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Prologue

THAT A DEAD body should be found washed up on the beach was not so unusual. Sandy Hook had had more than its share of floaters over the years. Hog-tied union officials in advanced stages of decomposition, crab-eaten torsos, discarded pets, missing children, drug dealers in oil drums; they came down with the current. Carried out of New York Harbor, down the Jersey coast, they filled with gas and popped to the surface before coming in with the tide.

Dr. Russel Breen, the Sandy Hook medical examiner, called away from his breakfast at the Tips for Tops Luncheonette, took one look at the latest, saw the duct tape around the wrists and ankles, the ligature marks under the chin, the welts indicating blunt force trauma, and the bullet holes in the back of the head, and declared him a city boy.

"No way he's local," he said. Another present from the Big Apple, he thought. He took X rays of the dead man's teeth (what was left of them) and some photographs (front and side view) and faxed them to the city.

He couldn't get any prints. The skin fell away from the fingers en masse. The hair was long gone, and the face, or what was left of it, was distorted beyond hope of recognition. The mans belly, swollen by the gas, had an umbilical hernia; the navel extruded like a turkey thermometer. When Dr. Breen turned his attention to the man's mouth, running a gloved finger around inside the cavity, he wondered at first if somebody had built a fire in there. The tongue was charred, and there were bits of red and brown paper embedded in the palate. Most of the teeth were gone, and the cheeks, blackened and torn, hung in spongy strips over the ears, as if somebody had tried to pull the mans face inside out and failed. Dr. Breen felt a hard object lodged in the throat and went after it with a hemostat.

"Son of a bitch," he said, holding it up to the light, "it's a cherry bomb. Guy got a mouthful a' damn cherry bombs. "

Satisfied that the deceased had been shot, beaten, and garroted, and that an attempt had been made to blow up his head, Dr. Breen had him loaded onto a squeaking gurney and taken off to the cooler. Then he went back to Tips for Tops for the rest of his breakfast. He would wait for the inevitable delegation from New York before going any further. Maybe they could get some prints using chemical solvent to dry the fingertips. Maybe they could make an ID with the few remaining teeth. Someone would be down from New York, of that he was sure. In the meantime, he'd get some breakfast.

What was unusual was the size of the New York contingent that arrived a few hours later. Most times, a floater drew two, maybe three city detectives; once in a great while, there was even a forensics hotshot. This time was different. This was an invasion. They couldn't fit, all of them, in Dr. Breen's tiny office. There were guys in suits from the U.S. Attorney's office, FBI men in dark blue windbreakers, detectives in blue jeans and warm-up jackets, and others in slacks and polo shirts, as if they'd been pulled off the golf course. There was even a sallow-complected trio of pathologists, from Washington, no less, who arrived in a helicopter. It was all very strange.

Usually, the two or three detectives who came down to view the latest dead wise guy would swagger around the coroner's office cracking jokes, trying to shock the locals with their indifference. They'd snicker over the remains, eager to demonstrate how "this ain't nothin, we see this alla time." They'd refer to a floater as "Poppin Fresh" or, if the subject was dismembered, as "Kibbles 'n Bits," or, if found in a drum, "Lunch Meat."

Not this group. They were sullen and humorless; they seemed resentful about something. Instead of the usual good-natured banter, they bickered among themselves; unspoken recriminations seemed to hang in the air, occasionally flaring up into loud, shouted disagreements. Then there was a scuffle out in the hallway: A stocky FBI man took a poke at somebody from the U.S. Attorneys office; a couple of local uniforms had to separate them. An Assistant U.S. Attorney ended up needing stitches; the FBI man was hustled onto the helicopter and sent back to Washington.

After the scuffle, they all stood out in the hall, glaring at each other, the FBI men sneering at the detectives and making rude comments under their breath. A few feet away, the detectives scowled silently back at them. The AUSAs formed their own little group by the water fountain, FBI men and detectives taunting them from their separate corners.

A reporter from the local paper showed up, only to find herself confronted by the whole group, which was suddenly, if momentarily, united in their hostility. One menacing detective snarled something indescribably obscene in her ear, and she retreated in tears.

Once the reporter had gone, they continued with their dark, accusatory looks. They shook their heads. They smoked their cigarettes. They fretted over the perceived repercussions from this latest arrival on Sandy Hook's beach. Clearly, they knew who it was. And they weren't happy about it.

Dr. Breen thought they looked... well, guilty.

Two

SALLY FOUND HARVEY looking out the window of his cluttered office. Harvey was a man of medium height with dark curly hair graying slightly around the sideburns and receding from a high forehead. He had bushy black eyebrows and horn-rimmed glasses. He was very tan. Harvey's desk was stacked with bills and invoices and bundles of dinner checks. On the wall, next to a Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar, two schedules, and a diploma stating that Harvey was certified to practice dentistry in the state of New York, hung a photograph of him in his white smock, smiling, with his arm around a plump, blond dental assistant.

"Hey, Harve," said Sally.

"Sally, what do you hear about the weather? Last time I heard they said it might be nice," said Harvey.

"I heard rain," said Sally. "They were playing the radio at Frank's."

"Why does it have to rain every weekend?" said Harvey. "Every fucking weekend now. I've never heard such shit."

"Yeah, well—"

Harvey turned and eased himself into an oversize swivel chair. He let out a long sigh. "Sally, I got nothing for you this week. I'm sorry. I'm dying here. It took everything just to make payroll this week. It's getting so the kids here run to the fuckin bank Thursday to cash their checks before they fuckin' bounce."

Sally moved closer to the desk and looked down at Harvey. "You know this makes three weeks. You're three weeks behind here. I mean, where are we going?"

"I don't know what to say. I don't know what to tell you. It's the fuckin' weather. I'm getting killed." Harvey leaned forward and flipped through a Page-a-Day calendar. "I just need a couple of good weekends—a couple of good Friday, Saturday nights, maybe a couple of brunches. I can get right with everybody no problem. I just don't have it right now."

"That's no good," said Sally. "That's no good at all. Some people are going to be real sad I come back there again with no money from you. It looks bad."

"I'm sorry. Really," said Harvey "Three times I come down here," said Sally.

"I know, I know," said Harvey, "I'm doing the best I can."

"I just can't have this," said Sally. "You got me?"

"I'm doing everything I can," said Harvey.

Sally shook his head. "I cant walk back there again and be coming up empty with you."

"I'm doing everything I can," insisted Harvey. "I get my meat from the man. My poultry, my fish There he tells me. Where to get my dairy. I got to get my linen and it doesn't even come back clean. And the garbage. These guys who come for the garbage—"

"That's not us," said Sally, pointing a thick finger at Harvey. "That's not us—the garbage. That's somebody else. You don't talk to them like you talk to me. They're friends but not friends like we're friends. You just let them haul your trash for you and then you pay them on time. You don't do no more than that with them. Somebody from them comes around and says they want to do something else with you and you come tell me. Right?"

"Sure," said Harvey "You understand that?" asked Sally.

"I understand," said Harvey.

"Okay, how are we gonna straighten out this problem here that we got?" asked Sally.

"Maybe if you can wait another week," said Harvey.

"Listen," said Sally, raising his voice, "you're not even making the fuckin vig here and you're talking maybe'? You're saying next week'? This is not a next week' situation. I like you, Harvey, you're a nice guy. You did nice work that time on my niece's teeth and all. You gave my nephew Tommy a job. I appreciate it. But the way things are..."

"How about steaks?" Harvey said hopefully. "I got some beautiful shell steaks down there in the walk-in. I got lobster tails—"

"I don't want any fuckin' steaks," said Sally, his voice rising. "What the fuck am I gonna do with fuckin' steaks? I'm up to my ass in fuckin' steaks anytime I fuckin' want 'em! You've gotta do better than that. I'm not playin' with you here. This is serious. It's three fuckin' weeks. The man wants his money. He wants it regular. You understand where we are here?"

"I just don't know what I can do," said Harvey, looking defeated behind his desk. "I don't know what else I can do."

"I can tell you what we're gonna do," said Sally. "I—me personally—am going to cover you for this week. Out of my own pocket. This week only. This once. And next week..."

Sally reached across the desk and grabbed a handful of his cheek. Harvey noticed how the gold Piaget watch on Sally's wrist hung like a charm bracelet over his hand. Then Sally started to bounce his head off the desk, and he could hear his glasses breaking.

Harvey dabbed at his bloody nose with a crumpled tissue. Sally stood across the room examining Harvey's face with a clinical detachment.

"We're not playing around here anymore," he said. "I'm not gonna get jerked off again. No more next weeks' outta you, you lit tie prick. No more I'll do my bests'. Just get me my fucking money Get it on time. Borrow it. Steal from your partners. Go back to pulling fucking teeth if you got to. This is serious. You seen The Godfather, right?"

Harvey nodded.

Three

HARVEY STOOD, head tilted back, in front of the restaurant's bathroom mirror, pressing a tissue to his nose. He was bleeding from both nostrils and was a little swollen over one eye. He rocked back and forth in front of the mirror saying, "Son of a bitch, son of a bitch." He noticed, from the corner of his eye, that the flowers in the vase by the sink were beginning to wilt. The lilies looked fine. Holding the tissue under his nose with one hand, he turned the vase around with the other so that the irises faced the rear. He took a long piss and saw that the porter had missed a spot in the urinal, and that the white hockey puck had melted down to the size of a Life Saver. He checked the inside of the toilet stall. There was no extra roll of paper.

Harvey left the bathroom, muttering under his breath. He walked across the empty dining room to the ice machine by the bar and filled a dinner napkin with some ice. He held it over his nose.

The interior of the Dreadnaught was fitted out like the lounge of an ocean liner. In fact, the fixtures, the zinc bar, the sconces, the curved banquettes, even the china and the silver, were from an old cruise ship. Harvey had bought the whole lot at auction. There were seats for forty customers in the back dining room, another twenty in the front cocktail area by the picture window. Two enormous murals, painted in the Social Realist style, ran the length of the restaurant. They depicted brawny, square-jawed dockworkers working on the New York waterfront of the 1930s. The murals matched the restaurant's color scheme, shades of black, gray, and beige, with little highlights of pink, painted in later, to match the tablecloths.

A single skylight, streaked with dirt and lined with silver alarm-system tape, allowed a little sun into the dining room above a lonely potted palm. A thin fluorescent tube ran around the edges of the black ceiling, glowing pink on the banquettes.

From his position at the bar, Harvey surveyed the room. Few things looked more tawdry than an empty restaurant during daylight hours. A bulb had gone out over the bar. There were scuff marks on the black baseboards, and he noticed that the bar stools needed reupholstering. Harvey tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that it would look better at night.

BACK IN HIS OFFICE, Harvey picked up the phone and called his old office number. Carol picked up.

"Dr. Rosenberg's office. Hold one moment please."

Harvey listened to Billy Joel play through the receiver until Carol came back on the line.

"Thank you for holding. How can I help you?"

"Carol, it's me," he said.

"Harvey, how are you?"

"What, has that jerk got you answering the phones now? Where's the girl?"

"She's out sick," said Carol. "I'm helping out."

"Carol, I got a little problem here. I wonder if you can do something for me," said Harvey.

"Yeah, sure. What's up?"

"Can you stop by the apartment and pick me up my other pair of glasses and maybe a clean shirt and bring them down to the restaurant?"

"I can do that. After work, right?"

"Yeah," said Harvey. "Later. When you finish. I just can't get away till then. A light blue shirt. If there's no blue, a pink."

"What happened?" asked Carol.

"I was in—I had a little accident," said Harvey. "I hit my head."

"Oh, my poor baby," said Carol. "Is it serious? What happened?"

"It's those low ceilings in the kitchen. They got all those pots and pans hanging off of there. I walked into a saucepot."

"Oh my god! Are you sure you're alright? Should you see somebody?"

"No, no, no. It's nothing."

"You should really talk to those boys down there in the kitchen. Somebody could be seriously hurt. You could get sued or something."

"It's okay, really."

"Do you want me to come right down?"

"No. After work is fine. I just need the glasses and a shirt. I'll see you... what, around six or seven? We can have a drink and maybe some dinner down here. I'll get them to make us up something nice.

"You got it, baby," said Carol.

"You have your key?"

"Of course, Doctor!" said Carol.

HARVEY SAT at his desk and looked up at the wall clock over the door. It was a quarter to four. He pressed the intercom button on the telephone, "Michael, pick up. Pick up, Michael."

The chef picked up. "Yeah?"

"Is the bartender in?" asked Harvey.

"He's changing," said the chef.

"What about Stephanie? She's early person tonight."

"She called before," said the chef, without inflection. "She said she's gonna be late."

"Thanks for letting me know. How late?"

"A few minutes," said the chef. "Head shots."

"Let me know when she comes in," said Harvey.

"Should I send her up?"

"No, just let me know. I want to know if I got somebody on the floor. Cheryl's due in at five forty-five. And the busboy. What's his name?"

"Hector?"

"That's it."

"Cheryl will be in early. It's chicken pot pie for the shaft meal. She loves chicken pot pie," said the chef.

"I have to go out for a little while in about an hour or so. Barry is off today, so watch the store for me, okay?"

"Okay," said the chef.

Harvey punched off the intercom and pressed down for an outside line. He dialed and heard two rings and a series of clicks on the other end. Finally, someone picked up.

A man's voice said, "Hello?"

"It's me," said Harvey. "This is Moses."

"Yes?" said the voice. "What is it you want?"

"I have to talk to my friend. As soon as possible," said Harvey.

"Is this an emergency?" asked the voice.

"Yes, it's a fuckin' emergency," said Harvey, losing his composure for a second. He paused and took a deep breath. "Alright, maybe not an emergency. But I've got to talk to the guy. Things are getting bad here. I got hurt today. Just now. I think he broke my fuckin' nose."

"Okay," said the voice. "Stay calm. You can meet him in... one hour. At the place. You know which place?"

"Yes. I know it," said Harvey.

"One hour then," said the voice.

Harvey hung up the phone and called his ex-wife.

Four

HARVEY STOOD OUT front of Village Cigars at the corner of Christopher Street and Seventh Avenue. The evening sky-was filling with clouds. A line of Lotto players pushed past Harvey and into the store. Commuters scurried by, making for the subway entrances. Looking across the street at the Riviera Cafe, Harvey watched the busboys breaking down the cafe tables in anticipation of rain. A dirty, barefoot old man with sores on his face shook an empty cardboard coffee cup at Harvey and asked him for change. He shook his head and the man moved on to the Lotto players.

A cherry-red Alfa Romeo two-seater pulled up to the curb on Seventh Avenue. The driver rolled down the window on the passenger side and called out to Harvey, "Hop in, Doc!"

The driver was a heavyset man with dark hair, thinning on top, and a carefully groomed mustache. He wore a blue-and-red-striped polo shirt, open at the neck, and a tiny gold crucifix on a thin gold chain. He leaned across the passenger seat and opened the door.

"Come on! Get in!" he said.

Harvey slid into the black leather bucket seat just as it began to rain. "Jesus Christ," said Harvey. "Is this your car?"

"Nope," said the driver. "Perks, man, perks. They say we should blend. I'm blending."

"They let you people have cars like this? This is where my tax dollars are going?" said Harvey.

The driver laughed, "Since when have you been paying your taxes?"

Harvey sat silently for a moment as the Alfa turned right. Another turn on Hudson and they were headed uptown in the early rush hour traffic. "I could have been killed today. Right there in my fuckin' office, he smashes my face in. Look at me... He could have killed me. He broke my glasses."

"It doesn't look too bad," said the driver, sneaking a quick look as he steered the car between a bus and a delivery truck. "They said you got yourself a broken nose or something. It doesn't look broken to me."

"I think it might be broken," insisted Harvey.

The driver pointed at his own nose. "That's what a broken nose looks like. You put ice on it?"

Harvey nodded.

"It looks a little swole-up maybe," said the driver. "But it doesn't look broken."

"It hurts," said Harvey.

It was pouring rain now. They pulled up at a stoplight, and the driver turned and looked at Harvey. "So what happened today?"

"He wanted money. It's Friday," said Harvey.

"So you gave him some?" asked the driver.

"I didn't have it to give," said Harvey. "I had to pay the liquor. You have to pay them or they put you on COD. You know what happens when they put you on COD? Once that happens, I may as well close the fucking doors."

"Harvey," said the driver, putting the Alfa into first gear as the light changed. "You are pissing me off. Our office disperses you certain funds. You, in turn, are to disperse those funds in the precise fucking manner we agreed. You are not supposed to pay your liquor bills with that money. You are not supposed to pay rent, or make payroll, or buy gifts for your bimbos. We've had this conversation before. You are to use those funds for the express purpose of making controlled payments at the appropriate times. You are supposed to give the nice Mr. Pitera his money when he asks for it." Seeing a long line of green lights in front of him, the driver quickly shifted gears and raced to make them.

"I'm sorry, Al," said Harvey. "I'm just trying to stay afloat till Labor Day. I'm jus' tryin' to pay my bills here. Tryin' to run a fuckin business. Tryin' to make a fuckin' living. And it's getting damn near fucking impossible."

"That's just too bad, buddy," said Al, lighting a Marlboro 100 with the lighter from the dashboard. "But it sure beats spreading your cheeks up at Greenhaven, don't it?"

Al gave Harvey an affectionate pat on the left knee and then down shifted into second gear as he swung the Alfa east, heading toward the park.

"Now don't pout," he said. "We'll take a nice drive in the park. I got a stack of cassettes there, the previous owner was a Stones fan. Is that a break? We'll have a nice drive and you can tell me your troubles. We can go over a few things together, listen to a few tunes. You just relax and tell Uncle Al all about it."

Twelve

TOMMY WOKE UP at one-thirty in the afternoon, still in his clothes. He wasn't due in till four—they were serving brunch today. He lit a cigarette and tossed the spent match into a beer can on the night table. The television was on with the volume down low, and Tommy searched around in the sheets for a remote. Unable to find it, he pulled himself out of bed, walked over to the set, and turned it off.

He finished his cigarette, cleared away the empty beer cans, picked up the phone, and called the restaurant.

Harvey answered.

"Harvey, it's Tommy," Tommy said, his voice constricting, "I'm not coming in today. I'm sick."

"What have you got, the flu?" asked Harvey. "You don't sound too good."

"I don't know. I just feel real sick."

"You should drink some tea. With lemon," said Harvey. "You throwing up?"

"I've been either hugging the bowl or shitting like a mink all night long," said Tommy.

"Well," said Harvey, "get some rest. I'll get Ricky or somebody to cover. My fucking luck it'll be slow tonight anyway. You just feel better. When do you think you'll be back in? You gonna be able to work tomorrow?"

"Yeah," said Tommy, "I'm sure I'll make it tomorrow. If there's any problem, I'll call you back."

"Okay. Feel better. Should you see a doctor? I can get you an appointment if you need."

"No, thanks anyway. I think I just ate something bad maybe."

"Not here?"

"No, no. I had something to eat over the Count's the day before. Maybe I ate something bad."

"That explains it," said Harvey. "That fuck poisoned you. They should close that place down. It's not safe."

"I don't know for sure, maybe it's the flu."

"I think it was something you ate over there. What did you have?"

"Please, Harvey. I'm gonna puke just thinking about that place. I gotta go."

"Okay, Tommy. Get well soon. Take care of yourself."

Tommy lay back in bed. After a while he peeled off his clothes; then, he took the longest shower of his life. He decided to try to forget the whole thing.

"I AM HAVING the worst fucking day of my life," said Harvey. He sat behind his desk, the sun streaming through the dirty Venetian blinds. Across from him two men in dark Brioni suits sat quietly sipping coffee. Harvey wiped his glasses with the end of his tie.

"My sous-chef isn't coming in today. I've got no porters till later and the garbage is piled up to the fucking ceiling down there. My chef is threatening to sue me 'cause somebody wrecked his knife and on top of all that it looks like it's gonna be busy. Look outside. First nice weekend we've had in I don't know how long and of course we get it today."

"That's the restaurant business for you," said the short coffee drinker.

"It's unpredictable," said the other coffee drinker, a big man with no neck.

"I've been in the restaurant business," said the short coffee drinker.

"Just when you think you know what to expect when you come in the door—" Harvey began.

"Somebody give you a good kick in the crotch," the bigger man finished.

"Listen, Harvey," said the smaller man, cheerfully, "we think we can be helpful. About what we talked about on the phone."

"That's great," said Harvey. "That's really great."

"We've spoken to our principals," said the smaller man, "and we think we can do something here."

"Well, that's great," said Harvey.

"It's a lot of money," said the larger man.

"But we think we can do the whole amount for you," said the smaller one.

"Twenty thousand?" asked Harvey.

"We just need to iron out a few things, schedule of repayments and all. You need it for six months?" asked the smaller man.

"Six months," said Harvey.

"That's no problem there. We can do that. That'll be when you pay the principal," said the smaller man, putting his empty coffee cup on the desk. "You know how this works. It's five points per week."

"Five points!" shrieked Harvey "Five points! That's completely unreasonable. Five fucking points? I can't pay that much. I won't pay that much! I don't pay the other guys that much, anywhere near that much! Two points. Two points I can do. I expected that. I can do two points. But five? Five points I may as well cut my own throat and fuckin' bleed to death right here. It's unreasonable."

"There's another thing," said the larger man.

"What other thing?" asked Harvey, patting down his hair on both sides and adjusting his tie. "What?"

"Your current lender," said the smaller one. "You're up to date with them?"

"Oh, yeah," said Harvey. "They fuckin' love me. They get theirs. Every week. If I'm short every once in a while, I have a bad week, it's no problem. They know I'll be there with the money. No problem. And two points."

"See, there's the political dimension," said the smaller man. "They lend you money, you have some understanding with them, it makes it uncomfortable if we come along and you know..."

"It's awkward," said the bigger man.

"So maybe, if we can work something out here, maybe it would be better if your current lender doesn't know what we do together," said the smaller one.

"We're not doing anything together at five fuckin' points, fellas," said Harvey.

"Harvey," said the smaller man, smiling again. "You're a first-time customer. And you're relatively new to the restaurant business. We understand that. We know how it is."

"So you know what it's like," said Harvey.

"It's hard. It's a hard business. We know that. So if we were to make it three points, we would expect you to make your interest payments on time. No knockdown. No excuses. You'll have to put our agreement first. What you do with the other guys we don't care so much, as long as it doesn't interfere with our business together."

"I can do three points. I can do that," said Harvey.

"When does Sally get his money?" asked the big man. "Tuesday?"

"Fridays," said Harvey.

"With us it'll be Tuesday, alright?" said the smaller man.

"No problem," said Harvey.

"Okay. We have a deal then," said the smaller man.

"Done," said Harvey. "How about a drink? I get you gentlemen a cognac? How about a nice cognac? I've got some Louis Treize'll knock your socks off. I'll buzz the girl, she'll bring it."

Harvey pressed the intercom button and shouted into the phone, "Barry, pick up! Pick up!"

Barry picked up the extension at the bar.

"Barry, send Cheryl in with three Louis Treizes. Use the big snifters. Is she here? She's here, isn't she? Tell her to hurry up, I wanna smell hair burn."

Harvey put the phone down and rubbed his hands together. Immediately there was a knock on the door.

"That was fast," said the big man.

The door opened quickly. It was the chef.

"Do you have a minute?" he asked.

"Michael, I'm busy with these people right now," said Harvey. "What is it?"

"It's about my knife," said the chef.

"Michael, I told you before about that. If you can't fix it I'll buy you another one."

"It's custom made," said the chef. "It takes weeks."

"We'll order you another knife. You can use the house knives until then, can't you?"

The chef rolled his eyes and looked pained.

"I'm sorry about the knife. I don't know what or who. But, I don't know what I can be expected to do about it right now. Especially now. I'm busy. We'll get you another, that's all I can do."

"Somebody deliberately fucked it up," said the chef. "Look at that," he said, holding up a piece of mangled steel. "Somebody did that deliberately."

"Michael, you can see I'm busy here. We'll talk about it later," said Harvey.

The chef turned on his heels and stalked off to the kitchen. Harvey smiled at the two men. "He takes his job very seriously."

Cheryl came through the door holding a tray with three brandy snifters.

"You can put that right here on the desk," said Harvey. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Cheryl gave a fake curtsy and left the room. The three men raised their glasses.

"Cheers," said Harvey.

"Salud," said the smaller man.

"Here's looking up your assets," said the big man.

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