major catalogues and making TV commercials immediately.
Right. Does that TV commercial come with a Nigerian bank account?
Myron was not sure what was more depressing-the fact that these young dream scammers didn’t mind exploiting people’s desire for fame, or that their victims were so needy that they fell for it?
Enough. Myron knew that this was his way of stalling. Kitty would be here in fifteen minutes. He debated spending the time in Spencer’s Gifts, his and Brad’s favorite store growing up in Livingston, New Jersey, what with the beer jokes, explicit shot glasses, safe sexual innuendo, and weird blue-light posters in the back. He thought again about the last time he saw Brad and Kitty. He thought about what he had done. He thought about the confused, wounded look in Brad’s eyes. He thought about the way the blood trickled between Kitty’s fingers.
He shook it off and moved to one side, out of view so that she wouldn’t see him. Myron debated getting a newspaper to hide his face, but nothing would stick out in a mall more than someone actually reading.
Fifteen minutes later, as Myron watched the merry-go-round from behind a mannequin at Foot Locker, Kitty arrived.
15
Win’s private jet landed on the only runway at Fox Hollow Airport. A black limousine waited on the tarmac. Win chastely kissed his stewardess Mee and headed down the plane steps.
The limo dropped him off at the United States Penitentiary in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, home of the “worst of the worst” among federal prisoners. A guard greeted Win and led him through the maximum-security prison to G Block or, as it is more commonly known, “Mafia Row.” John Gotti had served time here. So had Al Capone.
Win moved into the facility’s visiting room.
“Please have a seat,” the guard said.
Win obliged.
“Here are the rules,” the guard said. “No shaking hands. No touching. No physical contact of any kind.”
“How about French-kissing?” Win asked.
The guard frowned, but that was about it. Win had managed to get this appointment fast. That meant, the guard had obviously concluded, that this was a man with serious juice. What Lewisburg calls Phase 1 and 2 prisoners were allowed only video visitations. Phase 3 prisoners were permitted noncontact visitors. Only Phase 4- and it was unclear how you became Phase 4-were permitted what were called “contact visits” with family. Frank Ache, the former mafioso leader from Manhattan, was granted Phase 3 for the purpose of Win’s visit. That was fine with Win. He had no interest in making physical contact with the man.
The heavy door swung open. When Frank Ache shackle-shuffled into the visiting area wearing the prison-issue, neon orange jumpsuit, even Win was surprised. In his prime-one that probably lasted better than two decades- Frank had been a gritty, deadly Old-World mafia boss. He cut an impressive figure. He’d been a big man, barrel- chested, sporting polyester-cum-velour sweat suits too tacky for a monster truck rally. There were rumors that Scorsese wanted to do a film about his life and that Tony Soprano was in some ways based on Frank, except Frank didn’t have the loving family or any of the semi-humanity of Soprano. Frank Ache’s name struck fear. He’d been a dangerous killer, a man who had murdered many and made no apologies for it.
But prison has a way of shrinking a man. Ache must have lost fifty, sixty pounds inside these walls. He looked sapped, dry as an old twig, frail. Frank Ache squinted at his visitor and tried to smile.
“Windsor Horne Lockwood the third,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“How are you, Frank?”
“Like you care.”
“No, no, I’ve always been very concerned with your well-being.”
Frank Ache laughed a little too long and hard at that one. “You’re lucky I never whacked you. My brother always stopped me, you know.”
Win did know. He looked into the dark eyes and saw blankness.
“I’m on Zoloft now,” Frank said as if reading his mind. “You believe that? They have me on suicide watch. Don’t much see the point, do you?”
Win didn’t know if he meant the point of taking the drug or committing suicide or even trying to prevent the suicide. He also didn’t care. “I have a favor to ask,” Win said.
“Were we ever buddies?”
“No.”
“So?”
“Favor,” Win said again. “As in, you do one for me, I do one for you.”
Frank Ache stopped. He sniffled, used a once-giant hand to wipe his face. His receding hairline was gone now, though big tufts stayed on the side. His dark olive skin was now the gray of a city street after a rainstorm.
“What makes you think I could use a favor?”
Win did not answer that. There was no reason to elaborate. “How did your brother slither out of an indictment?”
“That’s what you want to know?”
Win said nothing.
“What difference does that make?”
“Humor me, Frank.”
“You know Herman. He looked classy. Me, I looked like a dago.”
“Gotti looked classy.”
“No, he didn’t. He looked like a goomba dressed up in expensive suits.”
Frank Ache looked off now, his eyes wet. He put his hand up to his face again. It started with another sniffle and then the big, scary man’s face crumbled. He started to cry. Win waited for him to regain his composure. Ache cried some more.
Finally: “You got a tissue or something?”
“Use your neon orange sleeve,” Win said.
“You know what it’s like in here?”
Win said nothing.
“I sit alone in a six-by-eight cell. I sit in it twenty-three hours a day. Alone. I eat my meals in there. I crap in there. When I go out in the yard for one hour, no one else is outside. I go days without hearing a voice. I try sometimes to talk to the guards. They won’t say a word back to me. Day after day. I sit alone. I talk to no one. That’s how it’s gonna be till the day I die.” He started sobbing again.
Win was tempted to take out his air violin, but he refrained. The man was talking-needed to talk, it seemed. This was a good thing. Still: “How many people did you kill, Frank?”
He stopped crying for a moment. “Me myself or that I ordered?”
“Your pick.”
“Got me. I personally whacked, what, twenty, thirty guys.”
Like he was talking about parking tickets he beat. “I’m feeling sorrier for you by the moment,” Win said.
If Frank took offense, he didn’t show it. “Hey, Win, you want to hear something funny?”
He kept leaning forward as he talked, desperate for any kind of conversation or contact. Amazing what humans, even ones as wanton as Frank Ache, crave when left alone-other humans. “The floor is yours, Frank.”
“You remember one of my men named Bobby Fern?”
“Hmm, perhaps.”
“Big fat guy? Used to run underage girls out of the Meatpacking District?”
Win remembered. “What about him?”
“You see me crying in here, right? I don’t try to hide it anymore. I mean, what’s the point? You know what I mean. I cry. So what? Truth is, I always did. I used to kinda go off and cry alone. Even back in the day. I don’t know why either. Hurting people actually made me feel good, so that wasn’t it, but then, like one time, I was watching
