Crook Manifesto (Ray Carney, #2)(92)

“Borough president.”

“Same shit,” Enoch said. “You’d think he’d have a bigger office.”

A prowl car cruised the intersection ahead. Pepper got out and stared at the cops as they moved down 135th, which Carney realized was the right move if you wanted to “act naturally.”

Enoch grabbed his bag. “He ain’t coming back?”

Carney shook his head. Elizabeth had told him that the Women for Oakes gang was meeting the candidate at a midtown fundraiser, liberal white-lady group. It was ten o’clock, and the event was likely breaking up, but he didn’t count on Oakes returning tonight.

Enoch picked the front-door lock so swiftly he might have used a key. He and Pepper slipped fluidly inside. Carney lost the men in the darkness. Light from the street guided them. He was sure they were in the back office by now.

Oakes wouldn’t be back—too much dirty work to do around town. From Hickey’s stories, he was turning the city’s routine corruption into a fat, legendary score. A real jackpot. He didn’t think the boy had it in him.

Pierce’s inside dope on the fire epidemic was news to Carney, but his explanation of the borough president’s powers was no surprise: Of course it works like that. There are always secret rackets underway that you know nothing about, even as they run your life. One racket brought mayhem, like the scams and rip-offs steering the city into decline, and another invisible racket held everything up so things didn’t completely go to hell, like schist. They battled each other, they took turns at the wheel—bottom line, the world was a mess.

What was Carney going to tell Elizabeth about his day with Pepper? He’d stolen a moment earlier to call home and tell John he’d be out, but their weekend guest’s behavior required more explanation. He gets beat up, is laid up, then he’s out of bed and out all day with her husband. She knew Pepper was shady; he was Big Mike’s running buddy. She’d never said anything. It was harder to keep your tongue still when “whatever he’s into” is dropped on your doorstep. Elizabeth will poke at Carney, for sure. Like this gem from Saturday night:

“What do you do at that bar you guys go to?”

“Drink beer.”

“Yeah?”

“Watch a game.”

“Hmm.” Insinuating. Not insinuating.

A trio of young ladies made their way up Seventh on the way to a night spot. They stalled before the campaign office, laughing over a joke, grabbing on to one another for support. Carney shrank in the front seat until they resumed and rounded the corner.

If Oakes suffered a misfortune and Pepper’s name came up, that was harder to manage. For all of Carney’s resentments, the campaign was important to Elizabeth, and so was Oakes. He put on a good show; she believed in her friend and the better city he promised. Oakes hadn’t been involved with the fire that hurt Albert, but he’d engineered plenty of others, and a host of other crooked stuff. It’s how he was taught. Carney thought of the portraits on the walls of the club, that crooked old crew of Dumas Founding Fathers who grabbed all they could and then tutored their sons. The sons put their daddies’ faces on canvas and hung them in the club to remind themselves, the way white men slapped the names of their own master crooks onto street signs. Of course Dale was going to hand off Seneca to his nephews after Elizabeth’s hard work—there’s a code of how to keep running things, and they stick to it.

How will she react if she discovers Pepper is involved? She gets on to Pepper, she’s on to Carney. No explanation would suffice.

It was too late. He was in too deep.

He was here tonight because a boy he didn’t know was caught in a fire, and a spark had caught Carney’s sleeve. To avenge—who? The boy? To punish bad men? Which ones—there were too many to count. The city was burning. It was burning not because of sick men with matches and cans of gas but because the city itself was sick, waiting for fire, begging for it. Every night you heard the sirens. Pierce blamed years of misguided policy, but Carney rejected that narrow diagnosis. From what he understood about human beings, today’s messes and cruelties were the latest version of the old ones. Same flaws, different face. All of it passed down.

It was in Carney, too. In his words and deeds, in a thousand tiny moments, his father had provided lessons in how to be in the world, and Carney had taken notes without knowing it. Or he knew it but didn’t accept it. His father was a crook and he was a crook. When Mike Carney died, Ray Carney inherited his old Ford truck. It got around decently and helped with deliveries and pickups those early years with the store. More significant—his father had stashed thirty grand in the spare tire. His bank, containing one big score or what he put away over time from hijackings, heists, muscle work, stickups, and the occasional torch job. Carney had used the cash to open the store.

Fire money. Carney built his business on his smarts, his industry, his refusal to fail. Fire money was in there, too.

Pepper opened the passenger door, startling him. He carried a big black garbage bag.

Enoch got in the back. “Wheelman’s supposed to keep the car running.”

“That was quick,” Carney said.

“Enoch does his job,” Pepper said. Carney and Enoch appreciated this as Pepper’s highest compliment.

They were on Broadway headed downtown when Carney asked about the bag. Did Pepper swipe the petty cash on his way out? There was more than a ledger in there.