Sleepers Page 25

  These were my friends.

  We accepted each other for what we were, few questions asked, no demands made. We had been through too much to try to force change on one another. We had been through enough to know that the path taken is not always the ideal road. It is simply the one that seems right at the moment.

  Wilkinson had touched us all.

  It had turned Tommy and John into hardened criminals, determined not to let anyone have power over them again. It had made me and Michael realize that while an honest life may not offer much excitement, it pays its dividends in freedom.

  It cost Father Bobby countless hours in prayer, searching for answers to questions he feared asking.

  It made Fat Mancho a harder man, watching young boys come out stone killers, stripped of their feelings, robbed of all that was sweet.

  Wilkinson even touched King Benny, piercing the protective nerve he had developed when it came to the four laughing boys who turned his private club into their own. It awakened the demons of his own horrid childhood, spent in places worse than Wilkinson, where he was handled by men more fearsome than those who tortured us. It made the hate he carried all the heavier.

  None of us could let go of the others. We all drifted together, always wondering when the moment would arrive that would force us to deal with the past. Maybe that moment would never come. Maybe we could keep it all buried. But then John and Tommy and luck walked in on Sean Nokes halfway through a meat-loaf dinner. And for the first time in years, we all felt alive. The moment was out there now, waiting for us to grab it. Michael was the first to realize it. To figure it out. But the rest of us caught on fast. It was what we had been living for, what we had waited years for. Revenge. Sweet, lasting revenge. And now it was time for all of us to get a taste.

  3

  MICHAEL SAT ACROSS from me, quietly mixing sour cream into his baked potato. We were at a corner table at the Old Homestead, a steak house across from the meat market in downtown Manhattan. It was late on a Wednesday, two weeks after Nokes was killed in the Shamrock Pub.

  The second I read about the shooting, I knew who had pulled the triggers. I was as afraid for Tommy and John as I was proud of them. They had done what I would never have had the courage to do. They had faced the evil of our past and eliminated it from sight. Though Nokes’s death did nothing to relieve our anguish, I was still glad he was dead. I was even happier when I learned that Nokes not only knew why he died, but at whose hands.

  John and Tommy did not remain fugitives for long.

  They were arrested within seventy-two hours of the shooting, fingerprinted, booked, and charged with second-degree murder. Police had four eyewitnesses willing to testify—the older couple in the first booth and the two businessmen sitting at the bar. All four were outsiders, strangers to Hell’s Kitchen. The restaurant’s other patrons, as well as its workers, stayed true to the code of the neighborhood: They saw nothing and they said nothing.

  John and Tommy were held without bail.

  The two hired a West Side attorney named Danny O’Connor, known more for his boisterous talk than for his ability to win. They pleaded not guilty and admitted to nothing, not even to their lawyer. There seemed to be no connection between the deceased and the accused, and both the press and police shrugged the murder off as yet another drug-related homicide.

  “Have you gone to visit them yet?” Michael asked, cutting into his steak. It was the first time either of us had talked about the shooting since dinner began.

  “The day after the arrest,” I said, jabbing a fork into a cut of grilled salmon. “For a few minutes.”

  “What did they have to say?” Michael asked.

  “The usual small talk,” I said. “Nothing with any weight. They know enough not to say anything in a visitors’ room.”

  “What about Nokes?” Michael said. “They talk about him?”

  “John did,” I said. “But not by name.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “All he said was ‘One down, Shakes.’ Then he tapped the glass with his finger and handed me that shit-eatin’ grin of his.”

  “How do they look?” Michael asked.

  “Pretty relaxed,” I told him. “Especially for two guys facing twenty-five-to-life.”

  “I hear they hired Danny O’Connor to defend them,” Michael said. “That right?”

  “That’s temporary,” I said. “King Benny’s gonna move in one of his lawyers when the trial starts.”

  “No,” Michael said. “O’Connor’s who we want. He’s perfect.”

  “Perfect?” I said. “The guy’s a fall-down drunk. Probably hasn’t won a case since La Guardia was mayor. Maybe not even then.”

  “I know,” Michael said. “That’s why he’s perfect.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You covering this story for the paper?” Michael asked, lifting his beer mug and ignoring my question.

  “I’m a timetable clerk, Mikey,” I said. “I’m lucky they let me in the building.”

  “Anybody at work know you’re friends with John and Butter?”

  “No,” I said. “Why would they?”

  “You didn’t finish your fish,” Michael said. “You usually eat everything but the plate.”

  “I’m still used to my old hours,” I said. “Eating dinner at five in the morning and breakfast at eleven at night.”

  “You should have had eggs.”

  “I will have a cup of coffee.”

  “Order it to go,” Michael said, waving to a waiter for the check. “We’ve got to take a walk.”

  “It’s pouring out,” I said.

  “We’ll find a spot where it’s not. Down by the piers.”

  “There are rats down by the piers,” I pointed out.

  “There are rats everywhere.”

  THE RAIN WAS falling in soft drops, loud blasts of thunder echoing in the distance. We were standing in an empty lot along the gates of Pier 62, West Side Highway traffic rushing by behind us. Michael had thrown his raincoat on over his suit. His hands were stuffed inside the side pockets and his briefcase was wedged between his ankles.

  “I’m going in to see my boss in the morning,” Michael said, the words rushing out. “I’m going to ask him to give me the case against John and Tommy.”

  “What?” I looked at his eyes, searching for signs that this was nothing more than the beginning of a cruel joke. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to prosecute John and Tommy in open court.” His voice was filled with confidence, his eyes looked square at me.

  “Are you fuckin’ nuts?” I shouted, grabbing his arms. “They’re your friends! Your friends, you heartless fuck!”

  A smile curled the sides of Michael’s lips. “Before you take a swing, Shakes, hear me out.”

  “I should shoot you just for talking about shit like this,” I said, easing my grip, taking in deep gulps of air. “And if anybody else hears it, I’ll have to open a freezer door to shake your hand.”

  “You decide who else knows,” Michael said. “Just you. You’ll know who to tell.”

  “You take this case, everybody’s gonna know!” I shouted again. “And everybody’s gonna be pissed.”

  “You’ll take care of all that,” Michael said. “That’ll be part of your end.”

  “Do something smart,” I said. “Call in sick tomorrow. It might save your life.”

  “I’m not taking the case to win,” Michael said. “I’m taking it to lose.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything.

  “I’ve got a plan,” Michael said. “But I can’t do it without you. I can work only the legal end. I need you to do the rest.”

  I took two steps forward and held my friend’s face in my hands.

  “Are you serious?” I asked. “You crazy bastard, are you really serious?”

  “It’s payback time, Shakes,” Michael said, water streaming down his face and mixing with tears. “We can get back at them
now. John and Tommy started it. You and I can finish it.”

  I let go of Michael’s face and put my hands in my pockets.

  “Let’s walk for a while,” I said. “We stand here much longer, we’ll get arrested for soliciting.”

  “Where to?”

  “The neighborhood,” I said. “Where it’s safe.”

  WE HUDDLED IN the doorway of my old apartment building, rain now lashing across Tenth Avenue. Down the street, two old rummies argued over a pint of raspberry brandy.

  Michael’s plan was as simple as it was bold. At nine in the morning he would walk into the office of the Manhattan district attorney and ask for the murder case against John Reilly and Thomas Marcano. He would explain that he was from the same neighborhood as the two shooters and that he understood the mentality of the area better than anyone else in the office. He would tell the D.A. he knew how to keep the witnesses from running away scared, hold the case together, and win it. Other than that, Michael would admit to no connection to either John or Tommy and was counting on me to quell any neighborhood talk about their friendship.

  There was also no need to worry about the link with Wilkinson. Like all juvenile records in the state, ours had been destroyed after seven years. In addition, he would have someone alter the Sacred Heart school records to eliminate any evidence of our one-year absence. Besides, for the D.A., it was a can’t-miss proposition. There were four eyewitnesses and two shooters with murderous reputations. The perfect case to hand an ambitious young attorney like Michael Sullivan.

  Michael took a deep breath and wiped the water from his face. There was more to this, a lot more. I knew Michael well enough to know that Nokes wasn’t it for him and that freeing John and Tommy wouldn’t do. He needed to go after the other guards. He needed to go after Wilkinson. I felt nervous watching him, waiting for him to continue, fearful that we would all be caught and once again be brought to such a place.

  He crouched down and laid his briefcase across his knees. Inside were four thick yellow folders, each double-wrapped in rubber bands. He handed all four to me. I looked at them and read the names of the guards who tormented us all those months at the Wilkinson Home for Boys stenciled across the fronts. The first folder belonged to Tommy’s chief abuser, Adam Styler, now thirty-four, who had scotched his dreams of being a lawyer and, instead, worked as a plainclothes cop.

  Styler was assigned to a narcotics unit in a Queens precinct. It didn’t surprise me to learn that he was also dirty, shaking down dealers for dope and cash. He had a major coke problem that was supported by $3,000 a month in bribe money. The rest of the folder contained personal information—daily routines; women he dated; food he liked; bars he frequented. There were lists of trusted friends and hated enemies. A man’s life bound inside a yellow folder.

  The second bundle belonged to my tormentor, Henry Addison. I felt nauseated as I read that Addison now worked for the mayor of the City of New York as a community outreach director in Brooklyn. He was good at his job, honest and diligent. But his sexual habits hadn’t changed much since our time at Wilkinson. Addison still liked sex with young boys. The younger they were, the more he was willing to pay. Addison belonged to a group of well-heeled pedophiles who would party together three times a month, paying out big dollars for all-nighters with the boys they bought. The parties were usually taped, the kids and the equipment supplied by an East Side pimp with the street name of Radio.

  The third folder belonged to Ralph Ferguson, thirty-three, the man who helped give John Reilly a killer’s heart. He wasn’t a cop, though I’d expected him to be. He was a clerk, working for a social service agency on Long Island. Ferguson was married and had one child. His wife taught preschool during the week and they both taught Catholic Sunday school. He sounded as clean as he was boring. Which is exactly how Michael wanted him to be. Ralph Ferguson was going to be called as a character witness, to talk about his best Mend, Sean Nokes. Once he was on the stand, Michael could finally open the door to the Wilkinson Home for Boys.

  I moved farther into the hall, trying to keep the folders dry, trying to absorb all that Michael was telling me. He had waited nearly twelve years for this moment, planned for it, somehow knowing it would happen, and, when it did, he would be prepared.

  He insisted that John and Tommy be told nothing of our plan, that it would play better in court if they didn’t know. There was to be no jury tampering. The not guilty we sought had to be a verdict that no one would dare question. Danny O’Connor was to remain as the defendants’ attorney. We needed to keep him sober and alert and, since he was going to be as deeply involved as we were, too scared to tell anybody what we were up to.

  Michael would relay the information I needed through a system of messengers and drop boxes. I would pass information back to him in a similar manner. He pulled three keys out of his coat pocket and handed them to me. They belonged to lockers at the Port Authority, the 23rd Street YMCA, and a Jack LaLanne health club on West 45th Street. Once I had the packets in hand I would pass them on to O’Connor. I would make sure we weren’t seen.

  For the plan to succeed, we needed total secrecy and the involvement of only people we completely trusted. My first step was to get to King Benny. He would be our weight, our muscle, and could get us through doors we didn’t even know existed. He would put enough fear into Danny O’Connor’s heart to gently seal his lips. King Benny would also call off the West Side Boys, who were sure to be gunning for Michael the minute they knew he had taken the case against John and Tommy.

  I also needed Fat Mancho to turn over some rocks and Carol Martinez to open some more files.

  After this night, Michael would not be available to any of us. The only time we would see him would be in court.

  It was a foolproof plan in one respect. If it worked, we would avenge our past and, in the process, bring down the Wilkinson Home for Boys. If it didn’t work, if we were caught, people would want to know why we did what we did. Either way, information would get out.

  Michael’s way, however, insured that John and Tommy would walk with us and share in the victory.

  “Is that it?” I asked, gazing down at the folders in my arms. “Is that all you need?”

  “Just one more thing,” Michael said.

  “What?”

  He sighed, leaving the best for last. “We’ve got four witnesses who say they saw the shooting and are willing to testify. We need to knock that number down.”

  “I’ll work on it,” I said. “But if you lose more than two, it might get some people nervous.”

  “I’ll take two,” Michael said. “If you can get us one for our side.”

  “One what?” I asked.

  “One witness. A witness who’ll put John and Tommy somewhere else the night of the murder. Anywhere else. A witness they can’t touch. Strong enough to knock out whatever anybody else says.”

  “Don’t they have a name for that?” I asked.

  “A judge would call it perjury,” Michael said.

  “And what are we calling it?”

  “A favor,” Michael said.

  4

  KING BENNY STOOD behind the bar of his club, drinking from a large white mug of hot coffee, reading the three-page letter I had written and left for him in a sealed envelope on the counter. When he had finished, he laid the letter down and walked to the edge of the bar. He looked out at the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, the mug cradled in both hands.

  “Tony,” King Benny said to one of four men sitting around a card table, sorting early morning betting slips.

  Tony dropped the slips from his hands, pulled back his chair, and walked over.

  “Bring Danny O’Connor to see me,” King Benny said, his eyes never leaving the window.

  “Danny O’Connor the lawyer?” Tony asked.

  “You know more than one Danny O’Connor?” King Benny said.

  “No, King,” Tony said.

  “Then bring me the one you know,” King Benny said.

  King
Benny turned from the window and moved farther down the bar, stopping at the empty sink next to the beer taps. He put down his coffee mug and grabbed a book of matches from the top of the bar. He took one final look at my letter and then dropped it into the sink. He lit a match and put it to the letter and stood there, in silence, watching as it burned.

  Then, for the first time in many years, King Benny laughed out loud.

  5

  “YOU GOT TIME for me, Fat Man?” I said, standing in the middle of Fat Mancho’s bodega, watching him as he bent over to open a carton of Wise potato chips.

  “I’m a busy man, fucker,” Fat Mancho said, standing up, hugging his bulky pants above his waist, a smile on his face. “I got a business. Ain’t like you paper boys, with time on my fuckin’ hands.”

  “This won’t take long,” I said, grabbing a pack of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum from one of the racks. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  “You gonna pay me for that, you little prick?” Fat Mancho asked.

  “I never did before,” I said, putting two pieces in my mouth and walking out into the cool of the day. “Why ruin a good habit now?”

  Fat Mancho came out carrying two wood crates for us to sit on and a cold, sweaty Yoo-Hoo for him to drink. I sat down next to him, leaned my back against his storefront window, and stretched my legs. I pointed to the fire hydrant in front of us.

  “Kids still use that in the summer?” I asked.

  “It still gets hot, don’t it?” Fat Mancho said. “That pump’s the only beach they know. Just like you fuckers. You all cut the same.”