Russell Andrews - Hades

"We made a deal."

"Which was?"

"He wanted our dough and he wanted it bad, this guy. We told him we'd go with him. But we wanted a guarantee." Rubenelli paused. Justin knew it was for dramatic effect, so he gave him his moment in the sun. Then Rubenelli continued. "Twenty percent."

"Guaranteed on your investment?"

"That's right."

"And he agreed," Reggie said.

"He agreed happily. I think your friend LaSalle told him he was crazy. But like I said, this Harmon was one greedy fuck."

"You know how he did it? Guaranteed you that kind of return?"

"I wasn't dealin' with him too directly. But I heard a few things and I had my suspicions. Now I pretty much know for sure, thanks to you." Rubenelli stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray. He went into a small bathroom off the den, tossed the remains in the toilet and flushed them away. When he came back he said, "My wife. I'm not kiddin'. She'll bust my balls big-time if she sees I'm smokin' in here." He looked longingly at the pack of cigarettes. But he put it back in the drawer. "You know, I'm gettin' kind of philosophical in my old age."

"How's that?" Justin said.

"I been thinkin' how things change. I been in this business a long time. Since I was a kid. And I seen a lotta changes. In the way we work, the way we think. People got the impression that we're like the movies. We sit around some table and do whatever the fuck they think we do. But we're a business now. We're in a lotta legit businesses. Our kids are legit. It's different. It changes things, sometimes make you cautious. Kinda philosophical even."

"Jean-Paul Rubenelli," Reggie said.

"Whatever. But I'm tellin' you, even the politics are different. When I started, you talk to a lotta the family heads, they were Democrats, you know. They didn't care so much about the niggers, but they liked the whole underdog thing. We could relate to it. And we had some clout. This was the Hoffa era, you know. The Daley era in Chicago. I heard stories, back to Kennedy and Nixon. The West Coast wanted Nixon, they had their hooks in him. But we told 'em to back off. It wasn't his time. We had to send people down to Florida-what the hell was that guy's name, Nixon's money guy. Stupid name. Rebozo. Bebe Rebozo. We had to send a couple guys to his house, meet with him and Nixon, tell 'em this wasn't their year-you know what I mean?"

"You should write a book, Len. But is this going anywhere?"

"I'm just sayin' it ain't like that anymore. Guys got rich. Guys got fat. Guys got houses like this one. We used to deal with unions. With businesses, small businesses. Now we deal with Wall Street, with investors, lobbyists. Much more genteel. Not as much fun."

"So the mob's a bunch of Republicans now-is that what you're saying?"

"I'm sayin' that things change. We got different connections, we got different friends. The whole way of thinkin' has changed. But some people don't change. I don't change. I mean, somewhat-you know? I adapt. But not that much. I like the old ways."

"And Bruno doesn't change."

"Bruno? Nah, he don't change at all. He does what he does. Always has, always will. And some guys like it, some guys don't. Am I done now?"

"I just want to get this clear: You didn't know about the platinum shorting?"

"What are you, gonna keep me here all night on this shit? I thought you wanted to talk to Bruno."

"I do."

"Then let him tell you what he knows. I took you about as far as I can go. 'Cause I didn't go to fuckin' business school, you smart-ass."

"How do I talk to Bruno?" Justin asked.

"He'll be in touch."

"When?"

"Soon," Rubenelli said. "Very soon. Now can I get back to the table? My wife's relatives. I'll be lucky if they left me one fuckin' cake crumb."

Reggie worked her BlackBerry on the short ride from the East Hampton Airport back to Justin's house. He sat with his head leaning back and his eyes closed. But when she told him the reports she'd requested had come through-all the information he'd asked for, and more; she'd gone ahead and put through searches on her own-his eyes opened and, although his head didn't move, the eyes did, shifting toward her. She read what had been sent to her. He blinked once, showing he understood, showing that the information was as stunning to him as it was to her.

When the taxi pulled up, she insisted on walking Justin into the house. He resisted but not very hard. And when they were inside he spoke in the same monotone he'd been using since she'd arrived at his house earlier. He was tired, said he wanted to go to bed, and she said, "I know. But I'm not leaving."

"Reggie…" he said, but then he stopped. He didn't have anything more to say.

"I'll sleep on the couch. I don't think you should be alone right now."

"I'm fine," he said.

"You killed somebody today, Jay. And it was horrible and brutal and it's not over yet, you know it's not over yet, so you can't be fine."

"Okay," he said. "Maybe I'm not fine."

He leaned back on the couch, and as he did she saw the physical pain he was in. She got up, got his bottle of single malt scotch and poured them each a glass. He took a small sip, recoiled as if the liquid were burning his lips, but then he closed his eyes in satisfaction, and when he opened them again he took another sip.

"You're a strange man," she said. He didn't answer, just probed with his eyes. "You smoke dope; you'll sleep with married women; I know from personal experience you won't say no to kinky sex."

He took another sip of scotch, this time a bigger sip. "So far I sound like any other guy except luckier."

"And you've killed people."

"So have you," he said slowly.

"But I don't sleep at night," she told him. "Do you?"

"Yes," he said. "Things wake me up in the middle of the night, but they're other things. Not that."

"You're a cop," Reggie said. "You enforce morality. And despite everything, I think of you as honest and moral."

"I don't enforce morality," Justin said. "I enforce the law. Two totally different things."

"So you don't think in terms of morality," she said.

"Of course I do. Constantly."

"And do you think you live a moral life?"

"I don't really think like that."

"I don't believe you," she said. "You're too driven, too fixated on what you do."

"Maybe," he agreed.

"Then do you? Live a moral life? This isn't multiple choice, it's yes or no."

"Okay, yes. Comparatively. Yes."

"Then define it."

"Morality? I can only define it for me, I think."

"Go ahead."

"Discipline."

"Say what?"

"For me it's discipline. I do what feels right or good until it doesn't. Until it feels as if it's going too far. And then I'm disciplined enough to stop."

"And if it never feels wrong?"

"Then I don't stop."

She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. He didn't kiss her back. But he didn't pull away. And he didn't close his eyes.

She kissed him again, tasting him. And this time he did respond. His hand came up behind her head and he gently pulled her closer to him. He could feel her warm breath on his lips, smell her sweat commingling with her perfume.

"I'm not feeling very disciplined," she whispered.

"Good," Justin told her. "Because I don't feel like stopping."

She had to help him upstairs and into bed.

She made sure he was comfortable, gently pushed him back so he could lie down, and then she began to kiss him lightly, careful not to touch his ribs or the bandage on his hand or the stitches on his face. She kissed his neck, his cheek and his lips. She kissed him deeply now, her tongue inside his mouth, and they began to make love. She took his clothes off slowly, saw the deep bruises from the battering he'd taken earlier. She removed her clothes just as slowly. She wanted it all to be slow; she wanted to please him as much as possible. She let him look at her naked, came back onto the bed, and let him run his good hand over her face, her neck, down her back. They kissed again and she got on top of him, and as they began to move she heard him groan. His eyes told her he was okay, so they moved together, and it didn't take long for either of them. When it was over, she was drained, realized how much she'd wanted him, how much she'd needed this, needed it with him. She looked down, wanted to tell him that, but she saw that she'd hurt him, that it had been too much for him, and she said, "I'm sorry, oh god, I'm so sorry," but he pulled her closer, using his bad hand, and he said, "It's all right, it's all right." And she said, "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to be in pain." She reached to the side of the bed, where she'd put the pills the doctor had given him. She went to open the bottle, but he took it. And he tossed it across the room. They heard the bottle roll and come to a stop as it hit the wall. He kissed her on the side of her head, and said, "Again." She looked at him in surprise, started to shake her head no, it wouldn't be good for him, but he said, "I want to make love to you again." And he began to move, slowly, and she could see how much it hurt him, but could also see how much he wanted it, wanted her, so she began to move slowly again, too, on top of him, and as they were making love, and as she was watching him, the passion not quite overriding her concern, he rose up a bit, and pulled her down to meet him, and he put his lips up against her ear.