“I’ll call you back,” I heard her say.
Run.
The man in the deli had come outside. He was holding a baseball bat. Three younger Arab men were standing in front of the store with their sleeves rolled up. They were all staring at me.
Run.
My eyes reverted back to what had caught my attention in the first place.
A newspaper vending machine sitting on the corner. Fifty cents on a weekday. I had no change on me.
I walked over to the newspaper rack in front of the deli. The Arab men watched every step I took.
“Just leave,” one of them said.
“Take what you want and go,” said another. The owner gripped his bat tighter.
I grabbed a newspaper from the top of the pile.
This was impossible. It couldn’t be happening. Looking at the front page, I felt like someone had scooped out my insides and replaced them with hot lead.
Staring back at me was my face. I recognized the picture from my driver’s license.
Next to my smiling, youthful grin were two words, printed in big, black, bold letters.
Cop Killer.
9
Blanket walked through the wrought-iron gate, said hello to the ugly guy whose name he could never remember-fucker always wore a beret like he was Irish or something-and heaved open the unmarked wooden door. He ducked down so as to not smack his head-the last lump was subsiding, thank you very much-and was met by Charlie, the odor of heavy designer impostor cologne pouring off him in waves.
“Charlie.”
“Blanket.” The two men shook hands and exchanged a brief and solemn embrace.
“I assume Mike’s seen the paper.”
“Never seen the guy read the New York Times before. Think he spent twenty bucks buying every paper he could. Spilled his Folgers all over the carpet, first time he seen it.”
Blanket took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it. “I’m guessing that saying he’s pissed is a mighty understatement.”
“Pissed was two hours ago. Wait’ll you see what he is now.”
Blanket sighed as they went down the metal steps, his boots echoing in the narrow stairwell. Blanket knew full well that Charlie resented him, resented that he’d climbed the ladder so quickly. More responsibility equaled more cash. Charlie had been dealt the short end of the stick, a measly nine-hundred-square-foot apartment in Soho, none of the high-heeled women who circled Blanket’s apartment like vultures after a massacre. Cash was a sign of importance, a symbol of respect. Blanket started out as a page, running picayune errands for greasy tips. He spent too much money on spiffy ties from Barney’s, showing off to his friends who’d been weaned on Goodfellas. The salespeople had been reluctant to wait on such a young kid. Until he whipped out that money clip crammed with fifties. Blanket still had most of those ties, frayed and worn, now ugly as sin. They were a reminder of just how far he’d come.
When they reached the bottom of the stairwell, Charlie knocked four times, then twice, then three more, and a large door swung inward. A beefy man in a turtleneck-ironic since Blanket didn’t think he had a neck-nodded slightly and ushered them along.
The corridor was sparsely lit, a filmy yellow sputtering from a few low-wattage bulbs. Blanket walked behind Charlie, Charlie looking over his shoulder every few feet as though worried Blanket might fall behind.
“What’s your man say about the Parker kid?” Charlie asked.
“I think I’ll save that for Mike,” Blanket said irritably.
The loathing wafted off Charlie, almost as strong as his cologne, and just as repugnant.
“The fuck. You can tell him but you can’t tell me?”
“Exactly.”
“Asshole,” Charlie whispered.
Blanket grabbed Charlie by the shoulder and spun him around. Charlie resisted, and Blanket clamped down hard on the man’s neck, squeezing his fingers around his collarbone until the man’s knees buckled.
“Get the fuck off me!” Charlie yelped, his fingers struggling to break Blanket’s grip. Blanket eyed him sadly, like a dog who didn’t know any better than to pee on the rug. Charlie looked like he’d spent about thirty seconds in the gym his whole life. Probably couldn’t bench-press his dick. Blanket could probably do biceps curls with the pudgy little dump-ling.
“You know this, but I’m gonna remind you again since your thick fucking head seems to have missed the memo.” Blanket relaxed his grip on Charlie’s shoulder. “I don’t say shit to you. I decide what you need to know. You make one more comment like that, I’ll be scraping your balls off the bottom of my Cole Haans.” Charlie groaned. “You get me?”
“I got you. Now let go.”
Blanket let Charlie hit the floor. He got up, wiped his knees, rubbed his shoulder.
“You have anger issues, man. You gotta control that…”
“Are you saying something?”
“No, Blanket. I ain’t saying nothing.”
Blanket smiled, ran his fingers along the dusty brick corridor. He could hear voices from the other end, a mixture of panic and calm. Blanket took a deep breath, swallowed the phlegm in his throat. He knew he was about to walk into a buzzsaw. Meetings like this didn’t happen often. Seeing Michael DiForio in such spur-of-the-moment circumstances was like spotting one of those rare white elks or Haley’s comet or some shit.
They came to a metal door, green with rust, a grated slat on top. Blanket knocked. The slat opened. A pair of eyes popped into view.
“Hey, Blanket. Charlie. Mike’s waiting for you.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. How bad is it?”
“He forgot to eat breakfast this morning.”
“Fuck me, that’s bad.”
The man gave a nervous laugh, threw back a dead bolt and opened the door.
A large mahogany conference table was set up in the middle of the nondescript gray room. It smelled of ammonia and dust. The table looked out of place, like a de Kooning on the wall of a prison cell. Water pitchers lined the table. There was no alcohol. This wasn’t a social gathering. A dozen men were seated, and appeared to be in various states of unease. All older men, gray hair slicked back and oily. Dull ties. Questioning eyes. Waiting for answers. One man sat at the head of the table, facing the doorway. His green eyes were serrated blades.
“Blanket,” Michael DiForio said.
“Boss.”
Blanket looked at the man’s face: thin nose, arched eyebrows. Olive complexion. Trim in his tapered suit. He looked hungry. Now sixty-one, more athletic than most men half his age, Michael DiForio was vying to lead his family and usher in a new era of prosperity. Like Gotti before him, DiForio was a legend in his hometown, and a savvy real estate developer to boot. Everything about the man commanded respect, and in return he would offer his friendship. He was smart, ruthless, vicious, but always in control. Except for today. Today, DiForio looked like a man who, for the first time, had to question everything.
Now Blanket stood opposite this man, and all eyes waited.
Michael finally spoke, his voice calm.
“What’s the news?”
Blanket cleared his throat and tried to speak in a confident voice.
“Well, my sources told me…”
“Fuck the pussyfooting. Speak.”
Blanket toed the floor, looked up.
