Fair enough, I'd thought, but what about the wire attached to the recorder? It was rising up out of the belt line of my Levi's, then continuing up the midline of my abdomen. At the tip of the wire, a tiny microphone, about the size of a number-two-pencil eraser, was taped between the manly depression of my pectoral muscles. According to OCD, this taping apparatus—called a Nagra—was so sensitive that it would pick up our conversation even if we whispered. And those were his final words of wisdom before I left my daughter's bedroom and headed downstairs to the patio.
So here I was, wired for sound. The Chef, I prayed, would be too smart to incriminate himself.
Just then my longtime maid, Gwynne Latham, emerged from the kitchen's side entrance. She wore white cotton slacks, a loose-fitting white T-shirt, and white tennis sneakers. In fact, dressed the way she was, you might have mistaken her for the Good Humor Lady, if not for the fact that she was carrying a sterling-silver tray with a pitcher of iced tea and two tall glasses on it. Gwynne was in her mid-fifties, although she looked a good ten years younger. She was an ageless, timeless, chubby, light-skinned black woman, with fine Caucasian features and the purest of hearts. Gwynne was a Southerner who, back in the day, had doted on me like I was the child she never had. In the early days of my addiction, she served me iced coffee and Quaaludes in bed, and in the later days, when I was so drugged out that I'd lost most of my motor skills, she changed my clothes and wiped gobs of drool off my chin.
But now, since I'd become sober, she'd redirected that unconditional love toward Chandler and Carter, spending most of her day doting on them. (God save them.) Anyway, Gwynne was like family, and the mere thought of having to let her go one day made me terribly sad. Just how much she knew about what was going on I wasn't quite sure. And then, all at once—a terrible thought!
Gwynne was a Southerner, which meant she was genetically predisposed toward idle chatter. And, like everyone, she loved the Chef and would most certainly try to strike up small talk with him. I could only imagine it: “Oh—hi, Chef! Can I fix you something to eat, maybe a turkey sandwich or a bowl of fresh fruit?”… “Well, sure, Gwynne, do you have any strawberries?”… “No, I'm sorry, Chef, the two men in Chandler's bedroom ate the last of the strawberries.”… “There are two men in Chandler's bedroom? What do they look like, Gwynne?”…”Well, Chef, one of them smiles a lot; he's wearing headphones and he has a camera around his neck with a telephoto lens; the other one doesn't smile at all, but he has a giant revolver on his hip and a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt loop.”…
Oh, Christ—I needed to say something to Gwynne! I had introduced the occupying forces as old friends, and Gwynne, never one to ask questions, had taken things at face value, smiling warmly at the invaders and then asking them if they wanted something to eat, just like she would with the Chef! I had arranged for the kids to be out this afternoon, and I could probably get by without Gwynne for a few hours, although she might get insulted if I were to just ask her to hightail it off the property without explanation.
“I brought you some iced tea for your business meeting,” Gwynne said lovingly, although it came out like, “I brawwght yuh sum ice tea fuh yuh biznez meet'n.” She placed the sterling-silver tray on the obscenely expensive round teak table with great care. “Ya sure those men upstairs wud'n care for sumthin’?” she added.
“No, Gwynne, I'm sure they're fine.” With great weariness, I said, “Listen, Gwynne, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't mention anything about those two men upstairs while Dennis is around”—I paused, searching for a possible explanation as to why— “because it, uh, has to do with, uh, security issues. It's all about security issues, Gwynne, especially with all that's been going on around here.” What the f**k was I talking about?
Gwynne nodded sadly, seeming to understand. Then she began staring at my light-blue polo shirt, twisting her lips. “My oh my, you have a li'l stain on yer shirt. Look,” and she began walking toward me with her finger pointed straight at the hidden microphone.
I jumped out of my armchair, as if the teak had suddenly become electrified. Gwynne stopped dead in her tracks, and there she stood, the Good Humor Lady, staring at me with a strange look on her face. Christ—she knew, didn't she! It was written all over her face—and all over mine too! I practically shrieked it: I'm a rat, Gwynnie! I'm a rat! Don't talk to me! I'm wired for sound! I'm wired for sound!
In fact, her face betrayed nothing save genuine concern that the man she'd worked for for almost a decade had suddenly lost his marbles. In retrospect, there were many things I could have said to Gwynne to explain my irrational behavior. I could have told her a yellow jacket had spooked me, that I'd gotten a cramp in my leg, that it was a delayed reaction to those three torturous days behind bars.
Instead, all I said was, “Jesus, Gwynne, you're right! I better go upstairs and change my shirt before Dennis gets here,” and I ran upstairs to my closet and changed into a dark-blue short-sleeve polo shirt. Then I went into the master bathroom—with its $100,000 gray marble floor, oversize Swedish sauna, and glorious whirlpool bathtub that was so large it was better suited for Shamu the Killer Whale than the Wolf of Wall Street—and I flicked on the light and took a good hard look in the mirror.
I didn't like what I saw.
“Eyyyyyy,” said a smiling Chef, extending his arms for a welcoming embrace. “Come here and give me a hug, you!”
Christ Almighty! The Chef knew too! He had seen it on my face-just like Gwynne had! When he hugged me he was going to pat me down for a wire. I was frozen, panic-stricken. It was precisely 1:05 p.m., and time seemed to be standing still. We were in the mansion's grand marble entryway, separated by only four gleaming squares of black-and-white Italian marble—arranged checkerboard style—and I was trying to conjure up a lame excuse as to why I shouldn't embrace the Chef as I always did.
The calculations began roaring through my brain faster than I could keep track of them. If I didn't hug the Chef he would know something was wrong—yet if I did hug the Chef he might feel that devilish little recorder taped to my loins or that supersensitive microphone taped to my chest. Such dishonesty! Such deception! I was a rat! Yet if I perched my ass out a bit and slumped my shoulders forward, then perhaps I'd be safe.
As I stared at the Chef I became terribly conscious of the devilish wares OCD had affixed to my body—the recorder, the microphone, and the masking tape seemed to be growing larger, heavier, more obvious. The recorder was no bigger than a pack of Marlboros, yet it felt larger than a shoe box, and the pea-size microphone weighed less than an ounce, yet it felt heavier than a bowling bowl. I was sweating profusely, and my heart was going thump thump thump, as if a frightened rabbit had taken up residence there. And there stood the Jersey Chef, in his snazzy single-breasted light-gray suit with light-blue overplaid and a crisp white dress shirt with spread British collar. I had no choice but to hug him, but then—a brainstorm: a contagious pathogen!
With a couple of sniffles, I said, “Jesus, Dennis, you're a sight for sore eyes… sniff, sniff… Thanks for coming over.” I shot my right hand out and locked my elbow, offering a hearty handshake. “But don't get too close to me; I think I caught something in that jail cell… sniff sniff… A flu bug, I think.” I smiled sheepishly and jutted my right hand out an extra inch, as if to say, “Put it there, pal!”
Alas, the Chef was a man's man, and no flu bug on earth was going to scare him away. “Get over here!” he snapped. “Cold or no cold, it's times like these when you find out who your true friends are.”
Who your true friends are? Christ—such gut-wrenching guilt! It now had the distinct pleasure of meeting the sheer panic that had already taken up residence in my brain. Then came a lightning-fast fight to the death. The guilt was saying, “How could you rat out someone as loyal as the Chef? Have you no shame?” to which the panic replied, “Fuck the Chef! If you don't rat him out you'll end up like that drooling old bastard Mr. Gower.” The guilt countered, “It doesn't matter; the Chef has been loyal and true, and to rat him out would make you lower than pond scum!” and the panic replied, “Who gives a shit! I'd rather be pond scum than sitting in jail the rest of my life! Besides, the Chef will end up ratting out the Blue-eyed Devil to save his own skin, so what's the f**king difference?” The guilt argued, “That's not necessarily true. The Chef isn't a p**sy, like you; he's a stand-up guy.” Then suddenly—a fresh wave of panic!-the Chef had brushed past my hand and was rapidly closing the distance.
Christ! What should I do? Think, you little rat! The high road or the low road? Guilt or self-preservation? Alas, when you're a rat, self-preservation outweighs all: Just before the Chef and I embraced, my rat brain unleashed a flood of emergency signals to my musculoskeletal system. Faster than I knew it, my ass popped out like a male hooker advertising his trade, my shoulders slumped forward like Quasimodo ringing a church bell, and that was how we embraced—with the Jersey Chef standing tall and proud, and the Wolf of Wall Street standing hunchbacked and hookerlike.
“Are you all right?” asked the Chef, releasing me from his embrace. He grabbed my shoulders and held me at arms’ length. “Did you hurt your back again?”
“No,” I answered quickly. “It's just a bit sore from sitting in that jail cell. And also from my cold… sniff, sniff” I rubbed my nose with the back of my hand. “You know, it's amazing, but if I get even the least bit sick it goes straight to my back.” Jesus! What the f**k was I talking about? I shrugged, trying to organize my thoughts. “Come on, let's sit outside. I could use a little fresh air.”
“You lead, I follow,” said the Chef.
A pair of prodigious French doors led out to the stone patio, and the moment we stepped through them I could feel the click click click of the Mormon's dreaded Minolta. It seemed to be burning holes through me, like a laser beam. When we reached the teak target zone, I offered the Chef the overpriced armchair facing the bedroom window.
I resisted the urge to look up at the Venetian blinds, pouring each of us a glass of iced tea instead. Then I started in with small talk. “I'll tell you,” I said wearily. “I can't believe these cocksuckers”—as cocksuckers escaped my lips, it occurred to me that OCD and the Bastard might not be appreciative of that characterization of them. I made a mental note to be more considerate in the future—”have me under house arrest. Like I'm really a flight risk with a wife and two kids.” I shook my head in disgust. “What a f**king joke.”
The Chef nodded in agreement. “Yeah, well, that's the game these bastards play,” he said venomously. “They'll do whatever they can to make your life miserable. How's the Duchess holding up?”
I shook my head and let out a great sigh. “Not well,” I said. I paused, fighting down the urge to pour my heart out to the Chef. Even rats have pride, after all, and I knew that countless others would be listening to this tape at some point. “She's acting like all this comes as a great shock to her, as if she thought she was married to a doctor or something. I don't know… I don't think we're gonna make it through this, not as a couple.”
“Don't say that,” the Chef replied quickly. “You two are gonna make it through this thing, but only if you stay strong. She's your wife, so she's gonna follow your lead, one way or the other. Show weakness to her and badabing”—the Chef clapped his hands a single time—”she'll be out the door in two seconds flat. It's the nature of the female animal; they gravitate toward strength.”
I took a moment to consider the Chef's words, and for a brief instant my spirits lifted, but then they sank again. Indeed, the Chef's words were usually full of wisdom, but, in this case, he was completely off the mark. Whether or not I stayed strong had nothing to do with it; the Duchess was strong enough on her own-strong enough to know that under no circumstances would she allow my problems to diminish her quota on ore extraction one iota. She had grown up dirt-poor on the trash-lined streets of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, and there was no way she would be willing to risk history repeating itself.
Nevertheless, this was a perfect opportunity to make an important point to the Chef, namely, that I had no intention of cooperating. In a dead-serious tone, I said, “Yeah, well, maybe I can't control the Duchess's actions, but I can control my own. You don't have to worry about me staying strong, Dennis. I'm gonna fight this thing to the bitter end, with my last dying breath if I have to. I don't care how much it costs, or how bloody it gets, or how many bodies get buried along the way. I don't give a flying f**k about any of it! I'm taking this thing to trial, and I'm gonna get f**king acquitted.” I shook my head, liking the way my blustering sounded. It was very Wolflike. Too bad I was such a p**sy. “You just f**king wait and see,” I added, twitching my nose menacingly.
“Good for you!” the Chef said emphatically. “That's exactly what I wanted to hear. Just keep thinking like that and those bastards downtown are gonna be in for a rude awakening.” He shrugged confidently. “They expect you to just roll over and play dead, because that's what everyone else does. But when it comes down to it—they got their version of things and we got our version of things, and our version of things will make just as much sense to a jury as their version of things.”
“And the burden of proof isn't on us,” I added confidently, “it's on them.”
“Exactly,” said the Chef, “and last time I checked, you're innocent until proven guilty in this fine country of ours.” He flashed me a quick smile and winked. “And even if you are guilty, they still gotta prove that guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and that ain't so easy to do when you got two versions of things, understand?”
I nodded slowly. “I do,” I said halfheartedly, “but… I mean… it's a pretty good cover story we have, but it's still not as believable as the truth. You know?”
“Don't kid yourself,” snapped the Chef. “The truth is stranger than fiction sometimes.” He shrugged. “In fact, I'd take a good cover story over the truth any day of the week. Anyway, I think the biggest problem we're facing here is that Danny is still in jail. The longer he sits in there, the more likely he is to flip.” The Chef paused, as if searching for the right words. “See, while he's sitting in there, he has no idea what's going on on the outside. He doesn't know that I'm with him and that you're with him; he might be thinking that he's alone in all this—maybe even that you're cooperating. God only knows what the feds are whispering in his ear.” The Chef shook his head in consternation, then suddenly his face lit up. “I'll tell you what I really need to do: I need to get myself into that cell to speak to Danny, to let him know that everything's gonna be all right.” The Chef compressed his lips and nodded slowly. “That would be the best thing for us right now. Maybe I can get myself on the visiting list. Whaddaya think?”
Good Lord-the Chef was as tough as nails! He was prepared to go right into the heart of enemy territory! Did he know no fear? Was he really that much of a warrior? It was all starting to make sense now: The feds had never been able to nab the Chef and the Devil because they didn't think like other men. They were true Scarfaces, white-collar mobsters of a wholly different sort.
Just then Gwynne came walking out of the kitchen.
Oh, Jesus! I thought. Jabber jabber jabber!
Would she spill the beans? There was no telling. Her heart was much too pure to fathom all this wickedness going on here, all this deceit. As she approached, I noticed she was holding the cordless phone. She greeted the Chef first, in warm Southern tones: “Well, hi there, Dennis, how are you?” which came out like, “Wail, hi there, Dainess, how'r yew?”
“I'm fine,” answered the Chef, in warm Jersey tones. “Nevuh bedduh. How you doing, Gwynne?”
“Oh, ahhhm fahyn, ahhhm fahyn,” the Southern belle answered, and there was a very sad smile attached to those two “I'm fines,” a smile that so much as said, “As fine as could be expected, considering my boss has one foot in the slammer, his wife has one foot in a new gold mine, and I'm about to be out of a f**king job!” Then she turned to me and said, “Your lawy'r is on the phone. He said it's important.”
Magnum? Why would he call now? He knew about this meeting. Why interrupt the flow of things? I held up a finger to the Chef and then rose from my chair and grabbed the cordless from Gwynne. With my back to the Chef, I looked Gwynne in the eye and motioned discreetly toward the kitchen with my chin, as if to say, “All right, why don't you skedaddle on out of here before you spill the beans, jabber-jaw!” to which Gwynne shrugged and headed back to the safety of the kitchen.
I walked a few feet away, to the wrought-iron railing at the edge of the patio, placed my elbows on the railing, and leaned over. I was still within earshot of the Chef when I said into the phone, “Hey, Greg. What's going on?”
“Yeah, it's Greg,” said OCD's voice, “but not the Greg you were expecting. Just act natural.”
Jesus Christ! Why the f**k was OCD calling? Had he lost his mind? “Yeah,” I said casually, “well, that doesn't surprise me. Danny's a stand-up guy; he'll never cooperate.” I turned to the Chef and winked, then said into the phone, “Anyway, just tell Danny's lawyer that I'm there for him no matter what. Whatever he needs.”
“Good,” said OCD, “that was quick thinking. You're doing great so far. But listen to me: Dennis seems very open to talk to you, so I want you to see if you can set up a meeting with Brennan. I think he might go for it.”
“I'll try calling her,” I said skeptically, knowing full well that the chances of getting a face-to-face with the Blue-eyed Devil were one in a million. Even in the best of times he was one paranoid bastard, but now—in the worst of times—there was no way he'd be reckless enough to take a meeting with me. “But I haven't spoken to Nancy in almost a year,” I said into the phone. “I think she hates Danny more than the government does.”
I looked at the Chef, who was staring at me quizzically, the way a person does when they're trying to figure out the other end of a phone conversation. Christ, if he only knew! I flashed him a quick smile and rolled my eyes and shook my head quickly, as if to say, “My lawyer is totally wasting my time here,” then I said into the phone, “Yeah, well, you just tell Danny's lawyer to make sure Danny knows I'm with him. That's the”—beep, beep, went the call-waiting—”most important thing. Anyway, I gotta go. I got another call coming in.” I clicked over to the next line. “Hello?”