Don winslow Don winslow - The Force

Yeah well, Malone thinks, every institution survives on its own mythology, the NYPD included.

Savino wears a black silk shirt under a pearl-gray Armani jacket and sits sipping a Seven and Seven. Why the hell anyone would dump soda into good whiskey is a mystery to Malone, but to each his own.

“Hey, it’s the cop di tutti cops!” Savino gets up and hugs him. The envelope slides effortlessly from Savino’s jacket into Malone’s. “Merry Christmas, Denny.”

Christmas is an important time in the wiseguy community—it’s when everyone gets their yearly bonuses, often in the tens of thousands of dollars. And the weight of the envelope is a barometer as to your standing in the crew—the heavier the envelope, the higher your status.

Malone’s envelope has nothing to do with that.

It’s for his services as a bagman.

Easy money—just meet a person here and there—a bar, a diner, the playground in Riverside Park—slip them an envelope. They already know what it’s for, it’s all been worked out; Malone is just the delivery guy because these good citizens don’t want to take a chance they’re seen with a known wiseguy.

They’re city officials—the kind who award contract bids.

That’s where the Cimino profit center is.

The Cimino borgata gets a piece of everything—a kickback from the contractor for getting him the bid, then the concrete, the rebar, the electrical, the plumbing. Otherwise, these unions find a problem and shut the project down.

Everyone thought the mob was done after RICO, Giuliani, the Commission case, the Windows case.

And they were.

Then the Towers came down.

Overnight, the feds shifted three-quarters of their personnel into antiterrorism and the mob made a comeback. Shit, they even made a fortune overcharging for debris removal from Ground Zero. Louie used to brag they took in sixty-three million.

Nine/eleven saved the Mafia.

It’s not clear now who’s in charge of the Cimino family, but the smart money is on Stevie Bruno. Did ten years on a RICO case, been out three now and is moving up fast. Very insulated, lives out in Jersey, rarely comes into the city, even for a meal.

So they’re back, although they’ll never be what they were.

Savino signals the bartender to get Malone a drink. The bartender already knows it’s a Jameson’s straight up.

They sit back down and go through the ritual dance—how’s the family, fine, how’s yours, all good, how’s business, you know another day another dollar behind, the usual bullshit.

“You touch the good reverend?” Savino asks.

“He got his turkey,” Malone says. “A couple of your people tuned up a bar owner on Lenox the other night, guy named Osborne.”

“What, you got a monopoly on beating up moolies?”

“Yeah, I do,” Malone says.

“He came up light on his vig,” Savino says. “Two weeks in a row.”

“Don’t show me up and do it on the street, where everyone sees,” Malone says. “Things are tense enough in the ‘community.’”

“Hey, just because one of your guys capped a kid means I gotta issue some kind of hall pass?” Savino asks. “This dumb shit bets on the Knicks. The Knicks, Denny. Then he don’t pay me my money. What am I supposed to do?”

“Just don’t do it on my beat.”

“Jesus fuck, Merry Christmas, I’m glad you came in tonight,” Savino says. “Anything else squeezing your shoes?”

“No, that’s it.”

“Thank you, St. Anthony.”

“You get a good envelope?”

Savino shrugs. “You want to know something … you and me? The bosses these days, they’re cheap cocksuckers. This guy, he has a house in Jersey overlooks the river, a tennis court … He barely comes into the city anymore. He did ten inside, okay, I get it … but he thinks that means he gets to eat with both hands, no one minds. You know something? I mind.”

“Lou, shit, there are ears in here.”

“Fuck them,” Savino says. He orders another drink. “Here’s something might interest you, you know what I heard? I heard that maybe all the smack from that Pena bust made you a rock star didn’t make it to the evidence locker.”

Jesus Christ, is everyone talking about this? “Bullshit.”

“Yeah, probably,” Savino says. “Because it would have shown up on the street already, and it hasn’t. Someone went French Connection, I guess they’re sitting on it.”

“Yeah, well, don’t guess.”

“You’re fucking sensitive tonight,” Savino says. “I’m just saying, someone’s sitting on some weight, looking to lay it off …”

Malone sets down his glass. “I gotta go.”

“Places to be, people to see,” Savino says. “ Buon Natale, Malone.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Malone walks out onto the street. Jesus, what has Savino heard about the Pena bust? Was he just fishing, or did he know something? It’s not good, it’s going to have to be dealt with.

Anyway, Malone thinks, the wops won’t be beating up any deadbeat ditzunes out on Lenox.

So that’s something.

Next.

Debbie Phillips was three months pregnant when Billy O went down.

Because they weren’t married ( yet —Monty and Russo were all over the kid to do the right thing and he was headed in that direction), the Job wouldn’t do shit for her. Didn’t give her any recognition at Billy’s funeral—the fucking Catholic department wouldn’t give the unwed mother the folded flag, the kind words, sure as shit no survivor’s benefits, no medical. She’d wanted to do a paternity test and then sue the Job, but Malone talked her out of it.

You don’t turn the Job over to lawyers.

“That’s not the way we do things,” he told her. “We’ll take care of you, the baby.”

“How?” Debbie asked.

“You let me worry about that,” Malone said. “Anything you need, you call me. If it’s a woman thing—Sheila, Donna Russo, Yolanda Montague.”

Debbie never reached out.

She was an independent type anyway, not really that attached to Billy, never mind his extended family. It was a one-night stand that went permanent, despite Malone’s constant warnings that Billy should double-wrap the groceries.

“I pulled out,” Billy told him when Debbie called with the news.

“What are you, in high school ?” Malone asked.

Monty cuffed him in the head. “Idiot.”

“You going to marry her?” Russo asked.

“She don’t want to get married.”

“It doesn’t matter what you or she wants, ” Monty said. “It only matters what that child needs —two parents.”

But Debbie, she’s one of those modern women doesn’t think she needs a man to raise a baby. Told Billy they should wait and see how their “relationship developed.”

Then they didn’t get the chance.

Now, she opens the door for Malone, she’s eight months and looks it. She’s not getting any help from her family out in western Pennsylvania and she don’t have anyone in New York. Yolanda Montague lives the closest so she checks in, brings groceries, goes to the doctor’s appointments when Debbie will let her, but she don’t deal with the money.

The wives never deal with the money.

“Merry Christmas, Debbie,” Malone says.

“Yeah, okay.”

She lets him in.

Debbie is pretty and petite, so her stomach looks huge on her. Her blond hair is stringy and dirty, the apartment is a mess. She sits down on the old sofa; the television is on to the evening news.

It’s hot in the apartment, and stuffy, but it’s always either too hot or too cold in these old apartments—no one can figure out the radiators. One of them hisses now, as if to tell Malone to fuck off if he doesn’t like it.