TWENTY-ONE

The retirement home was in Asbury Park, twenty stories of pink concrete that looked out on trash-strewn dunes, the ocean beyond. A two-hour drive down from the city, but she’d found the address easily. Next door was the municipal sewer plant, machines chugging away in there behind high walls, the smell of it faint in the air. Out past the beach, waves splashed high around the jetties.

She parked the rental in a visitor’s spot, stepped out into the wind. Scraps of newspaper blew past her. Out front, an American flag snapped on a pole.

She went up wide stone steps into a lobby that smelled of disinfectant and floor wax. A heavy black woman was at the reception desk. To the right, double doors opened onto a dining hall, the tables already set for dinner. An elderly uniformed guard sat near a bank of elevators, reading a newspaper.

Crissa was at the desk a full ten seconds before the receptionist acknowledged her. When she said who she’d come to see, she was handed a clipboard with a sign-in sheet, a pen taped to a string. Crissa made swirling marks on the signature line without forming any letters, gave it back. The woman took it, gave her a visitor’s pass torn from a pad, pointed down a long hall. The security guard never looked up.

She walked past open doors, glanced into a TV room, saw half a dozen seniors sitting around, some in wheelchairs, watching a soap opera on a flat-screen set. Across the hall was an empty music room with a piano, a bouquet of artificial flowers atop it. Halfway down the corridor, a gurney was parked against the wall, the sheets rumpled and stained, restraining belts hanging loose.

The activity room was at the end of the corridor. Folding chairs and card tables, a cabinet stocked with board games. Jimmy Peaches sat in a big upholstered chair facing a window, his back to her. Beside him was an aluminum walker. He was alone in the room.

He heard her footsteps, craned his neck to look back at her.

“Jimmy,” she said. “Come sta?”

He smiled, struggled to rise.

“Don’t get up,” she said.

“Come here, you. Let me get a look at you. It’s been a long time.”

He took her left hand in his right, pulled her close. She gave him a quick embrace, felt his frailness against her. What was left of his hair was combed straight back. He wore a pale yellow sweater over a bright white polo shirt, the initials JCF above the breast pocket. The crease on his pants was sharp, his shoes shiny.

“You look terrific,” he said. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“You’re just being a gentleman.”

“No, I mean it. You haven’t.”

“May I sit?”

“Please. You’re my guest.”

She got a folding chair from one of the tables.

“You find the place all right?” he said.

“Your directions were good. Thanks for seeing me.”

“I chased everybody out. I still have a little clout around here.”

She pulled the chair close, sat. “So, how are you, Jimmy?”

“I woke up this morning. That’s a good thing.”

“You look sharp.”

“I try. I was happy to hear from you. I don’t get many visitors these days. Jimmy Junior used to come twice a week. He’s inside now.”

“I heard. I’m sorry.”

“My grandson Anthony comes by when he can. He’s a good kid, but he’s got his own life, you know? I understand.”

“I wanted to bring you something, but I wasn’t sure what you could use.”

“Two good legs and three feet of colon.”

“Sorry. Next time, I promise.”

He pointed at a glass door that led to a sunroom. “Let’s talk out there,” he said. “More privacy.”

“You sure you’re up for that?”

“I’ll be okay. Just bring that thing closer, let me grab ahold of it.”

She moved the walker toward him. He rose from the chair, gripped the handles, shifted his weight. She waited, ready to catch him if he lost his balance, trying not to hover.

“You’ll have to get the door,” he said.

“Of course.” She held it open as he worked his way toward it. The tennis balls on the walker’s back legs squeaked on the floor. His left leg was dragging slightly. He saw her looking.

“Stroke,” he said. “Last year.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Not such a bad one. But then, what’s a good one, right?”

They went into the sunroom. Sloped floor-to-ceiling windows, wrought-iron patio furniture with green cushions. The windows were dirty, but late afternoon sun poured through, dust motes glittering in the light. The door closed behind them.

He nodded at a pair of chairs near the front windows. She followed him, keeping a half step behind. Beside the chairs was a dead fern, the soil in the planter littered with cigarette butts.

“Help comes out here to smoke,” he said. “I used to sneak a cigar myself now and then, back when I could afford them.”

She waited for him to sit. Instead, he leaned on the walker, looked out at the ocean. Wind was flattening the dune grass, sweeping the tops off the gray waves.

“I used to come down the Shore all the time when I was young,” he said. “Asbury, Long Branch. The whole place was wide open.”

He nodded to the north. “Back in the fifties, sixties, Long Branch was like the wiseguy Riviera. I was there every weekend. The Surf Lounge, the Paddock, the Piano Bar, Yvonne’s Rhapsody. We owned that town. And when Monmouth Park opened for the season … marone. The whole area was crawling with guys like me.”

Windblown sand rattled against the glass.

“The Harbor Island Spa was right up there on Ocean Avenue. That’s where Little Pussy Russo lived. He and his brother were cat burglars, how he got the name. I used to see him around. They killed him in his apartment right there, ’79, I think. It’s gone now. They tore it down to build condos. Makes sense, though, right? Not something you want people to remember.”

He turned toward her. “What should I call you?”

“Crissa’s fine.”

“That the name you gave at the desk?”

“I didn’t give them anything.”

“Good for you. You’ll get them all talking, wondering if I have a daughter I never told them about.”

“Or a girlfriend.”

“Even better.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“I wish. Come on, let’s sit.”

He lowered himself into a chair, one hand gripping the walker for support. She angled her chair toward his.

“What do you hear from our friend?” he said.

“Wayne sends his regards.”

“I heard he was back in.”

“Yes.”

“That’s too bad. We made a lot of money back in the nineties, the three of us. Had a good run.”

“We did. You pointed us to some good work.”

“You weren’t much more than a kid then, but you always used this.” He tapped his temple. “I was always impressed by that. When’s he get out?”

“Soon, I hope. I’m working on it.”

“How long’s he been in?”

“Three years.”

He shook his head, looked out at the ocean. “Makes you wonder if it’s all worth it,” he said. “This life.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Jimmy Junior’s been in and out of the jailhouse so much, his son hardly knows him. It was the same for Jimmy, growing up. And it’s my fault. I started it.”

“What do you mean?”

“My old man was a tailor, up in Newark in the First Ward. Never stole a nickel in his life. Didn’t like my running around the streets all day and night. Used to beat me with a barber’s strop. Maybe he should have beat me harder.”

“You did all right. You lived your life. You didn’t let it live you.”

“That the way you see it? What’s important?”

“What else is there?”

“I lived my life, all right. And this is where it got me. But you didn’t come down here to listen to an old man’s regrets.”

“I ended up in the middle of something. I thought you might be able to help.”

“How?”

“Run some names by you. I know you’re not calling the shots anymore—”

“I never did.”

“—but I thought you might have heard some things.”

“I still talk to people sometimes,” he said. “I’ve got ears. And a few teeth left in my head. What names?”

“Louis Letteri.”

He frowned. “You read about that in the papers?”

“Some of it.”

“Made me angry when I heard.”

She watched his eyes, wondering how much he knew, how much she should tell him. “Why?”

“This thing used to be about family, you know? Providing for them, protecting them. That’s what the old-timers used to say. Now it’s just about money. And staying out of jail.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You know who his father-in-law is, right?”

“No.”

“Santino Conte. Tino. Used to have all the sports betting in North Jersey. Then he got ambitious, tried to climb the ladder. He’s younger than me, but not by much. Never liked him.”

“Did you know Letteri?”

“No. After my time. What other names?”

“Vic Stimmer.”

“Never heard of him. Jersey?”

“Staten Island. He was involved with the card game down in Florida. The one where Letteri got killed.”

“Why do I think I’m not gonna like what’s coming?”

She leaned closer, elbows on her thighs, hands clasped. “I was there.”

“What happened?”

“Everything was under control, we were almost out. Stimmer panicked or something. Let one go.”

“You knew this Stimmer from before? Worked with him?”

“Yes. Always steady, solid. I don’t know what happened this time.”

He shook his head slowly, looked out at the beach.

“You know more than you’re telling,” she said.

“When this thing happened, how did it play?”

She looked back into the activity room. A janitor was pushing a mop across the floor.

“I was out in the hallway,” she said. “We were three seconds from being gone when I heard the shot.”

“You had all the money already? No one got brave?”

“Right.”

“So maybe he didn’t panic.”

“You’re losing me, Jimmy.”

“Like I said, I still hear things. And knowing Tino, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“By what?”

“Tino and his son-in-law never got along. Everybody knew it. Lou was a big mouth. Always butting heads with Tino, with Nicky, too, the son. But Tino’s hands were tied, because of the daughter. So he gave him a piece of some things he had going on in Florida, sent him down there to get rid of him.”

“Okay.”

“Tino’s in the middle of a big case right now. RICO. Maybe twenty-five people altogether. Extortion, intent to distribute, laundering, the whole deal. If he goes down on even half of those, he’s done. Now he’s got health problems. Not as bad as me, but still, you don’t want to be a sixty-five-year-old man going back to prison.”

“I guess not.”

“When you’re young, it’s different. It’s part of the deal. You make up for it when you get out, you get new respect. But at our age, no. There’s no getting out. It’s where you die.”

“Was Letteri part of the case?”

“Should have been, deep as he was in with Tino. But from what I hear, he wasn’t indicted.”

“How do you know that?”

“None of this is news. It was all in the papers. I read them every day. Guy Sterling, used to write for the Star-Ledger, he usually had it right, or close enough. Capeci, too, in the Daily News. They always had their sources.”

“Guys like you?”

“Me? Never. I used to read them, though.”

“So Letteri cut a deal?”

“Who knows? Tino probably thought so, paranoid as he is. Maybe he knew for sure, maybe he didn’t.”

“If Letteri was working with the Feds on that case, why would they leave him out there hanging? Why not stash him somewhere safe?”

“Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was just thinking about it, or they were trying to turn him. Maybe it was all bullshit. But knowing Tino, he wouldn’t want to take the chance. It’s like they say, ‘When in doubt, have no doubt.’ ”

She looked out at the beach, the waves crashing in, playing it out in her mind.

“He couldn’t do it outright,” she said.

“It’s his son-in-law. This way, the daughter might suspect—she’d have to, with half a brain—but she doesn’t know for sure. Plus it gets Tino off the hook for taking out a made guy without approval. It’s all that old Sicilian bullshit. Never changes. Smile in your face, stab you in the back.”

“Stimmer’s dead. Someone left him in the trunk of his car.”

“Up here in Jersey?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Why?”

“Someone kills your son-in-law, you gotta respond, right? Would look bad if he didn’t. Besides, if this Stimmer pulled the trigger on Tino’s say-so, he’s a liability. There’s only one way to make sure he keeps his mouth shut. That’s the way Tino works. He’s a snake. Always has been.”

“That’s what has me concerned.”

“What?”

“What are the chances whoever took out Stimmer might be after me as well?”

“For what reason?”

“As an example. Or he’s looking for the money we took from the game.”

He thought about that for a moment, shook his head. “Tino would want to limit his exposure on this. The son-in-law goes, then the man who pulled the trigger goes, too. Case closed. But having someone chase around after the cash, bringing more attention? Doesn’t make sense. Tino’s already solved all his problems. Why complicate things?”

“Maybe he thinks Stimmer told the rest of us what his deal was.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.”

He shook his head again. “Like I said, makes no sense. If the man who did Stimmer is looking for you, he’s got his own agenda. I don’t think Tino would be happy with that.”

“I see what you mean.”

“If you want, I can ask around a little, on the quiet. Make a couple calls.”

“I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“Like I said, I still know a few people. Give me a couple days, let me see what I find out.”

“Thanks, Jimmy. I appreciate it.”

“Well, you know what they say about us.”

“What’s that?”

“An Italian outgrows his clothes, but he never outgrows his friends.”

She put a hand on his forearm, squeezed, felt the bone beneath.

“You should go away for a while,” he said. “Let this play out, one way or another.”

“I’ve thought about that.”

“You should do it. If one of Tino’s people is running around off the leash, causing problems, sooner or later it’ll come to a head. Go somewhere safe, wait for the smoke to clear.”

She nodded, stood. “Thanks for your counsel.”

“Help me up.”

He rose slowly from the chair. She put a hand under his elbow to guide him, braced the walker as he shifted his weight to it.

“It’s almost dinnertime,” he said. “I’d invite you to stay, but I don’t think you’d like it much. The salisbury steak here isn’t bad, believe it or not. But when they try to do Italian, forget about it. Ragu and Cheez Whiz on macaroni left over from the war.”

They made their way toward the door, the janitor still in there mopping. Jimmy took her arm. “Hold on a second.”

She looked at him.

“Take my advice on this if nothing else,” he said. “Get some money together. Enough to last you for a while. Go somewhere far away, somewhere warm. Wait for this to blow over.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “This time I don’t think it will.”

*   *   *

On the way back to the city, she tried Hector. The line buzzed six times, then went to voice mail. Fifteen minutes later, she tried again. When the voice mail picked up, she said, “Me. Call back as soon as you can.”

She lowered the phone, thought about what Jimmy Peaches had told her. The whole thing a setup, Tino Conte behind it, and she and Chance had walked right into it, played their parts. It made her angry at Stimmer, at herself. Wayne would have been more careful, done some digging on his own before he committed. Keep an eye out for trouble coming, he used to say, then move around it.

Too late for that, she thought. She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. You’re in the middle of it now. And the only way out is through.