Chapter 4 - The Currency of the Red Hook Ledger
The office behind the garage at Pier 41 in Red Hook smelled of old salt water, diesel exhaust, and the dry, bitter scent of the coal stove that sat in the corner of the room beneath a framed photograph of the 1954 New York dockworkers' strike.
Adrian Moretti sat in the high-backed wooden chair behind the desk, his gray coat thrown over the back of a plastic crate, his white shirt open at the collar to reveal the edge of the white surgical tape that held his shoulder dressing in place. A small glass of anisette sat untouched on the blotter in front of him, the sweet, licorice-like oil forming a thin ring against the green leather.
Vincent Russo stood by the door, a heavy leather ledger held open across his forearm, his pencil tracing a column of figures that had been stamped with a red corporate seal from an import company in Rotterdam.
"The Albanians are out of the loop, Adrian," Vincent said, his voice dropping into that quiet, functional register he used whenever the ledger books were being finalized before a council meeting. "The three containers that came in on the Tuesday boat—the ones with the commercial machinery parts—they’ve been re-routed to a yard in Newark under a clean bill of lading. The Moretti name isn't on the gate manifest."
Adrian didn't look at the book. He was looking at a small, yellow square of construction paper that he had laid in the center of his desk drawer—the drawing Lily had left on the stone steps of the Bethesda Terrace after Sarah had finally pulled her back toward the subway entrance. The figure in the dark clothes finally had a face, drawn in a shaky, circular loop of blue crayon that didn't have any ears or hair, but possessed two large, pale gray-blue dots for eyes.
"We’re moving the trust capital to a bank in Montreal next week, Vincent," Adrian said, his voice low and level, carrying none of the ragged emotion that had broken his posture in front of the fountain three hours earlier.
Vincent stopped his pencil. His gray eyes rose from the ledger, his face remaining perfectly smooth, though the skin around his jaw tightened by a fraction of an inch. "Montreal? The commission hasn't authorized an out-of-state transfer since your father was running the docks in eighty-nine, Adrian. If the Costas see the capital moving across the border, they’re going to think you’re clearing the accounts because you’re preparing for an indictment."
"Let them think what they want," Adrian said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver casing—the portable monitoring device Dr. Maren had forced into his hand before he left the hospital clinic. The green light on the side of the casing was flashing with a steady, hostile frequency, indicating that his heart rate was currently holding at one hundred and twelve beats per minute while he sat perfectly still in his chair. "The doctor gave me six months if I stay in the city, Vincent. Four months if the Albanians try another vehicle on Second Avenue."
"Then take the operation," Vincent said, taking a step toward the desk, his heavy hand coming down on the edge of the wood with a sharp thwack. "The clinic in Boston has a private floor. We can have twenty men from the South End precinct on the stairwell before the surgeon even opens the tray. You don't have to leave the territory to clear a valve, Adrian."
"It isn't the valve, Vincent," Adrian said, his gaze rising to find his old security chief’s face with a sudden, freezing clarity that made the older man drop his hand from the wood. "The genetic marker... it’s already inside the child. Elena ran the panel from the blood sample the daycare clinic took during her routine check last September. She has the same fibro-fatty sequence in the right ventricle, Vincent. The same clock my grandfather had."
The room went entirely silent, the only sound the low, rhythmic whistle of the diesel barge that was currently backing into the slip at the pier outside the window.
Vincent slowly closed the ledger, the heavy leather cover coming together with a soft, final thunk. "Does Sarah know?"
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"She thinks it’s just an educational fund," Adrian said, his fingers closing around the yellow paper in his drawer, folding it into a tight, perfect square that he tucked into the pocket of his shirt beneath the flight jacket. "She thinks some lawyer in New Jersey liked her smile when she was working the counter at Rosie’s. I’m going to tell her the truth on Friday night, Vincent. We’re meeting at the West Village apartment after the diner closes the kitchen."
He stood up, his shoulder joint giving a sharp, dry pop that made him catch his breath against his teeth. "Get the sedan ready. I want the armored panels checked before we cross the Manhattan Bridge. If the Costas are going to look for me, I want them to find me on the concrete, not in the back of an ambulance."
