Shamrock Alley Read online

  “What about knockin’ the price down?”

  Mickey bit the inside of his cheek, stifling a laugh. “Yeah, sure. Because I like you so much.”

  John flexed his hands on the steering wheel and shrugged one shoulder. “You’re a little high,” he said, pressing Mickey, curious to see if Mickey had the authority to drop the price if he wanted. He watched his eyes, tried to read them, studied the ticks at each corner of his mouth.

  “You don’t like it, hit the bricks.”

  “Think about it.”

  “Tomorrow night pans out,” Mickey said, “you’re lookin’ at the same deal. Twenty percent. Bottom line.”

  John slipped the counterfeit bills back into the paper bag and tossed it behind him on the back seat. “Good doin’ business with ya,” he told Mickey.

  “We’ll see,” was all Mickey said. And a moment later, he was dodging traffic along Tenth Avenue and heading back toward the candy store.

  Back at the office, Kersh was upset. A man of lesser integrity would have been irate, his voice raised, his hands no doubt balled into bloodless white fists. But Bill Kersh was not that man. He sat on the corner of his desk, the hem of his rumpled slacks hitched too high above his socks, one foot—the one off the ground—twitching uneasily. The knot of his necktie was pulled away from his collar, the tie itself twisted like a contortionist. The look on his face was that of a disappointed parent.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Kersh said.

  John sat in Kersh’s desk chair, labeling evidence bags. On the desk, still wrapped in the mint-green tissue paper and stuffed inside a brown paper bag, was $100,000 in counterfeit hundreds.

  “I knew you’d get bent out of shape,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

  “So tell me,” Kersh said. “This guy rings you Thanksgiving morning and you meet him without calling me? Without calling the office?”

  “It was Thanksgiving. Most of the guys weren’t even in. Besides, there was no time. I was late getting there as it was. What the hell would calling the office have done?”

  “At least someone would have known where you were,” Kersh said. “It was careless. It was stupid.”

  John slapped the evidence bag down on the desk and looked up at Kersh. “He was fronting me the money. What the hell was I supposed to do? Turn him down? ‘No thanks, Mickey, I don’t feel like pickin’ up free money today’? Come on, Bill, you’re talking nonsense.”

  Kersh slid off his desk. He lingered for a moment with his head facing the darkened bank of office windows, his meaty hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks. “What about your report? What are you going to say about this in your undercover report?”

  John frowned, shrugged. “I was planning to leave it out.”

  “Oh,” Kersh said. “Oh. Okay.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and pressed them on top of his desk. Bending down, he cut the distance between their faces in half. “Let me explain something,” he said. His voice was not harsh, not preachy. It was Bill Kersh’s normal cadence—half simplicity, half heart. “This is not how we do things. There are rules we follow and reasons we follow them. This is not a game. I don’t need you running around the streets playing Batman. You don’t need that.”

  “I think you’re getting a little carried away. Relax. It worked out, didn’t it?” He offered Kersh a crooked grin—what Katie called his “kiss-my-ass-grin.”

  Kersh straightened his back, sighed, and folded his arms. The button on his left wrist cuff had fallen off, allowing the cuff to hang open. Tonight, he was bothered by more than just the fact John had left out the details of the Thanksgiving Day meeting. Tommy Veccio had reported in, explaining that he’d kept an eye on Mickey O’Shay all evening, but O’Shay had gone nowhere—just between his apartment and the candy store, and that was it. Which meant the money had to have been in either O’Shay’s apartment or Calliope Candy.

  “John,” Kersh began, “this is a job. A little different than most, maybe, but it’s still a job. Doctors operate with the proper equipment—they don’t waltz into the O.R. clutching a handful of knives and forks, ready to go to work. That’s just not the right way. I’m telling you from experience. You think something’s worth it, but it’s really not.” He rubbed the side of his face. “I just want you to do this like the professional you’re supposed to be,” he said, then added, “like the professional I know you are.”

  John pushed back in his chair and didn’t say a word.

  “Rules,” Kersh said. Unfolding his arms, he turned and headed toward the office door. “I’m getting some coffee,” he said. “You want?”

  “I know what I’m doing,” John said, and watched Kersh walk out of the office.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE PURPOSE OF THE SECOND BUY-THROUGH with Mickey O’Shay was primarily to allow Bill Kersh to sit on him and watch where he went to pick up the money. The problem was Mickey O’Shay went nowhere. It was just as Tommy Veccio had informed Kersh prior to the first buy-through: “This guy goes nowhere, Bill. He hangs around the street corner, the candy store. That’s it. And another thing,” Veccio added, a tinge of humor in his voice. “This guy looks like an extra from an old Jimmy Cagney flick. I’d be surprised if he’s got two brain cells to rub together and make a spark. He supposed to be some sort of big deal or what?”

  It went down the same this time, too. Mickey O’Shay slipped from his apartment in the early part of the evening, crossed the street to Calliope Candy, and remained inside until John showed up for the buy. Kersh, his sedan parked further west along 53rd Street, sat with his back facing the candy store. Over the years, he’d developed a rather inconspicuous and effective method of backward surveillance: by utilizing the sedan’s rearview and sideview mirrors, he was able sit casually behind the wheel and see all the action without ever having to face the suspect. From the sedan, he watched Mickey and could not believe the hood did not have to go to pick up the money.

  Surely any second he expected him to pop out of the candy store and start heading down the street on foot. Or maybe grab a cab and head toward Times Square or the Theater District. Yet Mickey O’Shay never left the candy store. Moreover, no one else entered—just a smattering of neighborhood kids. Was it possible that the kids were carrying money, that they were used as runners? It was possible, but Kersh thought they looked too young for Mickey to trust them with such valuable merchandise. Then was the money squirreled away in the candy store somewhere? In O’Shay’s apartment?

  Just as night began to claim the city, John’s Camaro pulled up across the street from the candy store, his headlights on. After several minutes, Mickey stuck his head out of the candy store, coughed once into a balled fist, then began crossing the street. He moved with his usual swagger—one that suggested he watched too many movies where the bad guys were heroes and all the cops were dirty.

  Mickey entered John’s car without saying a word. Around them, the sky was turning a bruised, deep purple. A few pedestrians were hustling home along Tenth Avenue, not a single one interested in the Camaro parked across the street from Calliope Candy.

  John nodded toward the candy store.

  “You should buy that joint, much time as you spend there,” he said. Mickey didn’t say a word.

  “You got it?” John said.

  Mickey produced another package wrapped in mint-green tissue paper, this one much smaller than the first. Mickey did not immediately hand it over to him. Instead, he kept it on his lap and pulled over one flap of the tissue paper, exposing the bills. There was a single banded stack inside—ten thousand in counterfeit hundreds. With one hand, Mickey dumped the package into John’s lap.

  “Good,” John said, examining the bills. “Your guy does good work.”

  “Where’s mine?”

  John folded the tissue paper back over the notes and stuffed them into his jacket. He pointed to a crowbar on the floor by Mickey’s feet. “Gimme that,” he said.

  Mickey shot a glance at the
crowbar, then looked up at John. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

  “The crowbar.” John opened his door, swung one leg out. He was struck by a blast of cold air. “Give it to me.”

  Mickey just stared at him.

  “You want your money or not?”

  Mickey’s eyes lingered on John for a moment longer—then he leaned forward, grabbed the crowbar by its hooked end, and handed it over to John without saying a word. If Mickey had any reservations about handing him the crowbar—if for even a split second he thought John might use the tool to bang him over the head and drag him out into the street—his eyes did not show it.

  He took the crowbar and stepped out into the street.

  “Where you goin’?” Mickey called, not even the slightest tremor in his voice. As if he were speaking the words to convince John of trepidation he did not feel. He remained in the passenger bucket, his eyes focused on the parked car in front of him.

  “Gettin’ your money, “John said, and walked over to the Camaro’s rear driver’s side tire. Kneeling in the street, he popped the hubcap off the wheel and peeled a small, plastic bag away from where it was taped inside of the hubcap. Leaning over the driver’s seat, Mickey watched him in the driver’s sideview mirror. John hammered the hubcap back into place and slipped back inside the car, slamming the door and tossing the crowbar on the back seat.

  “Had to meet some people before I came here—didn’t want the coins on me. You see this car parked somewhere else next week, let me save you the trouble,” he said, flipping Mickey the plastic bag. “Don’t bother checking the wheels.”

  Mickey rolled the plastic bag over in his hands. He took out the money, flipped through it with seemingly little interest, though he did not count it.

  “Let’s talk about cutting down the price,” John said.

  “I told you the deal.”

  “I need a new deal.” He tapped the pocket of his jacket where he’d stashed the counterfeit. “This is good shit. I wanna keep buyin’ from you, Mickey, but you gotta get the numbers down. I’m payin’ you twenty points, I gotta make at least another five to make it worth my while. I can get a lot of action on this money, but not at twenty-five percent.”

  “That ain’t my problem.”

  “I’m just asking you to think about it, talk to whoever you need to … maybe we both talk to ‘em. I wanna keep doin’ business with you, Mickey.”

  “Who are you?” Mickey said then. His tone wasn’t accusatory, wasn’t sardonic or laced with any trace of sly humor. It was a straight question. Mickey’s eyes lingered on him, awaiting an answer.

  “What?”

  “Who are you?” That same straightforward tone.

  “I’m a guy lookin’ to make some money,” he said, switching to offense. “You ain’t interested in making money, in making deals, then tell me who you are.”

  Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Mickey nodded his head and said, “How many buyers you got lined up?”

  “What do you care?” It was the appropriate response, yet he wanted to encourage Mickey to keep talking all the same, keep him asking questions. “I move around, make connections, meet people. Like I said—I can move whatever you got. And not just this shit. Anything. But the price’s gotta be right.” He sighed, put his hands on the steering wheel and faced front. A dark blue Pontiac eased past them along Tenth Avenue and turned left on West 53rd Street.

  Wheels were turning in Mickey’s head; John could see a flicker of thought working behind Mickey’s cold, shallow eyes. It was like a suddenly brilliant flame, long since starved of oxygen.

  Yet Mickey was through chatting. “You need some more,” he said, opening the passenger door, “call me. We’ll talk about price then.”

  “Let me ask you something,” he said, peering at Mickey through the door. “You always this friendly?”

  Not even grinning, Mickey O’Shay shut the passenger door.

  “He’s heading back to the store,” he said into the transmitter on the dashboard. “Must have one hell of a sweet tooth.”

  He started up the Camaro’s engine but did not pull out right away. He remained, watching Mickey from the corner of his eye.

  Kersh, roughly one block away, was also watching Mickey O’Shay. He watched Mickey shuffle onto the curb outside Calliope Candy, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his eyes on the traffic along the street. He looked like someone waiting for a bus. Then one of Mickey’s hands appeared from his coat. Kersh watched as he went to the pay phone outside the store, picked up the receiver. After sliding in some change, Mickey dialed a number and remained on the street corner with the receiver up to one ear. With the thumb of his free hand, Mickey scraped at his front teeth, his eyes still on the slow-moving traffic along Tenth Avenue.

  “Who’re you calling now, buddy?” Kersh muttered to himself, adjusting the sedan’s rearview.

  Mickey’s phone call was brief. After he hung up, he turned and sauntered back inside Calliope Candy. Kersh eased his head against the headrest, his mind lingering on Mickey O’Shay and the candy store. He might just drop in there tomorrow, say he’s grabbing some peppermints for his nephew or something. Just to scope out the place, see who was behind the counter. Ideas came quickly to him when he was able to envision his surroundings, when he knew the field on which his opponents practiced.

  Kersh’s sedan remained parked along West 53rd Street for some time afterward, the car’s driver curious to see if Mickey happened to split and head off somewhere. But Mickey O’Shay never came out of the candy store, and the night was quickly upon him.

  Starting his car, he backed out of his parking space and onto West 53rd Street, heading toward the Hudson. While readjusting his rearview mirror, he saw John’s Camaro drift across the intersection of Tenth Avenue and West 53rd Street. A few cars followed close behind him. Three cars away, Kersh spotted a blue Pontiac Sunbird and felt a sudden needling in the pit of his stomach.

  John was being followed.

  The blue Pontiac Sunbird had completed two revolutions around the corner of Tenth Avenue and West 53rd Street while Kersh had been on surveillance—probably more, but he hadn’t noticed. And now the car was following John down Tenth Avenue.

  Headlights behind him caused him to readjust his rearview mirror again. He made a quick right onto Eleventh Avenue, the sedan’s engine roaring, and grappled with his cell phone. When he depressed the power button, the screen only glowed a dim green. LOW BAT blinked across the screen.

  “Shit!”

  He tried dialing John’s cell phone, nonetheless, but the call would not go through. Goddamn cell phone, he thought. It’s got enough power to tell me the battery’s low, but not enough to make one stinking phone call. He tried his radio to reach John, but John had turned his off. He could use his walkie-talkie and get in touch with Veccio and Conners, who’d also been on the surveillance … but then decided against it at the last minute. The best way to handle the situation was as indiscriminately as possible.

  He spun down West 57th Street toward Tenth Avenue, knowing full well the routes John would take to get back to the office. There was a jam at the intersection up ahead. Some ConEd guys in orange vests and blue helmets had busted half the street open here, and traffic had stalled to a standstill. Horns blared as discourteous drivers spun out into the open side of the street, cutting off less aggressive drivers. The traffic lights were not in Kersh’s favor. Slowly, he eased up a few feet behind a white van, his eyes scanning the intersection. He spotted John’s car in the confusion of traffic, trying to turn off 57th Street. And a few cars behind him, Kersh could make out the blue Pontiac Sunbird.

  Son of a bitch …

  Squinting, he tried to make out the plates but couldn’t read the numbers. A young-looking white guy was behind the wheel, the car’s only occupant…

  Damn …

  It was probably nothing—perhaps just someone who had been looking for a parking space all day—and from what John had said, Mickey O’Shay did not seem
like the sort of guy capable of orchestrating a tail. Still, it did not sit well with him. Bill Kersh would not take that chance.

  Behind him, another bright pair of headlights reflected in the sedan’s rearview. Squinting, he pushed the rearview off at an angle, casting the reflection from his eyes, and watched as John’s Camaro slowly cut across the intersection and began to turn right. Several cars behind John, Kersh could make out the Pontiac edging toward that same direction.

  He didn’t like the way the Pontiac was pushing its way toward the intersection, somehow more insistent than the other cars around it. Still, he could not make out the license plate.

  Traffic was a large part of the city. Bill Kersh did not customarily dislike the traffic, and did not mind the city. Time spent in a jam was usually time to reflect and be alone. Now, however, he felt driven by a certain urgency, a certain gnawing at his gut. Sure, it was probably nothing—yet undercover agents had been tailed before. Why Mickey O’Shay would want to put a tail on John … Kersh understood that very well.

  The lights above the intersection still had not changed. Two ConEd guys were trying their best to direct traffic around the source of the problem: a giant crater in the center of the street.

  Let’s move, a voice boomed in Kersh’s head, and he gunned the engine and lurched through the intersection. One of the ConEd guys shouted something, then dodged out of the way. Kersh blared his horn. The stream of cars already at a standstill in the middle of the intersection began to reverse or pull forward, as close to the sanctity of the curb as they could manage. A line of traffic cleared, and Kersh’s sedan slid quickly between the gap. Someone else shouted something obscene. Fists pumped the air. The sedan shuddered and lurched forward again, closing the gap of the intersection, the front end of his car desperate to pull through the jam and spill out on the other side of 57th Street.

  As he crossed the intersection, he angled his car perpendicular to the mouth of West 57th Street, inhibiting the flow of turning traffic. More horns blared. Up ahead, he could make out the diminishing taillights of John’s Camaro speeding off into the darkness. And two cars over from Bill Kersh’s right was the Pontiac Sunbird, in as dead of a stop as every other car. The driver appeared calm, his face eclipsed by shadow. The two cars between them made it impossible for him to get the tag number.