1 Month Later, SEPTEMBER 1986
Special Agent Dominick Edge of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms had a lot on his mind as he parked the Shark, his long black Lincoln Continental coupe. Backing into a space on the busy north Jersey road, watching for cars coming up from behind, he was thinking about his family.
Today was the first day of school for his kids, and his wife, Ellen, was overjoyed. The boys, Drew and Matt, had moped around all weekend, complaining that the summer had been too short, driving their mother nuts.
His daughter, Keri, couldn't wait to get back and start eighth grade. She was thirteen, and she and her girlfriends were boy-crazy all of a sudden. Dominick wasn't sure if he was ready to have boyfriends hanging around the house. Keri wasn't even in high school, for God's sake. But right now he had to stop worrying about all that because he wasn't in Dominick Edge mode now.
Agent Edge got out of the car, locked the door, and flipped up the collar of his black leather jacket against the rain as he glanced across the city avenue at the ordinary-looking storefront on the first floor of the three-story brick building, the place that had no name and was known simply as "the store." When he stepped into "the store," he would be "Michael Dominick Provenzano," "Dom" to those who knew him, a "connected" guy currently in the market for guns.
Unlike Dominick Edge, Michael Dominick Provenzano didn't give a shit about wives, report cards, and Little League games. Provenzano's main interest was in making deals and making money. That was the mindset that Special Agent Dominick Edge had to put himself in as he waited for a break in the traffic so he could cross the street.
Tires hissed on the wet pavement as he started across. He looked through the plate glass window of the greasy spoon luncheonette next door to "the store" to see if he recognized any faces. Thank God he'd already had lunch. You took your life in your hands eating in that place. Even the coffee was treacherous. But sometimes having coffee there was a necessary risk. It was where the clientele from "the store" went when they wanted a little privacy to discuss a deal.
The narrow driveway next to the store was jammed with big cars—Caddy's and Lincolns. The end of the drive was blocked by an idling police cruiser with its front end hanging out into the street. The trunk was open. A cop in uniform had a cardboard box on his shoulder, which he was carrying in through the side door. Dominick followed him up the steps. The cop glanced at him around the edge of the box and avoided eye contact, but once they got inside the doorway and no one challenged Dom's presence there, the cop smiled and nodded.
"Need any umbrellas?" the cop asked, lowering the box off his shoulder. It was full of brand-new umbrellas, the tags still on them. Dominick had no doubt that they'd just ''fallen off the truck."
Dominick stroked the ends of his moustache as if he were thinking about it. "Nah. Can't move stuff like that."
The cop shrugged and dropped the box. He kicked it into a corner and looked around for another taker.
Dominick scanned the room. It was nothing to look at. The floor was littered with cigarette butts, the walls hadn't seen paint in twenty years, and there was hardly a place to sit, but "the store" was a virtual Kmart of criminal activity.
A dozen men or so huddled in twos and threes under clouds of cigarette smoke, buying and selling stolen property, making connections, planning hijackings and burglaries, bragging and bullshitting.
Dominick noticed a short, wiry guy in a maroon silk shirt and a burgundy leather sports jacket scribbling in a notepad as he nodded and smiled and talked to a heavyset guy in his forties whose hairline nearly touched his eyebrows.
They didn't know Dominick, but Dominick knew who they were. The hairy guy had a methamphetamine factory somewhere out in Pennsylvania. The little guy was a loan shark associated with one of the New York Mafia families. It looked like the hairy guy was taking out a loan, perhaps to expand his speed business. Dominick made a mental note, so he could pass it on.
At a wobbly kitchen table with mismatched chairs, a scruffy-looking character with a ragged red beard dealt out cards to three meticulously groomed older gentlemen who all wore sheer nylon socks and lots of gold jewelry.
A fat man with three chins and a wart on the side of his nose was coming down the back staircase, peering over his belly and stepping carefully as if he were crossing a stream on slippery stones. He looked happy. No wonder. A pair of prostitutes had their own boutique up on the third floor.
A smudged glass counter near the front door held a small electric fan, a few cheap Korean cameras, and a set of aluminium pots and pans. The merchandise was just there for show. It was covered with dust and hadn't been touched in the seventeen months Dominick had been coming here.
Except that there used to be two fans. Dominick recalled the first hot day of the summer when a little old Italian lady came in wanting to buy a fan. Everything stopped when the regulars finally noticed her. They stared at her as if she were from the moon. Someone grabbed one of the fans and gave it to her for nothing, then told her to get the hell out. The poor old lady was still good for a laugh now and then. She had become something of a legend at "the store"—the first and only honest person ever to walk into this place.
Over by the pay phone on the wall, Lenny DePrima, one of the regular fixtures here, was talking to the crooked cop with the umbrellas. Dominick had to talk to DePrima. But before he could make it across the room, someone grabbed his sleeve.
"Hey, Dom."
Walter Kipner peered over his tinted aviator glasses and grinned up at Dominick. Thick ropes of gold chain mingled with his gray chest hairs.
"Hey, what's up, Walt." Kipner always had something going on.
"Come here. I wanna show you something." Kipner led Dominick over to a secluded corner. He had a Bloomingdale's shopping bag in his hand. He opened the bag and let Dominick take a peek. It was full of five-dollar bills, bundles of them bound with rubber bands.
Kipner pulled a loose bill out and handed it to Dominick. "Made in England. The best. You can't tell the difference, can you."
Dominick rubbed the counterfeit bill between his fingers. 'Shit, not bad." Fucking Kipner. He was into everything.
''If you take half a mil, you can have them for twenty cents on the dollar." said Kipner, slathering like the wolf who ate Grandma.
Dominick pressed his lips together and shook his head. "I dunno, Walt. Fives. Who the fuck wants fives. Twenties, sure. But fives. Gimme a break. You gotta walk around with a fucking suitcase with these things."
Kipner looked deeply hurt. "What you talking about, Dom. Fives are perfect. Who the fuck bothers to check out a five. You tell me. Big bills they check. But they don't check little stuff. Never. That's why they're perfect."
Lenny DePrima was still over by the phone, but the cop was gone. Dominick really had to talk to him.
Kipner lowered his voice. ''You take a mil and I'll give them to you for fifteen cents. Just for you, Dom."
Dominick kept his eye on DePrima. He had to get rid of Kipner and his phony fives so he could talk to him, but he'd write this up later in his daily report. Kipner was a real piece of work. In the last year he'd tried to sell Dominick everything—silencers, rocket launchers, plastic explosives. This was the first time with counterfeit money, though. If this guy only knew what a pass he was getting.
It had been decided from the beginning that they weren't going to bust any bad guys Dominick found out about and risk blowing his cover. For the past seventeen months he'd had just one target and that was all he was supposed to focus on. His assignment was to get close to Liu Shifu that's all. But now, almost a year and a half later, he was no closer to Shifu than he had been when he started this undercover. That's why he and Lenny DePrima had to have a little talk. DePrima had to start doing more.