Great Kills

by Kevin Fox

  At least that’s what I thought.

  We were in our green Dodge van on Hylan Boulevard, headed the movie theaters near the OTB when it happened. Hylan Boulevard, then and now, was an experience in Darwinian driving. Slow traffic could go as slow as thirty miles an hour, the fastest somewhere around seventy. Most did around fifty, and everyone constantly shifted between lanes, navigating between the slow and weak and the fast and the strong. One misjudged lane change and three or four families would be making a call at the funeral homes that seemed to crop up every couple of miles on the boulevard.

  We were at the stoplight on Hylan and Keegan’s Lane, in the middle lane behind a Black BMW, when the light turned green.

  “It don’t get any greener, genius,” my father muttered, looking in his driver’s side mirror to see if he could get around the car in front of him. He must have seen it coming, because my father pulled the wheel in the opposite direction as the van rocked hard to the right and there was a squeal of metal on metal, a shrieking high-pitched sound underscored by a deeper thud. It took me a moment to realize that the black Cadillac that had just passed had sideswiped us, shattering its passenger side mirror.

  “Jesus Christ! What the hell was that?” My mother screamed.

  “Hold on,” my father told her, focused. He hit the gas, chasing down the Cadillac, flashing his headlights at it while weaving in and out of traffic.

  “Kill. Get the plate number,” he said, but I already had it committed to memory. I wasn’t a cop’s son for nothing. I had the plate number, the number of occupants, the cross streets it happened at – everything. All we had to do now was find a phone to call it in.

  We never got that far. The Cadillac pulled over on the shoulder where Great Kills Park and the woods come right up to the edge of the Boulevard. My father stopped behind it, one hand unbuckling his seatbelt, the other going to his ankle holster where he kept his off-duty gun, just to make sure it was there.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Mom asked, worried.

  “He stopped. We’ll trade insurance, unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “If he’s drunk or high, I’m holding him ‘til the sector car gets here.”

  “Jesus, Jimmy. Can’t you let it go, just once?” she asked, pleading, but the door slammed in her face and we were left watching my father as he took out his badge and moved cautiously up to the Cadillac. He leaned into the driver’s side window, identifying himself. The adrenaline from the cars colliding was already wearing off when I saw the driver lean out the window…

  …He had a mangy mustache.

  It took a minute to sink in, since I’d only seen him once and didn’t expect to see him here, now. Before I could react, my father said something to him, reached in the window past Mangy Mustache, and came back out with the Cadillac’s keys. …For a minute, I thought it was all going to be all right. My father had the guy’s keys. He had the gun. He had the badge. But then Mangy Mustache was out of the car and walking after my father, angrily saying something at his back as the passenger door of the Cadillac opened. The Toothless Giant stepped out and then I knew the sideswipe wasn’t an accident.

  “DAD!” I yelled as loudly as I could, to warn him about the giant – but over the traffic and through closed windows, he couldn’t hear me.

  The Toothless Giant didn’t slow down or hesitate as he walked up behind my father, spun him around, and hit him with everything he had. I didn’t know it at the time, but my father’s jaw was broken in three places and two teeth were lying on the asphalt in the center lane of Hylan Boulevard. We later learned that the Giant’s hand was also broken in two places, but he was feeling no pain, since he was too high. Unfortunately, he was clear-headed enough to start patting my father down, looking for his gun.

  “Oh my God. Jesus Christ, what the hell are they doing?” My mother screamed, panicking. It was pretty clear to me what they were doing –

  – I reached under the front bench seat where my father kept his toolbox and pulled out his three-quarter-inch Craftsmen ratchet, almost twelve inches long and three pounds of solid steel. Clearly, I wasn’t thinking clearly.

  I opened the door anyway, focused and intent, striding straight up behind the Toothless Giant as he bent over my father, his hands just inches from the gun in his ankle holster. The soft spot where his neck and skull met was surrounded by knotted muscle, so I took two hands to swing the ratchet.

  “Vince!” Mangy Mustache warned the Giant, but it was too late. The ratchet came down with every ounce of power I had in my thirteen-year-old arms. It was a solid hit, but I didn’t hear anything crack. The giant just collapsed to one knee and shook his head, dazed.

  “Affanculo!” the giant roared and stood, coming right at me, his face red with anger, his eyes bloodshot, his pupils dilated to utter blackness. That’s when I did the only smart thing I did that day.

  I ran – but he caught a piece of my shirt and slammed me against the side of our van. Facing him, I saw him pull back to launch his huge fist at my face. I dropped to the ground. Glass shattered above me, raining down as his fist went into the side window of the van.

  “Fuckin’ son of a shit-bitch!” the Giant screamed. I rolled to the center of the van, out of his reach, shaken.

  “Come here, you little shit. I wanna snap your neck,” he said, reaching for me with his bloody hand. I bit it. He screamed and I spit blood and grains of glass back at him as I tried to escape out from under the other side of the van. I never made it – a shadow fell over the pavement on that side. Mangy Mustache was looking at me from under the muffler, faking a smile.

  “Come on out, kid. We just want some answers. We know that you know where it is,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “We won’t hurt you if you tell us where,” he said, reaching under to grab me. I slammed my elbow on his fingers and heard one crack. It might seem sick, but it was a beautiful sound. He yelled from the pain and when he looked at me again, I gave him the finger. It felt good.

  …And then he suddenly stood up, moving away. I watched his feet, thinking it was a trick, then turned to see that the Giant was also moving quickly back toward their car. I stayed put as I heard Mom yelling above me… and then I heard what they’d heard. Sirens. Somewhere close by and getting louder. I looked out toward the boulevard to see if I could spot their cars approaching, but all I saw was a 1973 Volkswagen Bug and a man that looked like the pictures I’d seen of Uncle Joe (I had no memories of him), on the opposite side of the street, looking toward the sirens. He caught me looking out of the corner of his right eye and glanced at me sideways for a long moment, smiled sadly, and then got back in his car – and left without ever fully facing me – as if once he knew I was going to be all right, he wasn’t needed. I know it couldn’t have been Uncle Joe, but he looked so familiar, and was right where I needed him, but he was gone before I could even see him full on.

  The VW backfired as it weaved into the traffic… and then I must have closed my eyes, because I lost a few minutes. Either that or my memory went dark again. Whatever happened, I didn’t come back until I heard my father’s muffled and strained voice calling to me.

  “Killian. It’s all right. Come out,” he said with a lisp, blood drooling uncontrollably over his lip as he knelt to look at me. When he offered me a hand I took it, and noticed that traffic had started moving, now that the show was over. The sirens, wherever they were, moved on, fading in the distance.

  “Get in the car,” my father ordered, already moving toward his door.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the cops?”

  “I am the cops. No one else is coming.”

  My father got in, calmly, and I heard his teeth rattle as he tossed them in the cup holder.

  “Jesus Jimmy, your teeth…” my mother whispered, horrified.

  “I have others. You got the plate number, Killian?” he muttered, barely moving his mouth.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good job,” he told me, then put on h
is turn signal and pulled out into traffic.

  “Where are you going?” Mom asked quietly, still in shock.

  “I promised Kill a movie. He’s going. Then I’m driving to a dentist. When we get there, you can call the precinct.”

  “But your teeth—”

  “Can wait. Movies first. Besides, they’ll be looking for this van, not him.”

  “Jimmy—”

  “Let it go, Theresa.”

  His tone must have stopped her. We drove in silence until we pulled up outside the theater as if there was nothing different about this day.

  “Give him money,” Dad ordered, and my mother did, without a question. “Buy some candy, Kill. Tell me about it when you get home.”

  I nodded and stepped out, but I didn’t shut the door right away. I turned back to look at both of them, knowing that something wasn’t right and that this whole thing didn’t quite make sense.

  “What were they talking about?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Those guys. They were the ones who chased me and ran over my bike.”

  My parents exchanged a look. They hadn’t known that, and it meant something to them. After a moment my father sighed, holding back the pain.

  “No, they weren’t. I’ve told you how bad eyewitnesses are, right? Two stressful things in a week, you just thought they were the same. You know how bad your memory is.”

  “Yeah, but…” I stopped myself. He was right. My memory was completely fakakta.

  “Good. Then you understand. Now go. You’ll miss the previews.” I shut the door. He pulled away with a wave. My mother didn’t even look back.

  By the time the previews had ended, I was into the movie. Jurassic Park. Escapism at its finest. By the end of the movie I barely remembered what had happened. It might sound strange, but anyone who grew up in Staten Island would understand. It’s one of those places where ‘nobody sees nothing’ and casual violence is accepted. You get over it. If you don’t, you don’t last. I got over it easier than most, possibly due to the fact that my memories don’t stick in the same way other people’s memories do. I guess that’s why I might remember events in ways that make no sense – like thinking Uncle Joe was on the boulevard or that some girl was in the woods the night of my accident.

  ...Sometimes I think I’d be better off if I remembered to just forget it all.

  “So, you think the guys that broke your father’s jaw were the same guys that chased you down?” Kat asked, obviously doubting my version of events. I couldn’t blame her, since my history of recall was spotty at best. In fact, the first time I had the ‘girl dream’ after she moved in I was convinced that the girl in the dream looked like Kat – or was Kat. Of course I never told her, and knew that it was crazy and that my subconscious had probably changed the dream girl to look like Kat since the details of my dreams seemed to be fluid.

  “…And if they were the same guys – why?” Kat asked as we approached the barricades that sealed off Tottenville. Thankfully they were still in place. That meant the bridges were still closed. Markov was still trapped somewhere on the island and I still had time to find him and the girls.

  “I don’t know, I haven’t even thought about them in twenty years. Not until my father brought them up today,” I finally answered, trying not to look out the window.

  “How do you not think about that?” She asked. I shrugged. Forgetting unpleasant events was my specialty.

  “I probably stopped worrying because Mangy Mustache and the Toothless Giant were both arrested after a shooting in Brooklyn three months later. The three strikes law sent them away for a long time.” Kat stared at me for a minute, suspicious.

  “Who shot them? Guys that knew your father?”

  “My father knew everybody.”

  “Right…” she muttered, as if confirming her suspicions.

  “It wasn’t like that. Those two guys were connected. They’d used Uzis to spray four storefronts, killing two people because they were dealing in a neighborhood owned by the Gambinos.”

  “Nice. But what the hell were they after you for? What were they digging up?”

  “My father said there was something valuable on that plane. And kids.”

  “Like you found on that yacht.”

  “Yeah. And he acted all freaked out about my ring getting stolen, about Markov owning the yacht – and if I had to bet, he knows who the woman at the yacht was.”

  “Damn. And he didn’t tell you?”

  “No, the raving bitch from Bay Terrace stopped him.”

  “What was that bit about those guys noticing your scar?”

  “I’m not sure where that fits in. Not yet.”

  Kat shrugged, excited. “Smuggling, drugs, plane crashes, kids being held captive, family secrets... Man, this is starting to get good. Where are we going next?”

  “We? You know you’re not a detective, right?”

  “Details, details. Army C.I.D. is the same thing, basically. Besides, I’m smart. I think like a criminal. I could be good at this. Give me a gun and I’m set. We can track down that asshole that tased me and shove his cattle prod where the sun don’t shine. Get him to talk,” she said with an eager smile.

  “You know there’s no Tasers up the ass in civilian life, right?” I told her.

  “Come on, I read the news. I’ve seen the movies. You can be honest with me, Killer. You guys like it rough, right?”

  “Forget it. I’m taking you home right after we make one more stop. You think you can behave for another fifteen minutes?”

  “Only if I can come inside with you this time.”

  “Fine. If you behave… And don’t engage with the guy we’re meeting. He’s a little off. Sean Corrigan, from what I hear, is a flake, but you gotta be nice.”

  “Corrigan? As in Joe Corrigan, your dad’s old partner?”

  “Yeah. His father is Uncle Joe’s cousin,” I told her, and saw her do a double take.

  “Wow. Didn’t know they were from the Island.”

  “Yeah. Cousins all over the place. Cops, firemen, doctors. My family lost touch after Joe died. I think they blamed my dad for his death,” I told her, wondering why my father would send me to talk to Sean. As far as I know, my dad hadn’t seen any of the Corrigans since Joe’s funeral, mourning over his closed casket.

  “You know where this Sean Corrigan lives?”

  “Right near the school. When I was a kid my dad would never drive past that house – so one day I asked my mom why. She told me whose house it was. He never went past there or the old mansion on Arthur Kill,” I said.

  “The abandoned and haunted place? The Kreischer Mansion?”

  “Yeah. I think the Corrigans were groundskeepers there for generations, until after Joe died.”

  “How cool is that? I used to go partying in there after it was abandoned… Is this Sean guy cute?” Kat asked, and I could see where this was going.

  “Don’t even think about it, Kat. I’ve heard stories about him from friends he went to school with – he apparently went off the deep end after a trip to Ireland. He’s obsessed with some girl he never met, and travels all around the world looking for her even though he’s not sure what she looks like. He’s written books about her.”

  “Sounds like every horny guy I ever knew. Maybe she looks like me.”

  I almost responded, but thought better of it. It didn’t matter. I needed to know why my father sent me to talk to Sean. I had no idea what could he possibly know about this case – or the one my father and Uncle Joe were working twenty-five years ago – but if he had any pertinent facts I needed to know. Something tied these cases together, and the more information I gathered, the more likely it was that I could track down those two girls before it was too late.

  The clock was still ticking, and getting louder every minute.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Last thing my father said to me was ‘don’t trust anyone’, and ‘ask Sean about Ireland. About Declan and the woman who was look
ing for my Uncle Joe,” I explained to Kat as we stood on the sagging front porch of the Corrigans’ old Georgian style home.

  “You think she’s the one who has the two girls?”

  “She was at the yacht. She matches the description of the Witch of Wolfe’s Pond – and she knows too much. So yeah. Maybe Sean knows where she is.”

  “And who is Declan?”

  “Not sure. But my father mentioned that name as someone my Uncle got a tip from about the plane -- so here we are.”

  I had to speak loudly, as the sump pumps were forcing water out through open basement windows into the swampy yard. Sandy had done some damage here. Trees were down all over the property and a few dozen shingles littered the lawn, but it seemed as if the house itself was relatively unscathed otherwise. Kat kept prodding, intense.

  “You don’t know anything about this Sean person?”

  “A little. I read his book – well, the summary. On line. He’s a little off his nut with conspiracy theories and ‘hidden histories’ – but he does have relatives who were associated with the IRA and gun-running. Just don’t ask him anything about traveling the world to find a long-lost soul mate.” I rang the doorbell again, impatiently. It was still drizzling, I was getting damp and moist all over, and I was suddenly very aware of why I hate both of those words.

  “Traveling the world to find a lost love? That’s sweet,” Kat said with a dreamy look. I should’ve left her home, but I still felt guilty about her being tased. A little.

  “Romantic, mental. Not much difference, is there?” I rang the bell one last time, then knocked loudly – remembering that they probably had no power like the rest of the island. I was about to give up and leave when I heard wet and soggy footsteps behind me.