The Best American Mystery Stories 2020

by C. J. Box

  I leaned my seat back and inspected the dashboard. It looked like it belonged on a fighter jet. “Do you know where we’re going?” I asked.

  “It’s over on the other side of Midland, somewhere along the river. I’ve been there once. I’ll look it up when I get a little closer.”

  “Have you got a map?”

  “A map? Pops, who uses maps? I got a GPS on my phone.”

  “See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve got to start listening to me. You shouldn’t use a cell phone on the job. How many times have I told you that? If the FBI wants to track you, all they’ve got to do is get your cell-phone number. You can’t leave an electronic record for them. No phones or credit cards. If you need gas, or something to eat, you pay cash, so no one knows you were there.”

  “I swear, Pops, I’ve never seen anyone who worries like you.”

  “You’d be wise to worry a little bit. It’ll keep you alive. I’m supposed to be training you, but you don’t listen. You got your own ideas and they’re going to get you killed. You’re careless, and in this business you can’t be careless.”

  It started spitting rain. I slouched and looked out the window as raindrops beaded on the glass and raced past. I might as well have been talking to the wind. This kid, he was born careless. He would never make it to seventy-two.

  Carlo never made it that far, but he had no one to blame but himself.

  We were like brothers—​Carlo, Big Tommy, and me. When Big Tommy’s dad was head of the family, we were seen as the future of the organization. We weren’t like these punks today. We had respect for the family. When Big Tommy took over, there was no one that he trusted more than Carlo and me. If he had a tough job to do, he handed it to us.

  One day in the summer of 2008, Big Tommy called me into his office and said, “I got a job for you.”

  “Do you want Carlo in here for this?” I asked.

  “No. It’s a solo mission.” He pointed to an index card on the corner of his desk. In order to maintain his distance from any dirty work, Big Tommy never uttered the name of the mark. The name was printed on the underside of the index card. I picked it up and a flush of heat consumed my face.

  The name on the card was Carlo Russo.

  “Can you do this?” he asked.

  It felt like I was trying to chew a mouthful of steel wool. “Why?”

  “Carlo . . .” His voice faded out. “Carlo has been playing double agent with the Varacalli family. They want to cut into my turf. He’s been helping them. In exchange he gets a piece of the pie. You know, Angelo, I love Carlo like a brother, but I cannot tolerate this kind of disloyalty.”

  “Carlo?”

  He nodded. “I’ll ask you again, Angelo. Can you do this?”

  “My loyalty is to you and the family, first and always.”

  “You’re a good man. Take him to the cabin. Tell him we have a shipment coming in.”

  I thought my face would combust. “Okay,” I said. “Consider it done.”

  I handed him the index card. Big Tommy put it in the ashtray and set it on fire with his cigar lighter. Just before I left the room, I turned and looked at the head of the Fortunato family. Where Big Tommy was concerned, I was largely a man of blind obedience. I rarely questioned him. But I had to ask, “You’re sure about this, right, boss?”

  “If I wasn’t sure, his name wouldn’t have been on that index card.”

  Big Tommy owned a hunting cabin on two hundred acres south of Buffalo. Periodically he would send us up there to make an exchange of prostitutes. It wasn’t good to keep the same girls in a whorehouse for a long time. Some johns get tired of seeing the same talent, while others fall in love. Either way, it’s not good for business. So periodically we would ship our hookers to Cleveland, the Cleveland girls would go to Buffalo, and the “Buffalo gals,” as we called them, came to us. Carlo and I would meet our contacts with the Buffalo mob at the cabin and they would bring down the girls. Carlo liked this, because it usually meant an overnight in the cabin with the ladies.

  I didn’t waste any time. Carlo went into the bathroom to take a leak as soon as we got to the cabin. “When are they getting here?” he asked me from behind the closed door. I didn’t answer. As he stepped out, still hitching up his pants, he was asking again. “Angelo, when are the girls—”

  He was looking down the barrel of my Baby Glock. “There are no girls, Carlo. Get your hands up.”

  He slowly lifted his hands to shoulder height, frowning; his pants fell down around his ankles. “What the hell’s this?”

  “You know what this is.”

  “No, I don’t. I swear.”

  “Big Tommy found out you’ve been burning the candle at both ends—​working with the Varacallis.”

  “What? No, no. They wanted to talk to me, but I . . .”

  “No more, Carlo. I’m sorry.”

  “No, Angelo, wait. Don’t do it, for God’s sake. Let me go. I’ll go away, far away, and no one will ever hear from me again, I swear. You can tell Big Tommy you clipped me. He’ll never know.”

  “I’ll know.” I pointed at his pants with the barrel of my pistol. “Pull your pants up. I don’t want you to go out like that.”

  He started to cry. “Come on, Angelo, we’ve been friends forever.”

  His blubbering made me angry. How many times had I heard Carlo Russo tell a mark to take it like a man? “Is this how you want to go out, crying with your pants down around your ankles?”

  He extended his right hand, tears running down his cheeks. “Please, Angelo, I beg—”

  I put one right in his heart. A clean shot. He dropped on his back and was dead before he hit the floor. I took his 9-millimeter Beretta out of his suit jacket, then wrapped up his body in a paint tarp. I dragged him deep into the woods at the back of the property and spent the rest of the afternoon digging a deep grave in the sandy bottom of a dried creek bed. When I got back to town, I stopped at Undo’s. I had the shrimp with linguine in a cream sauce and ordered a bottle of Chianti with two glasses.

  The name of Carlo Russo was never again uttered in the presence of Big Tommy Fortunato.

  Gaetano drove through Aliquippa, my old stomping grounds, and up into Monaca. “We’re going to Midland. Why didn’t you just cut across to Shippingport?” I asked.

  He looked at his phone and tapped some buttons with his thumb. “It’s not right in Midland. The GPS says this is the shortest route.”

  “You kids couldn’t find your way to the crapper without looking at your GBS.”

  “GPS, Pops.”

  “Whatever.”

  We crossed the bridge over the Ohio River into Rochester, and another bridge over the Beaver River into the city of Beaver. As we were driving out of town on Route 68, I sat up straight in the seat and turned slightly toward Gaetano. “Little Tommy, he wants to make sure you’ve got the stones for this job. Are you ready to pull the trigger tonight?”

  He smiled and nodded. “Oh, yeah. I’m ready. I was born ready, Pops.”

  This kid, I could have smacked him.

  “Taking a man’s life is no small thing, you know?”

  “I want to do this. I’m ready.”

  “What are you carrying?”

  “A Luger.”

  “A Luger? What are you, a member of Hitler’s SS?” I retrieved the revolver that I had tucked into my waistband and held it out on my palm.

  “What’s that?”

  “If you’re going to be a pro, you need a pro’s piece,” I said. “Use this. It belonged to a great man—​Carlo Russo.”

  Gaetano looked at me, then the pistol, then back at me. “Really? You’re giving me Carlo Russo’s gun?”

  “Carlo never called it a gun. It was his ‘piece.’”

  He snatched it out of my hand. “Thanks, Pops.” Gaetano examined the pistol as he drove, rolling it around in his hand. “I appreciate it. I’ll make ol’ Carlo proud.” He drove with his knee while releasing the cylinder, checking to se
e each chamber loaded.

  “It’s ready to go,” I said. “Remember, your first option is to put one in the back of his head. He can’t fight back if he doesn’t see you coming. Put it right behind the ear if you can. If not, fill his chest with lead—​heart and lungs. Don’t shoot him in the face.”

  “Why?”

  “You shouldn’t have to ask me that. It’s disrespectful. Their relatives can’t put them in an open casket if you shoot them in the face.”

  “All these years in the game, Pops, and you’ve never shot anyone in the face?”

  “Not one time. I’ve taken out the lowest scum on earth, but a pro doesn’t shoot them in the face. You don’t do that to their families.”

  “Seems to me that shooting them in the face sends a message. It tells them you mean business.”

  “Sometime tonight, maybe for just two or three seconds, try to listen to one thing I tell you.” I took a breath and rubbed my eyes with my fingertips. “So what’s the story?”

  “Same deal as usual. Some gangbangers from Youngstown are poaching on our turf again. Little Tommy’s warned them. Tonight they figure out he’s serious as a heart attack. This guy we’re meeting thinks I want to score some heroin.”

  “Okay, remember, don’t get careless and don’t get cute. This ain’t the movies. Don’t be talkin’ to him and makin’ him beg for mercy. You’re not playing for style points. Do the job and get out.”

  “I’ve got it. You’re coming with me, right?”

  “And what, hold your hand?”

  “No, just be my backup.”

  “What happened to all that bravado? Five minutes ago you couldn’t wait to clip this guy.”

  “Come on, Pops, it’s my first time.”

  I groaned. “Fine.”

  Just outside of Glasgow we crossed over Little Beaver Creek and turned north onto Calcutta-Smith Ferry Road. We drove east, passed the Ohio-Pennsylvania line, and followed the road to the edge of Beaver Creek State Forest. He pulled onto a dirt road and said, “I think the meeting point is up here.”

  “You think it’s up here?” I asked, my voice climbing. “We’re coming out here to clip someone and you’re not even sure where you’re meeting him?”

  He swallowed. “This is right,” he said. “I remember now.”

  He drove a quarter mile into the heavy woods and pulled to the edge of the dirt path. “Your Bumblebee is going to get all muddy,” I said.

  “Let’s get out,” Gaetano said. “I don’t want to be sitting in the car when he shows up.”

  “What if he brings company?” I asked.

  “He won’t.”

  We exited the car. He turned off the engine but left the headlights on.

  “Wait by the car,” I said. “Lean against the hood; look relaxed. You want him to let down his guard.” I pointed to a thicket of trees. “I’ll back you up from over there in the brush, out of sight.”

  I’d only taken two steps when I heard the click of the pistol hammer locking into place. Gaetano said, “That’s far enough, Pops.”

  I turned to find him standing in the glow of the headlights, his arm extended, the pistol I had just handed him pointing at my forehead.

  “Me?” I asked.

  “You’ve been a bad boy, Pops. You’ve been talking to the feds.”

  “No, they’ve just been talking to me. They want me to flip, but I haven’t told them anything.”

  “That’s not what Little Tommy heard. He’s still got some friends around the bureau from the old days. They told Little Tommy that you’re going to sell out for a little house in the country.”

  “That’s not true. Can’t we talk about this?”

  “Nothing to talk about, Pops. It’s time for you to go see your buddy Carlo.” He rolled his wrist, and the chrome plating on the revolver glinted in the beam of the headlights. “Ironic, ain’t it, Pops? You’re going to cash out on the wrong end of Carlo Russo’s gun—​I mean, his piece.” He chuckled, but just for an instant before his upper lip curled and his eyes turned to slits. “I’m glad to get rid of your tired ass.” He squeezed the trigger and the hammer fell. Snap. Nothing. He squeezed again. Snap. Nothing.

  Gaetano looked down at the revolver and frowned. “What the . . .”

  It took only a moment for him to realize what had occurred, but by then I had pulled Carlo’s 9-millimeter Beretta out of my waistband and had a bead on him.

  I had always figured that eventually someone would put a bullet behind my ear—​I saw it as an acceptable risk of the profession. But not today. Not this young punk.

  “Keep your hands up where I can see them, Junior.” I took two steps closer. “You actually thought I would give a punk like you Carlo Russo’s weapon.” He looked down at the useless revolver. “Carlo never used a revolver, and I would never let you touch his piece. How many times have I told you that you were careless and it was going to get you killed? Too many, and now it has.”

  Before he could plead for his life, I emptied the magazine into his chest. It was overkill, so to speak, and the repercussion echoed through the forest. I rolled him over with my foot and pulled his wallet from his pants pocket. There was four hundred and twenty-two dollars inside, and I took it. Normally that is considered bad form in my business, but I didn’t care. I fished through his pants pockets and found the keys to the Camaro. As I was about to walk away, his cell phone started to chime. I snatched it from a jacket pocket. On the white screen were the initials LTF—​Little Tommy Fortunato.

  I touched the green button on the screen and said, “Hi, Tommy.”

  He stammered for a minute. “Uncle Ange, hey, can I speak to Gaetano?”

  “He can’t talk right now, Tommy.”

  “Is he busy?”

  “No, he ain’t busy at all. He just can’t talk.”

  There was a long pause on the other end. “Oh, okay, tell him to call me back when he can.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He wasn’t as ready for this job as you thought. I told you he was careless.”

  “What happened?”

  “You sleep tight tonight, Tommy.”

  He was still talking when I hit the red button.

  * * *

  For the first time in years I feel like I’m in charge, and that I matter again.

  Little Tommy and Gaetano looked at me like I was a dinosaur, and maybe that played to my favor. You see, when you’ve been in the business as long as me, you know when something is going down. You feel it in your bones. That’s why I filed down the firing pin on the revolver and made up the story about it being Carlo’s. You don’t live to be seventy-two in this business being careless. You’ve got to think ahead.

  I squeeze behind the wheel of the Bumblebee and head back to the city. I have to admit, it’s a pretty sweet ride. As I drive, I consider my options.

  Maybe I’ll take Special Agent Lawrence G. Braddock up on his offer. The damp winters here were starting to wear on me. Having a little place in Arizona might be nice.

  Or maybe I’ll go shoot Little Tommy Fortunato in the face.

  I’ll think about it a while.

  In the meantime I’ll use Gaetano’s money to treat myself at Undo’s, just like the old days. I’ll get a corner booth, order the bucatini with clam sauce, a Chianti, and maybe a cannoli.

  Contributors’ Notes

  Pam Blackwood grew up south of Greensboro, North Carolina, surrounded by extended family, a host of animals, and a child’s haven of nine wooded acres to explore. She learned to love stories by listening to those her father told at the supper table on Saturday evenings. Now, somewhat tamed, she lives in the city limits with her husband, Taylor, and two black cats, Jem and Scout.

  • The concepts in “Justice” are very personal to me. Having lost several loved ones over the years, I, like William, am unable to accept platitudes as comfort for the day-to-day heartbreak that comes with loss
. The story was driven by my desire to let William find his way back, even while giving full expression to his bitterness and grief.

  * * *

  Jerry M. Burger is professor emeritus of psychology at Santa Clara University. His short stories have appeared in the Bellevue Literary Review, Harpur Palate, the Briar Cliff Review, and the Potomac Review, among other publications. His novel, The Shadows of 1915, examines the generational effects of the 1915 Armenian genocide.

  • The seed for “Home Movie” came from a newspaper article I stumbled upon several years ago about the discovery of some pre-WWII movies. The films were of Jewish citizens taken in either Germany or Poland just before the rise of the Nazis. What I recall most from the article is the descriptions of how happy everyone seemed and how they had no idea that their world was about to change for the worse. This observation got me thinking about how photographs and home movies necessarily capture people and events in the middle of their stories and how differently we react to old pictures based on what those stories turn out to be.

  * * *

  James Lee Burke has published thirty-nine novels and two collections of short stories. He is the recipient of two Edgar Awards, the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award, and a Guggenheim Fellowship. Three of his novels have been adapted for the screen, and a fourth is in production. He and his wife, Pearl, have lived for many years in western Montana.

  • The first scene in my story is one I remember from the days after Pearl Harbor, when my mother and I pulled up to my grandfather’s house. I remember the coldness, the dust, the broken windmill rattling in the wind, the bareness of the land, as though it had been stricken by an angry hand, the light that had been drained forever from the sky. Psychologists call this a world-destruction fantasy. However, this was no fantasy.

  And neither were the deportees. In bad times, frightened people seek scapegoats. The desperate and the poor on our borders have no voice. A man in our White House demonizes them. I hope this story says something about the precipitous times in which we live. I also hope it says something about the goodness of Latino people and the holiness that I believe is characteristic of the many I have known and lived among.