Sometimes at Night

by Ben Sanders

  He said, ‘Tell you what: show me you can do a round, we’ll point you in the right direction.’ He grinned. ‘I figure that’s culturally appropriate, given the neighborhood. Russian Roulette. How it’s meant to work, right? Borrow shit from other cultures, make it your own.’

  He spun the cylinder. The tubes blurred soundlessly with the motion. The guy with the ponytail had his own pistol up now, the SIG aimed at Marshall’s head from a range of about three feet. The two guys beside him were both shifting in their seats, concern manifesting as a need to get comfy.

  Frank said, ‘You know the rules? Spin, close it, pull the trigger. If dead Vialoux’s so important, should be an easy decision, right? One in six. Hard man like yourself must’ve stared down worse odds than that.’

  Marshall picked up one of the bullets on the table, weighed it on his palm.

  ‘Yeah, there you go. One in six. Not bad, huh? To answer a question you want answered. Clear up something real important.’

  Frank spun the cylinder again and made a V with his fingers, held it below his eyes. ‘Watching me the whole time. Like we’re doing it together.’

  Marshall didn’t answer, studied the cylinder going around, the blur gradually resolving into separate tubes as the motion slowed.

  ‘Pass it here.’

  Frank slid the gun across the table.

  Ponytail guy leaned closer, the SIG two feet from Marshall’s temple.

  Marshall picked up the Colt in his right hand. He pointed it at the floor beside the booth. Blood still pounding in his head. He breathed deeply, trying to make space for clear thoughts.

  He said, ‘These are hard-nose rounds.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Amused, rubbing his jaw again. ‘Didn’t say it wouldn’t hurt.’

  Marshall gave the cylinder a test-whirl, watched the motion. He said, ‘So the bullet’s a decent portion of the cylinder weight. Isn’t it?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Marshall thought about it. He said, ‘And gravity wants the bullet at the bottom of the cylinder. So the cylinder will spin faster when the bullet’s in the bottom half. Like a kid on a swing. So when I stop the spin, the bullet’s more likely to be in the top half than the bottom. Because the rotation’s slower through the top part of the circle.’

  ‘I don’t have a clue, pal.’

  Marshall looked at the gun again, aiming at the floor on a shallow angle, the cylinder hanging out to the left of the frame. He said, ‘And then of course the cylinder has to move through ninety degrees when it closes, so the top half will actually be the right-half. Won’t it? And Colt cylinders move clockwise when you pull the trigger. So it’s pretty unlikely I’ll shoot myself, all things considered.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Marshall looked back at him, hoped the guy couldn’t see the pulse going in his neck. ‘If it’s nothing to you, why don’t I load another round?’

  Silence.

  Marshall said, ‘Far as I’m concerned, two bullets will make the weight even more exaggerated. Even slimmer chance I’ll shoot myself. But as far as you’re concerned, the odds will go from one-in-six to one-in-three.’

  They looked at each other. Frank with an amused light in his eye, but Marshall could tell he was trying to weigh it all up, trying to decide if it was worth it. A one-in-three chance he’d have a dead man on the premises.

  Benny said, ‘Frank, maybe we should just keep it at one …’

  Frank reached and found a piece of bagel without looking and put it in his mouth, eyes staying with Marshall the whole time.

  Frank said, ‘So what are you expecting? What do you think you’re getting if you live through a one-in-three roulette shot?’

  Marshall waited, putting it together. He said, ‘I just want you to understand that I don’t come down here for entertainment. I come down here because I have something I need to do. And if this’ll convince you I’m serious, then let’s go. One way or the other, I’m going to be a problem for you.’

  Frank looked at him, not moving, and then something about the little speech seemed to send a current down a wire. His mouth twitched.

  He said, ‘All right. Load it with two.’

  Marshall’s hand shook a little when he picked up the bullet from the table. The brass slipped in his fingers and he fumbled it and grabbed it on the second try. He placed it in the tube beside the one already loaded.

  He looked up, and Frank spread his hands. ‘When you’re ready.’

  Marshall still had the gun in his right hand, pointed at the floor beside the booth. He reached across himself with his left arm and spun the cylinder, set it whirring on its spindle.

  He looked at Frank.

  ‘Actually, there is something you can tell me.’

  Frank said nothing.

  The cylinder spun on.

  He could feel it wobbling in his grip as the rotations slowed, the offset bullet-weight becoming more and more apparent. He raised his left hand and with great care reached into his coat pocket and brought out the tracking unit from Vialoux’s car, saw Frank Cifaretti’s eyes move and settle on it.

  Marshall said, ‘Which one of you put this in his car?’

  He glanced over at the guy with the ponytail, still looking at him past the steady frame of his own gun, pitch-black and boxy. Marshall tossed the tracker to him, a gentle underhand lob, the trajectory seeming lazy in its slow rise, finally peaking and then making its descent, an easy waist-high catch for the guy, and he took it in his left hand.

  Not so easy though that he could do it without looking. A second’s distraction, but it was enough. Marshall flicked his wrist to close the cylinder on the revolver and reached across the table with his left hand to cup the back of Frank Cifaretti’s head, brought the pistol up and rammed it muzzle-first into the guy’s mouth.

  The motion was just a straight-right punch with a gun on the end of it. Frank had his mouth open slightly in shock, but Marshall still broke teeth going in. The gun disappeared almost to the hammer and Marshall thumbed it back, Frank’s eyes wide and lightning-bolted with capillaries, the gun muffling a shout that seemed to vibrate up Marshall’s arm. He looked over at the guy with the ponytail, still aiming the SIG at him. ‘Why don’t you put that down now?’

  Nothing happened for a second.

  Then Frank coughed, and blood and tooth chips oozed out past the gun. ‘Put it bown. Chrisshake, put it bown.’

  Marshall said, ‘On the ground’s safest. Give it a little kick, too.’

  Benny had both hands in his hair. ‘Chris, shit, put it down.’

  The guy leaned and put the SIG on the floor, nudged it with his toe and sent it skating along the aisle. He still had his composure. Frank and the flower guys weren’t taking things quite so well. Marshall shoved Frank back against his seat with the gun, the man’s eyes so wide he looked like he was trying to swallow it.

  Marshall said, ‘Why was Vialoux killed?’

  ‘I bom’t mow.’

  His eyes were so wide, he looked like he’d been pushed from a plane with no parachute. He said, ‘Jeesh Chrysh, I bom’t mow. I bom’t mow.’

  ‘Who’s the shooter? Tell me who the shooter is. The little guy with the smile. Who is he?’

  ‘Rangellosh guy. Ee worksh for Rangello.’

  ‘I can’t hear you. Rangello?’

  ‘Mo! Farking risshen! Mikey Rangello!’

  ‘Mikey Langello?’

  ‘Yesh!’

  Marshall said, ‘I don’t know any Mikey Langellos. Who is he?’

  ‘Fark. He runsh phings. He’s bosh.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I’m bom’t mow. Preesh. I bom’t mow. He’s farking AWOL.’

  ‘What, you mean he’s missing?’

  ‘Mo!’ He was jerking in his chair. ‘Risshen! Mo one mows where he ish! Fark shake. Mo one mows!’

  ‘So who’s the smiley man. What’s his name?’ Shoving him against the chair even harder now, Frank’s neck bending back over the upright. One mad-crazy eye
drilling into Marshall, bloodshot and panicked.

  ‘I bom’t mow. Chrysh, preesh. Preesh. I bom’t mow.’

  ‘What. Is. His. Name.’

  ‘I bom’t mow! Fark. I bom’t mow. I bom’t mow. He’s Rangellosh guy. Preesh—’

  Marshall let him go.

  He pulled the gun out of the guy’s mouth, and Frank collapsed forward.

  He panted, spat on the table, looked at the red drool for a second. Rorschach-in-blood that maybe told him something. He said, ‘You’re dead, pal. Show fucking dead.’ He let the quivering subside and said, ‘All you got out of that, you got a death warrant.’

  Marshall slid out of the booth and stood up. The three guys at the next table were just looking at him. Ponytail man pretty calm, Benny and the other flower guy very pale and still.

  Marshall said, ‘I have two bullets. If you’re going to follow, make sure you’re third in line.’

  He put the gun in the back of his belt, under the coat, and walked out. When he heard the door crash shut behind him, he started running: full sprint across the intersection, heading south on Coney Island Avenue. He saw headlights come awake on a cross street, a car moving off the curb and then swinging through a red light to follow him, and Marshall slowed as he saw Detective Floyd Nevins put his window down.

  Nevins swung to the curb, eyes on his mirror, watching the bagel shop behind them.

  He said, ‘In.’

  FIFTEEN

  The car was a rusted yellow Volkswagen hatch that smelled like cigarettes. Nevins pulled them off the curb and headed south, still watching his mirrors. The dashboard had a little bobble-head figurine of a Batman villain – Riddler, Marshall was pretty sure – nodding along to the motion of the car.

  Marshall said, ‘Vehicle budget must be tighter than in my day.’

  Nevins glanced at him. ‘Small talk first, huh?’ He was in jeans and a faded sweater and a Yankees cap. ‘This is off the narc impound lot. I was hoping for something flashier.’

  He made a right and went over to Ocean Parkway, headed back uptown. It took him another block to get to it. ‘What were you doing in there?’

  Marshall said, ‘Asking questions. Same ones you have probably, except I scraped up the courage to go in the door.’

  Nevins just looked at him.

  Marshall said, ‘Is this your version of working undercover?’

  Nevins swung to the curb. ‘If you’re going to be an asshole, you can walk.’

  ‘Do you want to know what I was doing, or not?’

  The turn signal tocked faintly.

  Then Nevins made some half-formed comment under his breath, no doubt offensive if afforded greater clarity, and pulled back out into the traffic lane. He sighed through his nose, as if cleansing himself of irritation, and said, ‘You were setting a pretty good pace.’

  ‘I was timing myself back to the subway.’

  ‘What are you doing down here?’

  ‘I told you. Same as you.’

  ‘All right. So what am I doing down here? Don’t take me in circles.’

  ‘Vialoux said his debt was with a mob guy – Frank Cifaretti. I told you that. I remembered the bagel place is one of his fronts.’

  ‘And then kept that recollection to yourself, obviously. And you didn’t tell me he was mob, either. Or was that another instance of delayed memory?’

  ‘It was an instance of assuming you’d run his name and then know what I know. Or did you decide to stop searching databases after being warned off D’Anton?’

  No reaction. Which itself was a tell, Marshall thought. Like an unmarked cop car: suspiciously bland. He knew Nevins must have been told to leave D’Anton alone.

  Nevins said, ‘If there’s a body back there, you’re going to put me in a difficult position.’

  ‘All you have to do is tell the truth. You saw me running, gave me a ride.’

  Nevins looked at him, no trace of humor.

  Marshall said, ‘No one’s dead. Relax.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I asked them about the little guy with the smile. Frank Cifaretti thought he might work for a guy called Langello. Mikey Langello. That’s all he knew about it.’

  ‘And you took him at his word, did you?’

  He pictured Frank with the gun in his mouth, saying he didn’t know why Vialoux was dead. Neck arched back and that one eye locked on him, terrified.

  Marshall said, ‘Vialoux was a mob hit, but those guys didn’t know about it. It’s something above their pay grade. And the guy above their pay grade’s off the grid, apparently. Frank said no one knows where this Langello guy is.’

  Nevins didn’t answer.

  Marshall said, ‘I’m up in Flatbush. Come in for a beer.’

  Boris emerged from the pet flap to greet them. He stood watching as Marshall unlocked the front door, and then trotted in again after Nevins. Marshall turned on the lights and went into the front room.

  ‘Just give me a minute.’

  He turned on the lamp and sat at the desk to consider his Pollock puzzle. Everything vivid and inviting under the glow. Straight away, he thought he saw a lineup, a shape and color match that ran voltage down his spine. He tried the active piece on the working edge but couldn’t get a clean fit, tried again with a ninety-degree rotate and came up short. Something there at a deeper layer of puzzle-knowing that he couldn’t make operative. He backed off and went in again after a piece-swap, tried both lateral working edges and then the two verticals, got it within microns of a lineup but couldn’t close the placement. He piece-swapped a second time, encouraged by a tantalizing mental flash, but the board let him down. No: that was a fallacy. Every aspect of it was what you showed up with yourself. Your categories and your patience and your vision. The board had no say. He tried a fourth piece, seeing something on the lower lateral edge, but then pulled out, knowing even from six inches that it was piece-mirage, nothing there for him. But then something – something – told him to stay with it, and on reflex he paired a working-edge diagonal shift with a ninety-degree rotate, coming across to the right of the frame almost without thinking and laid it down clean. Two edge contact: convex-convex with respect to host shape. Then still flowing off instinct, he made a take from the loose reserves and came across to the same right-hand edge and placed piece five on the first attempt: one touch, double-edge contact, and again double-convex.

  He leaned back, knowing he wouldn’t hit another run that smooth in one night, and Nevins said, ‘You good?’

  Marshall turned off the lamp and stood up. ‘Yeah. I’m good.’

  He found a couple of Budweisers in the fridge and took them through to the living room. Nevins was over at the desk.

  ‘Pollock, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Convergence.’

  ‘Yet to converge.’

  Nevins gave the jigsaw a thorough scan, maybe assessing it for post-retirement value. Marshall handed him a beer and Nevins took a sip, eyes staying with the puzzle. He selected a piece from the reserves and ran it down the left vertical working edge, found a home for it near the base of the frame: two-sided contact, complex shape and color interactions, concave-convex with respect to host curvature. Inarguably a nice placement.

  Marshall said, ‘You didn’t return my call.’

  Nevins glanced at him.

  Marshall said, ‘I met Loretta Flynn. We had a nice talk this afternoon, in the back of her car. I wondered why you were so cagey when I asked you about D’Anton Lewis. I figured she must have warned you off.’

  Nevins sifted through the reserves.

  Marshall said, ‘Did she tell you anything interesting? Other than avoid him?’

  ‘She said D’Anton was very much within the scope of their current operation, and she would advise if anything relevant materialized.’

  ‘I think that’s how deputy inspectors spell, Fuck off.’

  ‘Quite possibly.’ Nevins chose a second piece.

  Marshall said, ‘Cifaretti was a good lead. I’m surpris
ed you were down there by yourself. Or were you worried if you asked for backup, you’d be told to stay away from him, too?’

  ‘How did Flynn find you?’

  Marshall said, ‘I assumed because you’d told her about me.’

  ‘I told her you might try to speak to him, yes.’

  ‘Right. Well, I knocked on his door, and then twenty minutes later I had three unmarked NYPD cars following me.’

  ‘What did Flynn tell you?’

  ‘To stay away, more or less. She said D’Anton had a mistress who tried to blackmail him, and then went swimming in the Hudson with no fingers.’

  Nevins nodded. He was still trying to place his second piece. Marshall guessed Flynn had shown him the photo of the hand, too.

  Marshall said, ‘It didn’t exactly persuade me he has nothing to do with Vialoux’s murder.’

  Nevins said, ‘Loretta Flynn oversees trafficking cases. But she wouldn’t tell me what her interest is in D’Anton.’

  ‘The question is, if they’re looking at D’Anton, are they looking at Cifaretti, too, for the same thing. Frank said they get a lot of cops drinking coffee at the Minimart, but I didn’t see anything that looked like surveillance. And you were the only one who came to meet me when I left.’

  ‘Yeah. And what was going on that you had to set a Guinness World Record for coming out of a store?’

  Marshall said, ‘I put a gun in Frank Cifaretti’s mouth and asked him what the story is.’

  Silence.

  Marshall said, ‘It was his gun, actually. They had some clever idea about playing Russian Roulette. I thought that was a bit risky.’

  Nevins put the beer beside him on the desk. ‘You think it’s less than a one-in-six chance they’ll find you and kill you?’

  Marshall had some beer. He said, ‘The smiley guy works for their boss. Whoever this Langello guy is.’

  ‘You said that already.’

  ‘I thought if I said it again, I might get a thank you.’

  Nevins dropped his second piece on the reserves pile and turned from the desk. He looked tired and hollowed out. Marshall had asked in jest if he was working double shifts, making the most of his last few days on the job, but he wondered now if he’d landed on the truth by accident.