House Reckoning by Mike Lawson Read Free Book Online

Protection. And because he was afraid I might kill him if I thought he was going to testify against me, and he wanted me to know that he wouldn’t.”
    “Then some guy just knocks on the door and shoots him?” Carmine said.
    “Yeah, a young guy, a kid in his twenties. And I want to know if you sent him.”
    Carmine pretended to get pissed. “Hey! If I had decided to kill him—and I would have if I’d known he was gonna rat me out—then that would be my business. I’ve put up with a lot of your shit over the years, but don’t you go forgetting who I am.”
    DeMarco, the bastard, just stared at him.
    “Anyway, I didn’t order the hit. I already told you I had no idea Kennedy had been arrested. Maybe the guy who killed him worked for the guy whose dope Kennedy lost. You know, the guy from Trenton.”
    He watched Gino absorb the lie—and he thought Gino believed him.
    “Okay,” Gino said, “and I apologize for . . . for insulting you.”
    Bullshit, he was apologizing.
    “But I’m gonna find out who it was,” Gino said. “I saw him clear as a bell and I got most of his license plate. I’ll find him.”
    Goddamnit, Carmine had thought at the time. He probably will find him. Gino didn’t own a bunch of cops and bureaucrats the way Carmine did, but he was smart, stubborn, and resourceful. Yeah, he’d probably find him.
    Carmine drove back home thinking that Brian Quinn might be the unluckiest fucking Irishman on the planet.
    When Carmine got back home after meeting with Gino, his wife told him a man had called, said it was urgent, and to call him back. He called the number, which turned out to be a phone in a restaurant. He didn’t identify himself. All he said was “A guy told me to call this number.”
    “Yeah, I know who you want.” A moment later, Quinn was on the line.
    “I need to talk to you. Right away,” Quinn said.
    Shit. He told his wife he had to leave the house again and she said, “What’s going on? How many girlfriends you got?”
    It was kind of a running joke with them, his wife acting like he had girlfriends all over town, him pretending he did. The truth was, he’d stopped caring about sex years ago.
    He met Quinn at an Indian restaurant near the Queensboro Bridge, a place Carmine was confident nobody he knew would ever visit. Quinn was sitting there drinking some kind of stinky tea, pretending to be calm. He liked that about Quinn, the way he could control his emotions. Quinn got right to the point and told Carmine he’d killed Kennedy, but another man had been with Kennedy.
    “I recognized him,” Quinn said. “I’ve looked at the files our organized crime people have on you . . .”
    Carmine almost smiled at that, picturing Quinn poring over the files, studying him the way he’d studied Quinn.
    “. . . and I know I saw his face in the file. I have a good memory for faces. Tomorrow, I’ll get his name and call you. I need you to make sure he doesn’t talk.”
    Carmine didn’t say anything for a moment. For one thing, Quinn was starting to piss him off, telling him what he needed, like Carmine should give a shit what he needed.
    “I already know who he is,” Carmine said. “I met with him half an hour ago. He came to tell me Kennedy had been killed and that he was going after the guy who killed him.”
    “What did you tell him?”
    “I did my best to convince him that whoever shot Kennedy probably worked for the guy in Trenton whose dope Kennedy lost.”
    “Good.”
    “No, it’s not good. He saw your face, too, and he got part of your license plate, and Jerry Kennedy was his best friend. I figure in a few days, less than a week, he’ll know who you are. Then he’ll kill you.”
    Quinn didn’t say anything immediately but Carmine saw him squeezing the teacup so hard he was surprised it didn’t crack.
    “What’s his name?” Quinn finally asked.
    When Carmine didn’t answer the question right away, Quinn said, “I’ll get his name from the files tomorrow, so