by J. Palma
"This type of action," he had said, "Don't come cheap. Ideally we bring in outsiders for the action. Complete unknowns to law enforcement in this country. Both the hitter and the patsy. And that don't come cheap. Lucky for you, I know people that can help."
As with any business negotiation it became an issue of cost. The conversation stalled when neither side wished to throw out the first number.
Ultimately it was Will who broke the deadlock. "This is silly,” he said. “This isn't like we're buying a car. This is a very specific service we require.” Will could never bring himself to say the word. The guilt of having his nephew murdered burdened him. At an impasse, he said, "Can you give me a few minutes with my wife and we'll have a number."
A million dollars for the job. That was the agreement. Dot and Will made a down payment for half the agreed amount, and Rizzo began putting a crew together. He needed to find just the right people and that would take time. But when the kid’s nanny, Darlene, dropped dead from a heart attack, it created the perfect window of opportunity. But it also forced Rizzo's hand. Without Darlene, the boy had encroached on Dot's lifestyle and this was unacceptable.
With the details agreed upon, Rizzo had said, "What's the boy got to do with it, anyway?"
Dot leaned forward, the corner of her lips curled into a slender smile and said, "When the boy turns eighteen, we'll no longer be his guardians or custodians of the estate and we will get nothing. I couldn't let that happen. He's hardly worthy."
Tired of living in the Howell family cabin for two weeks, and with no end in sight, Dot summoned Rizzo for an explanation.
Everyone in the Howell family referred to the luxurious Catskill retreat as "the cabin." Once upon a time, it was indeed a modest cabin, a testament to the previous generation's love for the outdoors. A framed black and white photograph with the original cabin in the background and Will's great-grandfather in the foreground complete with a slain twelve-point buck at his feet, hung in the foyer, evidence of its rustic history.
An outdoorsman's dream, the property occupied almost a hundred acres of rolling Catskill land and featured a rushing creek, a mill, and a priceless view. An idyllic spot, the land had been in the Howell family for generations, with each generation improving the cabin a bit. Will's brother, Frank, tore down the old cabin, only to resurrect a giant alpine chalet with a giant deck and a steeply-gabled metal roof, something more at home in the Swiss Alps than Upstate New York.
Dot reviled the outdoors and sought refuge in her bedroom, watching TV under the umbrage of an oscillating fan. Much to Dot's dismay, Frank had neglected to install any air-conditioning, preferring to cool the cabin with natural Catskill breezes, the kind that were currently in short supply.
Will sat outside on the deck, his feet propped up on the railing. His eyes flickered as he flirted with an afternoon nap, his hands folded low across his stomach. The driver, the cook, and Albert played gin rummy on a set of plastic patio chairs on a tile patio beneath the deck. He overheard the cook accuse the driver of cheating.
The doorbell rang. The noise below him quieted.
"I'll get it. I'll get it," Will shouted. He staggered to the door, aware that he was more drunk than he had thought, which was often the case.
Will yanked opened the door. James Rizzo stood there in aviator sunglasses and his hair coiffed like Frankie Avalon. He wore a rumpled tan suit and sported a larger paunch than Will remembered. Parked in the driveway was a burgundy Cadillac with shiny spoke wheels and tinted windows. Rizzo looked like a profitable used car salesman who just walked off the set of his latest commercial.
The men shook hands.
"Good to see you Will."
"Any trouble finding this place?"
“Piece of cake.” After a few steps inside, he said, “Nice place you got here. She called this a cabin. I ain't seen a cabin like this before."
"You should see this place in the fall when the leaves change. It's something to see."
"I'll remember that."
By the time they entered a room Will's brother dubbed "the lounge," Dot's patience was nearly gone. Will closed and locked the pocket doors, then moved to the wet bar tucked in the corner of the room.
After Will and Dot exchanged handshakes with Rizzo, they took their places on the sofa.
Will fumbled at the wet bar, realizing they were out of clean glasses. The dishwasher had broken a few days ago, which precipitated no shortage of chaos.
Rizzo said, "Real nice place you got here. Reminds me of something I've seen on TV."
Without looking up from his quest for a clean glass, Will said, "About nine thousand square feet." Will settled on a mug and filled it with a lukewarm pinot gris.
Rizzo said, "That's something. The place where I grew up in the Bronx could fit in this room. I had three brothers and an aunt and uncle with us too. We were too crowded for rats or roaches."
Dot gave him an icy stare, a signal for him to commence his status report.
Rizzo gave a brief summary of the events to date. Lucina's unpredictability had proven to be a real problem and through a combination of dumb luck and insanity, she had evaded two Camorra assassins.
Dot seemed calm, and said, "I'm concerned about how we proceed. I have a text from her phone. Like we discussed. But the text was sent before she and the boy were supposed to be killed off. Now she's escaped. If I sit on this any longer, I'm just concerned that when it does happen, the police will ask questions. I am concerned about the timeline of events."
"I think you're being paranoid,” Rizzo said. “We do have a pistol with her fingerprints on it. Also, like we discussed. The plan is coming together. Maybe not in the exact order we want—”
"I wouldn't call this paranoid,” Dot interjected. “I would call this careful. I am an educated woman and I am no fool. We still don't have the nanny. If this drags on and it gets out that I had a text from her, people are going to ask why didn't I go to the police."
Rizzo nodded, pursed his lips.
Will said, "Can't you just delete it from your phone?"
She sighed. "No. Text messages can be subpoenaed. Copies exist on the phone company's servers."
Laughing, Rizzo looked at Will and said, "She's a smart one."
Dot continued, "We go to the police now, unless you can tell me with one hundred percent confidence you know where they are."
"I know I sound like a broken record—do kids still say that?" Rizzo leaned forward on his knees, tenting his fingers. "But I think you're being paranoid. Once we get our hands on them," he dragged his thumb across his neck and continued, "no one will be asking for text messages. We'll have plenty of evidence against her. We'll have the gun, the texts, and the bodies."
"Am I? You don't think it looks strange that I received a kidnapping message for a ward under my care and didn't notify the police? Did you forget who this boy is? His father was the twenty-seventh richest man in the world. In the world. You don't think people will investigate this from top to bottom? Lucy's profile looked perfect for this. A disgruntled immigrant with no family ties."
"She's still perfect. This ain't over. Look, if people ask why you didn't go to the police, you can just say that you were handling it yourself. You were afraid—no, terrified—that if the police got involved she might do something rash and hurt your beloved nephew. Remember, you're rich. You need to act like it. The rich take care of their own problems. They don't involve the authorities. They have their own people."
Dot's tone was slow, deliberate. "That seems reasonable."
Rizzo held up his hand as though saying, “not so fast.”
"But we have another problem,” Rizzo said. “No phone or credit card activity in the last 24 hours. Maybe instead of contacting the police, we contact the media. This could help flush them out. We have people on the other side that can help."
"What do you mean? Like file a missing person's report?"
"No, no, no. What did I just say? We don't want to involve the authorities.
Things get messy that way. No, we get some talking head to read a prepared message. What news outlet would turn this down? We have people that can help put this together. We can put up a number and ask people to call if they see them. Say you'll pay a fifty-thousand-dollar reward. If people ask if the police are involved, say no, not at this time. We're handling this privately. That's all we have to say. No need to make an official statement."
"But if we go to the media, the police will start asking questions."
"And that's fine. We can handle the messaging on that. We’ll have a prepared statement for that. We don't have to cooperate. You know, out of fear the kidnappers will harm the child."
Dot cleared her throat. "This will work as long as your people catch them first. This will certainly turn up the heat on them." She angled her head. "This can add to the desperate nanny narrative we are developing. In the posthumous news release we could say she had a breakdown when she saw her face on TV and killed the boy in a panicked fit, then took her own life."
Rizzo smiled, eased back into his chair, impressed with her logical breakthrough. "Now you're cooking." He turned his head to Will, "Hey, why you being stingy with the booze? Why don't you make us a couple of gin and tonics? Where ya manners at you cheap bastid?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
AFTER BEAR MOUNTAIN, the trail had grown cold. Lucina’s last ping was somewhere in the hotel, presumably her suite. Tony Pipes searched north of Bear Mountain in a stolen yellow Ford Bronco. Vincenzo and Fat Mikey in the Audi searched the east side of the Hudson. They searched rest stops, gas stations, state parks, and fast food joints in the area, yielding the same result. No trace of a blue MG convertible or Lucina or the boy. There were just too many places to conduct a thorough search and there were only three of them in two cars.
The following evening at dinner Vincenzo and Tony Pipes listened to Fat Mikey talk about next steps. Fat Mikey’s cousin had recommended a steak house in Newburgh, directly north from Bear Mountain. They had the place to themselves and sat in the back in a circular booth upholstered in cordovan leather. Artificial candles lit the table and the white linen tablecloth was freshly ironed. The waiter took their order and returned with a small basket of warm bread. Vincenzo, dressed in his black suit and tie, was the only one of the three that looked like he vaguely belonged.
Fat Mikey said, "I saw her hit that other broad with an open hand. Oh man! And then she turned around punched another with her knuckles. She fights like a man. Tony you missed it. This broad is fucking nuts. She looked like a UFC fighter in there. Those other broads wanted to tear her to pieces. But she didn't back down. She's fucking nuts."
Tony chuckled.
Vincenzo remained expressionless.
Fat Mikey changed his tone, now somber, and continued, "They could be anywhere by now. If they jump on Interstate 84, she can just stay on that and head west and drive clear across the country until Oregon. Shit."
By the look in Fat Mikey's eyes, he was nervous. The table ordered dinner. Fat Mikey ordered a bottle of red wine.
Fat Mikey watched Vincenzo clean his silverware with his linen napkin. Vincenzo then refused the wine. Annoyed with Vincenzo but more interested in dinner, Fat Mikey continued talking. "Rizzo wants us to wait. The broad hasn't used her credit card in the last twenty-four hours. He thinks she will. He said this is like fishing. We're just letting the line run out. He wants us to stay out in the field so we can pounce when she surfaces again. I can't believe this broad is giving us this much trouble." He rubbed the crown of his giant head, dragging his hand across his face.
For the next ten minutes Tony and Fat Mikey drank wine and reminisced about old jobs, usually violent, always cruel. They laughed and Vincenzo laughed along, feigning courtesy. But he did not join in with his own stories. As a young picolotta, Vincenzo took an oath to uphold the three pillars of their clan: omertà, honor, humility. He was told these virtues set the Lazarroni clan apart from the others, contributing to its longevity and prosperity. He watched the Americani with a cold detached icy stare. The way they celebrated their crude tales lacked any humility or honor. And he was certain neither of them could be trusted if pinched.
Vincenzo shifted his eyes to Tony Pipes. "Why is he laughing?"
Tony Pipes giggled and mumbled something to the table. Vincenzo decided he could listen to Tony Pipes for a year straight and still not have a clue what he was saying. Somehow Fat Mikey could assemble the broken words into something meaningful.
"He wants me to tell you about these bastid penguins."
"Penguins?"
“That’s right. Penguins. The other night, we was watchin' TV. A National Geographic come on, and, you know, we can't find the remote, so we just end up watching a damn show about penguins."
With his forearms on the table and one hand in a fist, palmed by the other, Fat Mikey continued.
"There's this penguin, see, the female lays two eggs. Now the big ones, the Emperors, they lay just one egg. But these little fellas, they have two. They lay one egg, then a few days later the female, she lays a second egg. Now this is where it gets interestin'. This first egg, it always grows up to be the runt. Always. The second one is the bigger of the two. Always. Scientists they couldn't figure out why would they have the first one. Like why not just have one big one, like the Emperor penguin. But they found out why. These guys are smart. These scientists they figured it out. See, they live in the Antarctic where they ain't a lot of shit to eat. When they ain't no food, the bigger penguin eats the firstborn. He's a source of food so the bloodline goes on. Get it? The firstborn is expendable. Now ain't that interestin'?"
Tony Pipes laughed, glancing at Vincenzo.
Fat Mikey said, "I saw that on TV and I said, Tony who that remind you of? You get it? Ah fa'gettit. Which one are you, Vincenzo? You know, you don't know nothing."
Vincenzo sat tight-lipped.
Fat Mikey said, "Where's your sense of humor? Do they even have jokes where you come from?"
Vincenzo smiled politely at Fat Mikey, showing his teeth. He wrung his hands together. They waited for Vincenzo to speak. Suddenly the table seemed impossibly small with each of them hunched forward on their forearms. He could have continued in silence but he chose not to.
Dispassionately, Vincenzo said, "Soon after my brother made twenty-one, we were given the job of interviewing a man who had conspired with the Carabinieri, the state police. We suspected his testimony sent a number of our brothers to prison."
"Ah, one from the old country," Fat Mikey said sarcastically.
"We followed this man for over three months. He became careless and falsely assumed no harm would come to him, like all was forgotten. We picked him up and put him in the trunk and drove out to a farm in Campania and tied him down to a chair in a barn. We lifted his legs up and tied them to a small stool and removed his shoes and socks. For about fifteen minutes, we took turns ladling salt water over his bare feet. We did this without saying a word. The man screamed at us, insulted us. Demanded to be freed."
Both Tony Pipes and Fat Mikey made a face, confused.
"Then Nino brought in a Napoletano goat. We had been starving him for this occasion and the ribs poked through his skin. We unleashed the goat and he started licking the man's feet. You may laugh. Yes? That's what you're thinking right? The man, this snitch, he laughed and giggled too! Yet, we still did not ask questions. He tells us, “Va fancul' a chi ta muort'.” You know this phrase? We told the man the goat will not stop until he reaches bone."
Now, Tony Pipes and Fat Mikey’s faces changed to disgust.
"We left the snitch and the goat alone and went back to the farmhouse where the owner's wife prepared a local stew. I know the farmer and his wife a long time and both could be trusted. Ah, and his wife made a wonderful stew unlike anything you've had before. Perhaps one day I will have it again. Unfortunately our meal was interrupted with screams coming from the barn. Such screams. Maybe an hour went by? My brother and I returned to the farmhouse and
found the skin had sloughed completely off the bottom of this man's feet, bleeding from heel to the tip of his toes. Like someone took a knife and peeled the skin back, the way you skin a potato. The blood seemed to excite the goat even more. You may not know, but the goat is a very stubborn animal. Once it sets out to do something, it will not stop. Much like Campania women, no?
"Of course, we still do not ask any questions. Nino ladled more salt water on the man's feet and legs. The man, he tried to act very brave. I will give him that. The goat continued to lick, his tongue opening new wounds, probing and expanding the old ones. “I won't tell you shit,” the man yelled, and by this time the goat was using his teeth. Have you ever seen goat teeth? They almost resemble human teeth. Very strange. But very strong. I tell you, the jaws are as strong as a pig. They can chew through anything. Skin, flesh, small bones. I tell you, the goat is a very unassuming creature.
"We went back to the farmhouse and drank grappa. Have you tried? Grappa is made from the leftover parts of the grape when they make wine. Clear and sweet, I like it very much. If you have a chance, you must try. The farmer told us about his son who worked in Rome. He was a very proud father. A good man. We played cards, drank the grappa, but the snitch continues to be a pain in the ass and would not stop screaming. Very rude. We returned and the man's left foot is nothing. Poof. Gone. The goat's head is smeared in blood. And the goat, oh this goat, he will not stop. I could barely hold him off. Engorged with blood and bone and whatever else, he would not stop. He wanted more. Now this snitch tells us he is ready to talk. Just take the goat away. But we tell him it's too late. We already had the information we were after. And the man starts crying. Begging us to save him. He starts telling us everything. Confessing his sins. Listing spies for the Carabinieri. He named a local judge who was working another trial, controlling the fate of many of my clan brothers. He named a pair of special undercover detectives assigned to our clan. Once we had the names, well you see, you know what happens next."
