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  “My God, they shot Louie.” I dropped the binoculars and pulled my gun and started forward. Michael stopped me and put his finger to his lips, motioning me to be silent. The masked black man on the porch grabbed the girl to quiet her, then ripped her blouse open and tried to grab her breasts. She kept screaming and fighting until he pushed her down. Then the two men walked to their white Cadillac and drove off.

  Louie struggled to his feet, holding his stomach, looked at the girl and staggered toward his car, falling down one more time before he managed to get behind the wheel and drive off.

  Through all of this Michael just stared, then he had a strange smile when he saw Chevy return from the back of the house, hug the girl and kiss her. They both went inside. Incredibly, Michael was not the least bit concerned about Louie. Louie was an undercover agent on his own; it was up to him to try to make it to the hospital. That’s just the way things worked. Those were the rules of the game and, if anything, Michael seemed amused.

  We drove back to Manhattan in silence. Michael’s disregard for an agent’s life nauseated me. Instead of going back to the office Michael told me to stop at the Nassau Bar near Wall Street. We had still not said a word to each other.

  There at the bar, surrounded by girls, was Louie – laughing and drinking. His shirt was gone. He was wearing his suit jacket over his bare chest. Cleo Brown and Sam Holmes, two black agents, sat next to him at the bar. When Louie saw us he threw Michael his shirt. “Well, Michael, what do you think?” Then Agent Brown handed Michael the gym bag that I had seen at the house in Queens.

  Michael opened it up, showing me three kilos of cocaine, then ordered drinks for everyone. “You were all great. You were so good you even fooled him.” He pointed to me. “I wanted an outside opinion,” he said, pointing to me again. “You scared the shit out of him. He almost shot Cleo!” Everyone laughed and raised their drinks in a silent toast. After a while Dewey came into the bar. “The car is back, he never even knew it was gone. We didn’t use much gas. No problem at all.”

  As usual, everyone knew what was going on except me. I called Dewey aside. He laughed. “You know Michael, he never tells anybody anything. I think he wanted to test the whole scene with someone not in on it, to see if it really worked, and it did. If you were convinced, so were they.”

  “Convinced about what? What happened?”

  Dewey grinned. “It’s easy. I had one of my informants borrow Mars La Pont’s Cadillac without him knowing about it and gave it to Brown and Holmes.”

  My obsession to get Mars La Pont, who had whored Maureen and froze Calvin to death, had never weakened. “But why?” I asked.

  Dewey laughed. “You got me. I don’t know. You know Michael. No one ever knows what he’s doing. Only he knows why and everybody had better do what they’re told. He even told me to put up the eighty grand in drug money. Michael doesn’t want Pike involved and worrying about the government money.” Dewey added, “Michael is a genius, he does things no one understands until the end. Besides, didn’t you ask Michael to get Mars? Well, trust me, when you ask Michael to help you, look out.”

  Michael spread Louie’s dress shirt out on the top of the bar. He then took a hard drag off his cigarette and burned a round hole in front of the shirt in the stomach area. He handed me the shirt. “Take this home. Tomorrow morning go to a butcher and get a cup of blood, pour it on the front of the shirt, but not on the sleeves or the back, dry it out in a dryer and bring it to the office.” Then, looking at Dewey, he said, “You and Silkey meet us at the office tomorrow afternoon and take him” – pointing to me – “over to the Medalley mansion in Staten Island and drop him off.” Then Michael looked back at me. “Louie’s out. He’s dead. You’re going in tomorrow. You’re going to give them this shirt. Tell them they’ve got your eighty thousand dollars and they got one of your guys killed by two coke-stealing niggers. Tell them you’ll be back the next day to settle up with Hermes himself. I want you inside the family.”

  Michael left me holding the shirt, and Brown and Holmes talking and laughing. Dewey smiled at me and said, “Well, only Michael can think of doing shit like this, only Michael. You can’t keep up with him. He’s the best. He’s insane. Oh, and guess what? I’ve got their coke in my car.”

  THE STING

  Two days later Dewey, Ed Silkey, and I drove to Staten Island. The mansion sat at the end of a long dead-end road with a spectacular view overlooking the channel water across from Brooklyn. A large wooden gate with a surveillance camera protected the house and the garden.

  Ed pulled up to the front, got out, opened up the car trunk, and walked back to the gate, carrying his pump shotgun; with one blast the camera completely disappeared. He then began blasting away at the lock on the gate, with empty shell cartridges flying in the air. Frustrated, he stopped to reload; Dewey walked up to the gate, turned the handle, and opened it. We were still laughing as we drove up the driveway and stopped in front of the house. Four huge, muscular bodyguards filed out the front door and stood in a straight line, all of them carrying guns. Ed got out of the car, shotgun at his side; Dewey followed, holding his black .45 and smiling. I was in the back seat and got out last, carrying the bloody shirt with the cigarette-burn hole. I walked up to the biggest of the four bodyguards standing on the porch and threw the shirt in his face. He didn’t move; just let it fall to the ground. I looked straight into his eyes and said, “You’ve got eighty thousand dollars that belongs to me, and one of my guys is dead. I’m coming back tomorrow at this same time to settle up with Hermes. Be sure he’s here to meet me.”

  They said nothing. We got in the car and left. On the way back, Ed and Dewey laughed about the disintegrated surveillance camera and how Ed had blasted away at the unlocked gate.

  Michael’s plan was brilliant. I was going straight to the top – no prolonged surveillance, no informants to worry about, no middle men to climb over – just straight to the top with a big complaint on how the Medalley family did business. Pure genius, but typical Michael. Dewey got a phone call in the afternoon from the informant who had helped him “borrow” La Pont’s white Cadillac. The police had found La Pont’s body. He had been strapped to a chair and shot in the head. One of his hands had been dipped in batter and boiled in oil, so his hand looked like fried chicken. The Medalley family wanted their coke back, but Mars La Pont was no help. It was a proper ending for Mars. I would never forget what he did to Calvin, and Maureen’s scream still haunted me.

  The next day Michael picked me up at about two in the afternoon and we drove toward Staten Island. I hadn’t slept; I kept rehearsing in my mind what to say about my cover, knowing that one mistake would get me killed. I had been undercover many times before, but the dealers were always stupid, and I always had plenty of back-up waiting if things went wrong. I usually made up my own cover story as I went along. They always believed me because they were greedy. Just like Michael told me to do, I would show them all the money I was carrying. It made them stupid. This was different, very different. I knew it and so did everyone else.

  As much time as I had spent with Michael, I still felt awkward being with him; he seldom spoke, and never listened to anyone. He was either deep in thought or spaced out. I was never really sure which, but I knew Michael cared about me.

  Just before we got to the Medalley mansion, Michael pulled over at a small roadside park with picnic tables. “Take everything out of your pockets and lay it on the dashboard, everything.”

  I unloaded my pockets: credentials, wallet, money clip with about two hundred dollars, a receipt from paying my apartment rent, and a handkerchief.

  “You’re not dealing with some dumb junkies here,” Michael said, “and any one of these things will get you killed, even your handkerchief. You’re supposed to be from Europe. Carry paper Kleenex if you want to blow your nose. Your handkerchief goes in the breast pocket of your suit. Your name is Nico. Nico Prestovo, you’re half-Swiss and half-Italian.”

  Michael reached into his co
at pocket and threw me an old wallet, which was coming apart at the seams. Inside were an International Driver’s License and two receipts from Patsy’s and Jokers Wild—two mob hangouts. From another pocket Michael pulled out a wad of cash, more than a thousand dollars. Then he said, “McDermott helped me with this; the ID is an alias.”

  “What happens if they check up?” I asked.

  Michael shrugged. “That’s just it, they will. Your alias is Peter Bruno, an assassin, smuggler, and playboy, wanted by Interpol, and your picture is now in his file. When his file pops up I want to know who’s asking for it. The Medalley family can’t operate on a scale this large without police or federal support. When they check you out, they’ll expose themselves. We have to watch our back.”

  Michael stared out the window. “You must understand a few things. The Medalleys operate on honor and strict discipline. They have rules that can never be broken: no cheating, no lying, no forgiveness – only total loyalty. There is no lesson to be learned, no form of punishment – only death. If you or anyone else fucks up, no matter how small, you die. But they care about each other, that is their greatest strength. Honor and loyalty, that’s why we’ve never gotten anyone close to them. You must attack them at their greatest strength. If you try to find their weakness they will see you and will track you down and they will kill you.”

  I tried to make sense out of what Michael had just said, but I couldn’t. It was no help, and my hand was shaking.

  “One other thing, give me your gun. It will only aggravate them.”

  I took off my shoulder holster and put the gun on the dash with everything else.

  We then drove down to the gate of the Medalley mansion. I saw that the surveillance camera had been replaced and the gate was open. It was a hot day. Never had I felt such fear. These people were not afraid of us. They wanted to find us. They liked killing and torturing people, and I was going in alone with a silly cover story. I couldn’t even pronounce my new name!

  Michael looked at me and asked, “Are you ready?”

  I nodded, but my eyes were blinking, and Michael knew I was afraid. I could see it in his face. I opened the door, walked through the gate, and started up the driveway. As I walked and stared at the huge mansion with its gardens and sprawling green lawns, I thought how pitiful all this really was. These people, like the Mafia, had millions of dollars and an army willing to kill anyone who interfered. 90 Church had only thirty-five drunks and psychos like Michael, who didn’t care about anything. It was odd that I didn’t see that before. The agents weren’t afraid because they simply didn’t care – not about money, not about promotions, not about their health, not about their future. They were all like Michael, suffering from some deadly illness in their souls that had made everything meaningless.

  As I walked up the driveway I had an unexpected memory of a conversation with one of my college football coaches who was dying of cancer. We were in a bar when he told me what it was like. He said he was always afraid of getting cancer and then when he got it, he wasn’t afraid anymore. When he found out he was going to die from it, he didn’t fear that anymore either. His whole life changed. He didn’t care about anything or anyone because there was no future. He just cared about two things: living with the pain and fighting back – nothing else, absolutely nothing else.

  I looked up at the mansion. Then I knew. The agents were not going to win the war against drugs. There was no retreat, no caring for the wounded. We were alone and we were going to lose. There was nothing to worry about except living with the pain and fighting back as hard as you could. I reached the stairs leading to the huge front door. I was calm, my fear gone. At the top of the stairs, in front of the door, I turned around and looked down the long driveway to where Michael was standing alone by the gate, watching me. I gave him the finger and he returned a big grin.

  I didn’t have to knock; they were waiting for me.

  The front door swung open and two of the muscle-bound goons that we’d seen the day before dragged me inside. A third, the largest of the three, started to pat me down for a wire or a gun but first he gave me a slap across my face. He kept grabbing and pushing me while the other two held my arms tight. He felt up and down my arms and legs, then grabbed me by the balls, and started laughing. He was at least six inches taller than I was, and he kept calling me pussy. “You are just a big pussy.” When he stopped, the other two released my arms and he stood smiling and puckering his lips like he was going to kiss me.

  I lost it. With both hands I pushed him as hard as I could, sending him toppling onto a glass table. It exploded, slicing his arm and leg with slivers of glass. He didn’t go all the way to the floor, instead he held himself up with his arms and his legs, trying to raise his stomach up as high as he could to escape the shards that were already piercing his back, arms, and leg, splashing everything with blood.

  The other two didn’t know whether to kill me or save their friend from being impaled by the glass, so they just stood there and waved their hands in frustration, watching him scream in agony, pleading for help. Finally they reached over and pulled him up and started to pick fragments of glass from his arms and legs, while he continued to bleed all over the white marble floor.

  I stood there, waiting for someone to get around to killing me, then I heard a calm voice, “I am Hermes Medalley.” I turned around and saw a man in his fifties with gray hair, wearing a white suit and pink shirt. He smiled, ignoring the screaming and the carnage on the foyer floor, and said, “I understand that you have some business with me. Come this way, we will talk.”

  He was completely oblivious to everything that had just happened as he led me toward the back of the house. We passed a small room and looked inside. There was a row of TV screens on the wall from the outside security cameras. In one we could see the front entrance, and Michael standing next to the car. He had a box of shells on the hood and was firing his revolver at the camera. After emptying his gun, he reloaded and then fired again; as if on cue, the camera went dark. Again Hermes just ignored the whole thing.

  We continued to go deeper into the mansion. I had never seen a restaurant, a home, a museum, or any building as beautiful as the inside of the Medalley house. Everything was orange, yellow, pink, white, and soft purple with flowered wallpaper of country vistas and jungle scenes with pools of water. Flowers were everywhere: table vases, wall hangings, draped over lamps, and strewn on tables and chairs, even lying on the floor. The furniture was big and comfortable in pastel leathers with soft pillows. Paintings, sculptures, and water fountains demonstrated a great appreciation of art. It had a peaceful effect on me. Strangely enough, I felt welcome, despite my anxiety. Finally, Hermes led me into his lavish study. Business papers, notebooks, and correspondence covered his desk. We sat – him behind his desk and me in front. It felt like a job interview. Hermes put on his glasses and stared at me more closely, and said, “You’ve lost one of your men. I’m sorry about that, and I understand that you’ve entrusted us with some funds, and we were unable to deliver product. Is that right? Tell me your side of it.”

  He acted like we were talking about crates of cabbage, and that somehow the delivery boy got lost in traffic. His calm, controlled manner, fixed eyes and wide smile forced me to try to answer in the same polite fashion. Before I could answer, something caught my eye at the side of the room. There were French doors leading into a smaller room full of hanging plants with bookshelves on the back wall. I could see a shadow on the floor; someone was hiding there, listening to us.

  I looked back at Hermes and said, “He was not my ‘man,’ he was my friend, and he died in the hospital of a gunshot wound to the stomach. I also lost eighty thousand dollars. Your people assured me that things would be under control, and I trusted you and the amateurs that work for you. I fronted the money in complete trust and then when we went to pick up the coke it was a set-up. They knew the coke was in the house; they just walked right in, killed my friend and took your dope.”

  He
rmes studied me for a while and then said, “What is your name?”

  I pronounced my last name as best I could. Hermes continued, “We’ve never heard of you, Nico. What did you intend to do with our coke?”

  “I don’t normally deal,” I replied. “I’m a wholesaler. I have friends, restaurant people, upscale, both Italian and French. They want good-grade cocaine for their better customers. I used to be in the import business, gourmet foods, that’s how I made connections with many of the restaurants in New York.” I could see that he was impressed with my story and it even surprised me, because I had just made it up. As I was speaking I could see that he was taking notes on a yellow pad.

  Then he looked up at me and said, “Do you know anything about selling cocaine, heroin, or hashish?”

  “No. Only through my friends. They said there was a profit to be made. That’s how I made the mistake of dealing with your people.”

  That irritated Hermes. He picked up the phone, touched a button, and began a short conversation in Spanish. He hung up and continued our discussion. “No one makes a mistake when they deal with the Medalleys,” he said coldly. “Only if they choose to misuse our trust. It is unfortunate that you had a bad experience. Things can happen in any type of business. You seem honorable and intelligent and capable. You injured one of my boys and broke some furniture. I don’t like that. I’m not sure if that was about courage or stupidity, but I am impressed that after all of that fuss you are still calm and reasonable. My people could have killed you on the spot and thrown you in the water, but perhaps they were rude. I don’t like your gun-happy friend hanging outside our gate, shooting at my home, either. You should be dead, but you have a legitimate grievance and the Medalley family honors all business relationships.”