by Stephen Frey
Treviso forced a serious expression to his face as he moved into Marconi’s bedroom. Most people in the family thought he was a skinny, stupid little fairy. They had no idea he’d figured out Goliath’s real name, or that he knew there was a metal detector in the foyer, or that he’d uncovered a hundred other things like that about the family. The same way he knew Deuce Bondano had been staring at Karen in the hallway outside the kitchen this morning. Staring at her lustfully, too, the bastard. As if he really had a chance with her.
“Hello, sir,” Treviso said respectfully.
“Hi, Tony,” Marconi replied through a mouthful of pepperoni pizza.
Treviso appreciated that Marconi never called him Timid Tony—at least not to his face. Which was all that mattered to Treviso, because he figured everybody cut down everybody behind their backs all the time anyway. Like the don of the family probably cut down Marconi behind his back. That was just how people were. Even good friends did it to good friends. It was a rotten world, but that was how it was, and there wasn’t any changing it. It was just good to have a beautiful wife and a healthy baby boy to carry on his name. They were his world, all that mattered to him, and he’d do anything to protect them. Anything.
Which was the real reason he’d killed that bastard and sent the severed head with the dead rat in its mouth to the wife. Because the guy had asked Karen out. Tried to get into her panties.
One day she’d come along with Treviso to collect the VIG. At one point he’d headed into a bodega to get a pack of cigs and left her alone in the car with the guy for no more than five minutes. While he was gone, the guy had tried to get her to meet him later, tried to wet his snake. Karen had told him everything as soon as they dropped the guy off. Well, the guy had ended up damn sorry. So had his wife.
Treviso reached into his pants pocket, pulled out an envelope stuffed full of big bills, and placed it on the tray table in front of Marconi. “This is everything that guy down in Brooklyn owed us. The one I called you about yesterday. The one who’s—” Treviso stopped when Marconi held up his hand. The hand that wasn’t holding the oily piece of extra cheese pizza. “What?”
Marconi pointed at the television set. “Turn it up.”
Treviso chuckled quietly as he turned the knob, his back to Marconi. Marconi was worth millions, but he was watching an I Love Lucy rerun on a vintage RCA you still had to turn up manually. “That good?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah. Now get that chair over in the corner and bring it close to me so we can talk.”
When Treviso was settled in, the old man patted his hand. “You done good with this,” he said, holding up the pregnant-looking envelope. “You didn’t take any for yourself, did you?”
“No, sir. I’d never do that. Never.”
“Good boy. You have to scare this guy into paying you?”
“I did. Well,” Tony interrupted himself, “I didn’t exactly do it. Paulie the Moon helped me.”
“He helped you?”
“Okay, okay. Paulie was the one who told the guy what would happen if he didn’t cooperate.”
“What was that?”
“He took this hook thing out of his pocket and told the guy he was going to stick it up his nose and pull his brains out with it.”
Marconi laughed loudly, like it was the goddamn funniest thing he’d heard all day. Then he took another bite of pizza. “Good old Paulie,” he muttered, spewing out a couple of small wet pieces of dough and cheese.
“Is that really possible?” Treviso asked, feeling his stomach churn. Marconi didn’t close his mouth all the way when he chewed. The sight of what was going on in there combined with the thought of somebody’s brains coming out through his nose was making him gag. “Can you really pull someone’s brains out his nose?”
“Sure. I seen it done twice. It’s a hell of a thing.”
Treviso turned away and put his fingers to his lips.
“That bother you, Tony?”
“No.”
“I thought you were supposed to have killed some guy and chopped off his head. Why would somebody’s brains coming out through his nose make you wanna puke?”
“It doesn’t.”
Marconi cleared his throat. “How much is in there?” he asked, nodding at the envelope.
“Twelve grand.”
“Remind me, how much was the loan for?”
“Four.”
Marconi raise both eyebrows. “That’s good. You’re getting closer.”
Since losing a hundred grand to Kyle McLean, Marconi had stopped paying Treviso his normal commission. Usually the Lucchesi loan sharks got 30 percent of the profits, but the huge loss to McLean had put Treviso in the penalty box. Since then he’d gotten only 10 percent, and it was killing him. But it was better than having his brains pulled out through his nose.
“Why don’t you run down your loans for me while you’re here?” Marconi suggested.
“Okay, sure. But first can I ask you about something?”
Marconi picked up the envelope off the tray table and tossed it on his bed. “What?”
Marconi suddenly seemed annoyed, probably because he wasn’t used to anyone else setting the agenda. “It’s like this. Well, I heard that the kid might still be alive. The kid who killed your grandson a coupla years ago. That kid Kyle McLean.”
“How did you find out about that?” Marconi demanded, his tone turning surly.
“I heard it around,” Treviso said quickly. “People talk, you know.”
“How exactly did you hear?”
Treviso had been afraid of this. Of the old man demanding to know how he’d heard and not being put off by excuses until he had an answer he could accept. He’d been hoping the general answer would be enough, but now he was going to have to out Deuce Bondano. There was no choice. Deuce had called an hour after leaving the apartment this morning to warn him about saying anything to Marconi about their meeting. But who the hell was he supposed to be more afraid of? “Deuce Bondano came to see me. He told me about it.”
Marconi pursed his lips. “Goddamn it.”
“I won’t tell nobody, I promise. I was just wondering if you’d let me and Paulie talk to McLean first. To see if we can get the money out of him. At least some of it, anyway. I gotta start earning some real money again or I’m gonna—”
“Meeting’s over, Tony,” Marconi interrupted.
“But sir, I—”
“Get outta here.”
“But—”
“Goliath!”
Johnny eased the Seville to a stop half a block down the street from the house. He had no choice. He had to come here, he’d realized, pressing his arm against his body as he rose out of the car. Making sure the pistol was there. It was all window dressing, but Angelo Marconi wasn’t a patient man. And the old man had eyes everywhere.
Johnny walked slowly along the sidewalk in front of the small single-family homes lining the blue-collar neighborhood of eastern Queens, his eyes shifting smoothly about. Looking for anyone or anything suspicious. It was clearly a neighborhood in decline. No urban rehab here. The street was pocked with large potholes; dandelions were growing thickly through the sidewalk’s gaping cracks; the cars that lined the street were old and corroded, and a few were even up on blocks; there was junk strewn across most front lawns; and almost all the houses showed visible signs of disrepair and neglect.
Broken glass crunched beneath Johnny’s soles as he reached the wire gate in front of the small brick house. He checked up and down the street, then pushed open the gate just enough to squeeze past. The hinges looked rusty and he didn’t want them squeaking as the gate swung back. He wanted the element of surprise.
One more check of the street—everything seemed normal—and he headed up the path toward the house. When he reached the door, he leaned against it and turned the knob. It opened right away, which surprised—and worried—him. He quickly drew his gun, holding it out in front as he moved through the quiet home.
When he finished searching the third and last bedroom upstairs, he was satisfied the house was empty. Except for a hungry cat meowing pitifully at his feet. Like it hadn’t eaten in a while.
Either Helen McLean had made her getaway, or Marconi’s patience had reached its limit. Those were the only two possibilities. He’d know sooner rather than later which it was.
“Why did you go to Helen McLean’s house?”
Stephen Casey lay on the plywood board in an uncomfortably familiar position. On his back, wrists tied snugly beneath the board, neck chained to it as well, head eighteen inches below his feet. He wasn’t bothering to struggle this time. He knew it was useless.
“Tell us!”
“She’s my sister,” Casey muttered. He was blindfolded again, so he had no idea when the water would come rushing down his nose. Somehow this time seemed worse because he knew what was going to happen, and he could feel his heart pounding wildly. The anticipation was driving him crazy. “Why do I need a reason to go to her house?” he asked, doing everything he could to keep his voice calm. He knew men like these thrived on seeing their victims terrified. “What’s the problem?”
“Don’t give us that bullshit.”
Casey had always been good at remembering faces and voices, and he was certain that so far he hadn’t heard the voice from the other night. That guy’s tone had been naturally cold. A hundred times more intimidating than the loud, harsh Brooklyn accents he was hearing this time. These men had to try to sound intimidating. The other guy hadn’t needed to try at all.
“Look, I don’t—” Casey’s words were suffocated by the first bucket of water splashing on his face. “I hadn’t seen her in a long time,” he sputtered when it cleared. “Hell, I didn’t even—” The second bucket choked him off again. “Christ, please don’t do this to me. I’m begging you.” He could feel himself losing control, like some pitiful coward. Begging like a third-grade wimp on a playground. He hated himself for it, but there was nothing he could do. At least he’d gotten up the courage to leave his house and warn Helen. “I can’t take it anymore. I’m gonna—” A third bucket. “Stop, stop, stop, I can’t breathe! I’m trying to tell you I’m gonna—” A fourth bucket.
Suddenly Casey’s chest felt like they’d dropped a truck on it. The fear of drowning evaporated, replaced by a different, even more imminent panic. He gasped several times and struggled madly against the ropes binding his wrists, the urge to clutch his heart enveloping him. He strained wildly against the chain securing his neck to the board until it felt like his eyeballs would explode from his skull. He gasped once more, exhaled heavily for several seconds, then his body went still.
The three men in the room glanced at one another, then one of them grabbed Casey’s wrist.
“He’s dead. Jesus Christ, he’s dead.”
“Heart attack?”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Well, what do we do?”
The guy who’d searched Casey’s wrist for a pulse shrugged, then smiled. “Take him home and put him in bed. Natural causes. It’s perfect.”
“What do you want, Deuce?”
Johnny settled into the chair beside Marconi. The old man seemed on edge this afternoon, probably because he didn’t have something high in cholesterol heaped on a plate in front of him. “I wanted to let you know that I went to try to find Helen McLean today. The kid’s mother. But she was gone. The house was empty. And it looked like she left in a hurry, like she wasn’t coming back. At least not for a while.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was an open suitcase in one of the guest bedrooms, and there were clothes spread out all over the bed in her room.”
“How do you know it was her room?” Marconi asked.
“It was pretty obvious, you know? Pictures on the bureau, things in the bathroom. I mean—”
“Yeah, okay.”
“And there was this cat. The thing was acting like it was going to take a chunk out of my ankle if I stuck around much longer. It was starving.”
“You feed it?”
Johnny scoffed. “Of course not.” In fact, he’d opened a can of tuna from the pantry and put it on the floor. Stroked the cat’s head while it ate, too. “Why would I care about some stupid cat?”
Marconi grunted and waved like he didn’t really care one way or the other. Like he regretted asking the question.
“There was one thing I didn’t understand,” Johnny said.
“What?”
“It didn’t look like a man lived there.”
“Huh?”
“I thought she lived with her husband.”
“Bad liver got him a year ago.” Marconi sighed. “Bastard.”
Johnny looked up. “What do you mean? What did he ever do to you?”
“Nah, nah, I’m talking about that guy Stephen Casey. He must have warned her, must have told her to get out.”
“Weren’t you watching Casey?” Johnny didn’t know if they were. Marconi had never said anything. He’d just assumed.
“Of course we were,” Marconi confirmed. “But we think he still got to her somehow. We picked him up earlier this afternoon and tried your technique on him. That waterboarding thing.” The old man chuckled cruelly. “So it’s pretty damn effective. Just like you said.”
“What do you mean?”
“The guy up and had a heart attack on us while we were doing it to him.” Marconi snapped his fingers. “Here one second, gone the next.”
“What?”
“Yup, he’s dead as a trash can.”
“Holy Christ.”
“Now what?” Marconi wanted to know. “Now, how the hell are you going to find Kyle McLean?”
Marconi rarely got mad. He didn’t have to. But when he did, it was best to diffuse the situation quickly—or run. “I’ll figure it out, Angelo,” Johnny assured the old man. “You know that. One way or the other, I’ll find this kid.”
The old man pointed at Johnny. “You’re not trying to make judgments this time, are you, Deuce? You’re not trying to decide if you’re going to do what I asked? I warned you.”
Johnny gazed back at Marconi hard, making sure his eyes didn’t wander. Hoping the old man wouldn’t see the truth. Wondering where the question had come from, if it was just Marconi’s suspicious nature, or if there was something more specific driving the interrogation. For a moment he thought about being proactive, about admitting to Marconi that he’d gone to see Treviso. Then quickly explaining it was all in an attempt to pick up Kyle McLean’s trail. Not done in any way to help make a judgment about what had really happened to Marconi’s grandson that night in front of the row house. He figured it might be best for him to bring it up first, even as thin as it would sound. But Marconi hadn’t mentioned anything about Treviso, so maybe it was best just to let it go and get out of here as fast as possible.
“Of course not, Angelo,” Johnny denied gently. “You told me not to make any judgments, so I’m not.”
Marconi’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll find out if you are, Deuce. And if you are, I’ll be pissed, real pissed. You just need to do your job, exactly like I told you.”
Johnny nodded.
“You don’t wanna piss me off, Deuce. You’ve been around long enough to know that.”
“Of course.”
“Good. Then get out of here and go kill Kyle McLean. That’s what I want. I want him dead. Fucking dead. Now. Hell, yesterday wouldn’t be soon enough at this point.”
17
SORRY, NED.” IT took everything he had to say it, mostly because he didn’t mean it, because he knew he wasn’t wrong. And a little because he hated saying he was sorry about anything, even if he was wrong. “I really am.”
Ned’s office was the only one on the second floor of the store. Everyone else worked in cramped cubicles or out in the open. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, tossing his pen angrily into a cluttered mess of departmental reports. “Didn’t I fire you this morning?”<
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Jack had worn his lucky Yankee cap to the store, brim pulled low over his eyes, and snuck up the stairway to the second floor when the cashiers weren’t looking. He felt like a fool skulking around like this, but there wasn’t any choice. He had to get his check. He needed the money so badly. “I want to talk to you about that.”
“I’m trying to get out of here, Jack. Trying to get a few of these damn Memorial Day inventory orders off my desk so I can go home, prop my feet up, and drink a cold beer. Why are you getting in my way?”
“I’ll apologize to that woman for what I did.” Jack’s jaw clenched involuntarily. “If that’s what it takes, I’ll do it.”
“If that’s what what takes?” Ned leaned back in his chair and smiled smugly, turning the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes into puffy rolls. He put his hands up and motioned inwardly with his fingers. “Come on, say it. I can’t wait to hear Jack Barrett eat a big piece of humble pie. Maybe with a scoop of I’m-a-prick-flavored ice cream on top.”
Jack had gotten his usher job this morning without a hitch. There were lots of older men in Sarasota, but apparently not many of them wanted to lead people to seats in the sultry heat of a Florida evening wearing what looked like a bus driver’s uniform. Name, address, and Social Security number on a short form, and he was in business with the Tarpons starting tomorrow night.
Sewing up the batboy situation hadn’t been nearly as easy. According to MJ, the club already had fifteen applications when he applied for the job in an office down the hall from where Jack was fast-tracked to his usher position. And there were two kids filling out applications when the woman in charge handed MJ his form. Fortunately, Mitch Borden, the owner, had happened past at just that moment, taken an immediate liking to MJ, and hired him on the spot.
