Condemned (45 page)

Meanwhile, Hardie was freezing every night (which fueled Mulvehill's resolve to show the fortitude of good guys). Red had always suffered the cold, from the days when his mother, his three brothers and two sisters, lived in the two-room tenement on 143rd Street, Harlem. Their blankets were too thin, and the little heat that came through the radiators, too sporadic, to ward off the New York cold. The landlord—whose title Red's mother always chanted as
jewsonofabitck
—was impervious to the complaints of the tenants, rarely responding when the boiler was broken, which was often. Red's memories of those cold nights were suffused with thoughts of being alone with his brothers and sisters—his mother was a char woman at night—and nightly visits by his ‘Uncle' Ray, the Superintendent of the building, who lived two flights down, in the basement.

After The Brotherhood started to thrive, when money became no object, something to burn, literally, to light cigarettes, Hardie always slept with an electric mattress cover and a luxurious down comforter, cozy, warm as a … he could never figure exactly what he wanted to be warm as—but it was warmth that he wanted, enveloping, relaxing, warmth. Thus, sleeping on a thin, uncomfortable barrack's mattress, on a metal mesh excuse for springs, with an Government issue blanket that smelled like musty horsehair, something thick, coarse, and stiff, he shivered and tossed in the fetal position all night. And even that did not ward off the cold.

“I've got to get to the john, John,” said Mulvehill, thinly smiling at Hardie. “Watch him! Actually, don't watch him. Let him run away. Then shoot him.”

“That man needs a hug,” said Red as he watched Mulvehill walk toward the men's room. When Mulvehill was out of earshot, Red turned toward the other two Agents, speaking more directly to Castoro. “Listen, Lou, Marty, I've got a proposition.”

“Uh, oh,” said Geraghty. “How come the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up?”

“At least we could give the man an opportunity to make a proposal,” said Castoro lightly. “What do you propose?”

“How about, if tomorrow, we go, you guys go, I don't care who goes, to a mall and buy some warm electric blankets—my treat.”

“Now that's a proposal I like,” said Castoro. “I'm freezing my ass off with that shitty little blanket.”

Hardie reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of hundred dollar bills.

“Put that away,” said Geraghty, glancing around. Castoro's eyes stayed right on the money. Hardie never took money out when Mulvehill was around; when he did, however, Geraghty was always apprehensive; Castoro always intrigued.

“What do you think about electric blankets for all of us?” Hardie said to Geraghty.

“Not a bad thought. We'll have to see if we can get it past Pete.”

“Not for nothing,” said Castoro, “but I'm really freezing. I really could use an electric blanket. Fuck, it's not like the Government has to pay for it.”

“We still have to see if we can get it past Pete”, said Geraghty.

“Maybe he'd like to sleep comfortable,” said Red.

“If the cold makes you uncomfortable, I'm sure he prefers to suffer,” Castoro said to Red.

“Maybe he'll warm to the idea.” Geraghty laughed at his own cleverness.

“Cheers,” said Hardie, raising his glass of California white, clinking it against Castoro's beer bottle. He grimaced after taking a sip. “This is like piss.”

“Yeah, but whose?” Geraghty laughed at the punch line of an old joke. “They don't have hundred dollar bottles of wine in this joint,” he added.

“At least it's wine,” said Castoro.

“Man, when we get ourselves to some civilization, I'll buy you guys some wine that'll knock your socks off. Two hundred dollars a bottle.”

“As long as you're paying, I'll drink to that,” said Castoro. They all clinked glasses again.

When Mulvehill came out of the men's room and started back toward the table, the other two Agents assumed a sterner air. Hardie sipped his wine pensively. He wondered, as Mulvehill sat, if the cold he felt at night was really from the cold air, or whether that which kept him shivering in the dark through most of the night was the feeling of apprehension and danger engendered by Mulvehill's hostility. Red realized that the Government had selected this isolated place in order to make him look like an informant in the eyes of the people in the street. That knowledge, however, although uncomfortable, wasn't what was keeping him up all night. There was something more, something sinister about the set-up and the Agents. Not about Geraghty and Castoro; they were all right. It was Mulvehill. His dislike of Hardie was palpable, manifested in his curtailment of anything and everything that seemed to give Red solace or pleasure within the barracks.

Red was also acutely aware that Mulvehill's antipathy was nothing compared to Supervisor Becker's, whose venom was all the more concentrated since Red Hardie was a drug dealer, but was not a drug-user. And to make matters worse, Hardie was enormously wealthy. Yet, more than that, Red felt there was something else driving Becker. Red didn't know what it was, but he was acutely apprehensive. Despite the antipathy, the contempt, which Mulvehill hardly contained, Mulvehill permitted Red extremely loose rein while he was outside the barracks. He permitted Red to walk around by himself, didn't assign an Agent to watch him, took him to town without handcuffs or restraint of any sort. Red was sure that Mulvehill was too much a company man to allow such freedoms without direct permission from Becker. That thought made Red even more leery of the unusual flow of generosity from so poisonous a well. Was Becker, through Mulvehill, tempting Red, inviting him, wanting him, to flee? And if he accepted the invitation, what then? Red was sure the temptation offered to him was a superficial prelude to death. Becker and Mulvehill wanted Red dead.

What Red didn't know was how bad, how uncomfortable Mulvehill was going to make his existence in an attempt to force him into the desired reaction. And if Red were able to tolerate the initial discomforts Mulvehill created, how much harder would Mulvehill make living conditions, in order to force Red into an attempt to flee, thus triggering his own death?

“Your pizza will be here in a minute,” the waitress said, returning to the table. “Does anybody need anything else?”

“Another beer for me,” said Mulvehill. “You guys?” he said to Castoro and Geraghty.

“Yeah, I'll have another wine,” said Geraghty.

“Mine's beer,” said Castoro.

“I'm fine,” Red added.

“Say, Pete,” said Castoro after finishing his drink. “What would you think about us getting some electric blankets?”

“Fat chance the quartermaster has electric blankets.”

Red busied himself twirling the wine inside his glass.

“No, but we could probably pick some up at that mall.”

Mulvehill's eyes slid from Castoro to Red Hardie. “Bullshit! We may have to babysit, but I'll be damned if I'm going to be an errand boy for this freaking drug-dealer. Can't take the cold?” he said to Hardie.

“Me? I'm fine,” Red said calmly. “No complaints from me.”

“It had to be your idea. These two cheap bastards aren't going to go for electric blankets.” He glanced at the two Agents and snickered.

“Can I use a cell phone?” Hardie said.

“Are you kidding, or what? What do you think we are, room service at the Hotel Theresa?”

“There's no phone at the barracks,” said Hardie. “The United States Attorney said I would be provided access to cell phones to make occasional phone calls to my lawyer, right? We don't have to be in the barracks for me to call my lawyer, do we?”

“Leppard won't be in his office at this hour,” said Mulvehill.

“Leppard's not my lawyer. Sandro Luca's my lawyer. Leppard was just a paper tiger you guys had stand up for me so I could be knocked down.”

Mulvehill grinned. “Let him have a phone,” he said to Castoro. “All call's have to go through the switchboard, even if it's your lawyer you're calling.”

“I don't want anyone at your headquarters, or wherever, to be monitoring my calls,” said Hardie. “I want a direct line.”

“You can't have one,” Mulvehill said harshly. “It's got to be that way, not only to monitor your calls, keep you from selling poison in the streets, but also so no one who has one of those gizmos that tell what number is calling will know what number is calling. We don't want any electronics expert tri-angulate where we are so they can help you escape.”

“You've got to be kidding. You shouldn't take Star Trek so seriously,” said Red.

“Never you mind what the hell I watch on TV,” said Mulvehill.

“I won't. I just want to make a lawyer/client call. And I am allowed to talk privately with my Counsel. It's a privileged call,” said Hardie.

“That's not the way it works,” said Mulvehill.

“I believe that
is
the way it works,” said Hardie. “Lawyer/client privilege. Do I need to have my lawyer call the United States Attorney to straighten this out?”

“Christ. Why do we have to listen to this kind of bullshit every day,” Mulvehill said to Geraghty, his jaw muscles flexing. “We ought to go out and kill all the fucking drug-dealers and druggies, in one fell swoop. Then it'd be over.”

“You don't really want it to be over,” said Hardie. “Then you and the D.E.A., and most of the Justice System, would be out of a job.”

“Wise-ass prick,” Mulvehill grimaced. He made a motion with his head to Geraghty. “Call the office. We'll run this past the Boss.”

Geraghty took a cellular phone from a holder attached to his belt.

“Tell him I want a lawyer/client call,” said Hardie. “I just want them to dial the number, but not monitor my call.”

Geraghty pushed buttons on the phone. “Hello, Oswald? This is Geraghty. Let me speak to Supervisor Becker.”

“Let me have the phone,” Mulvehill said, reaching out to take Geraghty's phone. He put the phone to his ear, waiting. He began speaking with Supervisor Becker at the D.E.A. Office. He explained Hardie's request for a lawyer/client call without anyone on the line monitoring or recording the conversation.

As Mulvehill was speaking, the pizza arrived. Castoro immediately snared a slice. Geraghty put a slice on his paper plate and pulled a nibble of cheese from the top as he listened to Mulvehill.

There were some exchanges between Mulvehill and Becker. Hardie listened intently. Mulvehill's face soured into a grimace. “Supervisor Becker said okay, you're entitled. Shit!” he said, standing up abruptly. “I'll be outside for some fresh air. The atmosphere stinks in here. You take care of this,” he said to Geraghty, handing him the cell phone.

“Roger,” said Geraghty. “What's Luca's number?”

“Don't dial it directly,” cautioned Mulvehill.

“No, but I need the number to give it to the people in the office.”

“It's going to be privileged?” said Hardie.

“That's what the man said,” said Mulvehill. “I'll be outside.”

“The number is 212-227-1011.” As Hardie spoke, Geraghty repeated the number into the phone. He handed the phone to Hardie. Red listened to the phone ring on the other end.

“Mr. Luca's office,” said a female voice.

“Are you the answering service?” said Red.

“Yes.”

“This is an emergency. My name is Red Hardie. I need to talk to Mr. Luca. Can you call him on another phone and ask him to take this call? This is a real emergency.”

In the D.E.A. office, Supervisor Becker sat at his desk, listening to his phone. He had a special device on the mouth-piece which muted any sound from being picked up during an overheard conversation.

“
The
Red Hardie?” The voice of the woman operator. Her inflection made obvious to Hardie—and Becker—that the woman was black.

“The very one,” Red said.

“Just a minute. Hey, you know who I have on the phone …?” he heard the woman say, just as she put the call on Hold. Becker frowned with displeasure as he listened.

In a few moments, Hardie heard a voice say: “Hello?” It was Sandro Luca.

“Sandro? Red. How you doing?”

“Fine, Red, fine. Where are you calling from?”

“Damned if I know. I'm calling from my lock-up over a Government cell phone, you dig?”

“Okay,” said Sandro. “Everything all right?”

“Can I get up and have a little confidentiality?” Hardie said to the two Agents.

Geraghty looked at Castoro, who was already into his second slice. Castoro shrugged. “You sit, we'll get up. But don't make it long,” said Geraghty. “I don't want to listen to him, either.” Geraghty made a head motion toward the front door.

“Thanks.”

The two Agents stood and walked over to the jukebox, glancing at the available selections.

“They said they wouldn't listen in—but you never know, you know?” Red said into the phone.

“I understand. You don't sound right, Red.”

“Everything's kind of all right. I mean, this isn't the greatest place in the world, wherever in the world I am. Actually, I'm freezing here. It's cold as anything at night, and they have the air conditioning on. I want you to call the Assistant, Dineen. I've got to get out of this place as soon as possible.”

“We're going through a cold spell here, too,” said Sandro.

“It's not a cold spell,” said Red. “It's this place. And things are not about to warm up anytime soon here. I could catch my death here. You know how I'm susceptible to cold?”

“Oh?” said Sandro hesitantly. “Yes, yes, I understand,” Sandro picked up that Red was trying to convey more meaning in his words.

Becker's eyes narrowed as he listened quietly.

“Is it that cold where you are?” said Sandro.