Gangsterland: A Novel (39 page)

“What kind of equipment are we talking about?”

“Whatever you need,” David said. “You’ll only be burdened by how long you want to take raiding the joint. I assume it’s not against your Hippocratic to do some robbery?”

Gray Beard nodded toward the bedroom. “Marvin isn’t a doctor, so we’re good.”

“That’s a relief,” David said.

“What about the drugs?”

“You’ll have the run of the office,” David said. “Take the photocopier and fax machine if you want, doesn’t matter to me.”

Gray Beard considered this for a moment. “Could be I bring another associate on this, that bother you?”

“Yes,” David said. “That bothers me.”

“Guess I’ll just be selective,” Gray Beard said. He extended his hand, and the two shook on it. David didn’t mention that they’d need to move a body, too, but he had a pretty good idea this was the sort of thing Bennie had used Gray Beard for in the past, in addition to his medical needs. Knowing a guy with an RV is useful in a number of ways.

At any rate, even though Bennie trusted Gray Beard, it didn’t mean Gray Beard wouldn’t suddenly get some sense of morality and roll on David, so he did the extra diligence of casing the park a bit.

David came around the corner and saw Gray Beard and Marvin sitting outside, a portable TV on a chaise lounge in front of them, the sound off, a cooler of beer at Gray Beard’s feet.

“Didn’t think you were going to make it,” Gray Beard said when David walked up.

“Got a little hung up,” David said.

“Saw you moseying around the park earlier,” Gray Beard said.

“Had to make sure I wasn’t walking into an ambush,” David said. “No offense.”

Gray Beard frowned. “You ever hear of ‘First, do no harm’?”

David reached into his pocket and took out Dr. Kirsch’s keys and handed them to Gray Beard, along with a slip of paper with the address of the office. “These will get you a car and an entire medical office,” David said.

“I don’t have any need for a car.”

“It’s a Jaguar,” David said.

Gray Beard looked over at Marvin. He gave the tiniest shrug of acquiescence. “I guess we could sell it,” Gray Beard said. “What do you want in return?”

“There’s a body inside the office,” David said. “I’m going to need you to clean it up and deliver it here.”

David gave Gray Beard a business card for the funeral home. Gray Beard looked at it once and then handed it back to David. “I know the place,” Gray Beard said. “What do you want done with the body?”

“It doesn’t have much of a head anymore. I’d like it not to have any head whatsoever. Or hands or feet.”

Grey Beard again looked over at Marvin, who again shrugged. “What else?”

“Soon as possible, get it on ice,” David said, “and don’t fuck with the organs.”

“We don’t get down like that,” Gray Beard said. “You want something done, we do it. Otherwise, we keep it professional. Rubber gloves, scrub for foreign bodies, black light for fluids, whatever you want. What else?”

Good. Finally, someone who took pride in his work.

“Don’t clean up the mess I made,” David said. “I want the cops to know there was a body there. Make it look like a robbery. Break some needless shit. That sort of thing.”

“Easy enough,” Gray Beard said.

“Best case, how much profit do you stand to make?” David asked.

“Depends what we come upon in the office,” Gray Beard said. “Plus what we can get for the ride. Why don’t we cut a fair percentage.”

“I think you’ll find it lucrative,” David said. “So once you see what you have, make me an offer. Bennie trusts you, I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Gray Beard said, but they shook on it anyway.

“Maybe you’ll be able to expand your business,” David said, “get an RV in Reno, too.”

“Reno isn’t my style.”

“Maybe take your show on the road, then,” David said carefully.

“I could go on a vacation.”

“Good,” David said. “You handle this cleanly, you make me a reasonable offer for your takeaway, and then maybe I’ll periodically have an errand for you to run.”

“I like to help people,” Gray Beard said, “but I got limits, you understand.”

“Good,” David said again. “I like to help people, too.”

David looked at his watch. It was almost nine. “I need you to get that body to the funeral home by one a.m. You got a problem with that?” David looked at Gray Beard’s partner, now that he’d figured out the power structure for this side of the job.

“Naw,” Marvin said. “No hands. No feet. No head. No problem.” He reached into the cooler and pulled out another beer, twisted off the top, took a long sip, and leaned back in his chair.

David started to walk away then, figuring the deal was sealed, but Gray Beard called after him. “You want me to take a look at your mouth?” he asked.

“Why?” David said.

“I ask because your bite is off,” he said. “I can see it from here. You having any jaw pain?”

In fact, like he’d told Dr. Kirsch, he was. David just figured it was one of those things. You get your entire face rebuilt, you’ll have some lasting soreness. “Little bit,” David said.

“Hold on,” Gray Beard said. He got up from his chair and went into the RV, leaving David outside with his partner. That’s how David thought of him, anyway. He didn’t see an extra bedroom in the RV, so maybe they were a couple. David couldn’t figure out a good reason for them to be hanging out with each other otherwise. Though when David had his wires snipped, Marvin did assist with the procedure, gave him water to swish
with, stuffed some cotton against his gums when the bleeding got bad, that sort of thing. So maybe like Gray Beard was a defrocked doctor, Marvin was an ex-EMT.

Gray Beard reappeared with a handful of papers. “These are some exercises you can do,” he said. “You probably have a case of TMJ.”

“TMJ?”

“Temporomandibular joint disorder,” Gray Beard said. When David didn’t respond, he added, “Your jaw is out of whack. Those exercises will help.”

David examined the pages. The exercises seemed simple enough—put your tongue on the roof of your mouth while opening and closing your jaw—and David felt relief of a small, nagging problem was within reach. “Anything else?” David asked.

“Try to avoid clenching your teeth during stress,” Gray Beard said. He sat back down next to Marvin and cracked open a beer for himself, swallowed most of it down in three gulps. “Maybe try to avoid stress, too.”

“That’s what I’m doing today,” David said. “Taking care of some stress.”

“No hands, no feet, no head, no stress,” Marvin said. He held his bottle up, and he and Gray Beard toasted.

“One a.m.,” David said. “Don’t be late.”

“I’m never late,” Grey Beard said. “If you’re not punctual in this business, someone can die, right?”

As David walked back across the park, he considered the fact that he might have to eventually kill both Gray Beard and Marvin, though that point seemed a long time away, and something
about them seemed more trustworthy than they probably were. Maybe it was just Gray Beard telling David he shouldn’t trust him. It was the kind of honesty David liked, because it admitted probable fallibility, though David was certain Gray Beard knew that fucking up was not really an option here, or ever, as it related to his work. If the next twenty-four hours turned out for the best, maybe David would see Gray Beard and Marvin only once or twice more; that would be okay, too.

For everyone.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T
he cab dropped Rabbi David Cohen back at Temple Beth Israel a few minutes after nine thirty, just in time for David to see Rabbi Kales step out of the administrative offices to light a cigarette. In the months that David had worked with Rabbi Kales, he’d never seen him smoke, never even smelled smoke on him. It was, in David’s opinion, somehow undignified for his position, never mind that David himself liked a cigar periodically.

“I’ve been calling you all night,” Rabbi Kales said when David walked up. He looked panicked. “Where have you been?”

“I left my phone in my car,” David said.

“Where have you been?” Rabbi Kales repeated.

“You don’t want to know,” David said. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

“I thought the worst.”

“The worst about what?”

Rabbi Kales waved him off. “He’s in jail,” Rabbi Kales said. “Benjamin.”

“Jail? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The FBI raided the Wild Horse this evening,” he said.

Fucking feds. If it was Super Bowl Sunday or Christmas or Thanksgiving, you could expect a knock on the door. “What did they get him on?” David asked.

“Conspiracy,” Rabbi Kales said.

Shit. That was a federal charge. When the feds wanted to have the freedom to poke around until they found something worthwhile, they always went the conspiracy route, since they could convict a boss for what his soldiers did, or what his soldiers covered up, or even what his soldiers were
thinking
about doing.

David tried to collect his thoughts. If it was the conspiracy he and Rabbi Kales and Bennie were involved in with the funeral home and the bodies, Rabbi Kales would already be in cuffs, too. If it had anything to do with David whatsoever, there’d be feds and marshals and cops and reporters lining the street like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. And if it was just some local shit—the building commission or something equally mundane—David was sure Bennie had enough people in his pocket to take care of that, at least forewarn him about a raid on Super Bowl Sunday. Bennie didn’t talk much about the political side of his life, but it was in the papers every day which “reputed mob figures” or “jiggle-joint owners” (or whatever euphemism the
Review-Journal
came up with that particular day) were donating to which races for mayor, city council, judge, sheriff . . . hell, even the dogcatcher was getting checks from guys with vowels at the end of their last names.

All of which made Bennie no different than Ronnie Cupertine when it all came down, both of them selling rides of one kind or another and peddling influence so long as no one got hurt.

And there it was.

“The tourist,” David said.

“You’re really blaming a paralyzed man for this?”

“I’m not blaming him,” David said. “I’m blaming the situation.” One of those bouncers rolled, said something to someone; had to be. The FBI doesn’t get out of bed on Super Bowl Sunday unless they think they’ve got something for the newspapers. That’s how they work. In Chicago, everyone involved would already be in a body bag, that’s for sure: the bouncers, the victim, maybe the victim’s family, and then maybe they’d burn down the club, too, just to clean the slate entirely . . . the realization of which made David actually catch his breath.

It wasn’t the first time he’d come to the conclusion that he should be dead for his role in the fuckup at the Parker House. But it was the first time he realized that he
wasn’t
dead for some specific reason. Cousin Ronnie got David’s ass smuggled out of Chicago and killed either Chema or Neal, or both, just to make it look good . . . and then had Paul Bruno killed . . . and then Fat Monte put a bullet in his wife’s head, and then another in his own, rather than deal with whatever Hopper had said to him. It had taken a while, but Ronnie wasn’t just cleaning the slate, he was pouring lye on it and burying it in Siberia.

David had told Bennie to give up the bouncers, which he had, got them good attorneys, everything, and yet, the Wild Horse still got raided. The bouncers didn’t know enough to give up anything other than what the feds already knew—that maybe Bennie Savone wasn’t exactly an angel—and David was certain Bennie told the boys he’d take care of them if they ended up doing time, provided they kept their mouths shut. And they were likely to do time for the crime they’d obviously committed, and deservedly so in David’s opinion, particularly with the beating caught on camera. So it had been
about keeping them from getting a longer sentence, keeping them from being recognized as part of an organized crime conspiracy, which didn’t give the bouncers any good reason to start putting Bennie’s name on the street. Might as well come out of prison with some money in their pocket. David just didn’t see the feds getting enough from a commonplace beatdown—even if the guy ended up paralyzed—to actually move against Bennie Savone.