Codes Of Betrayal Part 8

"Temporary. I'm fillin' in. So, who do you pick of these two fine sterling young representatives of our brave new society? The punks or the punks?"

Tom Leary had been one of Nick's closest gambling pals. Between them they'd won and lost thousands of dollars. Leary played regularly in a heavy-hitters' poker game on the Upper West Side every Tuesday night, if he wasn't stuck with dead bodies. He wore a Brooks Brothers blazer, dark gray slacks, white shirt, neatly patterned silk tie, and a really good gold watch. He had apparently been doing the right things.

"Ever want to get into a game, Nick, gimme a call. Take my card-home number's on the back."

Nick played heavy poker for nearly a month, winning and losing several thousand dollars. He lost more than he won. It wasn't a social game: it was strictly business. Money on the table; out of money, out of the game.

Nick placed bets on any and every sports event-soccer, basketball, football, baseball: series; t.i.tle games; hockey; races, horse and dog; tennis matches; boxing; wrestling. Even when you knew for certain it was a fixed match, sometimes you bet the underdog just in case. Just maybe.

Between extra a.s.signments and extra tours and court time, Nick and Ed had plenty of overtime coming to them. When Ed invited him to come to dinner, Nick shook his head. Had plans.

"You seein' somebody? You holding out on me, pal?"

Nick smiled mysteriously. Less said the better.

He went to Atlantic City, and in four hours at the Tropicana he won ten thousand dollars at roulette; in thirty minutes he lost twenty-five thousand dollars. His losses at the Tuesday night poker game totaled nearly thirty thousand dollars. His joint savings account with Kathy was cut in half.

It was a rotten thing to do to Kathy. He didn't want her to know about it. He went to the bank; couldn't take out a second mortgage. She would learn of it.

Mr. Grazier, a bone-thin man with strands of oily black hair stretched across his bald skull, looked exactly the way he did when Nick had seen him on his TV ads. "Need some cash? Bank turned you down? Debts getting heavy? See me. I won't turn you down. Grant Grazier will be there for you."

Nick examined the doc.u.ment, which seemed to contain print that got smaller and smaller as he read it. Bottom line: sign here for a loan of fifty thousand dollars, payable in x number of installments. Default and you lose the house put up for security.

"But the house is worth a hundred fifty thousand easy on the market today," Nick said.

Grant Grazier shrugged elaborately. "So? Sell it."

What he intended to do was to put thirty thousand dollars in the joint account with Kathy. That's what he truly intended to do. But somehow, he took the money in cash, and in a four-day time-off-which used up all his remaining overtime-Nick flew out to Las Vegas.

He didn't play right away. He wandered around; looked things over. He pa.s.sed through the tourist games, the penny ante stuff; watched the frantic penny pinchers stuffing quarters into the hungry machines, guarding the machines with their bodies while husbands or wives ran over to turn tens and twenties into cups of quarters. This machine was due to hit any time now; d.a.m.ned if some lucky slob would walk over, drop a quarter, and hit big bucks. Of course, every now and then, someone did hit. Sometimes it was the first quarter dropped on an available machine. Lights would flash, bells ring, people would scream and point at the dazed honeymoon couple or fortieth-anniversary celebrants who just hit a cool million. From then on, there wouldn't be an available jackpot machine for days at a time.

He played the roulette table, c.r.a.ps, twenty-one. He won; lost; won; lost. Won more than the lost. Was up thirty thousand in a day and a half. He was noticed. He seemed a steady, serious, knowledgeable gambler. As he bought some fifty-dollar chips, a houseman, neat in his ink blue tux, approached, smiling: offered to comp his room and food service, a gratuity for our serious players. You don't have to be bothered with this: You are our guest.

Nick learned the house held a heavy-money poker game; discreet, invitation only, limited to eight players. It was held in a fourth-floor suite; food, drinks, any refreshments were served as needed. Inquiries were made, and within a few hours Nick sat across the table from some very serious people: a woman, about forty, whose makeup had faded as she kept licking her lips; a heavyset, white-haired man who affected western clothing though his accent was pure New York; a familiar guy-actor, singer, what?-he recognized from somewhere; a bookkeeper type in a b.u.t.toned-up, double-breasted brown suit, whose expression seemed frozen into a look of puzzled interest.

He began slowly; that was okay. The stakes were a thousand to open, a thousand a raise. Nick folded a few times, then began to feel a rhythm within himself: an electricity, a certainty. The world was right here at this round table with these strangers, all holding rectangular cards, all betting that he could be beaten. But he could not be beaten. This is what he realized at a particular moment when he asked for two cards, and knew, knew before he even looked at them, what they were. Two kings; to go with his other two kings.

There was an absolute knowledge at a precise moment of each game: Drop out. Go for it. Drop; raise. Scoop it up. Win. Win. Win.

There was a feeling of power that Nick hadn't had in a very long time. An infallible, perfect knowledge that this was his night. He was a winner and nothing, no one, could best him. He knew how many cards to ask for; how much to bet, raise.

By the end of the evening's session, Nick had won one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Chairs were pushed back, cigars lit or stomped out, men stood up, stretched; the lone woman had quit hours ago, tossing her cards on the table without a word, and leaving unnoticed. Nick stared at the black chips that had been shoved toward him. As he reached for them, a quiet voice said to him: "What do you say, sport? Double or nothing? Cut for it?"

It was the accountant in the brown double-breasted suit, whose eyegla.s.ses had slid to the tip of his nose. He was the house player. There was a dead silence in the room. Nick felt a pounding in his stomach, a twitch at the corners of his mouth. He started to say something, but instead he pulled his hands back and nodded.

From somewhere a cellophane-wrapped package of playing cards appeared. Everyone seemed to come closer to the table, although no one actually moved. They were frozen to the sight on the table. One of the house employees ripped open the pack; handed it to Nick to shuffle, then to the accountant.

"Pick first?" the small, ineffectual-looking man asked.

Nick shrugged. Why not?

He took a deep breath, moved his hand toward the pack on the green felt-topped table, let the tips of his fingers stop at a certain point. Yes. He felt it. Yes. It was there, still for him. It was okay.

He held his breath, then let it out slowly. There was nothing in the world to worry about. It was still with him.

There was an audible sigh around the table as Nick displayed his card.

The queen of diamonds.

Nick kept his face absolutely still.

His opponent nodded slightly. He picked the top card without hesitation, turned it over, and placed it on top of Nick's queen.

"King of Hearts tops Queen, I believe. As it always has, as it always will."

CHAPTER 18.

KATHY SAT AT THE round kitchen table, her back not touching the chair. She breathed through her mouth, in gasps, as though she'd been running. When he placed a cup of tea before her, she never even glanced at it. She kept her eyes on him: watched every move, every gesture; pierced him with the anger and hostility she was trying to control. Still looking at him, she reached for her shoulder bag on the floor beside her foot and slid the bankbook from the outside pocket. She opened it flatly, held it so that the stamped words could be clearly seen: ACCOUNT CLOSED.

As he started to say something, Kathy held her hand up at him. "No. Not a word. Not yet. I've been up all night, preparing myself for this. I'm not going to let anything go unsaid, Nick. There was seventy thousand dollars in our-joint-bank account. Twenty we saved together. The other fifty came from my father. You remember that, don't you?"

Her father had been an unfriendly, parsimonious man who owned and ran a third-rate furniture store in the shabby section of Boston where he and his wife raised their five children. When they finally went suburban, it was on a G.I. loan for a cracker-jack box of a three-bedroom, one-bathroom house. All the kids who were old enough worked after school and summers, kicked into the family pot. They were all good students, able to qualify for minimum scholarships but unable to pay both tuition and board. One brother joined the army and served four years to get a head start on college tuition. Two brothers took on local construction jobs and ran their own company. Kathy and her sister, Patsy, worked at anything and everything, day or evening hours, weekends, summers, holidays. They babysat and cleaned houses, and tutored. They dog-walked and flipped burgers. They painted apartments along with their brothers. They did whatever they could in order to earn money to pay tuition for a teaching degree.

Her father never offered a penny to any of his children. Resented them wanting more education. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Kathy said; when my mother died he got her the cheapest possible funeral. He argued with the undertakers, said not to pretty her up-what the h.e.l.l, the woman was dead. And then, two years ago, her father had died of a heart attack, right at his shop, where he was still working at age seventy-three. Her oldest brother, having put himself through law school, was the executor, and he called them all together.

Her father's estate totaled three hundred fifty thousand dollars, and was to be split among the five of them. He had maintained ten bank accounts-never trust the banks, he said; never bank more than the government insures. Forget stocks and bonds. None of them could have been more surprised if their father had jumped up from the grave and danced a jig. Through all the years when he could have helped his children-through crises with their families, rent, education-he had pretended not to have a dime.

Kathy's legacy was to see Peter through college. No matter what else; the house could fall down. If I die, she said, cremate me and scatter the ashes, but don't touch Peter's college fund.

Her voice had taken on an odd, droning quality; her speech had turned into a recitation, but then she stopped speaking and stood up. Her face was a mask: the face of a desperate child who had suddenly become an anguished woman and didn't know what to say or do next.

"But of course, Peter's dead. He doesn't need a college fund, right, Nick?"

"Kathy-"

"I was planning to buy a four-room condo, Nick. Just outside of Boston, near the school where I'll teach starting in September. I have the papers all ready. Just needed the down payment. That's why I came into town. I wasn't even going to take the full fifty thousand; just twenty-five, for now." She picked up the bankbook and held it in front of her, an accusation. "You had it transferred out to Las Vegas last week. All of it. Account closed." She stretched out her hand. "Give me my money, Nick."

"Kathy-"

She clenched her hands to keep control. She shuddered with the effort and lifted her chin. "At least, Christ, did you have a good time, Nick? Did you win, then lose, then win, then lose?" Her voice went very low. "Did you have a f.u.c.king good time, Nick?"

There was absolutely nothing he could say to her. Nothing. Not a word. He couldn't bear to look at her. Her pain was different from when Peter had died. There was an ultimate, consuming anger mixed with a naked agony.

She turned from him, dug a cigarette out of her pocketbook, lit it and blew smoke at him. "Look at this. I took up smoking again. Yesterday. How about that? Two packs since yesterday." She went to the sink, ran the water, dousing the cigarette. She kept her hands under the water, then sloshed her face lightly; blotted with a paper towel.

"All right. Here's what we are going to do. You are going to sign over the deed to this house. I contributed as much as you. I figured half of the selling price would be my nest egg, but it's going to be all I have. Get the deed." She checked her wrist.w.a.tch. "We'll go to the bank. Right now."

When he didn't answer, Kathy drew back her arm, made a fist, and hit Nick in the mouth. Then, with the other hand, she punched him in the stomach, sobbing, gasping, hitting him over and over again, until her knees buckled. She shrugged his hands off her as he kept her from hitting the floor.

"Kathy. Babe, look. I didn't sell the house. I didn't lose it. It's just that ..."

"It's just that-what?"

Unable to look at her, he stared across the room, noticed the array of snapshots still held by magnets to the door of the refrigerator. Bright photos of the three of them together. Of Peter with his animals; of Kathy, pretending to be sultry; of Nick, sweating over the outdoor grill.

"There's a lien on it. For fifty thousand dollars. We can't sell it until I pay that off."

It was as though he spoke a different language; she didn't understand what he was saying. "The house is in my name, too. You sign it over to me, Nick. I want the deed ..."

"Kathy, I'll work it out. I swear I will. I just need a little time. Kath, there are some very ... heavy hitters I owe a lot of money to. I gotta work it out. I will, I swear, I'll get everything back for you."

Her hands were shaking so badly, things began to fall to the floor-her handkerchief, cigarettes, matches, car keys. She held the car keys out toward him.

"How about the Volvo, Nick? Maybe your heavy hitters could sell it-let's see, it'd be worth about fifty dollars for junk."

She yanked the door open, then turned to face him one more time. It was the cold, hate-filled face of a total stranger: a Kathy he didn't realize could ever exist. "I hope they end up killing you, Nick. I hope they kill you. I really-really do."

She didn't hear him say softly, "Me too, babe. Me too."

CHAPTER 19.

HE HANDLED IT AS though it were an a.s.signment. He spent hours watching, hunched in the seat of the beat-up old Ford he'd gotten from some rent-a-wreck dump. He was aware of who entered and never exited, at least not through the front door of the restaurant. He checked around the alley, found the back door. On the night he hit, Nick parked his nondescript wreck on a street adjacent to the back alley.

He huddled in the doorway of the deserted, rat-laden alley. Not even the homeless hunkered down here. Maybe a dead-out junkie or two. He took a deep breath, pulled the collar of his black sweatshirt jacket up; put on his dark gla.s.ses; slicked his hair back. He could pa.s.s for a Dominican, at least as he made his entrance.

There were a couple of elderly people finishing their late meal. The food smelled spicy; the air was steamy. There were closing-up sounds coming from the kitchen. The bartender, a small man with dark, bloodshot eyes, glanced around, made eye contact with one of the waiters, who slipped into the kitchen and emerged a moment later. Nick saw it all. He leaned one haunch on a stool, facing into the restaurant; clear view of the front door. He calculated quickly: four, maybe five workers-the owners, two brothers, Juan and Victor, did the cooking and serving. The bartender was an uncle or a cousin.

"Whut you want?" the small dark man asked him.

Nick ignored him, noting he had been addressed in English. He shrugged; watched as the elderly people paid their bill and left. Dominicans. They were a very proud people; they owned Washington Heights. Before the war, the wide streets and well-built apartment buildings had been dominated by German Jewish refugees. The Heights had been something of an intellectual center. They were people who attended city colleges, lectures, symphonies, ballets, the theater. They sent their sons to war; they opened prosperous businesses, and when the war was over, they took in relatives who had survived the camps. Then, they moved out, moved on with the great American suburban migration. Dominicans had slowly settled in the now shabby buildings; brought in illegals, gun runners. And drugs. Main industries, drugs and money. Money because the Dominicans, smart, better educated than some of the others from down southway, were proficient at the complicated task of laundering. They handled millions of dollars a month with such skill that a twenty-two-year-old could retire back home and buy himself a village. Or a spot in the local graveyard.

They made Nick for a cop from the moment he walked in, but that was okay. No problem.

A tall, well-built man, a little heavy in the gut but broad-shouldered, solid chest, dark skin, Indian nose, tight lips, black eyes, came and stood before Nick. Neither pretended anything. Luis had dealt with cops before. Had paid the price of doing business; but he didn't know this guy at all.

Making sure no one was behind him, Nick said softly, "I need some money."

Luis shrugged. "Who don't?"

"I need some of your money."

"Hey, don't you guys talk to each other? What, are you new around here? Who you work with, what squad? Who's your boss?"

Nick casually, but quickly, took hold of the man's shoulder in a terrible grip. He dug the nose of his automatic into the man's belly and whispered, "Tell everyone to back off."

Luis started to speak in Spanish, but Nick jerked him hard with the gun. "English. I know some Spanish, but you be very careful, right?"

He backed them all into the kitchen and they lined up against the wall opposite the large dirty stove. There was a smell of rancid oil and fetid food everywhere. The men glanced at each other, but, as Nick knew they would, took their cues from Luis, the oldest of them.

"Okay, you tell me what you want. No problem."

"No problaymo, huh?" Nick shoved Luis toward the large freezer next to where the men stood. "Get in there. Now. Reach into the bin where you keep the pork."

Luis was more stunned than reluctant. "What you talking about?"

Nick slammed him across the face with his fist. "That young guy, what's his name, Jose, he's your son, right?" He gestured to the teenager whose eyes darted back and forth, from his father to Nick.

Nick shoved Luis toward the freezer and held Jose tight against his body; his gun rested on the kid's shoulder, pointed straight at his throat.

Luis did as he was told. His face went blank, unreadable. He entered the freezer, kept the door wide open; dug out a package, caught Nick's signal, dug out two more packages, and shrugged.

"I swear, that's all. That's it."

"Two more," Nick said.

It was obvious the cop knew what he knew. Luis shrugged; f.u.c.k, it was only money. He put the packets into a heavy brown bag and carefully handed it to Nick, as he was told to do.

Nick whirled around and ducked as one of the kitchen men came at him with a butcher knife. Propelled by his own momentum, the man slammed into the wall and slid down, stunned. The others moved in, but Nick moved too quickly, caught hold of the kid again.

"He's gonna come out back with me, got that? Then I'm outta here and you won't see me again. Until next time. You been giving table money to some dumbbells. I know how much you pull in every week. I know exactly."

The kid tried to resist, but his father gave him a warning sign: Go with the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Just go.

Nick threw the kid into a pile of overflowing garbage cans, got into the car, turned the ignition, and took off toward the corner. He made a left turn onto 184th Street and was headed downtown when a large gray van cut him off. Ran him right onto the sidewalk. Someone pried open the pa.s.senger side door. Another man pulled his door open and grabbed Nick by the jacket so unexpectedly that he fell to his knees. Before he could look at his a.s.sailants, he was thrown into the back of the large gray van and it took him a moment to focus. All the equipment; the monitors; the reel-to-reel; the men with headphones. A police surveillance van.

He was almost right. He had been tossed into a surveillance van run by the Drug Enforcement Administration.

They were not happy with him at all. He had just disrupted a major drug money-laundering operation they had been tracking for nearly six months and were planning to close down within a week.