“Nothin’.”
Malone digs into his coat and comes out with rolls of cash wrapped in elastic bands. “This nothin’? Has to be thirty grand here, that’s some serious guap. Loyal customer rebate from Mickey D’s?”
“I eat Five Guys, motherfucker. Mickey D’s.”
“Well, you’re eating bologna tonight.”
“Come on, Malone,” Fat Teddy says.
“Tell you what,” Malone says, “we’ll just confiscate the contraband, cut you loose. Call it a Christmas present.”
It ain’t an offer, it’s a threat.
Teddy says, “You take my shit, you gotta arrest me, give me a five!”
Fat Teddy needs the arrest report to show Carter as proof the cops took it and he didn’t just rip him off. SOP—you get busted, you better have a DD-5 to show or you’re gonna get your fingers cut off.
Carter has done it.
The legend is he has one of those office paper cutters, and slingers who don’t have his dope, his money or a 5 get their hand laid in there and then whomp—no fingers.
Except it ain’t a rumor.
Malone found a guy staggering on the street one night, dripping blood all over the sidewalk. Carter left him with his thumb, though, so when he pointed the blame, he had no one to point at but himself.
They leave Teddy sitting against his car and go back to the Crown Vic. Malone cuts the cash up five ways, one for each of them, one share for expenses, and one piece for Billy O. Each guy puts his cash in a self-addressed envelope they always carry.
Then they go back and get Teddy.
“What about my ride, man?” Fat Teddy asks as they haul him to his feet. “You ain’t gonna take that, are you?”
“You had smack in it, asshole,” Russo says. “It is now property of the NYPD.”
“You mean property of Russo,” Fat Teddy says. “You ain’t drivin’ my Caddy out the Jersey Shore with that smelly guinea fish in it.”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in this coonmobile,” Russo says. “It’s going to the pound.”
“It’s Christmas!” Fat Teddy whines.
Malone juts his chin toward the building. “What’s her number?”
Fat Teddy tells him. Malone punches the number and holds his phone up to Fat Teddy’s mouth.
“Baby, get down here,” Fat Teddy says. “Take care my car. And it better be here when I get out. And detailed.”
Russo leaves Fat Teddy’s keys on the hood and they haul him toward their car.
“Who dimed me?” Fat Teddy asks. “It was that grimy little bitch Nasty Ass?”
“You wanna be one of those Christmas Eve suicides?” Malone asks. “Jumps off the GW Bridge? Because we can make that happen for you.”
Fat Teddy starts in on Monty. “Workin’ for the man, brothuh? You they house nigger?”
Monty slaps him across the face. Fat Teddy is big, but his head snaps back like a tetherball. “I’m a black man, you grape-soda-drinking, bitch-beating, smack-slinging projects monkey.”
“Motherfucker, I didn’t have these cuffs on—”
“You want to take it there?” Monty says. He drops his cigar in the street and grinds it with his heel. “Come on, just you and me.”
Fat Teddy don’t say nothin’.
“That’s what I thought,” Monty says.
On the way to the Three-Two they stop at a mailbox and put in the envelopes. Then they take Fat Teddy in and book him on the gun and the heroin. The desk sergeant is less than thrilled. “It’s Christmas Eve. Task Force assholes.”
“May Da Force be with you,” Malone says.
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,
Just like the ones I used to know …
Russo drives down Broadway toward the Upper West Side.
“Who was Fat Teddy talking about?” Russo asks. “Was he just mouthing, or does Carter have someone on the pad?”
“Has to be Torres.”
Torres is a wrong guy.
Does rips, sells cases, even runs whores, low-end crack addicts, mostly, and runaways. He works them hard. Keeps them in line with a car radio antenna—Malone has seen the welts.
The sergeant’s a real thumper, has a well-earned reputation for brutality, even by Manhattan North standards. Malone does what he can to keep Torres sweet. They’re all Task Force, after all, and have to get along.
But Malone can’t have lowlifes like Fat Teddy Bailey telling him he’s protected, so he’s going to have to work something out with Torres.
If it’s even true.
If it’s even Torres.
Russo pulls off at Eighty-Seventh and finds a parking space across the street from a brownstone at 349.
Malone rents the apartment from a Realtor they protect.
The rent is zero.
It’s a small pied-à-terre, but it suits their purposes. A bedroom to crash in or take a girl, a sitting room and a little kitchen, a place to take a shower.
Or hide dope, because in the shower stall there’s a false platform with a loose tile under which they stored the fifty kilos they ripped from the late, unlamented Diego Pena.
They’re waiting to lay it off. Fifty kilos is enough to make an impact on the street, cause a stir, even lower prices, so they have to let the Pena rip fade before they bring it out. The heroin has a street value of five million dollars, but the cops will have to lay it off at a discount to a trusted fence. Still, it’s a huge score, even split four ways.
Malone has no problem letting it all sit.
The largest score they’ve ever made or are ever likely to make, it’s their security, their 401(k)’s, their futures. It’s their kids’ college tuitions, a wall against catastrophic illness, the difference between retiring in a Tucson trailer park or a West Palm condo. They cut up the three million in cash right away, with Malone’s warning that no one should go out on a spending spree—buy a new car, a lot of jewelry for the wife, a boat, a trip to the Bahamas.
That’s what the Internal Affairs pricks look for—a change in lifestyle, work habits, attitude. Put the money away, Malone told his guys. Stash at least $50K
