"Do what I say!"

Vinnie, who had about half a functional brain, said, "He's right. We gotta get straight to the court."

Lenny seemed to understand. "Okay. But I ain't takin' this fuckin' rap, Vinnie." I settled back in the seat and listened to the horns blaring around us. I didn't think Mancuso was in on this, and as best I could figure it, Mancuso would get a call over his car radio instructing him to go straight to Federal Court. Bellarosa could and would be booked there instead of at FBI headquarters. Then Bellarosa would be whisked in front of a judge for arraignment, and the head of New York's largest crime family would be standing there in his nice suit without an attorney. The judge would read the charge and ask Bellarosa to enter a plea. Bellarosa would say, "Not guilty," and the judge would order him held without bail. Frank would put up a big stink, but to no avail. Murder is a tough charge, and it would take me about two weeks to get a bail hearing. Actually, I would be well-advised to just head on down to Rio and send a postcard. I looked at my briefcase beside me. Some of the paper assets were negotiable, and there was a cool million in cash. The Brazilians didn't ask many questions when you deposited a million U.S. in the bank, except maybe what colour cheques you wanted.

I looked at my watch. They were probably at Foley Square by now, but the booking process, even if it was speeded up, still had to be done according to law; there would be a body search, fingerprinting, photographs, a personal history taken, and forms to fill out. Only then would they haul Bellarosa in front of a waiting judge. So it was possible for me to charge into the courthouse, find out where Bellarosa was to be arraigned, and get into the courtroom on time. It was possible.

I remember I had a house closing in Oyster Bay once, and my car broke down… but maybe that's not a good comparison.

Well, but what could I do? I took down the licence plate numbers of our escorts, stared back at them, then picked up a newspaper lying on the seat. The Mets had beaten Montreal and were two games out of first place now. I said to my friends up front, "Hey, how 'bout them Mets?"

Vinnie said, "Yeah, you see that last night?"

We did baseball chatter awhile. I knew we had to have something in common besides the same boss and the fear of our lives.

There was a car phone in the rear, and I could have called Susan, but I had no desire to. The next time she heard anything of me would be on the afternoon news. But then I remembered she didn't read, hear, or watch the news. But maybe she'd make an exception in this case. Thanks for the challenge, Susan. We approached the tunnel tolls, and I looked at my watch. This was going to be very close.

CHAPTER 27

We lost our escort at the Midtown Tunnel and got on the FDR Drive. Lenny turned out to be a better driver than a conversationalist, which is saying very little, and he got us quickly into and through the narrow, crowded streets of lower Manhattan. But the closer we got to Foley Square, the slower the traffic was moving. I looked at my watch. It was nine-forty, and I estimated that Mancuso and Bellarosa could have been at Foley Square for as long as thirty minutes. The wheels of criminal justice move slowly, but they're capable of a quick grind if someone such as Alphonse Ferragamo is standing there squirting oil on them. But the wheels of the Cadillac were not moving fast at all. In fact, we were stalled in traffic near City Hall Park, and the first arraignments would begin at ten A.M. Damn it. I grabbed my briefcase and opened the door. "Where you goin'?" asked Vinnie. "Rio." I exited the car before he could process that. It was hot and humid outside the air-conditioned Cadillac, and it's not easy to run in wing-tip shoes despite their name, but all lawyers have done this at one time or another, and I headed up Center Street toward Foley Square at a good clip. On the way, I practised my lines. "Your Honour! Don't bang that gavel! I got money!"

The streets and sidewalks were crowded, and many of the people in this section of town were civil servants of the city, state, or federal government who, by nature, were in no particular hurry. However, there were a few other Brooks Brothers runners whom I took to be attorneys on missions similar to mine. I fell in behind a good broken-field runner, and within ten minutes I was at Foley Square, covered with sweat, my arms aching from the weight of the briefcase. I'm in pretty good shape, but running through Manhattan heat and carbon monoxide in a suit is equivalent to about three sets of tough tennis at the club. I paused at the bottom of the forty or fifty courthouse steps and contemplated the summit a moment, then took a deep breath and charged toward the colossal columned portico. I had a mental image of my passing out and of good Samaritans crowding around me, loosening my Hermes tie, and relieving me of my five-million-dollar burden. Then I'd have to hitchhike to Rio. But the next thing I knew, I was inside the cooler lobby of the Federal Courthouse, walking purposefully across the elegant ivory-coloured marble floor, then through a metal detector, which didn't go off. But a U.S. Marshal, obviously intrigued by my dishevelled appearance and huge briefcase, asked me to put the briefcase on a long table and open it. So, there I was, in this massive lobby amid the hustle and bustle of a courthouse at ten A.M., opening a briefcase stuffed with wads of money. If you've ever emptied a bag of dirty underwear at Customs, you know the feeling.

The marshal, an older man who probably thought all marshals should look and act like Wyatt Earp, stood there with his thumbs hooked in his belt, chewing a wad of something. Despite his cowboy pose, he was not wearing boots or spurs or anything like that. Instead, he was dressed in the standard marshal's courthouse uniform, which consisted of grey slacks, white shirt, red tie, and a blue blazer with the U.S. Marshal's service patch on the breast pocket. His shoes were penny loafers, and his six-gun was not strapped around his waist, but was somewhere else, probably in a shoulder holster. I was very disappointed in this outfit, but chose not to remark on it. Wyatt Earp inquired, "What's that?" It's money, you stupid ass. "It's bail money, Marshal."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yup. I have a client being arraigned this morning."

"Is that so?"

"It is. And in fact, I don't want to miss it, so -"

"Why're you all sweaty?"

"I was actually running so as not to be late for the arraignment."

"You nervous about something?"

"No. I was running."

"Yeah? You got some kind of identification?"

"I believe I do." I pulled my wallet out and showed him my driver's licence with my photo, and my bar association card. A few other marshals were standing around now, watching me and the money. Wyatt Earp passed my driver's licence around and everyone took a look. Needless to say, a crowd was gathering, enchanted by the green stuff, so I closed the briefcase.

After my licence made the rounds, including, I think, a passing janitor, I got my ID back. Earp asked me, "Who's your client, Counsellor?" I hesitated, then replied, "Bellarosa, Frank."

The marshal's eyebrows arched. "Yeah? They got that sucker? When?" "He was arrested this morning. I really want to get to the courtroom before he comes before the judge."

"Take it easy. He'll be lucky if he sees a judge by lunchtime. You new around here?"

"Sort of." I added, "I need to speak with my client before the arraignment. So I'll just be on my way." And I was.

"Wait!"

I stopped. The marshal moseyed over to me, sort of bowlegged as if he'd been on a horse all morning, or maybe he had haemorrhoids. He said, "You know where the lockup is?"

"Actually, no."