Redeem the Lines, page 34
Pat listened, mulling over the implications of what Choppa was saying.
“Again, your hands are clean here. I know you’ll see this clearly once you calm down and think it through, but let’s end this part of the conversation now,” Choppa said sternly. “Is there anything else you want to discuss, kid?”
Patrick took a deep breath. “Yeah. How the hell did you get ahold of that kind of cash?” Pat asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer. He was aware that Choppa was running a number of schemes from prison, but this was half a million they were talking about.
“It’s Whitey’s cash,” Choppa replied. “He had stash boxes all over the world, for when this time would come. But Whitey couldn’t just stroll into a bank, so I helped him move it out.”
“You don’t get a piece of it for helping?” Pat said.
Choppa shook his head. “I have other ways of taking care of myself,” he said with a shrug.
Pat recalled the conversation he’d had with Walsh out on his front stoop, where he shared the rumor that Sean was dealing heroin and was claiming protection from Choppa.
“Are you workin’ with Sean?” Pat demanded. “I heard this crazy rumor, and I’m hoping it isn’t true. Is he payin’ you for protection now?”
“Listen, of course I get kickbacks from a few wise guys and players out there. I gotta survive. I got a family. So I consult, make connections, offer protection, and sometimes set up a strategy or a power move,” Choppa answered simply. “What do you think happened to Tre in here?”
Although Pat had long suspected that Choppa had been the one to take Tre out, the confirmation of this fact didn’t make him feel any better. Choppa’s not-so-cryptic message about “your vengeance is mine” was precisely what it sounded like.
“Tre had a few hits on him. His days were numbered in here,” Choppa explained. “Multiple gang rivals were collaborating on it. We played a small part in it; that’s all. And I get ten grand a month for my part in continuing to clear a path for Sean.”
“If you’re workin’ with Sean, you need to know I’m comin’ after that mothafucka,” exclaimed Pat. “He’s poisoning the city. So where does that leave you and me?”
Choppa put his hand up on the glass and moved his face closer to Pat’s.
“Everything I do is to protect you. We spent almost five years together in here,” Choppa said calmly. “What you didn’t need to know, you didn’t need to know. I would never stand in your way of handling your beefs. You do what you gotta do.”
“So what happens to your ten grand a month after Sean’s gone?” Pat asked.
“There’s always plenty of cowboys needing my protection,” explained Choppa. “Not taking sides, I just play the game. You never know what role you’re going to play. You did a stand-up thing, and it’ll never be forgotten.
“In the meantime,” Choppa continued, “you’re gonna need to stay distant for a while. The Feds are all over me now, trying to get me to flip, offering me a get-out-of-jail-free card. So we’ll see what they have to prove to me that Whitey was a rat.”
Pat nodded to himself, thinking it was right to be cautious. He knew that would probably be the end of conversations with Choppa for the foreseeable future. He could see Choppa had power in prison and had somehow gained from this internal power play. But it was clear Tre’s death didn’t have much to do with Pat’s vengeance at all. For Choppa, it was all about the gains.
But at least he’d gotten the green light to go after Sean. Choppa wouldn’t stop him or get in the way. There would always be someone else to fill Choppa’s pockets.
“I’ll see you around, Choppa,” Pat said, putting his hand on the glass.
Choppa nodded and put his hand up to mirror Pat’s on the other side.
Chapter 45
* * *
BOSTON MEDICAL CENTER
AS SOON AS PAT ENTERED THE MAIN LOBBY OF BOSTON MEDIcal Center, he felt his muscles tense and his teeth clench. The last time he was here, the two cops that beat the shit out of him had dragged him in to get patched up, and the doctor had refused to let him stay. The memory of that evening brought back an ache in his forehead, exacerbated by the fresh offense of Nate’s beating.
The fucking animals, Pat thought, stomping heads first, asking questions later. Even if Nate were guilty of dealing, like the papers were speculating, did that mean he should endure physical assault before he even saw trial?
Motherfuckers, thought Pat.
He went up the elevator to the eighth floor and took swift strides down the hallway, scanning for the room Nate explained he would be in on the phone. Finding the right room, Pat walked in quietly to not to wake him if he were sleeping, which he was.
Nate looked in rough shape. His face was still a little swollen from the beating, and he had substantial bruising. Another rush of adrenaline flowed through Pat, a wave of intensifying anger, and he found himself resisting the urge to punch a fresh hole in the wall.
Some of these rogue dirty cops think they own this fucking city.
Pat turned away from Nate to stare out the window. The eighth-floor view overlooked Massachusetts Avenue. To the left was Newmarket Square. He could almost see Newmarket Square Pizza and Cafe in the middle. The Suffolk County Prison was visible on the far left, and down off to the right up Melnea, he could see the D&D Metals sign. Pat took a deep breath, taking it all in. “Man, I love this city,” he said, turning back to Nate.
“Yeah,” answered Nate, who’d apparently awoken while Pat had his back turned. “As fucked up as it is, I can’t deny that I still do too. That’s why I set out on this mission.”
Nate reached over to his bed table, to a small radio, probably something Slugs had brought in for him. He tuned it to WILD 1090 AM, the Black community local station. He turned up the music to a medium level, loud enough to drown out any soft talking audible from the outside. “Let’s make sure this conversation stays between us,” Nate said.
“Oh, so now you gonna tell me what happened and how you got caught up in this mess around a deal of bricks of crack cocaine and heroin?”
“Yeah,” Nate sighed. “I’ll tell you. I was trying to stop the bloodshed—trying to help guys like Papa Ray, Reverend Gibbs, and Ronald Lewis from the street teams, and the Ten Point Coalition. After Jamal and Tre and everything else, I just chose to fight the evil. I’m in the middle of a fuckin’ war. It’s a fuckin’ war, Patrick.”
Pat sat down in the guest chair beside the bed, listening to every word.
“I’d do anything to stop innocent people getting caught in crossfire or to shut down the fucking psychopaths at the top, flooding the streets with poison,” Nate continued. “And to be honest, because of all that, Reverend Gibbs convinced me to be a source of information—a CI.”
This new piece of information hit Pat like a sledgehammer. Suddenly, Nate’s behavior was starting to make a lot more sense.
“I was supposed to discover and report information on the gang activities, the beefs, and the supply chain,” Nate explained. “It was all run through Operation Eagle Eye, an FBI-controlled effort, separate and unknown from BPD.”
“Shit, Nate,” Pat exclaimed. “I knew it was something like that, but you certainly had me doubting it. You almost had me there for a minute. I thought you’d gone off the deep end.”
Pat’s wheels were turning fast. “But something still isn’t adding up for me now. How’d you end up at the drug deal that turned into a BPD nightmare, and there was no sign of the FBI? You know what that tells me? The FBI had no knowledge of that deal going down, did they, Nate?”
“No, Patrick, they didn’t,” Nate confided. “But I wasn’t in this for the small-time Black gangbanger-level drug deal. Isn’t there always another crew or organization ready to distribute and take over? I was going for a much bigger impact like the Big White Lie, yo! Back in the day, I remember you quoted an Irishman in English class that said, ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’”
“Yes, I can respect that, my friend,” Pat admitted. “Regardless of all the shit you faced in life, you never had a small vision. Lately, I have been thinking along those same lines.” Pat paused for a moment, a new thought occurring to him. “So the FBI got you covered and out of it?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Nate says. “After talking with the FBI, I get to take this beating nowhere and disappear quietly back into the streets.”
“Of fucking course,” Pat interjected.
“Hey, at least I’m not in jail. But man—that poor cop! They beat his ass down to a pulp! Thought he was one of us! I hear he’s still pissing out blood.”
“I’ve been following it in the papers,” Pat confirmed. “Now there’s an internal affairs investigation and the racial spin on the whole thing, of course.”
“The most fucked-up part about that is that there were Black and White cops involved, dishing out beatings on both of us,” Nate recalled. “I saw it up close like it was in slow motion. And no one is coming forward. None of his coworkers—no one.”
“Does that surprise you?” Pat asked, leaning back on the guest chair, putting his feet up on the window ledge. “The media playing the fiddle and stoking the race fire? And don’t get me started on the party politics and career politicians.”
Nate nodded in agreement. “The devil’s working day and night,” he said.
“See, the police didn’t make the cultural problems they face; the government did,” Pat fumed. “They’re our neighbors, our family and friends—handpicked from our streets. That’s why the Irish knew they had to get into politics or they’d be treated like dirt until the end of time. They knew, back in the thirties and forties, the system was corrupt and broken. Even back then, they knew. But they had to get in and play the game. You see, that’s why my nana always said, ‘Politics is a dirty business, but you can make a lot of money in it.’ See, we Boston Irish made it to the White House, but when the Kennedys were sniped out, then MLK and Malcolm X, she knew without a doubt, multiple forces of money from corporations control the business called our government!”
Nate suddenly seemed more alert, as if a fire had been lit inside his belly. He sat up straight. Pat thought he looked ready to walk out of the hospital.
“So you getting out of here now or what?” Pat asked. “Because I got an idea. And I was wondering if you had an interest in drawing a new line and uniting on a cause.”
Nate considered for a moment, his thoughts interrupted by a familiar song on the radio.
“Hey, just for a moment, remember when we used to listen to Grandmaster Flash’s ‘The Message’—like a thousand times—after school in the parking lot?”
“Yeah and that line that says ‘Don’t push me,’ except I think we’re both beyond the edge already.” Pat laughed. “You see that place right there?”
Nate stood up, wincing. He walked to the window where Pat was pointing.
“It says ‘D&D Metals. We buy scrap.’ There it is . . . That’s the bigger impact right there, Nate,” Pat proclaimed. “That there destroys Vamp Hill and Hell House and disrupts many others from selling crack and heroin throughout this city. That little fucking scrapyard breaks up a protected campaign donor to many politicians around here. And best of all? It gets me my vengeance. And actually, yours too.”
Nate stared at Pat. “What the hell you talking about?” he asked.
“There were multiple hits out on Tre, rival gangs in on it. Vamp Hill, probably, but if one gang didn’t do it, another would have.”
Tre was just another pawn in the whole game. But Tre probably knew what kind of game he was playing and that he could be taken off the board at any time. It was a war they were fighting, and nothing was fair.
“Seems like you’ve lost your head already!” Nate said. “All right, all right. So what you planning, man? Hopefully not something that’ll land you back over there,” said Nate, pointing to the left, toward Suffolk County Prison. “Who is it over at D&D Metals, and how does that tattoo tie the whole web together?” Nate gestured toward Pat’s forearm.
“I figured out how all the lines intersect,” Pat revealed excitedly. “That right there? That scrapyard is Sean’s uncle Gino’s place, shady as hell, and he also owns Hell House, which Vamp Hill operates out of, and I know Sean is running a drug crew. The two of them are pumping large quantities of coke and heroin into both our neighborhoods.”
“Okay,” began Nate. “So, what now?”
“I can’t move forward without cleaning up the past and the present. I think it’s time we support the BPD boys in blue and behead the beast hiding in the shadows of that run-down area between our neighborhoods.” Pat studied Nate’s face, looking for signs that Nate would go all in. “You interested?” he asked. “Can I trust you, CI?”
They both laughed. It was an insane plan.
“Well, we are men for others; that’s what Father Lydon always said,” Nate admitted. “We’re supposed to be of service to the world.” Nate began to pack a small bag and put on his regular street clothes.
“There’s a deal going down over there for a few ounces of coke,” Pat said, moving closer to Nate and speaking softly. “My friend Treats is the buyer. He’s going to get me some intel on the operation inside, and I’ll be a few blocks away down at Pug’s Pub.”
“Go on,” said Nate, buttoning up his shirt.
“I was inside the scrapyard once when I was eighteen, with Sean, trying to cash in some copper he stole from a job site. The uncle has two rottweilers running around and a shotgun on each side of his desk. This piece of shit intimidates and screws everyone that walks through the doors!”
Nate stopped to consider for a moment, with one shoe on and one yet to be tied. “That doesn’t sound like an easy target, Patrick,” he admitted.
“I’m just getting started,” Pat responded with a smile.
A sudden knock on the door interrupted their moment. They turned around to see the big frame of Sergeant Daly leaning up against the doorway.
“Surprised you’re here,” Sergeant Daly said, eyeing Pat. “Hmm. You two in the middle of something? You see, Nate, I couldn’t figure out who you were at first when I saw you with Rodney, but then all the pieces came together, and now this reunion here, well, it reminds me that we go way back!”
Pat looked at him blankly, keeping his best poker face firmly on.
“So I just wanted to visit the rogue CI guy who saw it all,” Daly explained. “My gang unit officer got beat down, and I need some details.”
Nate exchanged a look with Patrick. “Take a look at me,” he said. “My eyes were shut as my head bounced off the concrete. I didn’t see shit.”
Sergeant Daly smirked and walked up closely to both of them.
“Taking a lesson from this guy, Omertà, huh?” Daly prodded. “Is this a coincidence? Just two old friends that just happened to both have major run-ins with the BPD? Something more going on here, fellas. If you ever listened to me, now’s the time to keep your fuckin’ noses clean. Out of sight, out of mind. Got it?”
Not saying a word, Nate and Pat just nodded.
Sergeant Daly shook his head. “The fuckin’ odd couple here ain’t so odd after all. You both have a target on your back. So you better let me walk you out!”
Chapter 46
* * *
SCRAPYARD
IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT, AND NATE COULD SEE THAT THE regular stragglers at Pug’s Pub were just beginning to shuffle in. It was a motley crew of drinkers, the kind who wouldn’t be afraid to get wasted into the wee hours of the night in a sketchy part of town. The bartender kept the lights dim, and plenty of shadows enveloped the bar.
With Pat following him, Nate made his way over to the same booth he and Pat had used last time, nestled into the bar’s back corner and facing the front entrance. That way, they had a great vantage point on anyone entering the bar. They were already a couple of rounds deep, but Nate knew the drinking wouldn’t go on much longer. They had work to do.
A familiar figure entered the bar, and Nate perked up as soon as he entered. Jimmy’s walk was distinctive, and he carried with him an aura of gravitas and experience.
“We ordered a whiskey for you,” Pat said when he approached the table.
Jimmy nodded to Pat and shook hands with Nate, and then settled into the booth. “So, Nate,” he began, “Patrick filled me in on his bright idea. You fuckin’ lost your mind too? I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Nate fought back a chuckle. He already knew what they were planning was crazy.
“Nate. Seriously? BPD batons brain damage the two of you? Sure I can’t change your mind on this? This guy Gino usually strolls in here by midnight; it’s not too late to abort this mission.” Jimmy took a sip, studying their faces. “A plan can always go wrong,” he continued. “And when it does, there’s no turning back. One wrong turn can change your life forever. Nate, did Patrick ever tell you when I went on the run?”
Nate shook his head no and leaned in, curious.
“This was years ago,” Jimmy began. “I set up a deal at a parking lot, and my father was there with the chief of police. The chief was my neighbor from a town on the South Shore, and he was in on it with us—two kilos. Wasn’t the first time we’d made a deal with him involved. As I was on my way with the buyer, sure enough, state troopers raided the parking lot. They pinched my father and the chief. I got away and disappeared.”
“Where’d you go?” Nate asked.
“I hid out down in the Dominican Republic for a while, but then when I was down there, I got busted with six ounces of coke and ended up in a Dominican prison. Fuck me. You do not want to be in a fuckin’ Dominican prison. Total nightmare. I was fighting every day, and there were rats the size of cats. I couldn’t sleep; I was scared as shit of them! Then I had a friend of mine come down and give a judge 10K to get me released. So, I fled to Miami under an assumed name, and six months later—boom! I got surrounded. I was working in a diner as a busboy, and they sent me up for the eight-year bid. My father and the chief did time too.”
