin lips into shadow.

‘Sit down, Eddie,' he said.

I put my envelopes on the table and took a seat. The rest of the garage was in darkness. There could have been twenty guys in there that I couldn't see. I guessed there were more than just the man on the front door.

‘Nice night,' I said.

He laughed, easily, leaned forward and placed his huge arms on the table, causing the legs to squeak with the weight.

‘You got some balls – I'll give you that. What I want to know is how you think you can resolve this. You come after one of my guys, you threaten to expose my operation . . . none of these things are healthy choices for you.'

‘I know how this city runs. Lots of people do. Greenbacks and kickbacks. Here's the thing: I did threaten to expose Ben Gray, but that's all I did. I just threatened him. Here . . .' I picked up the large brown envelope, tossed it across the table at Buchanan. ‘That's all that I have on Ben Gray and the towing operation.'

He picked up the thick envelope, opened it, reached inside and pulled out the contents, set it on the table. He stared at it.

‘This is the TV guide.'

I nodded, said, ‘I had it Xeroxed so it looked like a thick pile of important documents I could wave around in court. I don't have any evidence against Sergeant Gray.'

‘What about the four guys from the other towing companies that you brought to court?'

‘One of them is a former client. He mostly sleeps in the homeless shelter in Tribeca – the Bowery Mission. The other three guys are his friends. I bought them overalls, my secretary sewed some badges onto them – not very well, I might add – and they sat in the gallery and put the shits up Sergeant Gray. Like they were supposed to. After court, I paid them a hundred bucks each and let them keep the overalls.'

‘You're shittin' me,' he said.

‘Before I was a lawyer, I was a conman. The two jobs aren't that different. Listen, I'm not your problem, Buchanan. Ben Gray, he's your problem. This whole pile of shit started because he got played, then he got scared. Cops do stupid things when they get scared. You know that.'

He leaned back in his seat. I could see the cogs working in his brain.

‘I came here to make you an offer so all of this can go away,' I said.

He said nothing for a moment. He was re-assessing Gray in his mind. Whatever Gray had told him, Buchanan was now looking at him in a different light.

‘How much are you willing to pay?' he asked.

‘Nothing,' I said.

Buchanan stared at me, hard. His jaw set.

‘But I can give you this . . . call it a gift,' and I slid the small envelope across the table.

He stared at it for a moment. Then looked at me. The envelope looked like something from a kid's stationery set in his huge hands. He ripped it open. Five photographs fell out.

Picking them up, one by one, he stared at them. As a cop and now a mob boss, Buchanan had to have a poker face for situations like this. But there was no way he could keep his feelings in check as he looked at those photographs. His eyes widened, lips parted. Like I'd just shown him a photo of his house in flames.

‘Where did you get these?'

‘I kept an eye on Ben Gray, like you should have done.'

His left arm slammed the table, the photographs jumped and I saw a large dent where his fist connected. He started swearing. I didn't blame him.

The photographs were taken at different angles in the All American Diner. The place was busier than normal, with almost every available seat taken up by the voluminous number of junior associates in the employ of Al Parish. They had taken the photos for me. When I said they took up almost all of the seats, they did leave one free.

The seat at the counter, beside Sergeant Ben Gray. The photos had been taken last night, at seven in the evening. When I was supposed to meet District Attorney Castro to discuss a plea deal for John Jackson. I didn't show. But Castro took the only available seat while he waited for me. That was the seat at the counter beside Sergeant Ben Gray. Castro is effectively his boss, and no way was Castro going to sit beside a cop and not at least say hello. They had some small talk while Castro waited for me.

Perfectly innocent.

Perfectly arranged and executed by Al's associates, who had no idea of the significance of the meeting.

‘I take it that you didn't know that Ben Gray was talking to the district attorney?' I asked.

Buchanan rubbed his forehead, closed his eyes. Swore again.

‘You know Castro wears that white suit for a reason. He's the anti-corruption DA. When my people showed me these photographs, I had them watch Gray's house. He's scared, Buchanan. He's making a deal with the DA and then he's going into witness protection. He's got his traveling money all ready to—'

‘Traveling money?' asked Buchanan.

‘If you go to his house now, you'll find a blue gym bag with about two hundred grand in it. We saw him bring it into the house. I'd check the garage first. Cops are no good at hiding money. I'm guessing you didn't know about this extra cash?'

Buchanan shook his head.

I didn't tell him that my friend Bugs had broken into Gray's house and left the gym bag behind some old cardboard boxes. Bugs had split the other fifty grand we'd taken from Mr. Christmas with his pals and right now they were on a Greyhound bound for Atlantic City.

I said, ‘I'm guessing this is money he skimmed off the top of the tow trucks and God knows what else. But it's money that should have been split with you in the first place. Gray is getting ready to run. And he's running straight into the arms of the white knight DA. If you don't believe me, go over there right now and ask him about the gym bag. I bet he pretends he doesn't know anything about it.'

The big man rolled his head back, rubbed his eyes, then sat forward and gathered up the photographs.

‘Like I told you,' I said. ‘I'm not your problem. Ben Gray is your problem.'

Buchanan stood, said, ‘How do I know you're not going to come after me or my people?'

I sat forward, said, ‘First, I don't have any evidence against you. Second, like I said, I know how this town works. I can't change that. I represent people who are falsely accused. Sometimes, I represent people who have made a mistake and got themselves in trouble. If they hold up their hands and plead guilty, I'll help them change their lives. Everyone makes mistakes. You made a mistake by coming after me. If you call off the hit, I'm willing to give you a second chance, but with certain conditions.'

Buchanan studied me for a time. Like he was trying to read me. He had expected me to come in here and beg for my life, to cry for mercy and offer to pay him thousands of dollars to take the contract off my head. Now, he was in a totally different position. I was telling him I would allow him to call off the hit, but he had to do something for me first.

‘What conditions?'

‘I'm willing to accept a truce with one condition. If you come after me, or any of my people again, I'll kill you. Is that fair enough?'

I thought I detected a slight shiver of fear. A flash that came over his eyes. He looked over at the thin man, said, ‘Call off the hit on Flynn. Then get the car. We're going to see Ben.'

‘Call the Christmas guy,' I said. ‘Tell him the contract is off.'

‘He's first on the list,' said Buchanan as he got up, gathered the photographs and walked toward the exit. I could hear the mechanism for the roller doors activating.

‘You don't want the TV guide?' I asked.

There was no reply. He had already ducked under the doors.

I leaned back in the chair and let out my breath, unclenched my fists. That was damn close. Too close.

I rolled my shoulders to relieve the tension. Got up.

It was finally over.

I was wrong.