Sleepers (36 page)

Michael’s plan was as simple as it was bold. At nine in the morning he would walk into the office of the Manhattan district attorney and ask for the murder case against John Reilly and Thomas Marcano. He would explain that he was from the same neighborhood as the two shooters and that he understood the mentality of the area better than anyone else in the office. He would tell the D.A. he knew how to keep the witnesses from running away scared, hold the case together, and win it. Other than that, Michael would admit to no connection to either John or Tommy and was counting on me to quell any neighborhood talk about their friendship.

There was also no need to worry about the link with Wilkinson. Like all juvenile records in the state, ours had been destroyed after seven years. In addition, he would have someone alter the Sacred Heart school records to eliminate any evidence of our one-year absence. Besides, for the D.A., it was a can’t-miss proposition. There were four eyewitnesses and two shooters with murderous reputations. The perfect case to hand an ambitious young attorney like Michael Sullivan.

Michael took a deep breath and wiped the water from his face. There was more to this, a lot more. I knew Michael well enough to know that Nokes wasn’t it for him and that freeing John and Tommy wouldn’t do. He needed to go after the other guards. He needed to go after Wilkinson. I felt nervous watching him, waiting for him to continue, fearful that we would all be caught and once again be brought to such a place.

He crouched down and laid his briefcase across his
knees. Inside were four thick yellow folders, each double-wrapped in rubber bands. He handed all four to me. I looked at them and read the names of the guards who tormented us all those months at the Wilkinson Home for Boys stenciled across the fronts. The first folder belonged to Tommy’s chief abuser, Adam Styler, now thirty-four, who had scotched his dreams of being a lawyer and, instead, worked as a plainclothes cop.

Styler was assigned to a narcotics unit in a Queens precinct. It didn’t surprise me to learn that he was also dirty, shaking down dealers for dope and cash. He had a major coke problem that was supported by $3,000 a month in bribe money. The rest of the folder contained personal information—daily routines; women he dated; food he liked; bars he frequented. There were lists of trusted friends and hated enemies. A man’s life bound inside a yellow folder.

The second bundle belonged to my tormentor, Henry Addison. I felt nauseated as I read that Addison now worked for the mayor of the City of New York as a community outreach director in Brooklyn. He was good at his job, honest and diligent. But his sexual habits hadn’t changed much since our time at Wilkinson. Addison still liked sex with young boys. The younger they were, the more he was willing to pay. Addison belonged to a group of well-heeled pedophiles who would party together three times a month, paying out big dollars for all-nighters with the boys they bought. The parties were usually taped, the kids and the equipment supplied by an East Side pimp with the street name of Radio.

The third folder belonged to Ralph Ferguson, thirty-three, the man who helped give John Reilly a killer’s heart. He wasn’t a cop, though I’d expected him to be. He was a clerk, working for a social service agency on Long Island. Ferguson was married and had one child. His wife taught preschool during the week and they both taught Catholic Sunday school. He sounded as
clean as he was boring. Which is exactly how Michael wanted him to be. Ralph Ferguson was going to be called as a character witness, to talk about his best Mend, Sean Nokes. Once he was on the stand, Michael could finally open the door to the Wilkinson Home for Boys.

I moved farther into the hall, trying to keep the folders dry, trying to absorb all that Michael was telling me. He had waited nearly twelve years for this moment, planned for it, somehow
knowing
it would happen, and, when it did, he would be prepared.

He insisted that John and Tommy be told nothing of our plan, that it would play better in court if they didn’t know. There was to be no jury tampering. The not guilty we sought had to be a verdict that no one would dare question. Danny O’Connor was to remain as the defendants’ attorney. We needed to keep him sober and alert and, since he was going to be as deeply involved as we were, too scared to tell anybody what we were up to.

Michael would relay the information I needed through a system of messengers and drop boxes. I would pass information back to him in a similar manner. He pulled three keys out of his coat pocket and handed them to me. They belonged to lockers at the Port Authority, the 23rd Street YMCA, and a Jack LaLanne health club on West 45th Street. Once I had the packets in hand I would pass them on to O’Connor. I would make sure we weren’t seen.

For the plan to succeed, we needed total secrecy and the involvement of only people we completely trusted. My first step was to get to King Benny. He would be our weight, our muscle, and could get us through doors we didn’t even know existed. He would put enough fear into Danny O’Connor’s heart to gently seal his lips. King Benny would also call off the West Side Boys, who were sure to be gunning for Michael the minute
they knew he had taken the case against John and Tommy.

I also needed Fat Mancho to turn over some rocks and Carol Martinez to open some more files.

After this night, Michael would not be available to any of us. The only time we would see him would be in court.

It was a foolproof plan in one respect. If it worked, we would avenge our past and, in the process, bring down the Wilkinson Home for Boys. If it didn’t work, if we were caught, people would want to know why we did what we did. Either way, information would get out.

Michael’s way, however, insured that John and Tommy would walk with us and share in the victory.

“Is that it?” I asked, gazing down at the folders in my arms. “Is that all you need?”

“Just one more thing,” Michael said.

“What?”

He sighed, leaving the best for last. “We’ve got four witnesses who say they saw the shooting and are willing to testify. We need to knock that number down.”

“I’ll work on it,” I said. “But if you lose more than two, it might get some people nervous.”

“I’ll take two,” Michael said. “If you can get us one for our side.”

“One what?” I asked.

“One witness. A witness who’ll put John and Tommy somewhere else the night of the murder.
Anywhere
else. A witness they can’t touch. Strong enough to knock out whatever anybody else says.”

“Don’t they have a name for that?” I asked.

“A judge would call it perjury,” Michael said.

“And what are we calling it?”

“A favor,” Michael said.

4

K
ING
B
ENNY STOOD
behind the bar of his club, drinking from a large white mug of hot coffee, reading the three-page letter I had written and left for him in a sealed envelope on the counter. When he had finished, he laid the letter down and walked to the edge of the bar. He looked out at the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, the mug cradled in both hands.

“Tony,” King Benny said to one of four men sitting around a card table, sorting early morning betting slips.

Tony dropped the slips from his hands, pulled back his chair, and walked over.

“Bring Danny O’Connor to see me,” King Benny said, his eyes never leaving the window.

“Danny O’Connor the lawyer?” Tony asked.

“You know more than one Danny O’Connor?” King Benny said.

“No, King,” Tony said.

“Then bring me the one you know,” King Benny said.

King Benny turned from the window and moved farther down the bar, stopping at the empty sink next to the beer taps. He put down his coffee mug and grabbed a book of matches from the top of the bar. He took one final look at my letter and then dropped it into the sink. He lit a match and put it to the letter and stood there, in silence, watching as it burned.

Then, for the first time in many years, King Benny laughed out loud.

5

“Y
OU GOT TIME
for me, Fat Man?” I said, standing in the middle of Fat Mancho’s bodega, watching him as he bent over to open a carton of Wise potato chips.

“I’m a busy man, fucker,” Fat Mancho said, standing up, hugging his bulky pants above his waist, a smile on his face. “I got a business. Ain’t like you paper boys, with time on my fuckin’ hands.”

“This won’t take long,” I said, grabbing a pack of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum from one of the racks. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

“You gonna pay me for that, you little prick?” Fat Mancho asked.

“I never did before,” I said, putting two pieces in my mouth and walking out into the cool of the day. “Why ruin a good habit now?”

Fat Mancho came out carrying two wood crates for us to sit on and a cold, sweaty Yoo-Hoo for him to drink. I sat down next to him, leaned my back against his storefront window, and stretched my legs. I pointed to the fire hydrant in front of us.

“Kids still use that in the summer?” I asked.

“It still gets hot, don’t it?” Fat Mancho said. “That pump’s the only beach they know. Just like you fuckers. You all cut the same.”

“I need your help, Fat Man,” I said, turning to look at him. “A big favor. It would be easier for you to say no. A lot smarter too. And there’s no problem if you do.”

Fat Mancho downed his Yoo-Hoo in two long gulps and wiped his mouth with the rolled-up sleeve of a green shirt dotted with orange flamingos.

“I bet you
would
like me to say no,” Fat Mancho said, laying the bottle by his feet. “Then you can tell your buddies that the Fat Man don’t stand up. Don’t back his friends.”

“Are you callin’ me your friend?” I said with a smile. “I’m touched, Fat Man.”

“I ain’t callin’ you shit,” Fat Mancho said. “I’m just tellin’ you I’m here. You fuckers can’t pull off anything alone. You ain’t got the brass and you ain’t got the brains. There’s two of you in jail right now. Ain’t lookin’ to make it four.”

“I guess King Benny’s been around to see you,” I said.

“Some fuckin’ team we puttin’ together,” Fat Mancho said. “A drunk lawyer on one side, fuckin’ kid lawyer on another. A paper boy makin’ like Dick Tracy. Four eyeballs swear they saw the whole thing. And the two on trial killed more people than cancer. That motherfucker Custer had a better shot at a walk.”

“Nobody’s expecting it,” I said. “That’s the biggest card in our favor.”

“This ain’t no fuckin’ book, kid,” Fat Mancho said. “You best remember that. And this goes bad, it ain’t a fuckin’ year upstate in a kid jail. This is
real.
You get caught on this, you lookin’ straight at serious.”

“There’s no choice,” I said. “Not for us.”

“They were good boys,” Fat Mancho said. “That little fucker Johnny give you his shirt he thought you need it. That other prick, Butter, always chewin’ on a mouthful of somethin’, his lips covered with chocolate.”

He turned to look at me. “But they ain’t good boys anymore. They killers now, cold as stone.”

“I know,” I said. “I know what they were and I know what they are. It’s not about that.”

“Ain’t worth throwin’ away a life just to get even,” Fat Mancho said. “You and the lawyer got a shot. You can make it out the right way. You ready to flip that aside? Just to get even with three fuckin’ guards?”

“I think about what they did every day,” I said, looking away from Fat Mancho, my eyes on the street in front of us. “It’s a part of me, like skin. When I look in a mirror, I see it in my eyes. Sometimes, I see it in other people’s faces. It’s a nasty feeling. It’s a feeling that makes you think a piece of you is already dead. And there’s no way to bring it back.”

“Gettin’ away with this gonna make you feel all better?” Fat Mancho asked. “Gonna make you forget every fuckin’ thing that happened?”

“No,” I said, turning back to face him. “It’ll just give me something a little sweeter to remember. Somethin’ nicer to think about.”

“I read that shitty paper you workin’ on now,” Fat Mancho said, standing and picking up his soda crate. “Read it every day. Still ain’t seen your fuckin’ name anywhere.”

“Be patient,” I said. “Someday you will. Just keep on buyin’ it.”

“I don’t buy shit,” Fat Mancho said, walking back into his bodega. “I never put any of my money in a stranger’s pockets.”

“You still married to two women?” I asked him, standing and dusting the back of my pants.

“Two wives and a lady Mend,” Fat Mancho said. “They can’t get enough of what I got.”

“Must be good,” I said.

“They like it,” Fat Mancho said. “That’s what counts.”

“Thanks, Fat Man,” I said, leaning against his doorway. “I owe you. I owe you big-time.”

“Bet your ass you owe me, fucker,” Fat Mancho said. “And you ain’t leavin’ this spot till you pay me for that fuckin’ pack of gum.”

6

I
WAS SITTING
on the hallway steps, my back inches from the apartment door, a bag holding a six-pack of beer by my side, when Carol Martinez lifted her head and saw me.

“Mug me or marry me, Shakes,” Carol said, searching through her open purse for her keys. “I’m too tired for anything else.”

“Will you settle for a couple of beers?” I asked, tapping the paper bag.

“If that’s your best offer,” she said.

“I’ll throw in a hug and a kiss,” I said.

“Sold,” she said.

I stood up and put my arms around her waist and held her close to me, feeling her soft curves, even under the layers of thick jacket and sweater. She looked as pretty as I’d ever seen her.

“You need something, don’t you, Shakes?” Carol asked, warm hands rubbing the back of my head and neck.

“I could use a glass,” I said. “I hate drinking out of a can.”

Her apartment was clean and orderly, filled with books and framed posters of old movies. The kitchen had a small table in its center, and a large cutout of Humphrey Bogart in a trench coat smoking a cigarette was taped to the fridge.

“You pour the beer,” Carol said, taking off her jacket. “I’ll put on some music.”