Morningside Park.
The tension like barbed wire across Malone’s chest.
At least he isn’t wearing a wire. O’Dell wanted him to, but Malone told him to go fuck himself.
O’Dell didn’t want him to go at all. “If you’re right about their suspicions, they could kill you.”
“They won’t.”
“Why go at all?” Weintraub asked. “We have enough to pick them up right now, you go into the program.”
“You can’t arrest them at home,” Malone said, “not in front of their families.”
“He could make the meeting,” Weintraub said, “and we could pick them up then.”
“Then he’d have to wear a wire.”
“Fuck that,” Malone said.
“If you don’t wear a wire,” O’Dell said, “we can’t provide backup.”
“Good. I don’t want backup.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” Weintraub said.
But that’s what I am, Malone thought. I’m an asshole.
“What are you going to tell them?” O’Dell asked.
“The truth,” Malone said. “I’m going to tell them the truth, what I did. At least give them a chance to prepare their families. You can arrest them tomorrow.”
“What if they run?” Weintraub asked.
“They won’t,” Malone said. “They won’t leave their wives and kids in the wind.”
“If they do run,” O’Dell says, “it’s on you.”
Now he stands in the park and watches Russo and Monty walk up from Morningside Avenue.
Russo’s face is twisted with anger; Monty’s is flat, unreadable.
Cop faces.
And they’re carrying heavy. Malone can see the extra weight on Russo’s hip, can see it in Monty’s walk.
“We’re going to pat you down, Denny,” Monty says.
Malone raises his arms. Russo steps in and searches for a wire.
Doesn’t find one.
“You sobered up?” Russo asks.
“Sober enough.”
“You have something you want to tell us?” Monty asks.
They know—they’re cops, they’re his brothers, they see it on his face, the guilt. But he can’t bring himself to say it. “Like what?”
“Like they flipped you,” Monty says. “They caught you and they flipped you and you gave us up.”
Malone doesn’t answer.
“Jesus, Denny,” Russo says. “At my home? With our families? You wore a fucking wire at my home? While our wives talked and our kids played in the pool together.”
“How did they get to you?” Monty asks.
Malone doesn’t answer.
He can’t.
“It doesn’t matter,” Monty says.
He pulls his .38 and aims it at Malone’s face.
Malone don’t go for his gun, just looks at Monty. “If you think I’m a rat, do it.”
“I will.”
“We have to be sure,” Russo says. He’s almost crying. “We have to be one hundred percent sure.”
“What do you need?” Monty asks.
“I need to hear him say it,” Russo says. He grabs Malone’s arms. “Denny, you look me in the eye and tell me it isn’t true, I’ll believe you. Please, shit, man, tell me it isn’t true.”
Malone looks him in the eye.
The words won’t come out.
“Denny, please,” Russo says. “I can understand if . . . it could happen to any of us . . . just tell us the fucking truth, we can still fix this.”
“How are we going to fix it?” Monty asks.
“He’s my kids’ godfather!”
“He’s going to put your kids’ father in jail,” Monty says. “Mine too. Unless he’s not around to corroborate the tape and testify. I’m sorry, Denny, but—”
“Denny, tell him we got it wrong!”
“He’s going to think what he’s going think,” Malone says.
Russo pulls his piece. “I’m not letting you do it.”
“What, we’re all going to shoot each other?” Malone asks. “That’s who we are now?”
His phone rings.
Monty says, “Go ahead. Slow.”
Malone pulls his phone from his jeans pocket.
“Put it on speaker,” Monty says.
Malone does.
It’s Henderson from IAB.
“Denny, I thought you should know,” he says, “I just got my head handed to me by the feds.”
“The fuck you mean?”
“Fed named O’Dell told me to lay off the Task Force, they got a guy in there,” Henderson says. “Denny, it’s Levin.”
Malone feels sick.
O’Dell, what did you do?
“You told me Levin was clean,” Malone says.
“He showed me the 302,” Henderson says. “It had Levin’s name on it.”
“Okay.” Malone clicks off.
Russo sits down on the grass. “Jesus Christ. We were going to shoot each other. Jesus fucking Christ, I’m sorry, Denny.”
Monty holsters his .38.
But slow.
Malone can see the big man thinking, playing chess in his head, going through the moves—Henderson is Denny’s guy, feds only show documents to city cops when they’re forced to . . .
He ain’t sold.
Now it’s Russo’s phone that rings. He listens for a minute, clicks off and says, “Speak of the fucking devil.”
“What?”
“Levin,” Russo says. “He’s got a visual on Castillo.”
They walk to the work car.
Monty’s eyes boring into him.
Malone can feel a .38 round going through the back of his head.
Old school.
And I’d deserve it, he thinks. I fucking deserve it.
I almost want it.
He slows down, gets beside Monty. “Were you really going to shoot me, Big Man?”
“I don’t know,” Monty says. “Let me ask you this—if the shoe were on the other foot, what would you have done?”
“I don’t know I could shoot you.”
“None of us know, do we,” Monty says, “until we get there.”
“What are we going to do about Levin?” Russo asks. “If Levin is with the feds, we’re fucked, he puts us all in jail.”
“What are you saying?” Malone asks.
“That if we bust Castillo,” Russo says, “there are two people who can’t come out of that raid alive.”
Monty says, “Drug busts are dangerous work.”
“You have a problem with that?” Russo asks.
Malone feels sick. What the fuck was O’Dell doing, covering for me? Tell them, tell them now. Three syllables—I’m a rat.
He can’t say it.
Thought he could.
Instead, he says, “Let’s move.”
Maybe, he thinks, I’ll get lucky.
And I’ll get killed.
The building is on Payson Avenue, across the street from Inwood Hill Park.
“You’re sure about this,” Malone says.
“I saw the van pull up,” Levin says. His voice is tense, excited. “All Trinis. They brought out duffel bags.”
“And you saw Castillo,” Malone says.
“They dropped him off and left,” Levin says. “He went to the fourth floor. I saw him there before they pulled the shades.”
“You’re sure,” Malone says. “You’re sure it was him.”
“One hundred percent,” Levin says.
“Anyone else come or go?” Malone asks.
Levin says, “No one.”
So we don’t know how many people Castillo has in there, Malone thinks. Could be the ten Levin saw, could be twenty more already inside. Castillo’s in there checking and counting before he puts the smack out, making sure none of his own people skimmed.
What we should do, Malone knows, is keep it under surveillance, call Manhattan North, let Sykes bring in an Emergency Services squad, the SWAT guys. Except we can’t do that because this isn’t a bust, it’s an execution.
They all know the risk. And they all, with the exception of Levin, know why they’re taking it.
No one says anything.
A silent assent.
“Gear up,” Malone says. “Vests. Automatic weapons, we’re going in heavy.”
“What about a warrant?” Levin asks.
Malone catches Russo’s glance. He says, “Gunshot warrant. We saw known gang members on the prowl, followed them and then heard gunshots. We didn’t have time to call for backup. Anyone have a problem with that?”
“We still owe these people for Billy,” Russo says, passing out the HKs.
Levin looks at Malone.
Malone says, “Arrests might not be our priority here.”
Levin meets his look. “I’m good with that.”
“You still good if there’s a shooting board?” Malone says. “IAB?”
“I’m good.”
Russo says, “We’re mixing it up a little on this one. I’ll breach, Levin goes in first. Malone sloppy seconds. Monty guards door.”
He stares at Malone, like don’t go against me on this. Levin looks at Malone, too—Malone always goes in first.
Malone asks, “Levin, you okay with this?”
“It’s my turn,” Levin says.
“Let’s go,” Malone says.
He fires two shots in the air.
Monty trots to the door and sticks the Rabbit in. Levin slides up beside him, presses himself against the wall and holds his HK at high port, ready to go.
The lock pops.
The door swings open.
Russo tosses in the flashbang.
The interior lights up.
Levin counts to three, yells, “Moving!,” pivots and goes through the door. Rounds hit him instantly, from low to high—into his legs, his belly, his chest, his neck, his head.
He’s dead before his body hits the floor.
Malone drops behind him and sees Trinis in green bandannas crouching behind the stairwell railing. They have Kevlar body armor and combat helmets with heavy visors and night-vision goggles.
They run up the stairs.
Malone flattens himself on his back behind Levin’s body. Hits the button on his radio and yells, “10-13! Officer down! Officer down!,” then stretches his HK out over Levin’s chest and squeezes the trigger.
Rounds come back, stitching into Levin.
Russo stands at the edge of the door, firing shotgun blasts. “Get the fuck out of there, Denny!”
Malone rolls over Levin’s body and fires.
Then he gets up and moves.
Up the stairs.
“Denny! Back out!”
But Russo comes in.
So does Monty.
Malone hears them pounding up the stairs behind him.
He never used to worry about his back because Monty was behind him.
Now he’s worried about his back. Because Monty’s behind him, worried about his back, too, wondering if Malone stuck a knife in it.
Malone hears the Trinis running above him. Fuckin’ kids are a lot faster than him. Racing to the fourth floor, protect the smack and the jefe. But it don’t matter if they win the race, they got no place to go except the roof and that’s a death trap.
But they stop and fire.
Rounds bounce around the stairway like it’s a pinball machine. Off the walls, off the railing.
Malone hears Russo scream, “My eye!”
Malone turns to see him drop, curl into a ball and grab his face. A rust fragment from the railing. Monty presses him down, steps over him, squeezing his heft along the wall as he comes up.
“I’m okay!” Russo yells. “Just come down!”
Malone don’t come down. Instead he runs up to the fourth-floor door, Monty behind him, gun lowered.
Malone steps aside.
Monty kicks in the door.
Malone goes in shooting.
Hears one Trini scream as a round hits him. Bullets come stitching across the concrete floor, throwing up sparks and fragments.
Malone drops to the floor and rolls to the side.
Looks back to see Monty raise his .38.
At him.
Malone crabs back to the wall next to the door. Pushes his back into the wall. Nowhere else to go.
Raises the HK at Monty.
They look at each other.
Monty fires into the doorway.
A Trini twirls out, hit in the groin below the vest. His AK fires into the ceiling. Monty takes him down with two shots to the legs. The Trini jackknifes and falls backward.
The Trinis aren’t gonna give it up; they know they’ve killed a cop and they’re not going out of there in cuffs. Their only options are the back door or killing the surviving police.
Malone swings his gun through the open door and fires, then ducks back as Monty uses the cover fire to move to the other side of the door. Looks at Malone like, we’re in it now. Then he juts his chin at the doorway—go.
Malone launches up and through the door. Feels heavy punches in his ribs as rounds smack into his vest and he goes down.
A Trini walks toward him, a Glock aimed in front of him.
Malone lunges, tackles him around the legs and drives him to the floor. Wrests the gun out of his hand and beats him in the head with it, again and again, until the Trini’s body goes limp.
Then he hears another burst and a body falls hard on top of him. He looks out from under and sees Monty lower his gun.
Monty looks at him.
Thinking about shooting again.
Friendly fire—it happens.
Sirens scream through the night. Flashers pulse outside the door. Malone pushes the body off him.
A body bolts off the fire escape landing.
Monty goes out the window after him.
No heroin in the room. No money counters.
No Castillo.
It was an ambush.
Castillo must have gone out the back before we got here, Malone thinks. He sussed out the surveillance and set me up, knowing I’m the one who always goes through the door.
That first blast was meant for me.
Levin took it instead.
Russo staggers into the room.
Footsteps pound up the stairs and Malone hears “NYPD!” They come down the hallway, firing.
“NYPD!” Malone screams. “We’re police!”
Tries to remember the color of the day.
Russo yells, “Red! Red!”
Malone hears more shots from outside.
Bullets smack into the walls above them. It’s Task Force—Gallina and Tenelli—coming up the hallway, firing in front of them. Russo hits the floor, crawls under a table. Malone squeezes himself into a corner. Takes off his lanyard, throws his shield out onto the floor where they can see it. “NYPD! It’s Malone!”
Tenelli sees him, pretends not to.
She fires twice.
Malone throws his arms across his face. The rounds hit left of his head.
Russo yells, “Fuck! Stop! It’s Russo!”
More feet, more voices.
Uniforms from the Three-Two, yelling, “Cease fire! Cease fire! It’s cops! Russo and Malone!”
Tenelli lowers her weapon.
Malone gets up, goes for her. “You fucking cunt!”
“I didn’t see you!”
“The fuck you didn’t!”
A uniform gets between them.
Russo asks, “The fuck’s Monty?”
“He went down the fire escape.”
They go after him.
Fucking chaos in the streets. Sector cars rolling up, brakes screeching. Shouts, people running.
Monty lies on his back on the sidewalk.
Blood pumps out of his carotid artery.
Malone kneels and presses hard against the neck, trying to stop the bleeding. “Don’t you go out on me, don’t you go out on me, brother. Please, Big Man, don’t you go out on me.”
Russo spins around like a drunk, holding his head, crying.
A radio car from the Three-Two squeals in, the uniforms jump out with guns drawn and aimed. Malone screams, “We’re on the job! Task Force! Officer down! Get medics here!”
He hears one of the uniforms say, “Is that fuckin’ Malone? Maybe we got here too soon.”
“Call a bus!” Russo yells. “One officer dead, two wounded, one critical!”
More cars are coming in, then an ambulance. The EMTs take over from Malone.
“Is he going to make it?” Malone asks, standing up. Monty’s blood is all over him.
“Too soon to tell.”
One of the EMTs goes over to Russo. “Let’s get you help.”
Russo shakes him off.
“Take care of Montague first,” Russo says. “Go!”
The ambulance takes off.
A uniform sergeant walks up to Malone. “What the fuck happened here?”
“One dead officer inside,” Malone says. “Five dead suspects down.”
“Any of the perps alive?”
“I dunno. Maybe.”
A uniform walks out of the warehouse. “Three DOA. Two bleeding out. One’s shot in the femoral, the other’s skull is bashed in.”
“You want to talk to any of these fuckers?” the sergeant asks Malone.
Malone shakes his head.
“Wait ten,” the sergeant tells the uniform. “Then call in five perps DOA. And get another bus here, let’s recover that officer’s body.”
Malone sits down and leans against the wall. Suddenly he’s exhausted, the adrenaline dump dropping him into the black hole. Then Sykes is there, bending over him. “What the fuck, Malone? What the fuck did you do?”
Malone shakes his head.
Russo stumbles over. “Denny?”
“Yeah?”
“This is fucked up.”
Malone gets up, lifts Russo by the elbow and walks him to a car.
A cop’s doorbell rings at four in the morning there’s only one reason.
Yolanda knows it.
Malone sees it on her face the second she opens the door. “Oh, no.”
“Yolanda—”
“Oh, God no, Denny. Is he—”
“He’s hurt,” Malone says. “It’s serious.”
Yolanda looks down at his shirt—he’d forgotten that it has Monty’s blood all over it. She stifles a cry, swallows it down and then straightens her neck. “Let me throw some clothes on.”
“There’s a sector car waiting for you,” Malone says. “I have to go notify Levin’s girlfriend.”
“Levin?”
“He’s gone.”
Monty’s oldest boy appears behind her.
Looks like a skinny version of his father.
Malone sees the fear in his eyes.
Yolanda turns to him. “Daddy’s been hurt. I’m going to the hospital and you need to look after your brothers until Grandma Janet gets here. I’ll call her on my way to the hospital.”
“Is Dad going to be all right?” the boy asks, his voice trembling.
“We don’t know yet,” Yolanda says. “We need to be strong for him now. We need to pray and be strong, baby.”
She turns back to Malone.
“Thank you for coming, Denny.”
All he can do is nod.
He starts speaking, he’ll start crying, and that’s not what she needs.
Amy thinks it’s another Bowling Night.
Comes to the door annoyed as shit, then sees that Malone’s by himself. “Where’s Dave?”
“Amy—”
“Where is he? Malone, where the fuck is he?”
“He’s gone, Amy.”
She doesn’t get it at first. “Gone? Where?”
“There was a shooting,” Malone says. “Dave got shot . . . He didn’t make it, Amy. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
How many people has he had to tell that their loved ones aren’t coming home. Some scream, or faint, others take it like this.
Stunned.
She repeats, “Oh.”
“I’ll drive you to the hospital,” Malone says.
“Why?” Amy asks. “He’s dead.”
“The ME has to do an autopsy,” Malone says, “in a homicide.”
“Got it.”
“You want to change real quick?”
“Right. Sure. Okay.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You have blood on you,” Amy says. “Is it—”
“No.”
Maybe some of it, but he ain’t going to tell her that. She changes quickly. Comes out in jeans and a light blue hoodie.
In the car she says, “You know why David transferred into your unit?”
“He wanted action.”
“He wanted to work with you,” Amy says. “You were his hero. You were all he talked about—Denny Malone this, Denny Malone that. I got sick of hearing about you. He’d come home talking about all the things he learned, all the things you taught him.”
“I didn’t teach him enough.”
“It was a macho thing,” Amy says. “He didn’t want anyone thinking he was just another college-educated jewboy.”
“Nobody thought that.”
“Sure they did,” Amy says. “He wanted so much to be one of you. A real cop. And now he’s dead. And it’s such a waste. I was perfectly happy with the college-educated jewboy.”
“Amy, you and Levin weren’t married,” Malone says, “so you don’t get his pension.”
“I work,” she says. “I’m good.”
“The Job will bury him.”
“Letting the irony of that statement slide for the time being,” she says. “I’ll tell his parents.”
“I’ll reach out to them,” Malone says.
“No, don’t. They’ll blame you.”
“So do I.”
Amy says, “Don’t look to me for sympathy. I blame you, too.”
She stares out the window.
At the life she knew passing by her.
The hospital is chaos.
Usually is this time of the morning in Harlem.
A young Puerto Rican mother holds a coughing baby. An old homeless man with bandaged swollen feet rocks back and forth. A psychotic man, young, holds an intense conversation with the people in his head. Then there are the broken arms, the cuts, the stomach pains, the sinus infections, the flu, the DTs.
Donna Russo sits with Yolanda Montague, holding her hand.
McGivern and Sykes stand in the corner of the room, by the door, quietly conferring. They got a lot to talk about, Malone knows. One detective dead, another on the fence. Just days after a third detective from the same unit killed himself.
Less than a year after another one, Billy O, was killed in a similar raid.
Two uniforms from the Three-Two stand behind them, blocking the door from the horde of media outside.
More cops wait out there.
McGivern breaks away from Sykes and walks over to Malone. “A word with you, Sergeant?”
Malone follows McGivern down the hall.
Sykes walks after them. “One officer killed, another possibly dying. Five suspects, all minorities, dead. No backup, no support from Emergency Services, no operational plan, you don’t bother to notify or inform your captain—”
“Now?” Malone asks. “You’re going to start this now, with Monty lying in there—”
“You put him in there, Malone! And Levin—”
Malone goes for him.
McGivern gets between them. “Enough! This is a disgrace!”
Malone backs off.
“What happened, Denny?” McGivern asks. “There were no drugs in that warehouse. Just shooters geared out for combat.”
“The Dominicans wanted revenge for Pena,” Malone says. “They made threats on the Task Force. We followed them, it was a setup. I didn’t see it, it was my fault, this is on me.”
“The media are all over this,” Sykes says. “They’re already talking about out-of-control, trigger-happy cowboy cops. They’re already asking if the Task Force should be shut down. I have to give them some answers.”
McGivern stands up. “You think you can throw them Malone and they’ll stop at that? If you give the press any opening at all, they will eat us all alive. Here are the answers you’re going to give them: Four New York cops—hero cops—engaged a gang of killers in a desperate gun battle. One of those heroes was killed—he gave his life for this city—and another is fighting for his life. Those are the answers, and the only answers, that you will give. Do you understand me, Captain Sykes?”
Sykes walks away.
McGivern starts to say something and then hears a commotion in the lobby. The commissioner, the chief of detectives and the mayor are coming in through the crowd.
Cameras chatter.
Malone sees that Chief Neely is in full dress uniform. He must have taken time to climb into the costume before he came rushing over.
He beats the mayor over to Yolanda.
Bends over and says comforting things, Malone supposes. We’re all behind you. Keep a good thought. Thirty-eight thousand of us will be out looking for the men who did this to your husband, and we’ll get them.
Neely spots Malone and walks over.
Looks at McGivern, who finds somewhere else to be.
“Sergeant Malone,” Neely says.
“Sir.”
“Through this ordeal,” Neely says, “I will support you, praise you to the press and back you up one hundred and ten percent. But you’re finished on the Job. There’s no place for your cowboy bullshit anymore. You got one and maybe two good officers killed. Do yourself a favor, take a disability buyout. I’ll sign it.”
He pats Malone on the shoulder and walks away.
A doctor in scrubs comes in, Claudette behind him. He looks around the room and spots Yolanda. Donna helps her up and they walk over to him. Malone and Russo stand at the edge within earshot.
“Your husband is out of surgery,” the doctor says.
“Thank God,” Yolanda says.
The doctor says, “We’ve taken him to ICU. The flow of blood to his brain was cut off for a considerable period of time. Also, another bullet nicked the cervical vertebrae and the spinal cord. At this point in time, we might have to consider lowering our expectations.”
Yolanda breaks down in Donna’s arms.
Donna walks her away.
The doctor goes back to the OR.
Malone approaches Claudette. “Translation?”
“It doesn’t look good,” Claudette says. “He has severe brain damage. Even if he makes it, you need to prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
“The man you knew is gone,” Claudette says. “If he lives, it will be at the most basic level.”
“Christ.”
“I’m sorry,” Claudette says. “And guilty. When the 10-13 came in, I was afraid it was you. Then I was relieved it wasn’t.”
He sees she’s clean.
Or at least not high on heroin.
Maybe her tame doc’s got her propped up so she can work.
She looks over his shoulder and sees Sheila, walking in straight for Malone. She knows this has to be the wife.
“You’d better go,” Claudette says.
Malone turns around, sees Sheila and walks over to her. She puts her arms around him.
“I have blood all over me,” Malone says.
“I don’t care,” she says. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Malone says. “Levin’s dead, Monty’s in bad shape.”
“Is he going to make it?”
“Maybe he shouldn’t,” Malone says.
She sees Claudette and knows right the fuck away. “Is that her? She’s pretty, Denny. I can see what you see in her.”
“Not here, Sheila.”
“Don’t worry,” Sheila says. “I’m not going to cause a scene, not in front of Yolanda, what she’s going through.”
She walks over to Claudette. “I’m Sheila Malone.”
“I figured. I’m sorry about your friend.”
“I just came over to tell you,” Sheila says, “you want my husband, you can have him. Good luck with him, honey.”
Sheila goes over to Yolanda and throws her arms around her.
There’s nothing an Irish Catholic police inspector loves more than death and tragedy. McGivern’s worse than an old lady for that stuff; several times Malone has walked into his office and caught him reading the obituaries.
Now he finds McGivern in the hospital chapel, clutching his rosary beads.
“Denny . . . I was just saying a prayer.”
Malone lowers his voice. “If Homicide starts looking into motive, if they pick up Castillo, it might all come out.”
“What all might come out?”
Don’t you fucking play the innocent with me, Malone thinks. “The Pena thing.”
“Oh, I don’t know anything about that.”
“Where do you think your fat envelopes came from?” Malone asks. “We went in together on a lottery ticket, that was your share? It was just coincidence after the Pena bust your monthly went up like an insider stock?”
“You never told me anything about the Pena bust,” McGivern says, his voice getting tight, “except what was in your report.”
“You didn’t want to know.”
“And I still don’t.” McGivern gets up. “Excuse me, Sergeant. I have a gravely wounded officer to look in on.”
Malone doesn’t get out of the pew. “If they get Castillo, he might start telling stories about how many kilos were really in that room. If he does, that goes on me and on my partners, including the gravely wounded officer you’re so concerned about.”
“But you’re going to stand up, aren’t you?” McGivern says. “I know you, Denny. I know the man your father raised would never inform on a brother officer.”
“I could go to prison.”
“Your family will be taken care of,” McGivern says.
“That’s what mob guys say.”
“We’re different,” McGivern says. “We mean it.”
“You and my old man,” Malone says, “were you on the pad together way back in the day?”
“We took care of our families,” McGivern says. “You and your brother never went without. Your father saw to that.”
“Like father like son.”
“You’re like a son to me, Denny,” McGivern says. “Your father, may our Lord bless and keep him, made me promise that I’d look after you. Help you in your career, make sure you did the right thing. You’re going to do the right thing now, aren’t you? Tell me you’re going to do the right thing.”
“Which is to keep my mouth shut.”
“That is the right thing to do.”
Malone looks at his face. Sees the fear. “Then I’m going to do the right thing, Inspector.”
He gets up and edges out of the pew.
McGivern steps into the aisle, faces the altar and crosses himself. Then he turns to Malone. “You’re a good boy, Denny.”
Yeah, Malone thinks.
I’m your good boy.
He don’t cross himself.
What’s the point?
They’ve moved Monty to Intensive Care.
When Malone goes up to ICU, a nurse blocks him in the hall outside Monty’s room. “Immediate family only, sir.”
“I’m immediate family,” Malone says, showing her his badge as he moves around her. “But I appreciate you looking out.”
Monty is still in a coma and unresponsive. He had a “coronary incident” but they managed to stabilize him. What the fuck for, Malone thinks, feeling guilty as he thinks it, that it would have been better if they’d just let him go.
Yolanda is slumped in a chair, dozing. Machines hum and beep, their tubes running into Monty’s mouth, nose and arms. His eyes are closed; what Malone can see of his face where it isn’t bandaged is purple and swollen.
He puts his hand on Monty’s.
Leans over and whispers, “Big Man, I’m so sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry for everything.”
This time he can’t stop the tears. They pour down his face, drip onto Monty’s hand.
“Don’t blame yourself, Denny.” Yolanda has woken up. “It’s not your fault.”
“I was in command. It was my fault.”
“Monty’s a grown man,” Yolanda says. “He knew the risks.”
“He’s strong. He’s going to make it.”
“Even if he does,” Yolanda says, “he’s going to be a vegetable. I’m going to have my husband in my apartment drooling in a wheelchair. His disability insurance isn’t going to pay for all he needs, not to mention three sons. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
Malone looks at her. “Yolanda, did Monty ever talk to you about the money?”
She looks confused.
“The extra money.”
“From the moonlighting jobs? Sure, but—”
Shit, Malone thinks.
She doesn’t know.
Malone bends down, puts his arms around her, says quietly, “Monty has over a million dollars stored away. Some in cash, some in investments. He didn’t tell you?”
“I always thought we lived off his salary.”
“You did,” Malone says. “I guess he was saving the rest.”
“Where—”
“You don’t need to know,” Malone says. “Phil knows where it is, how to access it. But talk to him tonight, Yo. Tonight.”
She looks into his eyes. “The Job, it doesn’t leave you anything, does it?”
He squeezes her hand and walks out.
Russo sits in the little lounge outside ICU, leafing through an old copy of Sports Illustrated.
“We gotta talk,” Malone says.
“Okay.”
“Not here. Outside.”
They walk through the hospital to a back door out by the service entrance. Dumpsters overflow with garbage, cigarette butts are grouped on the asphalt in little arcs where the chain smokers stood.
Malone sits on the stoop, puts his head in his hands.
Russo leans against a Dumpster. “Jesus Christ, who knew something like this would happen?”
“We did,” Malone says.
“We didn’t kill that kid, and we didn’t shoot Monty,” Russo says. “The Domos did.”
“The hell we didn’t,” Malone says. “Let’s at least be honest with each other. This thing has been no good since Billy died. Sometimes I think that was God punishing us for what we did. This ends tonight.”
“The fuck it does,” Russo said. “Our partner’s dying in there. We have to respond.”
“It’s over,” Malone says.
“You think this is just going to go away now?” Russo asks. “A shooting board? IAB? Homicide will be all over this and they’ll be looking for a motive. It could open up the whole Pena thing.”
“We’re finished,” Malone says.
“The only people who can give up anything about Pena are right here,” Russo says. “As long as we stick with each other, they can’t touch us. It’s just you and me now, that’s it.”
Malone starts to sob.
Russo steps over, puts his hands on Malone’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Denny, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.” Red-faced, his cheeks streaked with tears, he looks up at Russo. “It was me, Phil.”
“It’s not your fault. It could have happened—”
“Phil, it wasn’t Levin. It was me.”
Russo stares at him for a second, then he understands.
“Oh, fuck, Denny.” He sits down beside him. Sits quiet for a long time, like he’s stunned, like he got hit with something. Then he asks, “How did they get to you?”
“It was stupid shit,” Malone says. “Piccone.”
“Jesus Christ, Denny,” Russo says, “you couldn’t do four years?”
“I would have. I kept you out of it,” Malone says. “Then Savino flipped. The feds threatened Sheila. Said they’d put her away for tax evasion, receiving stolen property. I couldn’t . . .”
“What about our wives?” Russo asks. “Our families?”
“They promised to keep all our families out of it if I gave you up,” Malone says.
Russo arches his back. Looks up at the sky. Then he asks, “What did you give them?”
“Everything,” Malone says. “Except killing Pena. It would go down as a felony murder for the three of us. And I got you on tape, talking about the bust, the money . . .”
“So I’m looking at what, twenty to life?” Russo says. “What’s your deal? What did you get for flipping on us?”
“Twelve years,” Malone says. “Confiscation. Fines.”
“Fuck you, Denny,” Russo says. Then he asks, “When are they taking me?”
“Tomorrow,” Malone says. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you until a few minutes before.”
“That’s fucking big of you.”
“You can run,” Malone says.
“How am I gonna run?” Russo asks. “I have a family. Christ, when my kids see me . . .”
“I’m sorry,” Malone says.
“It’s not all on you,” Russo says. “We’re grown men. We knew what we were doing. We knew where it could go. But how the fuck did we get here?”
“A step at a time,” Malone says. “We were good cops, once. Then . . . I dunno . . . but we just put fifty kilos of smack out on our own streets. That’s not what we started out to do. It’s the exact opposite of what we started out to do. It’s like you light a match, you don’t think it’s going to do any harm. Then the wind comes up and changes and it becomes a fire that burns down everything you love.”
“I loved you, Denny,” Russo says, getting up. “Like a brother, I loved you.”
Russo walks away and leaves him sitting there.