Little Easter

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “Kill them,” the raving man yelled at Cheech. “Kill them both now.” And when the somewhat startled soldier didn’t immediately blow a hole in Johnny MacClough’s brain, Don Roberto took a wild run at him, slapped the hard guy twice across the face and relieved him of his automatic.

  “But Don Roberto,” Cheech offered meekly. “Not a cop. Not here.”

  It was sound advice, but the old man wasn’t having any and pointed the confiscated gun at MacClough’s shredded face.

  “Stop Papa,” Dante Gandolfo’s voice rang in my ears like a cavalry bugle blowing ‘Charge!’ “Enough Papa, enough.” The son strode into view, an automatic pistol in his paw to match the one his father held. Larry Feld walked up right behind the junior Gandolfo.

  “Someone take a picture,” the elder gunman mimed a photographer with his free hand. “I need proof. Mr. Klein,” unfortunately Don Roberto remembered I was still alive. “Do you see this? My son has never made his bones like a real man and he points a gun at his father. It’s to laugh, no?”

  “You’re wrong Papa. I’ve made my bones. Quite recently, but I guess killing a man counts no matter when you do it.”

  I could swear the old man’s face took on a prideful countenance.

  “O’Toole,” I blurted out my favorite answer for the evening.

  “Don’t respond to that, Dante,” Larry counseled.

  “Shut up, Larry,” Don Juan rejected. “That’s right, Mr. Klein. He deserved to die for going to my father about Azrael. And then he tried blackmailing me.”

  “Blackmail?” I hung the question on the line to dry.

  “What blackmail?” the old man asked scornfully. “What did that donkey prick threaten you with? Do you think I don’t know about you and that cunt reporter from the Times and how you were her pipeline to us? Good thing for her, the bottom fell out.”

  Roberto “the Boot” couldn’t have known it, but his venomous disclosure had just answered a whole set of questions I had on another matter. It also reaffirmed, to everyone’s relief, that he had no inkling of Azarel’s daughter.

  Dante Gandolfo went white, his gun tip dropping slightly. “How did you know about the Times thing? How Papa?”

  “Do you think that I have lived this long by not knowing things? I know what I have to know. Do you think I hired that idiot stickin’ outta the machine just to drive your car?” We all took another look at Vinny’s rubber legs. In a few hours we’d be able to use them as parallel bars.

  “What does it matter, Dante?” his father continued. “You’re like clockwork. Every ten years you try to destroy me. All I have to do is check the calendar and wait for you to hurt me. But no more. I’m glad to have killed that old bitch of yours. Too bad I couldn’t have done it before she taught you how to sing. That bird in her mouth was a present for you.”

  Don Juan’s gun hand was shaking now. That wasn’t good news for Johnny. The shakes don’t exactly make for good aim and if the old don made a move to kill MacClough, there was no way Dante could have stopped him with one bullet. I had to try something.

  “You’re a man who needs to know things,” I shouted at Don Roberto from my concrete chair. “That need cost me a finger,” I held the still seeping stump up for inspection. “But I’ve always been bad at holding a grudge, so I’m gonna tell you what you need to know.”

  “Shut up!” MacClough gurgled through the blood.

  “Don’t!” Don Juan chimed in, almost stepping on the ex-cop’s plea.

  “You got any grandchildren, Don Roberto?” I asked, slipping on my own blood as I got to my feet.

  “No,” the old man choked out as if he’d swallowed a piece of glass. “That is yet another way in which my son has failed me.”

  “Wrong, Don Roberto.” The room got quiet enough now to hear the amber lights buzz above our heads. “You’ve got a granddaughter. And what you need to know is that you killed her mother in the snow and cold of Christmas Eve.”

  MacClough had told me he wasn’t sure who the father had been, but this wasn’t the time to quibble over details. Besides, everyone in the shed, except Cheech, thought I knew more than I did.

  “Tell me he’s lying, Dante,” father ordered son.

  The latter stayed silent.

  “Tell me he’s lying,” the old man swung the gun up from Johnny and pointed the 9 millimeter at my heart. “Tell me, Dante. Tell me.” His trigger finger twitched.

  Two shots snapped the tension, their reports echoed and amplified by the metal walls and concrete. The old don’s neck exploded like an overripe watermelon and he hit the deck with a skull-cracking thud. I don’t think he felt the fall. The gun in his dying hand shot the second bullet into Vinny’s ignorant left thigh, showering me in the by-products of ballistic impact. Cheech lay down on top of Johnny, and Larry Feld grabbed some floor. Dante Gandolfo just stood there, looking at the cool barrel of his gun. I imagine he wanted to confirm he hadn’t fired the fatal shot.

  “Police,” a bored voice announced as if he’d repeated the word so many times it hurt. “Just everybody relax and no one else’ll spring a leak.”

  Larry Feld popped up like an unwanted pimple and began explaining to the cops that his client was licensed to carry a handgun in New York City and that he would have no statement this evening. Cheech ran like a loyal dog to its fallen master, cradling the old man’s lifeless head in his polyester lap. I could see MacClough’s face from where I stood and he placed a vertical finger across his scabbed and swollen lips. I understood. Sirens became the world’s dominant sound. I was glad to hear them because my ex-finger was starting to hurt like hell.

  “Klein! God, you look like shit,” Detective Mickelson critiqued, holstering his .38. “I got concerned when you didn’t show to claim your jacket.”

  “A little outta your jurisdiction,” I noted, my muscles contracting from pain. “Who plugged the don?”

  “One of the city boys. Like you said, I’m out of my jurisdiction.”

  “I’ll have to thank him for saving my ass,” I leaned against Buddha belly to stop myself from falling. “How’d’ya know where to find me?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve been reading the same book as you, only I was a few pages behind. Now let’s get a doctor to look at that finger,” the Suffolk cop deflected.

  “No!” I pulled away. “How’d ya know to show up here, now, just when you did?”

  His eyes scanned the building until they were focused directly on the back of Larry Feld’s head. And when Mickelson was certain I’d taken note of his stare, he said: “Phone tip. Anonymous, of course.”

  “Of course,” I seconded.

  So the tip had come from Larry Feld. I could never confront him about it, because he would never confess to it. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t see the self-interest in what he’d done. I don’t know. Maybe it was the phone conversation we’d had earlier. I hadn’t pressured him directly, but rather talked about the old block and the de facto friends we knew and how they’d all disappeared. I talked about his joyless parents and how I’d always known he was as much a victim of Auschwitz as they. I reminded him of the Irish kids kicking our Jewish asses on the way home from synagogue on Saturday mornings. I’d like to think I appealed to whatever humanity there was in Larry Feld, but I would never really know.

  All of us refused to make anything but the vaguest of statements that evening. The doctors insulated both Johnny and me from any curious law enforcement officials and the press. Dante Gandolfo had previously, through his lawyer, made it clear that he wouldn’t be speaking to anyone until after his father’s funeral. And Cheech, the old school soldier that he was, refused to give the cops his name let alone a statement.

  Before they loaded us into the ambulance, I had a few parting words with Detective Mickelson.

  “You know that book we’re both reading . . .” I drifted.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you give me a few days before you discuss it with anyone else?”

  �
��You know I can’t guarantee that,” he stated calmly, “but there are a few parts of the book I don’t see as being of general interest.”

  “What parts might those be?”

  “I think we both know the answer to that. Don’t we, Detective Bosco?” he shook his head disapprovingly. “If people are interested in those parts of the story, they can read the book for themselves. Good night, Mr. Klein. Your jacket will be waiting for you in my office.” He slammed the ambulance door shut.

  MacClough had used some of his old cop charm and connections to insure we were alone in the back of the sick wagon. I guess we had some important things to talk about. But as we pulled away from the gates of Fort Gandolfo, Johnny seemed to be out of it. I looked out of the ambulance back window and noticed that we were just passing the late Paul Palermo’s estate. This was a different view from the one I’d seen in my earlier approach, yet even from here I could make out the circle of painted plaster Marys. I couldn’t help but ponder what the significance of these statues was. Maybe, I thought, they were like Don Roberto’s mahogany bar; something for a powerful man to stare at and wonder why. They certainly made me wonder.

  “Dylan,” MacClough’s strained voice broke the trance.

  “You’re up.” I had a gift for the self-evident.

  “Yeah, I noticed that, too.”

  “How do you feel?” I knelt down next to him.

  “About as good as the tip of your fuckin’ finger. How do you think I feel?”

  “Stupid question. Listen, we got to get some stuff straightened out before we get to the hospital. I think I know where—”

  “I don’t wanna know, Klein. I don’t wanna know where she is and I don’t want anyone else to know. I’m sure she’s had enough hurt in her life. She doesn’t need to catch any more. The curse died with Azrael. Let it stay that way. Just make sure she gets the hundred grand.”

  I thought of a thousand reasonable things to say against the course MacClough had chosen, but said none of them. This part was his business and somewhere in the pulp of my bone marrow, I even understood.

  “It’s Gandolfo’s money.”

  “Nevermind about him,” Johnny assured me. “He won’t ask for it back.”

  “Listen,” I shifted gears, “if you want me to protect Azrael’s daughter, I need you to do something for me. You gotta get Kate Barnum in to see me tomorrow before I talk to the cops.”

  His puffed and bruised face puzzled at the request, but all he said was that he could probably manage it. Apparently, injured detectives, even retired ones, pulled a lot of weight.

  “Here,” he yanked his hand free from under the restraining straps and dropped something onto my right palm. It was a white gold and diamond confection. I counted twenty-four stones aligned like stars in the shape of a heart. Each gem rested in the petrified fingers of white gold hands. “Make sure she gets this, too.” And having finally let go of the heart, Johnny Blue closed his eyes to sleep.

  Prepayment

  The trauma unit orthopedist visited my bedside and rambled on about the median nerve, radialis indicis, abductors, phalanges and occupational therapy. When pressed for a translation, he said I’d lost the top of my left index finger and there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do about it. He went on to say that there’d been considerable damage to the traumatized area and that I should consider myself fortunate that he didn’t need to remove more tissue. After witnessing Vinny’s metamorphosis from bodyguard to shark chum, I found the doctor’s little pep talk about good fortune anticlimactic. When I mentioned that my former finger really didn’t hurt much, he assured me it wouldn’t last. How comforting.

  The rest of me wasn’t in much better shape than my finger. Thanks to Cheech’s fondness for my kidneys, I’d been pissing more blood than urine. My left shoulder was mildly separated and my nearly healed ribs were sore again. There was a bump on my head big enough to be sculpted into the likeness of a dead president and I had a headache twice that size. I tried not thinking about how MacClough might be feeling. I didn’t have the stomach for it.

  Kate Barnum walked in as if gravity could no longer hold her down. And who could blame her. This was resurrection day, her own little Easter. I’d once said that she’d never be considered good looking. Today I was wrong. There was order to the tangle of her hair and the makeup was miraculously right. An unclasped, black leather trenchcoat replaced the usual dirty down jacket. A fiery silk blouse covered her breasts. Pleated, gray flannel pants played off beautifully against the heat of her shirt. Her boots and belt were a match for the coat. I wasn’t missing her frayed sweaters, cut sweatshirts or blue jeans just now. My hospital room smelled like a tannery next door to a perfume shop.

  We did not speak. My erection was fairly evident to both of us. Without pretense or wasted motion, Kate dropped her coat where she stood, pulled back my covering sheet and sat facing me across my bare legs. The hospital gown fairly fell away. Neither one of us gave much thought to being caught by the police guard outside my door.

  She came forward and ran her tongue along the underside of my penis, using her right thumb and forefinger to lightly circle and brush the tip. When enough saliva to prevent chaffing had collected, she encircled me, moving her hand slowly; tightly down, softly up. Barnum placed her O-shaped lips atop her right hand and let them go along for the ride. Her free left hand slid to her own waist, carefully undoing both belt and buttons. The hand disappeared from view. The reporter’s calf muscles tightened around my thighs, her breathing became labored and irregular.

  My head was spinning from pain, lack of blood and air. The base of my diminished finger pulsated at the same rhythm as my heart. Something wet tugged down my bottom lip and slipped through my teeth. Kate had presented me a sample of herself and I took it, moving along her finger just as she moved along me. I rocketed into her mouth and lost consciousness for a time, a short time.

  We did not kiss or caress and there were no shy, guilty glances. Sex between Kate and me was about many things, but never affection. It was ritual. It was barter. It was code. It was hollow as humping a ghost. Today it was a gift from a goddess, an apology, a farewell, a prepayment of sorts for services rendered and stories to be told.

  I lay in bed looking like a half-peeled potato while Barnum pulled a chair up alongside. Her mini-recorder was next to me and running. She had a pad in her lap and chewed on a cheap pen that she wished was a Chesterfield. Kate Barnum had waited a long time for the story that would lift her from the ashes, but she’d have to be patient a bit longer while I decided how I wanted to do what I had to do. I decided to ask my questions first.

  “Did O’Toole come to you or did you go to him?”

  I could see her trying the costume of denial on for size. I guess she decided it didn’t fit.

  “It was a combination of both,” she admitted, exhaling with relief. “Let’s just say we had a marriage of convenience.”

  “Was he the one who introduced you to Dante Gandolfo?”

  Now her face went cold. Kate Barnum didn’t expect anyone to know about Gandolfo being her source for that series on the Mafia. She began to shape her lips into a question, but I made a preemptive strike.

  “Listen Kate, I’m gonna give you your story,” I shut her recorder off. “But you’re partially responsible for three, maybe four people’s deaths and for a lot of pain.” I held up my bandaged hand. “I wanna know how the fuck the chain reaction started.”

  “You get to meet a lot of cops when you do what I do. Even if you don’t write crime stuff, cops are always around people who make the news.” Barnum picked up her coat and patted down the pockets for cigarettes that weren’t there. “You get to know some of them pretty well. You go for a drink with one and he introduces you to another one.”

  “That’s how you met O’Toole.”

  “Yeah, I’d been at the Times for a few months, and this cop I was going around with introduced me to O’Toole. No big thing,” she smirked. “Then, years later,
I get a call from him. I didn’t even remember who he was. But he remembered me, all right. Whores are like that. He says the word on the street is that I’m looking for dirt on the Gandolfos and that he knows someone who might be willing to talk to me.”

  “How much did it cost you?” I pulled the cover sheet back over me.

  “Who said anything about money?”

  “Whores are like that,” I fed her own words back. “Now come on. I know you. I met him. And the Times doesn’t pay for stories. What did it cost you?”

  “About everything I had, but it was worth it.”

  “To have the son of the most powerful crime boss in America as a source. Yeah, I bet it was worth it,” I coughed. “Ever wonder why Don Juan was willing to spill?”

  “It’s the one thing he wouldn’t discuss, but most sons don’t rat out their fathers unless it’s got something to do with hate and revenge.” She went cigarette searching again. “Besides, I didn’t really care.”

  “Not until much later.”

  Barnum nodded in agreement. “Not until much later.”

  “So Dante Gandolfo starts slowly, giving you bits and pieces. He can’t afford to give you too much too soon and risk being found out. You meet a union official here, a button man there and you’re startin’ to build a nice foundation for your series. Then your husband swallows half the medicine cabinet and that’s that. Good-bye sources. Good-bye stories. Good-bye career.”

  She winced when I mentioned her husband, following that with distant eyes and a cautious smile. Kate Barnum hadn’t expected me to know some of the things I did. That made her wonder about what else I might know and who else might know it.

  “Okay, that’s old news.” I didn’t want to spook her so much that she’d clam up. “Let’s time travel to the more recent past.”

  “Ben Vandermeer’s more of a father to me than my own, but do you have any idea what working at the Whaler is like for me?”