90 Church Read online

  The primary job of the account executives, however, was not to sell drugs, but to collect the money. The Medalley organization was not a group of drug dealers. They were cold-blooded killers. Their trademark punishment was to cut off a hand of someone who owed them money before murdering him.

  For several weeks I performed my duties as one of the house bodyguards while Regina met friends for lunch, visited the health spa, and shopped with her two daughters, Leah and Mercedes. My compensation was four ounces of cocaine a week, provided to me by Orlando, who I would call on Friday and set up a different drop each week. Meanwhile my cash remained in Hermes’ safe until I proposed a bigger deal.

  Michael didn’t care in the least about me being paid with cocaine, so it just piled up in my locker. He was uncharacteristically patient while I spent my time hanging around the pool and sucking up some of the best cocaine in the world. I still met with him almost every day to pass on anything that I learned, but none of it seemed of much use. My family was gone and my apartment was empty. I had no home and I began to day-dream during my long hours at the pool that these people were my family and the beautiful house was mine. Leah had become an obsession as I waited for her to make her afternoon visits. The more she ignored me the more I fantasized about making love to her.

  I still couldn’t figure out how the cocaine entered the country, but some of the things I had seen confirmed Dewey’s theory of the fishing boats pulling the drugs out of the channel. I never saw the fishing boats being used or overheard conversations about boat schedules or fishing.

  After about a month into my poolside job Michael left word I should meet him that night at a bar off Bleecker Street in the East Village. Michael’s drinking habits were getting worse, so I wasn’t surprised he’d picked a bar to hear my report. That evening after parking the car, I walked down the sidewalk toward the bar when I saw a commotion. In front of the restaurant several men were struggling with somebody, then I saw Michael go flying across the sidewalk and bounce off the side of a parked car, lose his balance, and sprawl onto the pavement. I ran up to help him to his feet, and reached for my gun, but he held me back, “No, no!”

  I stood there glaring at the bouncer. He was huge, dressed like a Mafia wise guy. “What are you looking at, faggot? Get this piece of shit off the sidewalk.”

  I held Michael in my arms and glared back at the man who had thrown the Michael Giovanni out of the bar and was now calling me a “faggot.” I figured that his life could now be measured in minutes, or at most an hour. Michael staggered to his feet and asked me to take him uptown to an address in Riverside. I helped him to my car. He smelled of liquor, hadn’t had a bath in days, and was bleary-eyed. We drove in silence until I pulled up in front of his building and he told me to park. His head weaved and bobbed, his eyes were red and teary. I tried to joke with him and said things were going well at the Medalley mansion, but I was really waiting for him to tell me what to do next. Michael kept rocking back and forth as if he didn’t hear what I said, and then he leaned over close to my face and stared into my eyes. I could see he was trying desperately to tell me something. He would start and stop, and start over again. His breath was unbearable. It was as if what he had to say would take all of his energy just to say it – and finally he did, through quivering lips, “Say it was a green Chrysler.”

  Like half the things that Michael would say in his drunken stupor, it made no sense. I was stunned, relieved, and disappointed in what he’d finally muttered. I pretended this nonsense was important, and repeated it back, “Say it was a green Chrysler.” He just nodded, grabbed for the door handle, and staggered out across the sidewalk and into the building. I felt sorry for him – brilliant, ruthless, and dedicated, but now just a pitiful drunk.

  As I drove back downtown I began to think more about Michael’s humiliation at that bar in the Village. My anger grew, focused on the bouncer who had thrown Michael in the street and called me a faggot. By the time I reached Midtown I had decided to return to the bar.

  When I got there, it seemed normal – couples, people dancing – the kind of place that I would have chosen to have a drink. This surprised me because I always thought that Michael hung out in low-life places where no one would know him. I sat at the bar, watching for the bouncer. Finally he walked across the room and up a flight of stairs to the second floor. I followed him up to the top of the stairs, but he was gone, so I leaned against the wall and waited.

  After a few minutes he came out of an office door and started to walk toward the steps to go back down. At first he didn’t recognize me, but then he nodded. When he got closer, his expression changed as he looked at me. “Oh, it’s you, how’s your faggot friend?” As he walked past to begin the descent, I got behind him and stomped on the back of his calves, sending him tumbling down the stairs. Then I followed him down and as he tried to get up I pulled out my blue automatic and raked it across the top of his head as hard as I could. Most of the bar heard the commotion and I could see another bouncer on his way to get me. As he got closer he saw my arm down by my side, holding my blue automatic. He stepped back, and I turned and walked out the door.

  LIFEGUARD

  The next day I went directly to the Medalley mansion. Regina was at the pool with her daughter Mercedes and a child in a wheelchair. The young boy had cerebral palsy or muscular dystrophy and looked like he was starving to death. Regina told me he was Mercedes’ son. After a few awkward moments I went for a swim.

  I changed and began doing laps in the pool while Regina and Mercedes chatted under the sun umbrella, drinking tea. After about a half hour of laps I climbed out of the end of the pool and walked over to the wrought-iron fence that overlooked the channel between Staten Island and Brooklyn.

  The pool deck stood about fifty yards from the shore, elevated, and separated by high thick brush. As I stood there looking through the wrought-iron bars at the passing ships I noticed the tall brush moving in front of me; something was coming through it. Then suddenly a man staggered out, wearing a yellow silk shirt and brown pants, which were wet on one side. His right arm crossed his chest and held his left forearm. He had a terrible twisted expression on his face. I remembered him from the party. He was a friend of Chevy de Falla. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and as he staggered forward I could see that his left hand was gone and gushes of blood were spilling onto his pant leg. He looked at me with a blank stare as he held his wrist to stop the bleeding. Then two men broke out of the bushes behind him, grabbed him, and dragged him back into the brush out of sight.

  I stood there in shock. I watched movement in the brush as they dragged him down toward two fishing boats, one of which was cranked up and puffing black smoke from its stack.

  Like ignoring a child who had become a nuisance, or a dirty glass or a piece of broken furniture, I believed that Regina would have considered it impolite of me to say anything about what I had just seen. I felt a deep coldness as I turned toward Mercedes and Regina. They were still sitting around the table, laughing. In Regina’s mind, the incident seemingly amounted to no more than a domestic embarrassment, all part of the daily routine at the Medalley house.

  I went back into the boathouse to change and dry off. Still naked, I became so unnerved that I leaned against the wall, then slid down to the floor, unable to speak or move. After about ten minutes I got dressed and went out to the pool as if nothing had happened. Mercedes and Regina were in the water, throwing a ball with the little boy, who paddled around in a lifejacket. I walked over to the edge of the pool where I had seen the horror earlier, and looked down across the brush. One of the boats was gone. Without asking I went over to the pool bar and poured a glass of vodka.

  Hermes came down to the poolside. Regina and Mercedes invited him into the water, but he was looking for me. I was already half drunk and still unhinged by what I had seen. We went into his study, where it was cooler, sat in comfortable chairs, and drank vodka tonics.

  Hermes kept smiling and joking, and he final
ly said, “I like you and so does Regina. You’ve almost become part of our family and you are our trusted friend. Surely” – again he smiled – “you have a greater interest in our enterprises than just a career as a lifeguard.” His voice was soft, almost lyrical.

  “Yes, of course,” I replied. “You forget. That’s how we met. I’ve been patient and I still think I have money on account with you. I have sources that are new. I would like to do business at the right time.” I surprised myself at how good I sounded, particularly half drunk and reeling from seeing a brutal murder.

  Hermes sat back in his chair, giving me a brand-new smile. “Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that. Your friend that got killed, did he say anything to you?”

  I was taken off guard by the change of subject. “Like what? He just said that he was robbed and shot. Then he died.”

  “Yes, I know, but did he say anything like, for example, did he tell you the kind of car that his killers drove, or who they were? It’s important that you remember. What kind of car did he say they drove?”

  All of a sudden I knew this was a set-up. My life depended upon the right answer. “Yes,” I said. “He said they drove … a green Chrysler.” I didn’t know what else to say, but I felt that Michael knew more than I did, and this answer would somehow save my life.

  Hermes seemed satisfied and changed the subject. He asked me how much cocaine I thought I could sell and if I understood how the Medalley family worked with their consignment program. I said I thought I could probably move a kilo a month. He was happy with that and told me Pepe would make arrangements for all the coke I needed; after all, I still had money on account.

  We then returned to the pool. Regina and Mercedes were back on their lounge chairs, drying off and talking about a new restaurant in Manhattan. Regina suggested that I take the afternoon off. I accepted the offer and left.

  DEATH WARRANT

  Sitting in traffic on my way back to Manhattan, I kept thinking about the green-Chrysler conversation and the doomed man that I had seen in the bushes below the pool. The heat, the vodka, the blood, and the conversation were making me nauseous. I had to find Dewey or Michael as soon as possible.

  I couldn’t find Michael. He wasn’t home or he didn’t answer the phone, and no one in the office had heard from him all day, but I had a good idea where I could find Dewey. He had a mistress and usually hung out at Jimmy Ryan’s bar on Park Avenue. At about 7:00 Dewey walked in with his girlfriend: a beautiful, high-powered advertising executive. The two of them looked very affluent as they sat at a table and greeted a half dozen well-dressed people as they came in.

  The ride over from Staten Island had sobered me up, but I had gotten drunk again, waiting for Dewey. I wondered if his fancy friends, or even his girlfriend, knew what he did for a living. When Dewey saw me I knew he was embarrassed. I looked desperate and sweaty. My shiny suit and open shirt didn’t fit in with the upscale crowd at Jimmy Ryan’s. I didn’t care how I looked, or how he felt about seeing me; I had to know what was going on.

  Dewey left his friends and the two of us sat down at a quiet table in the corner. I came right to the point. “Dewey, who owns a fucking green Chrysler?”

  Dewey looked down at the floor and shook his head. He could see the anger in my face. “Stay out of it. This is Michael’s case. You know how he works; you’re just carrying the luggage.”

  “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  He took a long pull from his drink and said, “Michael wanted to test that NYPD lieutenant, Larry Sprague. I had one of my boys put a kilo of the coke we stole in Chevy’s car. The idea was to see if Sprague would make a case of possession against one of the Medalley’s dealers. It was to test him, to see how deep he is with the organization. He’s dangerous and he’s supposed to be on our side. He could find out about you. We put the coke in Chevy’s car and then Michael had another informant call Sprague to pop the car.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  Dewey took another sip from his drink. “Nothing happened. Sprague and his boys tossed the car. Sprague did the search, he looked under the seat like he was supposed to, but he said he didn’t find anything.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You had your informants plant the coke in Chevy’s car, Sprague tosses it and he doesn’t find it. That’s it?”

  “Not quite. Sprague found it; he just pretended he didn’t, to protect Chevy. The coke was stolen. It was numbered. It was the coke from the sting. You know what happens when you steal coke from the Medalleys; no matter who you are, you die. So you see, Michael had it figured out. If Sprague popped Chevy for carrying a kilo of coke around, he was off the street, but if he covered for Chevy and pretended not to find it, Michael knew he would tell Hermes, and Chevy would be dead, so either way there was no way to lose. Chevy was going down one way or the other. See, that’s how Michael thinks. Now if you don’t mind, I want to get back to my friends, you must have something else to do.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said to him. “There’s something else. You’re holding back. What is it?”

  “Nothing,” Dewey insisted. But I knew he was lying.

  “Dewey … what was the make of the car that you and Michael planted the coke in?”

  Now I could see he was nervous, but he answered, “It was a green Chrysler.”

  “Chevy was driving a green Chrysler?”

  “Yes,” Dewey said, “but it wasn’t his car. He was just driving it. He borrowed it from Leah. We put the stolen coke in Leah’s car. He was driving it that day.” Dewey picked up his drink and returned to his friends.

  I walked out into the night air and began to think. I remembered Michael’s drunken teary eyes. The vodka had slowed my senses. Dewey and Michael knew something terrible that I should know … then suddenly it came to me. The stolen cocaine in Leah’s car had condemned both her and Chevy to death. That’s why Hermes asked me about the car. He wanted another source of information about Leah stealing the coke with Chevy and trying to blame it on Mars La Pont, and he got it from me!

  I started to run as fast as I could. I had parked two blocks away and was sweating and out of breath by the time I reached my car. I began driving recklessly, like Ed Silkey, down Lexington Avenue toward the tunnel to Queens, but the traffic was at a standstill so I pulled over to look for a pay phone. I found one, but it was being used. Some guy in a business suit was having an intense conversation, probably with his girlfriend or his wife. I couldn’t wait. I grabbed the phone, hung it up and pushed him. He fell to the sidewalk. He started to get up to fight back, but I pulled out my automatic and pointed it to his chest. I didn’t say a word, just motioned, waving the gun side to side; he stood up and walked away. Frantically I dug in my pockets for change and my little notebook with Chevy’s home phone number.

  Leah was with Chevy that night we pulled the sting and stole the coke. When they french-fried Mars La Pont’s hand, he couldn’t tell them anything because he didn’t know anything. When Sprague told them the coke was in Leah’s car, they believed Chevy and Leah shot Louie, stole the coke, and lied, blaming Mars La Pont. Pepe and Hermes had to be convinced that she was in on it. The drugs in her car, and me telling Hermes it was a green Chrysler, now convinced everybody that she and Chevy had lied about what had happened the night Louie got shot. The trouble was, I told Hermes that the only car there was Leah’s green Chrysler, blowing their whole story about a “white Cadillac and two black guys.” Hermes and Pepe figured Chevy killed Louie to cover up the theft. The guy staggering out of the brush without his hand was someone who had been with Chevy at the party. They were torturing and killing people trying to find out about Leah and Chevy. All of this because of me. But now I had to save Leah.

  After two rings Leah answered. I was so relieved I almost started to cry. I told her not to leave the house, not to go anywhere, that I was coming over and had to talk to her, and I pleaded with her to do exactly as I ordered. She said she was on her way to make a drop with Chevy.

 
“No!” I screamed “No! Send someone else, please send someone else.”

  It took me about forty-five minutes to get to the house where we had staged the robbery with Louie. There were no cars in the driveway, but there was a light on, so I banged on the door.

  Leah appeared, wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt, in her bare feet. I hugged her, but she pushed me away. “What’s the matter with you? What’s wrong?”

  I realized I couldn’t explain anything to her. I fumbled for a story and finally blurted, “I heard something. I heard you might be in danger. Something about Chevy. That’s all. I was just concerned.”

  “That’s it? Well, I’m okay, as you can see.” She seemed annoyed. “My mother may need your help, but I don’t. What did you hear?”

  The whole scene was strange. She had no interest in me, even though I was falling in love with her and had to protect her. “I just heard they were trying to rob Chevy and I didn’t want you to be around if anything happened.”

  She laughed. “Rob Chevy? Rob him of what? You know how we work. We always use some kind of a drop, and I go along as a lookout.”

  I could see by the look on her face she wanted me to leave, and I didn’t have an excuse to stay. I was beginning to feel silly, so I turned to go, not knowing what to do or where to go, and then she said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine, Chevy’s coming back.”

  As she said this I looked for the green Chrysler, but it was gone. She said, “Chevy will be back soon. After you called I told him to take Mercedes. Someone’s got to be the lookout.”