THE GILT LETTERS on the pebbled-glass door said 'Simon J. Rosnak- Attorney at Law.' Max and I stepped inside. The girl at the front desk was a cunty brunette with sparkle-dust for mascara and the kind of mouth that would make you throw out the postage meter so you could watch her lick the stamps.
'Can I help you?'
'I want to see Rosnak.'
'You have an appointment?'
'No.'
'Well, Mr. Rosnak isn't in yet. If you'll leave your name and number…'
'He's in. I don't have time.' I glanced down at the console on her desk. None of the lights were lit.
'You can't…'
I walked past her. 'Call a cop,' I advised her, leaving Max behind to keep her company.
I found a carpeted hall, followed it to the end. Rosnak was sitting at an old wooden desk, reading some kind of ledger. He looked up when he saw me, a tired-looking man in his forties.
'What?'
'I need to talk some business with you.'
'I don't know you. Speak to Mona. I'm busy.'
I sat down across from him. Lit a smoke. There was no ashtray on his desk. 'I need to speak with you,' I said, calm and relaxed.
'Look, buddy, this isn't a supermarket. I don't know who sent you here, but…'
'You represent Johnny Sostre?'
'That's not your business.'
'Attorney-client privilege, huh?'
'You got it.'
'Only one problem. You're not an attorney.'
His eyes tracked me. Camera shutters. Waiting.
'You're not an attorney,' I said again. 'You went to law school, but you dropped out in your last year. You never took the Bar. You've been running a sweet hustle, representing wiseguys. They know you're not a lawyer. You try the case, do the best you can. You win, they walk. You lose, they wait a couple of years, then they discover the truth, right? You get exposed. They file an appeal. And the court lets them walk. Ineffective assistance of counsel, they call it. Never fails. Josephs did the same thing a few years ago.'
He watched me, waiting.
I tapped cigarette ash onto his desk. 'Only problem is, you got to have perfect timing. This scam works just one time, no repeats. You got…what? Ten, fifteen clients now? Got half a dozen guys already upstate doing time. You get exposed at the right time, all the convictions get reversed. And it's a few years later. Witnesses disappear, memory gets soft, people forget, evidence gets misplaced…you know how it works. But you move too soon, it's all for nothing. The DA still has everything he needs, and they just try the cases again. Besides, you're in the middle of a bunch of new cases. They discover the truth now, and you're out of business.'
He leaned forward. 'The people I represent… you know who they are?'
'Yeah.'
'You know they wouldn't like this kind of thing.'
'Don't tell them.'
I ground out my smoke, waiting.
He raised his eyebrows.
'One time,' I told him. 'One time only. Fifty large, and I'm gone.'
'You're crazy.'
'But not bluffing.'
He fumbled with some papers on his desk. 'I need some time.'
'This is Tuesday. Friday, you get the cash. I'll call, tell you how to drop it off.'
I got up to go. Looked down at him. 'I'll save you some phone calls. Burke.'
'Who's Burke?'
'Me.'
Friday, the juicy brunette took a cab to Chinatown at lunchtime. She got out, and the crowd swallowed her up. When she caught another cab, she didn't have her pocketbook with her.
21
I WAS AT Mama's when a call came in. Julio. I called the old gangster back at the social club he uses for headquarters. His dry snakeskin voice sounded like a cancer ward.
'You did me a service once, I don't forget. So this is a favor, Burke. You stung Rosnak. He went crying to the boys. I squared it, okay? There's no comeback on this one. But give it a rest- stay out of our business.'
I let him feel my silence. The phone line hummed.
'You hear what I'm telling you?'
'Sure.'
'You found out some things. Okay, a man's entitled to make some money, he finds out some things. You made enough money. Stick to citizens.'
I hung up.
22
THERE WAS money out there. The city was a boom town. Drugs, not oil. The prospectors drove triple-black Jeeps, wore paper-thin Italian leather, mobile cellular telephones in holsters over their shoulders. Music in their brain-dead heads: Gotta Get Paid. Gold on their bodies, paid for with bodies on the ground. Babies got killed in the crossfire. Children did the shooting. Cocaine was the crop, in countries whose names they couldn't spell. And here, crack was the cash. Named for the sound it made when it hit the streets.
'Gold on their wrist, a pistol in your fist,' the Prof rapped, trying to pull me in. Easy pickings. It wasn't for me.
I couldn't let it go. I read a copy of the Penal Law Davidson gave me. Incest. The legislature put it in the same class as adultery. I guess they thought a kid should Just Say No.
I MET MICHELLE in Bryant Park, next to the Public Library right off Times Square.
'I'm going away for a while,' she said.
'Okay.'
'To Denmark, Burke. I'm going to have it done.'
'You got enough cash?'
'Yes. I've been saving for a long time. You impressed?'
I nodded.
'It has to be. I'm not having my boy grow up an outlaw, Burke.'
'You're going to take him from the Mole?'
