Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

“Of course you do. Somebody always does. Wait here.”

She disappeared down the hallway. I looked at a framed print of Grand Central Terminal on the wall, the print with the sunlight streaming through the cathedral windows as if heaven itself had just pulled up outside. A minute later, Tommy Carroll appeared at the end of the hallway. He was in silhouette and he filled the space. I heard his labored breathing before he spoke. “Come in, Fritz. I’m in my office.”

The dark form turned and walked off. I followed. Betsy was standing at the open door to her husband’s home office as I emerged from the hallway. She gave me a plucky smile as I entered, then closed the door behind me.

Tommy Carroll had loosened his tie and rolled his sleeves partway up his freckled arms. He was settling into a chair in front of a laptop computer. I noticed a short tumbler next to the laptop. Something brown, with a melted chip of ice. He hit some keys on the laptop, stared at the screen a few seconds, then pivoted the laptop in my direction. “You want to see what it’s come to?”

I didn’t, really, but I knew I would. It was Philip Byron, of course. The picture was from the waist up. He was seated or standing in front of a red wall. His left eye was red and swollen, and he had what appeared to be several cuts above it and on his chin. He was holding up his left hand, which was covered with a gauze bandage. A trace of red had seeped through. His expression was somewhere between mortified and extremely grim. Or maybe despairing and angry. I didn’t really know the man. As Cox had said, the barrel of an Uzi rifle was planted against Byron’s temple. All that could be seen of the person holding the rifle was the arm. Outstretched to show as much of the rifle as possible, wearing what appeared to be a puffy black winter coat. Five million New Yorkers wear puffy black winter coats. Not that it mattered. We knew who the arm belonged to. Or, if not who owned the arm, then who had taken the picture. I knew the face. Even on the good brother, it was a disturbing face.

“He wants ten million dollars or else he kills Byron. He also says he’ll kill more people. We’ve got twenty-four hours.” Carroll looked at his watch. “Just under. At five o’clock tomorrow, he tells us where he wants the money delivered.”

“Five o’clock. That’s better than high noon.”

“A punk like this likes to hide in the dark. He’ll want the money dropped somewhere at night.”

“Is this going to happen?” I asked. “Is he going to get his ten million dollars?”

Carroll hit a button on the keyboard and the image of Byron vanished. He hit another key and a new image came up. It was the face of Victor Ramos, with the addition of a thin mustache, above a slate board bearing a series of numbers and letters. But it wasn’t Victor Ramos. It was his twin brother. Angel Ramos’s mug shot.

Carroll placed his finger on the screen just below Ramos’s chin. The liquid screen ballooned slightly.

“He’s going to get his throat cut, that’s what,” Carroll said. “You or Cox, or me if I have to. We’re going to find him, and we’re going to take him out.”

“We can’t do it that way, Tommy. You know that. If that’s your plan, I’m done here.”

Carroll’s face grew crimson in a matter of seconds. “You’re not done until I say you’re done. Goddammit, Malone, I’ll take you out!” He punctuated this last sentiment by slamming his fist on the desk. The force made his tumbler fall to the carpet. He let it remain. Carroll’s shoulders and head were trembling as if he were caught up in his own private earthquake. Which, of course, he was.

“Betsy told me,” I said.

He glowered at me. “Told you what?”

I said it again, slowly. “She told me.”

This time he got it. We remained in silence a few seconds, then Carroll reached down and picked up the tumbler and set it back on the desk. He rubbed the spilled liquid into the carpet with his shoe. “She shouldn’t have done that.”

“I squeezed it out of her,” I lied. “I had a hunch.”

Carroll seemed to like that. “The great detective and his hunch.” He produced a bottle of Jameson’s from a desk drawer and poured a few fingerfuls into his tumbler. He barked out, “Lisbeth!” When the door behind me opened, he said, “Get me another glass, would you? Fritz here wants to drink to my health . What do you think about that, honey?”

We said nothing while Betsy went off to fetch the glass. She came into the room and set it on Carroll’s desk. He tried to make eye contact with her, but she refused. She left without a word. I took a seat while Carroll poured out a shot.

“I hope you like it neat,” he said, sliding the glass across the desk.

I picked it up and tapped it against his. “To your health.” I thought of Charlie Burke’s toasts. He’d have been unimpressed.

Carroll growled, “Just don’t tell me you’re sorry. I don’t want to hear that from anybody. I’ve got no damn room for pity. I hate pity.”

We threw back our drinks like a couple of cowboys. Carroll refilled his, then aimed for my glass. I waved him off. “I’m good.”

“Unless you want to be trapped with a drunken, pissed-off old man, you’d better leave.”

“You should take the trip to Tortola, Tommy. Get away with Betsy and sit on your can for a few days. If not for you, for her.”

He set down his tumbler, running his thumb back and forth along the rim before looking up at me. “I’ve already got the Post calling for my head. Now we’ve got a psycho out there ready to blow the deputy mayor’s brains out. And I’m supposed to go off and play in the sand?”

“So far you’ve done a pretty good job of keeping the city from even knowing there’s a psycho out there. We know who he is now. We’ll get him. If we do it right, we’ll even get Byron out alive. Then you and the mayor can work up some sort of cutesy story about his fingers. A buzz-saw accident while he was out in the heartland helping his old pa bring in wood for the winter, whatever you want. It’ll all be over soon. Then take the damn vacation. It’s not going to kill you.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could call them back. Carroll acknowledged them with a bemused look as he took another sip. “You see? If I tell people what’s happening to me, it’s going to be just like that. Everybody tripping over their tongues.”

“As if that’s ever bothered you.”

“No, you’re right. I got thicker skin than that.” He picked up a framed photograph from his desk. I couldn’t see what it was. His voice lowered. “They’ll railroad me right out of there, Fritz. You know they will. They’ll smell the blood. Leavitt, the papers, all of them. It’ll be ‘Thanks for the psycho, thanks for the Bad Apples, you really screwed up royal, here’s your gold watch, now get the hell out of here and go die somewhere else.’ ”

“ That’s pity,” I said.

“That’s fact! Fucking Leavitt. He’s the one that really burns me. Candy-assed little playboy. That prick should have stayed in Brooklyn busting criminals. But he’s too big for that. He’s got to be goddamn mayor. Screwing his celebrity girlfriends and whatever the hell else he can get his hands on. Do you think Leavitt’s big goal was just to be mayor of New York City? No chance. This is a guy who doesn’t know when to stop. He’s that kind of politician. As far as Marty Leavitt’s concerned, he’s just stopping off here to piss on a few fire hydrants on his way up. The man has plans. Do you think he’s about to let this Bad Apple thing take him down? Not if he can pin the damn thing on me and give me the boot. And if word got out that I’m being eaten alive, it’d just give him one more way to hold me up as damaged goods.” He glanced at the photograph again, then set it back down. “I’m staying put. And we’re getting Angel Ramos. That’s all there is to it. If this Nightmare business explodes now, it could bring me and Leavitt down. What I’m telling you is that I’m not going down. Or when I do, it’s on my own terms. I’ve busted my ass all my life to get where I got. I don’t go out a loser. It’s just not going to happen.”