other ways. And awful as it was to even let the thought enter my head, hadn’t a small part of me taken some pleasure in Otto’s death? In my classes, I often talk about the importance of primitive instincts in philosophy and political theory. Did I think I was immune? Maybe the rules that I cherish aren’t there to protect others so much as they’re there to protect us from ourselves.
In his class on Early Political Thought, Malcolm Hume loved to explore the fine lines. I had balked at such talk. There is right. There is wrong.
So which side of the line was I on now?
I parked near the front, passed a big sale on “Perennials and Pottery,” and headed inside. The store was huge. The pungent odor of mulch filled the air. I started toward the left, circled through fresh flowers, shrubbery, home accessories, patio furniture, soil, peat moss—whatever that was. My eyes checked out everyone with the bright green worker’s apron. It took about five minutes, but I found the kid, interestingly enough, working in the fertilizer section.
There was a bandage on his nose. His eyes were black. He still wore the Brooklyn Nets baseball cap with the brim facing back. He was helping a customer, loading bags of fertilizer into a cart. The customer was telling him something. The kid nodded with enthusiasm. He had an earring. The hair that peeked out from under the cap looked streaky blond, probably something out of a bottle. The kid worked hard, smiling the entire time, making sure all the customer’s needs were being met. I was impressed.
I moved so that I was standing behind him and waited. I tried to figure out an angle of approach so that the kid couldn’t make a run for it. When he finished with this current customer, he immediately started looking for someone else to help. I moved up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned, the smile at the ready. “Can I . . . ?”
He stopped when he saw my face. I was ready for him to break into a sprint. I wasn’t sure what I’d do about it. I was close enough to grab him if he tried, but that would draw the wrong kind of attention. I braced myself and waited for his reaction.
“Dude!” He threw his arms around me, pulling me in tight for a hug. I had not expected that, but I went with it. “Thank you, man. Thank you so much.”
“Um, you’re welcome.”
“Oh man, you’re my hero, you know that? Edward is such a dickweed. Picks on me because he knows I ain’t that tough. Thanks, man. Thanks a lot.”
I said he was welcome again.
“So what’s your deal?” he asked. “You ain’t a cop. I know that. So are you, like, I don’t know, a superhero or something?”
“Superhero?”
“I mean, you hang out and rescue people and stuff. And then you ask about his MM contact?” His face suddenly darkened. “Man, I hope you got a whole Avengers group behind you or something if you’re gonna take him on.”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” I said.
“Oh?”
“Edward works for a guy named Danny Zuker, right?”
“You know it.”
“Who is Danny Zuker?”
“Sickest dude ever. He’d kill a puppy because it got in his way. You can’t believe the psycho-crazy in that guy. He makes Edward pee in his pants. For real.”
Terrific. “Who does Danny work for?”
The kid took half a step back. “You don’t know?”
“No. That’s why I’m here.”
“For real?”
“Yes?”
“I was joking, dude—about you being a superhero. I figured, hey, you saw me getting the crap beaten out of me and, I don’t know, you’re a big dude and you hate bullies and stuff. That wasn’t it?”
“No. I need some information.”
“I hope one of your superpowers is that you’re bulletproof. If you mess with those guys . . .”
“I’ll be careful,” I said.
“I don’t want you to get hurt or nothing, just because you did me a solid, you know?”
“I know,” I said, trying my best competent professorial tone. “Just tell me what you know.”
The kid shrugged. “Eddie is my bookie. That’s all. I’m behind, and he enjoys hurting people. But he’s small- time. Like I said, he works for Danny Z. Danny’s way high up in MM.”
“What’s MM?”
“I’d bend my nose with my finger to show you what I mean, but my nose is friggin’ killing me.”
I nodded. “So Danny Z is with the Mafia? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“I don’t know if they call it that. I mean, I only heard that word in really old movies and whatever. I can only tell you Danny Z works directly for the head of MM. That guy is a legend.”
“What’s his name?”
“You for real? You don’t know? How do you live here and not know?”
“I don’t live here.”
“Oh.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“I owe you. So sure. Like I said, Danny Z is like the right-hand man for MM.”
“And MM is?”
An elderly woman stepped between us. “Hello, Harold.”
He gave her a big smile. “Hello, Mrs. H. How did those petunias work out for you?”
“You were so right about the placement in the window box. You’re a genius with arrangements.”
“Thank you.”
“If you have time . . .”
“Let me just finish with this gentleman and I’ll be right with you.”
Mrs. H shuffled away. Harold watched her, smiling all the way.
“Harold,” I said, trying to get him back on topic, “who is MM?”
“Come on, man, don’t you read the papers? MM. Danny Z reports directly to the biggest, baddest boy of them all—Maxwell Minor.”
Something clicked. My face must have shown it because Harold said, “Whoa, dude, you okay?”
My pulse raced. My blood started humming in my ears. I could have looked it up on my iPhone, but I really needed a full screen. “I need to use a computer.”
“Owner doesn’t let anyone use the Internet here. It’s all blocked off.”
I thanked him and hurried out. Minor. I had heard that name before in connection to all this. I drove like a madman to Northern Boulevard. I found the same Cybercraft Internet Cafe. The same yah-dude was behind the desk. If he recognized me, he didn’t show it. There were four terminals open. I grabbed one and quickly typed in the address for the New York local newspapers. Clicking on archives, I asked for May 25 again—the day after the surveillance photograph of Natalie had been taken. The computer seemed to be taking forever to grant my search request.
Come on, come on . . .
And then the headline popped up:
PHILANTHROPIST GUNNED DOWN
Archer Minor Executed in His Office
I wanted to shout “Eureka!” out loud, but I controlled myself. Minor. Oh, that couldn’t be a coincidence. I clicked the article and read:
Archer Minor, son of reputed mob leader Maxwell Minor and victim’s rights advocate, was executed in his high-rise law office on Park Avenue last night, apparently the victim of a hit authorized by his own father. Known
