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Lucille was curious. “What did Robbie want?”

  I whispered in her ear, “I need to find my suitcase.”

  * * *

  Robbie and Ken were waiting for us at the police station. Deputy Ken was completely void of any self-confidence; law enforcement was the worst profession he could have chosen. His greatest pride and ambition in life was to be Robbie’s Deputy, but he was so afraid that his hand was shaking worse than Michael’s. He kept mumbling about Larry and Sergio Glass being killers and shouldn’t we call for help, like the State Police or the FBI. Nevertheless, the four of us drove to Lorenzo’s mansion. As expected, it was beautiful, the driveway lined with flowers and trees. We pulled to a stop in front. Before we even got out I knew that this was going to end badly. I wished that Dewey were here. He would be laughing by now, making everyone feel safe.

  Sergio Glass came out to greet us. He stood on the top of the front steps, about six feet from where we stood. He looked down on us. “You all come at a bad time. Larry has just lost his son. Come back tomorrow. No, come back never.”

  Ken hid behind the car. Chief Robbie reached through the squad-car window and got his pump shotgun and held it to his side. “You see this lady here? She’s the new Mayor. The City Council voted her in this morning. Larry’s out. See my uniform here, and my badge? I’m the Police Chief. Mister, I don’t know who you are, but we’re here to get Larry for breaking into my office and stealing evidence against his son Vinny and letting him go. Mister, you’re in harm’s way.”

  Glass started to place his hands on his hips when a shot rang out. He tumbled down the steps with a red hole in his chest and lay at our feet. It was crazy Deputy Ken, scared out of his mind, still shaking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I thought he was reaching for a gun. I’m sorry.”

  Suddenly Lorenzo appeared at the top of the steps. He was probably thinking it was a mob hit. He had a black revolver in his hand. Instantly Robbie leveled the shotgun and blasted him off his feet and into a house window.

  After a moment of silence, I couldn’t resist. “Well, this went well … I’ll see if there’s anyone else who would like to talk to us.”

  I pulled my blue automatic and climbed the steps. Inside the door, hanging on a coat hook, was a thirty-eight revolver in a shoulder holster. I picked it up and walked back outside, laying it at the top of the steps where Glass had been standing. “Stop crying, Ken. Looks like Glass was going to kill us. Look what I found,” I said, pointing to the gun. “You’re Wyatt Earp and you have the Mayor and Police Chief as your witness. It was him or us. Robbie, Deputy Ken saved our lives, he needs a raise.”

  GOOD-BYE, GOOD-BYE

  Police Chief Robbie Morganthal knew the State Police, so it was more family talk than hard investigation. As I read the report, I had that same feeling that I had felt many times before. A secretary was on duty the night Vinny escaped while everyone was at the game. She said a thin masked man came in and told her to open up the evidence locker. He didn’t have a gun.

  The man then told her to lock herself in the bathroom, but she could still listen through the door. She heard him say to Vinny, “If you’re innocent, stay in your cell and trust justice. If you’re guilty, drive away as fast as you can. Your car is outside.”

  The police report said no one was chasing Vinny when his tires exploded and crashed, killing himself on Lorenzo Way. It is likely that his tires were over-inflated and gave out at high speed, but there was no way to be sure.

  That afternoon Lucille told me our relationship was over as we sat on the bedroom balcony. She never asked about the gun; she only said thank you and that I should go back to New York City and continue my education. I had nothing more to learn in Green. She said I was smart and didn’t belong in a small dying town with an old widow. She knew that she was the only one in town that could have faced Lorenzo and now as the new Mayor she had to rebuild Green.

  It was a sad, quiet, personal moment, then I ruined it. “Dewey, Dewey and Michael, Michael and Dewey!” I yelled. “Why was Dewey at the game rooting for the orphans?”

  “What?” she asked. “Who’s Dewey?”

  “Never mind. Please never ask,” I said calmly. The phone began ringing and she left to answer it.

  It would take two people to rob the police station, one inside, and one outside. I could never explain to her or anyone else that it was Michael and Silkey. Dewey made sure everyone stayed at the football game. If it was Glass, like everyone believed, why would he say to Vinny, “If you’re innocent, stay and trust in justice, but if guilty drive away as fast as you can”? The over-inflated tires! Dewey!

  Michael had wisely chosen Lucille to stand up against Lorenzo, and sent me to give her courage. Michael had to wait for the right spark to set off the powder keg to blow Lorenzo to hell. Vinnie was the spark.

  Lucille came back outside. “That was Dewey. He sounds like a kid. He said they’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

  I kissed Lucille as a white Cadillac rolled up in front of her house. There were two men in the front; another was asleep in the back with his hat over his face. I got in the back seat with Michael, who was snoring and smelled of booze. Instead of heading for the highway, Silkey drove to the Half Moon. It was mid-afternoon so the restaurant was empty. Silkey went in and started talking to the bartender. I watched him through the restaurant front window. After a few minutes the restaurant manager came into view and extended his hand. Silkey slugged him so hard he went up in the air and crashed on a table and slid to the floor. Silkey began kicking and stomping him, then dragged the man to his feet and banged his head against the bar. He fell back on the floor like a wet rag. Silkey walked out, got in the car and we drove away. Michael was still sleeping. I asked, “What the hell was that?”

  Dewey whispered, “Michael’s boss at the restaurant. Michael told Silkey to say good-bye.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  LAW AND ORDER

  HEAT

  Michael and I came back to 90 Church the same day. I arrived in the morning and Michael, as usual, at 4:30 in the afternoon, smelling of booze. Incredibly, no one commented on our long absence. Since there was never a drug investigation in the first place, Blanker told the agents that the ‘local sheriff’ had killed Sergio Glass and Lorenzo Bonnet in a gun battle somewhere in Louisiana.

  Then came news about an Irish agent, Thomas O’Toole. He was a young, good-looking, enthusiastic street agent who, for some reason, ended up one night in an after-hours bar called Little Egypt, on the West Side, in the lower 30’s of Manhattan. No one was sure how things got started but the bar was filled with Puerto Rican and Colombian drug dealers who found out that O’Toole was an agent. He was stripped naked, stabbed seventeen times and thrown in the street. By the time the Bureau learned about it the next morning, O’Toole was in a critical condition after lying in the street for almost four hours.

  That day the police precinct captain came to the Bureau and told Blanker and some of the group leaders that they had conducted an investigation and none of the patrons would cooperate. No one saw anything. Since O’Toole was assigned to Group Two, we were all called into Blanker’s office. Dewey as usual missed the meeting; he was collecting gambling bets in another part of the office. Blanker stood up from behind his desk, his face red. After a rambling, incoherent speech he said he had come to New York City from Georgia because he “knew this was a Christian town.” Blanker said, “the forces of evil have broken through, like a filthy sewer main spewing shit into the street, and Group Two is to go and plug it up.” He said a “saint” was lying in the hospital mortally wounded and we were to “find the evil devils responsible and serve justice.” Everyone knew that, once again, all hell was going to break loose. Worse, Pike was going to be in charge.

  Michael argued that it was stupid to have a “white boy” agent in one of the most dangerous bars in New York City without back-up. We were as much at fault as the drug dealers. Michael said he would give the case to Dewey and his people would find out who was respons
ible in a week. Then he would send Ed Silkey to talk to them. Blanker and Pike were infuriated. They hated Dewey, who didn’t even attend the meeting. They demanded that it be handled “high profile,” to teach the drug dealers a lesson and “restore dignity to the law-enforcement community.”

  So the next day at about 4:00 in the afternoon, Louie the G and three hookers went into Little Egypt and began to party. Twelve hours later, at about 3:30 in the morning, four agents walked through the doors – Pike, Silkey, Connors, and Greenway – carrying sledgehammers and crowbars. Dewey and Michael took sick leave. They wanted nothing to do with the case. The girls put their drinks down and got off the customers’ laps. Then Louie and the girls went around the room, pointing to customers one after another, and then walked out the door. Pike said to everyone, “If they pointed to you, stand up and leave the bar. Don’t pay for anything. Don’t say anything. Stand up and get out.”

  Most of the customers fled. Agent Greenway closed the door.

  I waited outside in the street; I had seen enough of these kinds of things. They broke everything in the bar, every glass, every plate, every bottle, every light, every table, every chair – and every body. I knew the police wouldn’t come and they didn’t. There had been five unanswered emergency calls. The next day there was an article in the Daily News of a “gang war breakout” on the lower West Side of Manhattan. Five people were critically injured and the police were investigating two Puerto Rican gangs that had come down to Manhattan from the lower Bronx to cause trouble.

  * * *

  My life had become a huge pile of contradictions of all shapes and sizes. I loved my wife and son more than anything in the world, but betrayed them to be with the treacherous mistress of a drug-dealing killer. I worked in the most dangerous environment in the world, but my greatest fear was that I didn’t have the courage to shoot anyone. I fought a war against drugs twenty-four hours a day, but couldn’t live without my daily line of cocaine. I wore expensive suits, but looked like a manager of a pizza stand from the Bronx. I believed in the law all my life, but now it had no meaning. I had always been a leader, but now hid in the shadows. I was the most productive agent in the Bureau but had not developed or managed one single case. I knew that the United States Government was the greatest force on earth, but drunks and buffoons ran it. I wanted a normal life, but couldn’t stand to even look at everyday people going to and from work and raising their families. Money came to me every day, but it had no value. I believed in the truth, but lied all the time. I dedicated my life to the justice system, but knew it didn’t exist. I had seen the worst horrors imaginable, but knew they were nothing compared to what lay ahead. I was proud to be an agent, but kept remembering the tape recording played on my first day of work that called us “the most evil people on earth.” Every day I did what I thought was right, but knew that someday, someday soon, someone would come and tell me it was wrong.

  ANDY

  Monday morning is the only time that most agents are in the office because of the weekly meeting to discuss major cases and objectives, and to recognize achievements. A special memo was sent to all agents, ordering them not to miss this meeting. That Monday, I took the subway to work and as I came up to the street level, I looked down Church Street and saw press cars and trucks parked along the curb all the way to the next block. Even television, channels Seven, Two, Five – a sure sign that something big was going on. Everyone in Group Two was trying to figure out what the topic would be to draw so many news people. We hadn’t closed any big cases in weeks.

  Earlier that morning Pike had called Agent Cleo Brown into his office. He said Blanker had asked him to take his gun but he didn’t know why; perhaps he was being transferred to another office. Brown looked more bewildered than scared, but gave up his revolver. Blanker normally presided over the Monday meetings, but this time a stranger took his place at the podium. He introduced himself as Andrew Flowers, lead investigator for a special Task Force of the Justice Department assigned to the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. Two marshals came from behind the room and arrested Brown and another agent, John Winkler. They stood stone cold while the marshal cuffed them and led them from the room in front of the news cameras and bright lights. Flowers said Brown had sold marijuana and Winkler was being arrested for theft of personal property. Winkler had arrested a suspect with a gun, a felony in New York. He should have turned the defendant over to the police; instead he kept the gun and did not file charges. Winkler had hoped that the suspect would be grateful and provide information in the future.

  Except for the presence of media and the stranger at the podium, the scene would have been a typical opening for the Monday morning meeting, that always began with an outrageous joke before going into who got killed, wounded, or beaten. But this was not a joke. Flowers announced indictments of two New York City policemen. Everyone had heard about the cases because one of the detectives, rather than implicate his fellow officers, had committed suicide. Despite enormous resentment by the NYPD over Flowers’ investigation Flowers said he was proud of these arrests, that they were just the beginning. He ended the press conference and asked the people who had press passes to leave.

  After they dragged their cameras out of the room, Andrew Flowers continued, “I know what’s going on. I know about the drug money being skimmed, the dope you give to junkie informants, and the drinking on the job. Most of you are going to the penitentiary. I have all the files. I know who your secret informants are. I intend to interview every one of your informants, and take his word over yours. As far as I’m concerned, you are all evil thugs, worse than the Mafia itself.” He then glared at everyone and said, “My agents are secret and we’re going to get every one of you. I dare anyone to try to stop me. It would make my work that much easier. Now, are there any questions?”

  The room was stunned silent, but Dewey couldn’t resist, “Yes, I have one, Agent Flowers; how many of your secret agents will be attending this year’s Christmas party? I’ll need a count by next week.”

  Flowers glared at Dewey. “Agent Paris, isn’t it? I know you well, you smart-ass son-of-a-bitch. You’re first on my list.”

  No one said anything; we just left the room to return to our desks. While we were attending the meeting, some of the desks in each group area had been searched; Michael’s, Dewey’s, and mine. Lying on the desks were copies of a search warrant. Altogether, ten desks had been searched in just one hour while we were attending the meeting. It was more amusing than alarming; no agent would ever leave anything incriminating in his desk. Incredibly, work went on as usual, as if nothing had happened.

  The charges against Winkler were so outrageous that most of us thought it was a camouflage for something more serious. Winkler was an extremely popular, brave agent who had been shot twice in the line of duty. He also conducted training for new agents and represented the Bureau to other agencies on joint investigations. Brown’s charges were just as absurd. An informant had pleaded with Brown to give him a bag of pot taken from a drug raid. Normally, small amounts of pot are thrown away because they just create additional paperwork and complicate the more serious charges of trafficking cocaine and heroin. The informant was wearing a body wire. When Brown gave him the pot, he insisted on paying him. Brown at first said it was a gift and refused the money, but the informant stuffed $20 into his coat pocket and made sure it was recorded on the body wire he was wearing. The story appeared in the New York Post and the Daily News the next day. It said that a federal agent was caught selling drugs.

  Although things appeared to return to normal that day, Michael, Dewey, and some of the others whose desks had been searched met secretly that night at the Heidelberg. No one was really sure if Andrew Flowers was just another dumb bureaucrat or a serious investigator. Kyle and some other New York City cops who knew about Flowers’ earlier investigations came to the meeting to help us. We learned that Andy Flowers was very religious, a dedicated family man who had a strong opinion of what was right and wrong. As Kyle p
ut it, “To Flowers, there is no difference between cheating on your expense report and murdering somebody. Wrong is wrong.”

  Kyle told us that when Flowers was investigating the police, one detective refused to rat on the other cops. Flowers threatened to send him to jail, where he would be beaten and raped. When the detective killed himself, Flowers bragged about it. He said that it proved that the cop was crooked, and that, one way or the other, justice had been served. Dewey learned from Blanker’s secretary that she overheard Flowers say he had been investigating the Bureau for six months and was already prepared to ask for criminal indictments on at least six agents. He had created a list, dividing the agents at 90 Church into those that had the guts to stand up to the investigation and the others who were weaker and would probably cooperate. He was thinking just like us. But Flowers’s first job was to get rid of the incompetent or lazy agents. Everyone knew Dewey was on the top of that list.

  Later that night I visited some of my informants to see if they had heard anything. Charles DeWitt, the greatest trumpet player I ever heard, was as kind and gentle as ever and said a man in a suit had approached him, asking about me. He said he wouldn’t give him the right time of day, but the man kept asking him if I had ever given him any heroin. He said he told them no, but the man offered him a deal: the government would not try to put him in jail if he found out something bad about me and reported it. I told DeWitt to remain loyal to me, to say nothing, to sign nothing.

  The next day I went to see Tony Degaglia, my Mafia informant, at his mother’s house. She said he hadn’t been home in a while but called often to see how she was. Tony called me back later and I saw him that evening in a bar. He didn’t look well. He was a heroin addict and was shaking. “I’m strung out pretty good. I need something to keep me going. You’re all I’ve got, but I’ve got something moving, it could be sweet, but you don’t want to know about it,” he said as he laid his head on the bar.