The press conference looks like Open Mike Night at the Chuckle Hut.
Classic, Malone thinks.
The weapons are laid out on tables, carefully labeled, looking lethal and beautiful. A line of suits and brass stand on the dais waiting their turn at the microphone. In addition to Sykes, who doesn’t even look hungover, and McGivern, you got Neely, the chief of detectives; Isadore, the chief of patrol; Police Commissioner Brady; the deputy commissioner; the mayor; and for reasons that passeth Malone’s understanding, the Reverend Cornelius.
McGivern says a few words of departmental self-congratulations and then introduces Sykes, who speaks in technical terms about the operation, the weapons seized and how proud he is of the many Task Force personnel who worked together to achieve this outcome.
He yields the mike to the commissioner, who broadens the congratulations to include the entire department and makes a point of going on for a while just to make the mayor wait.
When Hizzoner finally gets the mike, he stretches the credit out to include every suit in or around City Hall, especially and including himself, and talks about how the department and the administration working together makes this a safer city for everybody, and then he introduces the good reverend.
Malone already felt like throwing up, but now he really feels like throwing up as Cornelius preaches about the community, nonviolence and the root economic causes of said violence and how the community needs “programs not pogroms” (and nobody knows what the fuck that means) and then dances a tightrope as he tries to urge the police to do more while warning them not to do too much.
All in all, Malone thinks, it’s a great performance.
Even U.S. Attorney Isobel Paz, representing the Southern District of New York, which has done so much to combat interstate weapons trafficking, seems to enjoy the show.
When Malone’s phone rings, it’s Paz, and he can see her across the crowded lobby. “Don’t think this is going to help you, shitbird. I still want cops.”
“Now more than ever, right?” Malone asks, looking at her. “The commissioner was looking very mayoral, I thought.”
“Cops. On tape. Now.”
Click.
Torres confronts him in the locker room at Manhattan North.
“You and me need to talk,” Torres says.
“Okay,” says Malone.
“Not here.”
They walk outside and across the street, into the treed courtyard outside St. Mary’s.
“You motherfucker,” Torres says.
Good, Malone thinks, the angrier the better. Anger makes Torres careless, he makes mistakes. He gets right up on Malone.
“Get out of my face,” Malone says.
“I should kick your fucking ass.”
“I’m not one of your girls.”
Torres’s voice goes to a rasp. “The fuck you doing, hitting that shipment? On Dyckman? That’s my turf. You were supposed to stay out of the Heights.”
“Carter made the deal from my turf.”
“You just gave your turf to Castillo, asshole,” Torres says. “What’s Carter supposed to do without guns?”
“Die?”
“I had a piece of that deal, Malone. A finder’s fee.”
“What, we give refunds now?”
“You don’t fuck with my money, Malone.”
“Okay, okay,” Malone says. Then, feeling like a piece of shit, he makes his pitch. Get Paz what she wants. “What’s it going to take to make this right? What was your piece?”
Torres calms down a little. Then he sticks his neck in the noose. “Fifteen. Plus the three Carter’s not paying me this month now that we fucked him.”
“You want the sweat off my dick, too?”
“No, you can keep that,” Torres says. “When do I get my money?”
“Meet me in the parking lot,” Malone says.
Malone goes back there, takes $18K out of the console and puts it in an envelope. Torres shows up a few minutes later and slides into the passenger seat. In the closeness of the car, Malone can smell the man—the stale coffee breath, the cigarette smoke on his clothes, the too-strong cologne.
Torres says, “So?”
It’s not too late, Malone thinks. Not too late to back off from hurting a brother cop, even a low motherfucker like Torres. Until he takes the money, they got nothing on Raf, just him talking some bullshit.
You cross this line, there’s no going back.
“Yo, Malone?” Torres is asking. “You got something for me, or what?”
Yeah, I got something for you, Malone thinks. He slides him the envelope. “Here’s your money.”
Torres puts the envelope in his pocket. “Do me a favor? Jerk yourself off, lose this hard-on you got for Carter. Believe me, Castillo is worse.”
“Carter is history,” Malone says. “He just don’t know it yet.”
“Don’t cross me again, Denny.”
“Kiss my skinny Irish ass.”
Torres gets out of the car.
Malone opens his shirt and checks the recording device. It’s on, it got the exchange, Torres is a walking dead man.
And so are you, Malone thinks.
The man you used to be doesn’t exist anymore.
Then he drives downtown to deliver the tape to O’Dell. Fifteen, twenty times on the way he thinks about just dumping the tape and driving away. But if I do, he thinks, I just drop Russo and Monty into my shit. So if it’s a choice between them and Torres . . .
Weintraub pops it into the machine right away and Malone listens to—
“The fuck you doing, hitting that shipment? On Dyckman? That’s my turf. You were supposed to stay out of the Heights.”
“Carter made the deal from my turf.”
“You just gave your turf to Castillo, asshole. What’s Carter supposed to do without guns?”
“Die?”
“I had a piece of that deal, Malone. A finder’s fee.”
“What, we give refunds now?”
“You don’t fuck with my money, Malone.”
“Okay, okay. What’s it going to take to make this right? What was your piece?”
“Way to be, Malone,” Weintraub says. “You’re getting the hang of this.”
“Fifteen. Plus the three Carter’s not paying me this month now that we fucked him.”
“You want the sweat off my dick, too?”
“Nice touch,” Weintraub says.
“No, you can keep that. When do I get my money?”
“Did you give him the designated bills?” Weintraub asks.
“Yeah.”
“We got him,” Weintraub says.
O’Dell says, “Good job, Malone.”
“Fuck you.”
“Our boy’s feeling all guilty because he flipped on a drug-dealing cop,” Weintraub says. “Torres deserves everything he gets.”
“Which is what?” Malone asks.
“We’re going to take him to a nice farm in the country where he’ll be happy playing with all the other crooked cops,” Weintraub says. “The hell you think is going to happen?”
“That’s enough,” O’Dell says. “Denny—”
“Don’t open your mouth to me.”
“I know how you’re feeling.”
“No, you don’t.”
Malone walks out of the room. His footsteps echo in the empty hallway.
Jesus Christ, he thinks, you just did it.
You hurt a brother cop.
You can tell yourself you didn’t have a choice. You had to do it, right? For your family, for Claudette, for your partners. Yeah, you can tell yourself that and it’s all true, but none of it changes the fact that you just hurt a brother cop.
Then the hallway starts tilting, his legs feel unsteady and all of a sudden he’s leaning against the wall, grabbing at it as if it can keep him from falling. Then he bends over and puts his face in his hands.
For the first time since his brother died, he sobs.