The Sins of the Sons

Chapter 2

It took three belts before Jim O’Connell, self-confessed preppy, could work up the courage to tell me his story. And what a doozy of a story it was. It was the kind of story that, should it surface in the papers, could potentially land the prominent New York City attorney in a whole lot of legal jeopardy, if not prison.

So, here’s the gist of it: Jim and his two pals decided to have a little fun that night. When Marty Finnegan left the country club, they sped out of the Wolforts Roost Country Club parking lot, caught up with Marty’s car, followed it to, of all places, the Albany Airport. Marty was driving a black Mercedes Benz four-door sedan, and the boys were in Steve’s dad’s big Suburban. Along the way, they all dressed in the hunting gear belonging to Steve’s older brother and father. They even camo’d their faces with green camo paint. By the time they arrived at the airport’s long-term parking lot, their physical identities were completely hidden. They were also fairly wasted on vodka and pot.

Having parked far enough away from Marty, Mark took hold of Dr. Long’s lever-action .30-.30 and, according to Jim, all three approached Marty Finnegan. Mark, the tougher one of the group, especially with that rifle in his hands, did all the talking. He demanded Marty give them all his money. “Do it or die,” were his exact words. A stunned Marty stood there in the cold, his hands raised in surrender. “Don’t hurt me,” he apparently responded.

Like Jim said, the boys were drunk and high, and it was all they could do not to burst out laughing. Marty seemed so scared, they were convinced he was pissing himself. Mark demanded that he give them the money, or he would blast the lawyer’s brains out. He even c****d the rifle, just for drama’s sake. But the rifle apparently wasn’t even loaded.

Still, the sound of the rifle c*****g was all it took for Marty to empty his pockets and hand over all his cash to the boys. That’s when Mark demanded he get down on the ground. Face down. He was not to get up until they were gone-baby-gone. Marty started to cry. He was hyperventilating. Slowly, he got down on his knees, then laid himself out onto the pavement face-first.

The boys turned, ran back to the Suburban, got in and took off.

“In the end,” Jim went on, “we ended up with around eight-hundred dollars and some change. Not exactly a fortune, but a fortune for us. We had planned to hand the money over to Tracy since we’d look like heroes. But naturally, we quickly deduced that if we were to do that, we’d reveal ourselves as the robbers. So, in the end, we just decided to keep the money. We split it three ways and spent it on stupid stuff, like beer, junk food, and records.”

“Must not have taken all that long to spend it.”

He nodded. “I suppose not. It was so long ago now, I can’t really recall.”

“Nowadays, CCTV cameras would have captured the robbery on digital video.”

“But that was then.”

“And this is now, Jim. So, what happened when you discovered that Marty Finnegan not only didn’t make it to Vegas but that he was found dead in a patch of woods not far from his house that very same night?”

The blood once more flushed from his face. I could have poured him another shot, but it didn’t seem worth the effort now that he’d revealed his story. Most of it anyway.

“You know about Mr. Finnegan, Keeper? Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“I’ve been in law enforcement for a lot of years, Jim,” I said. “Everyone knew about Marty’s death. And not everyone was convinced he died of natural causes. Especially his son, who wasn’t much older than you boys at the time.”

“Well, now that you mention Mr. Finnegan’s death, I don’t mind telling you how afraid we all were that we would be found out. That we had actually robbed him in the airport parking lot not long before he suddenly died.”

I sat back in my chair, crossed my arms over my chest. “So, tell me the truth, Jim,” I said. “Did you kill him?”

He shot up out of his chair. “My God,” he spat. “How could you even suggest such a thing? I am a well-respected Manhattan attorney. I’m a principal partner in my firm. I have a wife and three children, all of whom attend prestigious colleges and universities across this great land of ours.”

“So, what’s your point? You were never capable of a profound f**k-up back when you were a prep school brat?”

He just looked at me like I could see right through his clothes to his silk boxers, his mouth agape, jaw dropped to somewhere around his sternum. I uncrossed my arms, sat up.

“Sit down, Jim,” I said, my tone lighter. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just playing with your head in the interest of getting at the truth. Now, what is it you wish to hire me for?”

“Steve Long,” he said along with a profound exhale, “he wishes to go public with the robbery all these years later.” He sat back down. “He believes he owes it to himself, his newfound sobriety, his family, and to Jesus.” He rolled his eyes again. “I would like to pay you to dissuade him from coming forward.”

“You mean, you want me to rough him up? That’s sort of illegal. If you like, I can refer you to some low-level Italian mobsters down in Schenectady who can take care of this for far less money.”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. How would they say it in a literary novel? He shook his head . . . vehemently. “I don’t wish for you to do anything illegal. I only wish for you to follow him for a while. See what he’s up to. See if he goes to the police or the press or both. I want you to find out what his intentions are so I can act accordingly.”

“Accordingly, meaning what, Jim?”

He c****d his head over his shoulder. “Well, if he goes to the press and/or the police, I believe it would be wise to retain the best lawyer I can find. An act that in itself will not go unnoticed in New York City. But ,if perhaps you can stop him before he makes a move like that, maybe talk some sense into him, convince him that his actions will not only stir up a thirty-five year-old hornet’s nest, that it could potentially ruin the lives of not only me but my wife and children, not to mention his own children, then there will be no reason to have to act accordingly.” He made quotation marks with his fingers when he repeated the words, act accordingly.

I nodded. Sounded like an easy job. I’d done a ton of jobs like this before. All it required was my throwing a scare into someone, which worked most of the time. After that, I’d collect my money and be on my way. There were times, however, that no matter how much scare I put into someone they still went ahead and talked to the cops or the press or the cheating man’s wife or whatever. I still got to keep the money, but the client was never very happy about it. What this meant, of course, was that I had to warn Jim O’Connell that his plan, as well intended as it might be, could very well fail.

“Listen, Jim,” I said, “you seem like a nice man. A responsible man. And I’m willing to take on the assignment. But I must be as upfront as possible about something. I can try and do all the convincing in the world short of breaking Mr. Long’s legs to keep his trap shut about the Marty Finnegan affair, and he might still sing to the cops. Either way, you still gotta pay me for my time. Capice?”

He pursed his lips, stood, reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a leather billfold.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d prefer to enter into a cash transaction.”

“Non-traceable,” I said. “Good idea, counselor. That’s three-hundred per day plus expenses.”

His eyes went squinty, his brow furrowed.

“Fair enough,” he said.

I imagined that he made three-hundred per hour and billed multiple clients for that same hour’s work. I was in the wrong business but what the hell, at least the only person I had to answer to was myself.

He pulled out nine, crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, set them on the desk.

“A retainer,” he said. “If it should happen to take less than three days for you to complete your assignment, you may keep the balance as a bonus.”

I stared at the pretty green. It warmed my heart almost as much as the Jameson.

“Question,” I said. “What precisely do you want me to generate that will convince you Long isn’t gonna talk?”

That’s when he reached into his coat again, this time producing an envelope. He set it on the desk beside the money.

“That is a contract,” he said. “In exchange for Steve’s silence, I will be happy to pay him one-hundred-thousand dollars or, if he prefers, make a sizeable donation of an equal amount to his church. But one-hundred-thousand is a lot of money, and I wouldn’t want to just give it away right off the bat. We need to establish his true intentions first. The money should be offered as somewhat of a final resort.”

I picked up the contract. It was sealed, so I couldn’t open it and read it. It felt heavy in my hand. One-hundred K heavy. I should have asked for a bigger retainer. Oh well.

“So, the plan is . . . I follow Steve, maybe make my presence known after a while, that is I figure out he’s getting ready to call for a press conference or something like that. I have a nice little talk with him about how wrong it would be to do such a thing. I show him some muscle. Maybe bite the head off a live mouse right in front of him and let him know in a not so subtle way that I’m a crazy, badass motherfucker, and he’s about to get himself into some serious s**t. Yet, if he persists, I then hand him the contract for his consideration.”

O’Connell smiled again, his eyes bright under those round, expensive tortoise-shell eyeglasses.

“You and I are most definitely on the same page, Keeper.”

“Just one problem,” I said.

“And that problem is?”

“What happens when he refuses the money on moral grounds?”

Pursing his lips, shoving both hands into his overcoat pockets. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Venice,” I said, setting the contract back down on the desk.

“Venice,” he repeated like a question.

“The Bridge of Sighs. It’s located in Venice. Do you know what it was used for?”

He slowly shook his head. “A place where lovers could go to look out longingly at the Grand Canal.”

“Wrong,” I said. “It’s a gateway to the old Venetian prison. Whenever the time came for a prisoner to cross it, he had no choice but to sigh, because it meant he was out of options. Good options, anyway.”

“I get your meaning,” he said. “Would you happen to have a business card, Keeper?”

I dug in my pocket, retrieved one, handed it to him across the desk.

“Cell phone number is on there,” I said.

“I’ll check in with you later,” he replied, turning for the open door. “For the time being, I’m staying in one of the apartments at the Fort Orange Club until I can be assured this crisis has abated.”

Just before he stepped out the door, I called out to him one last time.

He stopped and looked at me over his shoulder.

“Like I said, Jim, I’m not an assassin. Once we run out of options, we run out of options. Bridges or no bridges.”

“I get your meaning,” he said with an anxious grin. “I’m not immune to metaphors.”

The middle-aged preppy walked out.

This gumshoe grabbed the cash, stuffed it in his pocket.