because of his fuckups. Now he was working the defense side, sending innocent folks to jail. Balancing the scales of justice. In the dog-eat-dog world of the criminal court, Roland was a fire hydrant.
I caught Blumberg's eye, got to my feet, walked over to him.
'You're looking good, boychick. How's business?'
'The same.'
'Silver said he wanted to talk to you— you couldn't visit him in the house?'
'This is the way he wanted it. I'll just stand next to you at the table. Won't take a minute, okay?'
'My bail application is complex, my boy. Don't distract the judge's attention.'
'You couldn't wake that weasel up with a flame thrower.'
Blumberg ignored me. The wily old bastard hasn't tried a case in a hundred years, just does arraignments and applications. He knew why Silver hired him.
They brought him up from the pens in cuffs, but the guards stepped back, let him stand next to Blumberg at the counsel table. I stood on the other side of him, wearing my suit, briefcase in my hand, role-playing.
Blumberg mumbled something, just clearing his throat before he let loose. One thing he was good for— he could talk nonstop for days. As soon as he got into full stride, Silver bowed his head, talked to me out of the side of his mouth.
'You do something for me?'
'What?'
'Helene. She needs some cash. She wants to move Upstate, be close to me on this bit.'
'You gonna be hit long?'
'They're going to bitch me, Burke. I'm looking at the book— a quarter-to-forever.'
Twenty-five-to-life. Silver was ten years older than me— he'd never come out.
'What does she need?'
'Twenty, thirty G's, like that. She's gonna buy a house, get a job. Live like a citizen.'
'Can't…?'
'The Brotherhood would get her the money, but I don't want her in this, understand? It's a life sentence once you join.
'Who…?'
'It's in a house. Basement of a house. In Gerritsen Beach. You know where it is?'
'Yeah.'
'In the basement, farthest left-hand corner from the front of the house. Patched in with cement, wrapped in plastic, maybe a foot down.'
'Can't she…?'
'She can't do nothing. The house, I owned it once. Helene, she sold it. To get bail money for me one time. Years ago. Just forged my signature, sold it. I couldn't tell her— didn't have time. You understand? Some citizen owns it now— you gotta go in the basement.'
'What if it's not there?'
'Then I played my last card. There's nobody else I can ask— didn't want to take a chance the feds have the jail miked.'
'Tell me the address,' I said.
He told me, gripping my arm so hard it hurt, looking down, trusting.
143
Gerritsen Beach is in Brooklyn, just past Sheepshead Bay. Sunday, we drove the Boulevard, Marine Park running swampy to our left, reed grass high, people walking their dogs, Bensonhurst Boys cruising in Mustangs and Camaros, checking out the teenage girls on the promenade, watching other circuit riders for cues. Eyes would meet at a stoplight. Just one word…'What?!'…and they'd be at it. In the trunks of their shiny cars, baseball bats. For a harder game than the one you play on grass.
We looked for the opening. Turned right, into a tight grid of narrow streets. Some converted cottages, some two-story newer construction, flat-faced. Followed Silver's directions. Dead-ended at a canal, went back one block, located the house. Guy working in the yard, building something. Couple of kids playing catch, wearing Little League uniforms. Houses jammed together, yards deep front to back but no space between them. Neighbors all over the place, windows open, men washing cars, women talking.
I looked over at the Prof.
'It's no go, bro',' the little man said.
I shook my head, giving in to the truth.
144
Helene lives in Ridgewood, Queens. Top-floor apartment, walk-up. She let me in when I said the name Silver gave me.
The living room was all cheap furniture, poison-neat, Silver's picture on the mantelpiece. I wondered if there was another one in the bedroom.
