CHAPTER 20.

THE INTERROGATION ROOM IN the federal building had been set up for intimidation: no windows, bright light, hard uncomfortable chairs. Only Nick was seated, dead center behind a narrow steel table as they stood around the room watching him: No one questioned him; he knew they were waiting for someone.

When their boss arrived, he walked directly to the table in front of Nick. Carefully he placed Nick's gold shield, his official notebook, his gun, methodically emptied, and his wallet on the table.

"So, Detective O'Hara, what were you doing uptown?"

Nick didn't answer. He studied the tall, thin man with a cop's interest. About forty-five; flat face with round beige eyes; heavy beige hair slicked back in the style models used in the expensive men's cologne ads. Well-dressed; good shoes; good build. He had the whitest face Nick had ever seen. His skin was smooth as a child's, as though he'd never had the need to shave. His lips were full and pink and pouty, again like a child's. But Agent Rodney Coleman was not a child, and Nick did not underestimate him.

Nick shrugged. "Picking up some money from some sc.u.mbags."

Agent Coleman pulled up a chair and leaned forward. "That much we know. That much we have on tape. Along with every word you said in that restaurant. What I want to know is this: How did you know about the money in the freezer?"

Coleman's eyes never seemed to blink. They were like round doll eyes. Nick wondered: If you laid him on his back, would they close?

Nick shrugged. "I thought everyone knew about that."

Agent Alexander Kantor, a young man with an old man's face, small eyes made tiny by thick horn-rimmed gla.s.ses, got into Nick's face. He smelled of some strong cologne, and Nick rubbed his nose. He was about five seven or eight, thin. His clothing seemed too large for his body type. His hair was pulled back into a scrawny ponytail. He was the agent who had watched as the others tackled Nick in the van. He was the only one present who had clearly identified himself.

"Only a very few select people had that information. Where did you get it from?"

"Don't I look like a very select person to you?"

Kantor pulled back, crossed his arms, and shook his head. "You look like gutter sc.u.m to me, O'Hara."

Good-guy Coleman, the calm one, put his hand on Kantor's arm. "Do you know how much money you walked away with, Detective O'Hara? Oh, that's right. You didn't get a chance to count it, did you? Sixty-five thousand dollars."

"Really? I thought it was a h.e.l.luva lot more than that." He looked pointedly at Kantor.

"How did you know how many bags were in the freezer?"

Nick shrugged.

Coleman positioned himself on the edge of the steel table. "See, here's the thing, Nick. I may call you Nick? Here's the thing. We've been set up on this money-laundering thing for quite a while. Our information is very privileged and you just blew it wide open. No one, not the P.D. or their renegade b.u.m cops who regularly collect from Luis and Victor, know the extent-or the real nature-of the business that goes on there. Internal Affairs got a few anonymous calls about the cop payoffs; the shakedowns, interfering with drug trade. But they never made a case. Drug trade, per se, is not what these people are all about."

"Really? And what-per se-are these people all about?"

Kantor picked up. "Who gave you the information on the money laundering? What else do you know about this setup? You been doing something undercover, what?"

After a while, their voices became a humming inside his head. He remained silent. They gave him a plastic cup of lukewarm coffee, which he drank straight down and nearly threw up. He offered them nothing; no excuses, no pleas, no could-we-talk-about-this? No appeal to his better nature-if he had one-could penetrate his weary resignation.

They watched him closely as Deputy Inspector Frank O'Hara entered the room. Nick stood up angrily.

"What's he doing here? This has nothing to do with him. You got me. You got me. C'mon, Frank, this has nothing to do with you."

Frank O'Hara seemed diminished; pulled into himself. His voice was hoa.r.s.e, his color gray. He shook his head. "Jesus Christ, Nick. How the h.e.l.l did this happen?"

Within hours, they knew everything there was to know about Nick O'Hara and his family. Sad about his kid, tough. And they knew how tough it was to maintain a marriage when you're a cop with endless hours and far-reaching involvements.

They knew about the gambling and his outstanding debt to some guys in Vegas. They didn't seem to know about the fifty thou lien on his house. Or decided not to mention it for the time being.

Agent Felix Rodriguiz, black penetrating eyes, kind face, reached out, squeezed his shoulder, leaned forward as though they were just two guys, in this together. The others were all busy elsewhere.

"See, Nick, we've talked about all the pressure you've been under. Hey, your uncle is a good advocate. If this was a P.D. matter, something could be worked out. But you really blundered into something out of your league. We've been working a Dominican-Colombian-Na.s.sau drug money-laundering deal for a long time."

Nick looked at the earnest face; the guy was just doing his job. "Yeah? Which one are you-or does Hispanic cover it all? I never could get it straight."

Rodriguiz was an even-tempered man. He continued talking as though Nick hadn't said a word. "We even have a man inside. One of the kitchen workers. He was afraid he'd have to break cover when they came at you with the knife."

Curious, Nick asked, "Would he have?"

The agent smiled. "It would have been his call, one way or the other. But see, Nick, what you've done is, you tipped them off. You knew there was a large amount of money, how many bags were delivered. Their whole setup is blown. You're a cop-so the cops know, right? They are kaput and we've wasted six months of our time for nada. We risked the life of an agent for nada. We got to answer a lot of questions from people in Washington, D.C. You can understand our position. What have we got to offer? A narcotics d.i.c.k from downtown who came uptown, just happened to hit the right place on the right night for what was the beginning of the largest stockpile of money being collected for shipment to the islands. The word is out; everyone is laying low." He shook his head. "And all we got is you."

"I'm not much, huh?"

"You're a h.e.l.luva lot less than much, my friend."

Coleman didn't even have to exchange signals with Agent Rodriguiz, who left the room and was replaced by a couple of agents Nick hadn't seen before, along with Agent Kantor.

Nick stared at Coleman's smooth face; not a line or a blemish-it might have been made of porcelain.

Nick shrugged. "Hey, sometimes things just go wrong, right?"

Coleman reached behind him for a clipboard being offered by one of his men. He studied it for a moment.

"Well, we do have something else. Something that just might save my a.s.s and the well-being of the rest of my squad. None of whom, by the way, would look forward to being exiled to the flat Midwest or cold regions of the Dakotas. These guys are all city boys-New York, Chicago, Philly."

He handed the clipboard to Nick, who rubbed his eyes, tried to catch the light. Kantor immediately put on a bright overhead light. Nick scanned the papers before him, then slammed the clipboard of the table. It made a loud ringing sound.

"Nick. Your grandpa Nicholas Ventura is a big-time operator. Everyone knows about him. Very honorable citizen. Pays his taxes; gives to charities; keeps his property well groomed. No loud parties. Runs a lot of unionized companies; pays fair wages. He can afford to. h.e.l.l, everything he owns was established on blood money. He's healthy, even in his old age-although who can picture Papa Ventura as an old man?" Coleman looked around at his agents. "You should see this guy. Strong, energetic. I hear he jogs two miles a day, rides his bike a coupla miles-hope I can do that when I'm his age. G.o.d bless him, no couch potato he."

Nick tried to blank out, but he heard every word the agent in charge said to him.

"Your grandfather's new alliance is with the China end of the worldwide drug trade, Nick. China White: purest, most potent, most valuable heroin beginning to flood our country. No way the China end can get infiltrated. It's been tried, trust me. Five or six Chinese undercovers wound up floating, without eyeb.a.l.l.s or ears or t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. And three of the top experts, men with sterling records, fifteen, twenty years unblemished, honored service, selfless men who never were tempted by all the offers they received all their lives-they all of them became instant millionaires through the good graces of the Chinese Triads. They're now retired in Taiwan or Hawaii; one guy is president of an import-export company in San Francisco, a semiretired man not worrying about his lousy retirement pay. The Chinese are smart enough not to murder top police officials. They don't want all the attention that would bring to them. They buy them instead; so the public anger goes toward the corrupted man instead of the corrupters." He raised his light eyebrows, an expression of admiration. "They are cool customers, Nick. That leaves us without a China infiltration. So, we have to go stateside-and you're our only option."

"That leaves you with no option."

"Oh, Nick. C'mon into my office. Want to show you our videotape. You look pretty good, and your voice is nice and clear." He leaned down and whispered, "We could send your a.s.s away for twenty years. Of course, you wouldn't last a week inside. Word would get around fast, Nick. Narcotics d.i.c.k. And if that didn't do the trick, we spread a rumor: that you ratted out your own grandfather."

Nick refused to make a statement of any kind. He asked for an attorney from the PBA. Instead, they sent in Frank O'Hara. He sat heavily in the small chair. His face was pained; he was suffering.

"I'm not gonna ask you why. You can't blame them for asking where you got the information. They've worked on this case a long time-now they're in big trouble."

"Street source. A junkie owed me big time. He's long gone. Don't ask me how an informant knows anything. Sometimes they just do. Sometimes they're wrong. This guy was right. What can I tell you?"

"Nick, if this was Internal Affairs, I could intervene. Let you resign; take what's available in your pension. You could start a new life. We all know how it's been for you, but these guys-they don't give a s.h.i.t about you. If you take a deal with them, you turn in your gun and shield, and it all gets explained away: personal problems. You need a new perspective. Nick, you'd never be able to take a fall. You know it as well as I do. Their case is loused up; their careers are loused up-unless they can give their bosses something bigger: the big thing, Nick, the China White trade. You're just about their only hope for getting an inside line on the China connection. Even their longtime informants are deaf and dumb about this stuff."

Nick stood up and flexed his arms. "Can you see me working against my grandfather? Don't turn away, Frank."

Frank rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling; he stared at a small hole adjacent to the ceiling fixture. The tape recorder used previously had been taken away. Nick had spotted the bug at once.

Frank shrugged. "Look, kid, how about you give it some thought? A coupla hours, you go home, shower, get a few hours' sleep. Nicky, you've been goin' like a nut case. s.h.i.t, I shoulda looked at you more carefully ... I didn't realize. ..."

Nick slammed his fist against the metal wall. "Don't start on that guilt trip. I did what I did. You have nothing to do with it. Frank, I'm all grown up. Whatever happens happens." He rubbed his eyes, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. "There is one thing, though, Frank. Christ, I hate to tell you this. About the house-"

Frank was genuinely shocked by the loan Nick had taken out. To do that to Kathy. After going through their bank account. To wipe her out like that.

"I can't cover that, Nick. d.a.m.n it, the gambling, I sort of understand how that gets a hold on you. But to do that to Kathy ..." He walked out, shaking his head.

Within fifteen minutes, Frank was back. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. "They can take care of it for you. The fifty grand. From funds. Get the house back so you can give it to Kathy. Let her sell it. h.e.l.l, they'll take it from the money you took-confiscated from the Dominicans. Kid, I don't see any other way."

"Frank, will they let me walk outta here with you? Gimme a coupla hours to think things through? I got guys from Las Vegas waiting on me. I make a run for it, they turn me into chopmeat. Literally. What do they want, about my grandfather? I don't know anything about-"

Frank looped an arm around Nick's shoulders. "They'll tell you when they're ready. If you're ready ..."

They gave him twenty-four hours to figure things out. The rock or the hard place. Neither Frank nor Nick spoke on the way home.

Frank reached out, patted his arm. "Get some sleep. You look like h.e.l.l."

Nick entered his kitchen, leaned against the door, and heard Frank's car drive off. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

What the f.u.c.k had he gotten himself into?

CHAPTER 21.

WHEN HEADLIGHTS LIT UP the driveway, Nick thought it was Frank returning. He heard the light tapping on the front door. Joe the Brain Menucci stood quietly waiting for Nick to let him in. His grandfather wanted to see him. Now.

"Look, I need a shower, gotta change my clothes, Joe. Go look at the TV for a while, or I'll put on some music for you. Won't take me more than fifteen, twenty minutes."

Joe Menucci shook his head. Not even one minute. He had been told. "Nicky. The man said right now."

When Nicholas Ventura was tense, the very air within his home changed. Best to stay out of the way, as Joe Menucci did when he left Nick standing in the doorway of the library. One or two of the outside men, who usually came into the kitchen for some coffee during the evening, stayed outside. Ventura watched as Nick entered the room; his eyes focused on his grandson's face, but he went right on speaking softly into the phone, in a very controlled tone. The conversation ended quickly and Ventura replaced the receiver. He stood up and seemed frozen inside his body. There was a slight twitching along his jawline. His breath hissed in and out.

When he backhanded Nick across the mouth, the blow wasn't very hard, just unexpected. Nick could not remember his grandfather ever striking him before.

"Stupid," the old man said. "Stupid."

It was one of the worst charges he could lay on Nick: stupidity.

"The gambling-you said no problem, eh? You come up short a hundred fifty thou and you don't call me, you don't tell me, I gotta hear about it long distance from some people don't like me, no more than I like them. And you go like a common street punk, hold up a G.o.dd.a.m.n spic restaurant and walk right into a trap. Christ, Nicholas, never, never did I think of you as stupid."

He walked to his desk, yanked open the top drawer and removed a folder; flipped it open, handed Nick a copy of his canceled bank account and his signed agreement for the fifty thousand loan on his house.

Nick stared at the doc.u.ments. "How ...?"

His grandfather's lips drew back. "How, how, how? You don't know yet that I can find out anything I need to know? A man who wins a hundred fifty big doesn't walk away from the table out there. One cut, double or nothing. No way a gambler could resist, huh? One cut, double or nothin'-my G.o.d, Nick."

He picked up his gla.s.s and swallowed some mineral water, then looked Nick over. "You look like s.h.i.t. You look like garbage. Tell me what the f.u.c.k have you got in your head?"

There was an energy coming from him that would be powerful in a man twenty years younger. He removed his fashionable wire-framed gla.s.ses and stared at his namesake.

Then, quietly, he asked, "What would you have done, Nicholas, if you had won the money on the cut? Would you have walked away with the three hundred thousand?"

Nick turned away from his grandfather, who reached out with surprisingly strong hands and clamped his shoulders. There was a softening, now. The old man's face showed more than anger and disappointment. It showed concern.

"Probably not, Papa. Probably not."

"It's like the junkie's high and then it's gone and things are worse than ever. This is the kind of kick you need, the gambling? How long does it last, Nicholas, from race to race? Game to game? Cut to cut?"

He sat behind his desk, motioned Nick into a chair facing him.

"Nicholas, your grandmother and I, we had eight children. Two girls died before they were a year old. The two oldest, born in this country-your uncles Raymond and John-died in that Washington plane crash. They were delivering some money to certain people. They came in for a landing and the plane got caught in something called wind shear. Some people survived. My sons didn't." He looked squarely at Nick. "The money was never found. Maybe it was, but I never saw any of it."

"Papa, is that why you gave up flying? Didn't you used to go down to the Caribbean? Once or twice to Italy?"

Ventura didn't like being interrupted, but he shook his head. "I will never set foot on a plane again. Every coupla years, we drive down to Florida; once took a boat to the Bahamas. But no flying."

He picked up the story of his children. "And then your mother, my only daughter, died." He touched his chest. "Her heart. She was my treasure, Nicholas. You're not supposed to have favorites, but she was the light of my life. My other two sons-Dominick and Mario-they 'lost touch.'" His tone became venomous. "They are citizens, Nicholas. Senior citizens now, but still running companies I set up for them. Businesses paying millions in taxes; giving employment to hundreds of people; money to charities. Huh-good citizens, living off of Papa's investments.

"I try to help everyone. I've paid for colleges for many of your cousins. They are doctors and lawyers and businessmen now. Even teachers. They've done well with my help, whether they want to acknowledge it or not. Only you, Nicholas, never accepted or asked anything from me. Even now. When you got real trouble, you didn't come to me. Why? Are you ashamed of me? My two businessmen sons are. They changed their names, did you know that?" He shook his head wearily.

"I don't like to ask for help, Papa. I never have. I got into this, I have to get out of it myself."

"Yes, you've done a h.e.l.luva job getting out of it yourself. Nicholas, what do you think family is for?"

Nick looked up. "What about Vincent? You haven't mentioned Richie's father."

His grandfather's eyes glared steadily, then he blinked. "He has a bad heart. What killed your mother stopped his life. He's been like an old man since his early thirties." He raised his chin suspiciously. "Why did you ask about Vinnie?"

"No reason. You just didn't mention him, that's all. Like he was dead or something."

"No. Vincent is alive. Nicholas, I know what pain is and what happens to a man when he loses a child. I know. But you have to make a choice: to throw away your own life, or get on with it. There's nothing you can tell me about the pain. Never a day goes by when I haven't had at least one single moment remembering them. All of them: the tiny babies; my dead sons; my daughter; your father. They are with me, as Peter is with me now. And with you. That will be forever, I know this. But is that what you chose for yourself? To become a b.u.m? A degenerate gambler? A loser? Because if that is all you have learned about life, I have taught you nothing. The world is bigger than you and me." He waved his arm in a broad sweep. "There is a whole world out there, Nicholas, that you know nothing about. What the h.e.l.l-in the end, we all die. Why not see a little more than what you've already experienced?"

Nick stood up and walked to the fireplace. "I don't have many choices at this point, Papa."

"I know. They're talking about putting you in prison. Do not look so surprised. I know what I need to know."