Dead Man’s List. Mike Lawson

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       Chapter 14

      Harry Foster claimed to be a political consultant—it said so right on his office door.

      But what Harry really was, was a guy who always knew a guy who knew a guy. If you needed a politician on your side, Harry knew who was for sale. If you wanted a building permit to slide through the system, Harry knew where to apply the grease. Your no-load brother-in-law needs a job? No problem. Harry knew a guy at the union hall. To get things done in New York you could play by the rules, but if you wanted to win you hired an old-time, backroom boy like Harry Foster.

      Harry had helped Paul Morelli get elected mayor of New York City.

      Harry was sixty-five now and was one of those people who looked better at sixty-five than he had at twenty-five. He was a bit shorter than DeMarco, slim and in good condition. His once black hair was now a handsome shade of silver, receding at the temples, giving him an attractive widow’s peak. His skin was pockmarked from old acne scars, but a good tan maintained in a sun worshiper’s coffin minimized this small blemish. His hands were manicured, his hair perfectly trimmed, and his face was scented with something rich and subtle.

      You could still hear traces of Flatbush in Harry’s speech but he had come a long way from Brooklyn. He and DeMarco were seated twelve stories above Fifth Avenue in an office fit for an urban prince, drinking coffee from bone china cups. Below them was Central Park in all its autumn glory, and from their height the view was unmarred by muggers, winos, and the great unwashed.

      As DeMarco had told Paul Morelli the night they met, Harry was DeMarco’s godfather. DeMarco’s dad and Harry had known each other as boys—an Italian kid with iron fists and his Irish friend with a silver tongue. DeMarco’s father made a wrong turn somewhere along the twisted road of life and became an enforcer for a mobster in Queens named Carmine Taliaferro. Harry took a different route, going to work for a crooked Bronx borough president, and ending up where he was today, rich and covered in a thin mantle of respectability.

      Whatever bond Harry and DeMarco’s father had formed as boys held them together in their later years. Harry would occasionally visit DeMarco’s boyhood home in Queens, and he and his dad would sit there in his mother’s kitchen, drinking coffee, while Harry made jokes about the old days when the nuns used to twist their ears. And while they talked, DeMarco’s mom would glower at Harry, as if it was his fault that her husband worked for the mob. And maybe it was.

      Harry and DeMarco’s dad remained friends until the day Gino DeMarco was cut down in his prime by gunmen from a rival gang.

      “It’s been a long time, Joe,” Harry said. “What’s it been? Almost two years?”

      “About that, I guess. I’m sorry we don’t get together more often.”

      “Hey,” Harry said and shrugged. Men were busy.

      “I was just visiting my mom,” DeMarco lied, “and decided to stop by.”

      “And how is your lovely mother?” Harry asked, a wry smile on his face. They both knew DeMarco’s mother’s opinion of Harry.

      “She’s doin’ fine. Hard as a hickory bat.”

      Harry laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.” He studied DeMarco for a moment. “You seem a bit antsy, son. Can I assume there’s a purpose to this visit, something more than just dropping in to say hello?”

      Though DeMarco’s mother had never approved of him, Harry had been there for DeMarco when his dad was killed. He had sent him money on occasion when he was in college and had been a source of comfort when his marriage failed. Harry was the closest thing he had to a father, and now he wanted a father’s advice.

      “I need to ask you something about Paul Morelli, Harry.”

      “You want to talk about Paul?”

      “Yeah. I like the guy but…”

      “Well, shit, who doesn’t,” Harry said.

      “…but I’ve heard something about him and if it’s true…Well, then maybe he’s not who everyone thinks he is. You’ve known him a long time and I need your take on this thing.”

      “You’re saying you’ve heard something bad about Paul?” Harry said, suddenly less relaxed, sitting up straighter in his chair.

      “Yeah.”

      DeMarco wasn’t about to tell Harry that he’d heard the bad thing from Paul Morelli’s wife, but he did tell him about Terry Finley’s death and Dick Finley’s speculation that his son had been killed because of whatever he’d been investigating. Harry’s reaction to the names of the three men on the bar napkin found in Terry’s wallet was the same as Abe Burrows and Paul Morelli’s—and John Mahoney’s: what befell those men was nothing more than coincidence and if anything underhanded had taken place, it would have been uncovered by now.

      “This isn’t just about the men,” DeMarco said. “There was a woman’s name on the list. She lives here in New York and she worked for Morelli when he was mayor. I’ve been told that Morelli may have attacked this woman. Sexually.”