He didn’t risk turning on a light until he had reached his office. Then, after he had closed the door behind himself, he snicked on a table lamp and sat down behind his desk. The gun, a snubnose .41 caliber revolver, was in the bottom drawer on the right-hand side. Sonny took it out of its black leather holster, which he had never worn, cracked open the cylinder to make sure it was loaded, and dropped it into the pocket of his suit coat.
He tried the phone, but it was dead too—somebody had gotten the main line. He put the receiver back down, as quietly as he could, then he turned out the light and left the room.
He hated the very idea of going upstairs, but that was where Traci would be and he had to see if she was okay. You weren’t a man if you didn’t look out for your womenfolk. Enrico wouldn’t have left his wife alone in her bedroom, not knowing whether she was alive or dead.
The stairs popped and crunched under his feet with every step—if somebody was upstairs, he couldn’t help but hear. It was like strolling across a rifle range.
He found Traci lying across their bed. Her head was at a peculiar angle and, when he turned on the light, he could see that her face had a slight bluish caste. She was naked from the waist up—her green silk bathrobe looked as if it had fallen from her shoulders, although her arms were still in the sleeves. Her nipples were erect and looked very pink against her white breasts. Her eyes were wide open and bulging slightly. There were dark bruises around her throat. She had been strangled.
Sonny sat down beside her on the bed and took her hand, which was only just beginning to grow cold. In spite of himself he felt a dreadful grief, and tears wet his face. She had been so beautiful. . .
At last he pulled her bathrobe back up over her shoulders and covered her decently. Whatever happened, he didn’t want anyone else to find her the way he had.
He understood now that he was a dead man. In a little while he would go back downstairs, and whoever had done this to Traci would kill him too. All that remained of his life were these few moments, sitting beside his wife’s corpse. This was absolutely the last time he would have the chance to be quiet and to think about what it had all meant.
Nothing—that was what it meant. Zero. An unheroic waste of time. The guy waiting for him downstairs would be doing him a favor.
Except that he had killed Traci. Maybe it could all be redeemed if, before the lights went out forever, he could at least manage to get even for Traci. One bullet was all it would take. It didn’t seem like too much to ask from a squandered life.
He took the revolver out of his pocket and looked at it. One squeeze of the trigger before he died and, in the utter unlikelihood of their meeting in some existence beyond this one, maybe he would be able to find the courage to look Enrico in the face.
He slipped the revolver into the waistband of his trousers.
Even as he came out into the second story hallway, he could see that the lights on the ground floor had been turned on. He walked down the stairs, not even trying for stealth. Whoever was down there knew all about him anyway.
He found him in the living room, sitting on the arm of a sofa, a spare, wiry-looking man in a brown suit, with a shotgun that could have been Angelo’s across his knees, his right hand resting lightly on the narrow part of the stock. He bore more than a passing resemblance to the photograph of Philip Owings that had been in Tom’s file, but it wasn’t him. Sonny had to admit to himself that this wasn’t anybody he knew.
“I take it you found her,” he said, showing a grin that disappeared almost at once.
“Yeah, I found her.” Sonny discovered with genuine surprise that he wasn’t even angry anymore. “I suppose you think you had to kill her.”
At first the man in the brown suit merely stared at him, with an expression of something like pitying contempt, and then, slowly, he moved his shoulders in a shrug.
“It was her own fault, the stupid broad. I don’t normally lean on the women too hard, but she started to get all excited. If she’d kept her mouth shut I might’ve just locked her in a closet or something. But oh no—she had to start makin’ a lot of noise.”
Sonny had to acknowledge that was Traci all over. She’d been a stupid broad all right, but that didn’t mean it was okay to strangle her.
“And Angelo?”
“That was different. I enjoyed that.” The grin came back, and this time it stayed. “You ain’t been gettin’ value for your money, Galatina. Your security system is a joke. Anybody can just walk in if they know how—I knew how. Your boys are all dead.”
“You killed the dogs too?” For the first time, Sonny noticed that the man seemed to be bleeding from his right ear.
But whoever he was he didn’t even seem aware of it. He shook his head and laughed.
“No, the dogs are fine. They won’t bother us. They’re all in their kennels, hidin’ their heads. We won’t hear any more from them tonight. It seems they got a look at the boogie man.”
He took up the shotgun and motioned with it toward the door.
“Why don’t we go outside? It’s a nice night, and there’s no point in messin’ up the wallpaper.”
Sonny didn’t move at first. It was almost as if he hadn’t heard. He was trying to figure out where the stink of putrefying flesh was coming from. It couldn’t be Traci, not already—she probably hadn’t been dead half an hour yet.
“Do I get to know what this is all about?” he said, simply because it was necessary to say something. It wasn’t the question he really wanted to ask.
“You know what it’s about, Sonny.” The man smile so tightly that his face almost seemed to crack. “Come on—you mean to tell me Granddad Enrico never whispered the name ‘Charlie Brush’ in your ear?”
Sonny experienced the shock as a stab of cold that went through his chest like a sliver of ice. He felt sick—the smell of decay was overpowering now. He had to get out of there.
He just turned around and started walking back through the house, letting his hands dangle at his sides. He had forgotten all about getting even for Traci and the revolver in his waistband. He wasn’t even afraid of his own approaching death. There was no room in his mind for such mundane considerations.
It wasn’t until he was outside, standing at the edge of the swimming pool, that he remembered his revenge. He wondered if Charlie Brush knew about the revolver in his waistband—because that was who it was, the man his grandfather had watched die fifty years ago.
The night air felt cool and sweet after the house. Sonny looked up at the stars and decided that this was as good a place as any to die.
“I know what you’re thinkin’ about,” Charlie Brush said. “You’re thinkin’ about how you can get a shot off before I blow you away. Okay—what the hell. You never heard nobody say ol’ Charlie wasn’t a sport.”
He was holding the shotgun with both hands, and then he took his left away from the pump and let the muzzle drop until it was pointing at the cement patio. Sonny couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just the yellow pool lights, but Charlie Brush’s face looked positively gray.
No, it wasn’t the light. The man was a walking corpse. Even his eyes looked dead.
“Go ahead, tough guy.” He grinned—it was like watching the flesh peel off a skull. “Whenever you’re ready, make your play.”
In the last few seconds of his life, Sonny Galatina found himself remembering the words of the Rosary. Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed by the fruit of thy womb . . .
His hand went under his coat. He cocked the revolver as he brought it out, but his eyes were so full of tears he could hardly see to aim.
“This is for you, Grandpa. . .”
The sound was terrible, loud enough to make the dogs forget their fear and set them barking, but there was no one else to hear. Sonny certainly hadn’t heard it, because he was floating on his back in the swimming pool, in an ever-expanding halo of crimson water, his head torn away above the eyebrows.
And leading off into the darkness was a thin trail of blood
spattered against the concrete patio.
Chapter 37
“His line was busy,” Jimmy DeLucia said when he came back into the house. “I guess I’ll have to decide on my own. I guess when Owings finally comes home you and he are gonna have to shoot it out.”
Detective Lieutenant Thomas Spolino listened to this without surprise, since he had already figured out what DeLucia and his Neanderthal assistant had come to the Moonlight to do and that there was no way he was going to be allowed to walk away from it.
The part about Sonny not answering his phone sounded a little odd, though.
“Your boss will be disappointed,” Spolino answered.
DeLucia smiled, as if acknowledging a joke. Nothing personal, the smile said. I’m going to kill you, but it’s strictly business.
“Yes, he will be. He was looking forward to topping the guy himself.”
He shrugged. They both knew what Sonny was like.
“So Owings and I are going to annihilate each other in a hail of gunfire.” Spolino, who was sitting on one of two dining room chairs that DeLucia had thoughtfully provided for the comfort of his captives, flashed a grin at the woman who was Owings’ girlfriend—not to worry, kid; these particular bad guys have got delusions of grandeur. “And you really believe anybody is going to buy that?”
“Sure. Why shouldn’t they buy it? I notice you came out here without any backup.” DeLucia raised his eyebrows. “I figure you’ve got a bug up your ass about Owings and these murders. I figure you came out here on your own to do a little out-of-court snooping. A cop does a thing like that, nobody’s gonna be surprised if he gets his head blown off. Nobody wants trouble. Yeah, Spolino—I think they’ll buy it.”
“And, anyway, you’ve got Monser to make sure everybody swallows it without belching.”
He didn’t really know where that came from. It was just one of those little flashes you get from time to time, but he knew that he had guessed right as soon as he saw the way DeLucia’s eyes froze.
“How long has he been on the pad, Jimmy?”
At first DeLucia didn’t answer, and then, finally, he cocked his head a little to one side, as if in recognition that what Detective Lieutenant Spolino knew or did not know could not by now make much difference.
“From day one,” he said, with the air of someone revealing a personal triumph. “He had a little trouble back in Philly—the man likes the ponies and was in deep to the Bonfigli family. When he came up here, we just took over the franchise.”
Spolino only nodded. What else was new?
They were still in the Moonlight’s old dining room and the lights were still on, but anyone could tell the setup was beginning to make DeLucia nervous. What if Owings came back? Wouldn’t he be surprised.
“Shouldn’t we tie ’em up, Mr. DeLucia?” asked Joey, still looking as if he wanted to find somewhere to hide.
“Shut up!” DeLucia snapped.
“He’s worried about rope burns,” Spolino explained patiently. It occurred to him to wonder if Joey could possibly be as stupid as he looked. “You see, if Owings and I are supposed to shoot each other, it’ll look a little strange if I’ve got marks on my wrists and ankles. Jimmy wants to keep me in mint condition—isn’t that right, Jimmy?”
DeLucia threw him an annoyed glance but said nothing. What could he say? What threats was he really in a position to make?
“What will you do with the girl, Jimmy?” Spolino went on, favoring the underboss with a benign smile. “Have you got a hole already dug somewhere? Maybe the one where you were intending to plant Owings?”
All at once the woman began to sob quietly. Spolino hated himself for putting her through all this, but it wasn’t the moment for being squeamish.
“I hope you like her, Joey, because the two of you are going to be spending a lot of time together.”
Joey’s face creased, assuming another whole layer of anxiety, but there seemed to be no dawn of understanding. Maybe he really was that stupid. Anyway, it was clear that there were aspects to the situation that he was never going to figure out for himself.
DeLucia really looked angry now—so we were on the right track.
“Come on, Joey,” Spolino continued, almost laughing. “You think he’s going to let you walk around loose when you can finger him for murdering a policeman? You think Jimmy is that nice to little boys. If you’re that trusting, I wonder your mommy lets you go out by yourself for an ice cream cone.”
“Mr. DeLucia, I. . .”
“Just—just shut up, Joey.” DeLucia growled, without even glancing at his subordinate. If looks could kill, Spolino figured he’d already be dead. “You open your mouth again, Spolino, and. . .”
“And what, Jimmy? Will I live to regret it?”
He threw back his head and laughed, hoping he could goad DeLucia into doing something stupid, but it didn’t work. The underboss of the Galatina Family, who after all did not enjoy a reputation for making mistakes, just stood there, waiting for him to shut up.
“He’s just trying to ride you, Joey,” DeLucia said, after a moment of silence.
“Yeah, I figured that, Mr. DeLucia,” Joey answered—Joey, who had probably never figured anything in his whole life. “You can’t trust a cop. He doesn’t care what he says now.”
“Yeah.”
DeLucia, to give him credit, actually looked embarrassed to find himself having to agree with this moron.
“I think we’d better turn off the lights in here,” he said. He went over to the windows and, one after the other, drew the shades. “Why don’t you go check the grounds, Joey.”
Joey nodded quickly and was out of the room in such a hurry that he didn’t quite manage to close the patio door behind him. The lock tongue just touched the brass plate and then slid off, so that the room light shimmered on the eight panes of glass that filled in the door’s outline. It remained about an inch ajar. DeLucia didn’t seem to notice. He went over to stand by the light switches, but he didn’t touch them.
“Do you think he’ll be back?” Spolino asked tauntingly.
“He’ll be back.” DeLucia he took a tiny flashlight from his coat pocket and seemed to weigh it in his hand. “He isn’t quite that stupid. He knows there isn’t any place to hide.”
“But at least he might live through the night.”
Instead of answering, DeLucia flicked his miniature flashlight on and off, as if to make sure it would work.
“This’ll be enough,” he said finally. “I hope you understand, Spolino, that you make one bad move and I’ll blow your fucking head off, and to hell with making it look right.”
Still, he didn’t seem very eager to turn the lights off. Something seemed to be bothering him.
“This guy Owings—what do you think, Spolino? Is he the one?”
“The one what?”
“Did he kill Sal and the others?”
Spolino allowed himself a thin smile. “That kind of depends on how you look at it.”
DeLucia didn’t appear to find this a very satisfying answer. He seemed to be turning it over in his mind, and then, as if to keep himself from asking Spolino what he meant, he reached up and turned off the lights.
An instant later his flashlight came on with a sort of visual click, the beam, which was rather narrow but surprisingly strong, hitting Spolino square in the face.
For a long while they waited in silence.
“Maybe he won’t come back,” the woman said at last—Spolino had almost forgotten her existence, so that her voice actually startled him.
“Maybe not.” His eyes by now had adjusted to the darkness, so that he could see the outline of DeLucia’s body behind his light. He trained his gaze on the underboss’s invisible eyes, as if talking to him. “How long’s he been out there—five, ten minutes now?”
“I don’t mean him.”
Spolino turned his head slightly to look at her, and her face had assumed that numb, exhausted expression that marks the final stage of fear, whe
n you almost cease to care.
“Who then?” he asked.
“The other one.” A perfectly involuntary shudder passed over her—she might not even have noticed it. “I suppose I’m dead either way, but somehow I don’t like to think. . .”
Spolino knew exactly what she meant. If you had to choose whether Charlie Brush or Jimmy DeLucia was going to be your murderer, at least Jimmy DeLucia was still human.
He felt a surge of pity for her, which he tried to ignore because he knew that kind of fear was contagious and he needed his wits about him.
Because he was afraid. He didn’t want to end by getting shot in the back of the head by a hood in a seven-hundred-dollar suit. He didn’t want to wind up as a structural flaw in the cement foundations of some office building, to disappear, as if he had dropped off the face of the earth. The way Charlie Brush had disappeared.
But it didn’t do you any good to be afraid, and even less to show it.
So he thought about Charlie Brush, about how he had died, in this very room, cursing his murderers—and about the terrible anger that had somehow eluded death for fifty years.
And as he thought of these things, he noticed the vague shadow of a man, no more than a blur against the glass in the patio door, a thing hardly visible in the lustreless dark.
Spolino and the woman were on chairs in the center of the old dining room. The door was perhaps forty feet away, and Jimmy DeLucia was still beside the light switch, perhaps fifteen feet from where Spolino was sitting. They formed the three points of an unequal triangle—all DeLucia had to do was to turn his head a little and he too would see the shadow against the glass.
But Jimmy DeLucia’s attention was focused along his narrow beam of light. He had no eyes except for the enemy in front of him as he waited, perhaps hoped, for Spolino to make his one bad move.
And Spolino realized—realized with a kind of dreadful shame—that his one chance of survival lay in making sure that Jimmy DeLucia did not turn his head.
“Your boy’s been out there a long time,” he said, calmly enough, although his tongue felt as dry as leather. “You suppose he got lost, Jimmy? Or maybe he just wandered away.”
The Moonlight Page 33
