A Perfect Shot

by Robin Yocum

  “Well, gather up whatever you’re looking for, and let’s get out of here,” Carmine said.

  Duke leaned in close and scanned the shelves, moving the wads of cash, watches and jewelry, a few loose gemstones, and gold and silver coins. He kneeled down and shined his light on the bottom shelf, where he found, neatly stacked atop one another, four audio-cassette holders. He opened the first and dropped the cassette into his hand. It was white and unmarked. In his pockets Duke carried identical tapes. He switched the first cassette, then repeated the process with the remaining three. “Okay, let’s book.”

  Carmine looked at Duke in disbelief. “That’s it? What the hell? You’re not taking any of the money?”

  “He’d notice that. Hopefully, it’ll be a while before he notices these are gone. Besides, it’s drug money. I don’t want it.”

  Carmine blinked several times. “You’re kidding me, right? So what? So it’s drug money. It’s his. Take it! What’s with the tapes?”

  Duke finally allowed himself a slight grin. “The ultimate revenge I was telling you about. How much did Tony take from you that night at the lounge?”

  Carmine shrugged. “About three grand.”

  Duke reached in the back of the safe and grabbed a couple of haphazardly piled stacks of hundreds. “Here, will this cover it?”

  “I had to get a new felt put on the pool table, too.”

  He reached to another shelf and snagged a stack of fifties, dropping them in Carmine’s hand. “Good enough?”

  “Yeah, I’d say that ought to cover it.”

  Carmine started to close the safe when Duke thrust his hand back in. “Wait a minute. Maybe I could find good use for a couple of those.” He bent down and reached into the back of the safe, snatching three stacks of hundreds from a lower shelf. He jumbled the stacks around so it wasn’t obvious that some had been taken. “Okay, close it up.”

  The door closed and Duke spun the dial, stopping it on the twelve, the same number where he had found it. He then took the bandana from his back pocket and wiped the dial, the handle, and the front of the safe clean. Duke followed the old man up the stairs and into the kitchen. The Great Zeus was sprawled on the floor, both eyes half open and glassy, the tip of his tongue protruding from the side of his mouth. Duke squinted and edged closer to the animal, putting a hand on its back. “Holy shit, Carmine,” Duke said. “He’s dead.”

  “Oh, now that’s a goddamn shame, ain’t it?” Carmine said.

  “What did you put in that meat? You said it would just put him to sleep!”

  “It did. He’s going to sleep for a good, long time.”

  “You killed him? I can’t believe it. Tony loves that dog. He’s going to go crazy.”

  “Yeah, that breaks my heart, too.”

  “Christ, Carmine, it’ll make him suspicious. He’ll know someone killed him.”

  “What? He’s going to think someone sneaked into the house to kill his dog? Relax. It’s a good diversion. I don’t know what you’re up to, but, whatever it is, this will keep him occupied for a couple of days.”

  Duke pushed Carmine toward the door. “I’ll see you in the woods.” He dead-bolted the door behind Carmine, then backtracked down the basement steps, crawled out the coal chute, and disappeared into the dark.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  For an entire day after breaking into Tony’s house, Duke transcribed the tapes while holed up in a room with cement-block walls painted a dreary aqua at the Wee Bonnie Lass Motel in Bellaire.

  The recordings turned Duke’s stomach. As he listened and transcribed the tapes on a yellow legal pad, he realized there would be no shortage of people who would want him dead if they knew what he was learning. Tony had not lied. His plan was to get Joey Antonelli incriminating himself on tape, and he had been spectacularly successful.

  Antonelli: I want that little fuck Andruluski dead.

  Tony: Who are you going to have do it?

  Antonelli: Alberto. I told him I don’t care how he does it, but he better make it fuckin’ painful. I told him to cut off his ears and bring ’em to me in a jar. I’ll send them to his mother. Nobody fucks with Joey Antonelli. That little fuckin’ Polack will wish to Jesus he hadn’t tried to double-cross me.

  Antonelli: Hey, Tony, guess what I’m holding in my hand?

  DeMarco: I don’t know, Mr. A, what?

  Antonelli: A mayonnaise jar. Know what’s in it?

  DeMarco: Mayonnaise?

  [Laughter]

  Antonelli: Definitely not mayo.

  DeMarco: I don’t know. What?

  Antonelli: Man, you got a short memory. That fuckin’ Polack Andruluski’s ears. That Alberto, he’s a good man. He brought me his ears, just like I said.

  DeMarco: Oh, Christ almighty, Mr. A. What are you going to do with ’em?

  Antonelli: I told you. I’m sending them to his mother. Nobody crosses Joey Antonelli.

  Antonelli: You were supposed to be my old man’s number one guy, so how come I can’t count on you to take care of this problem?

  Tony: I don’t even know what problem you’re talking about.

  Antonelli: Are you kidding me? Those niggers are the problem—J.D., Marcel or Marchel, or however the fuck you say his name, and that other gold-wearin’ son of a bitch, what’s his fuckin’ name?

  Tony: Andre.

  Antonelli: Yeah, Andre, the mouthy one.

  Tony: I don’t get it. What’s the problem? They buy a lot of flake from us.

  Antonelli: And they’re reselling it locally. The deal was they would move it back up to Detroit. Now, we’re competing against our own shit.

  Tony: I don’t think that’s . . .

  Antonelli: I don’t pay you to think, DeMarco. Jesus H. Christ. I gotta take care of this, too?

  Tony: Let me talk to them.

  Antonelli: I’m done fuckin’ talkin’. I want them dead. You apparently aren’t up for the task, so I’ll get Alberto and Big Mike to take of it.

  Tony: They’re good customers.

  Antonelli: Why can’t you get this through that thick skull of yours? They’re undercutting us with our own dope. I’m going to kill the sons of bitches.

  Tony: The job is done?

  Antonelli: Done. Alberto and Big Mike did nice work.

  Tony: They were part of Deuce Johnson’s gang. They’ll come looking for them.

  Antonelli: Yeah, well, good luck to them. Those dumb-asses agreed to meet us at the old hunting lodge. We buried them deep back by the old saw mill and torched them good before we covered them up. That purple Jap thing they were driving went into the compactor.

  Tony: You sure you want to talk about this on the phone?

  Antonelli: No one’s fuckin’ listening.

  Tony: Okay, just asking. How much were they carrying?

  Antonelli: Cash, about two hundred grand and change, and they were each wearing a couple grand in gold. I told Alberto and Big Mike not to shoot them in the gold. [Laughter] Those black bastards loved their gold.

  Tony: Not a bad day’s work.

  Antonelli: Christ, it was beautiful. Too bad about the girl.

  Tony: They shouldn’t have brought her.

  Antonelli: True that.

  Antonelli: He’s got to get with the program. No one is going to do business with the Carluccis in our backyard. He’s disrespecting me. He would never pull this shit on my old man.

  Tony: Want me to send Emilio over to talk to him?

  Antonelli: No, I’m going to handle this one myself. Mr. Green needs to understand that we run the numbers in New Castle. Period. If he gives me any fuckin’ static, any static whatsoever, I’ll break his leg. If he doesn’t understand after that, well . . . let’s hope for Mr. Green’s sake that he understands. If he takes one more dime for Carlucci, he’s a dead man.

  DeMarco: Mr. A, what happened to the guy in New Castle?

  Antonelli: Our friend?

  DeMarco: Yeah. [Long pause] You there?

  Antonelli: Yeah. I don
’t want to talk about it on the phone.

  DeMarco: Why? You think someone’s recording us?

  Antonelli: I don’t care. They can record me if they want. I got nothin’ to hide.

  DeMarco: Absolutely not. You’re a legitimate businessman.

  Antonelli: Absolutely. In fact, Anthony, I’m a very reasonable businessman. But some guys, you know, no matter how many times you explain something to them, they just don’t get it. You know what I mean?

  DeMarco: [Laughs] I think so. Give me a hint.

  Antonelli: Our friend, let’s call him Mr. Red, [laughs] he thought that maybe he still wanted to deal with our friends in Youngstown. But I think he’s seen the error of his ways. I understand he’s out of surgery, and, after a few months of rehab, he should be almost as good as new. [Laugher]

  The transcription of the tapes filled page after page of text, all full of incriminating conversations. When Tony had said that Joey Antonelli carelessly ran his mouth, he wasn’t exaggerating. It took Duke until ten that night to complete the transcription, and it filled twenty-seven pages. He ate a late dinner of pretzels, a candy bar, and a Mountain Dew from the vending machine. From the pay phone outside the motel office, he called Angel at the restaurant.

  “Things are fine,” Angel said. “You need to put together a beer order for next week. Where are you, anyway?”

  “If anyone asks, I went trout fishing somewhere in West Virginia.” Angel probably assumed Duke was somewhere with Cara and didn’t question him further. “Handle that beer order, will ya, Angel? I’d appreciate it.”

  He walked back to the room, flopped on the bed, and was asleep for the first time in forty hours. When he awoke at 8:00 the next morning, he showered and drove across the river into Wheeling, West Virginia, under a blanket of thick fog.

  Duke pulled into a public parking lot off Jacob Street and checked his face in the rearview mirror. He looked like he felt—in need of more sleep and a shave. After paying the parking-lot attendant, he walked west along 14th Street to Chapline Street and the offices of the Ohio Valley Morning Journal. It was just a few minutes after 9:00 when he entered the building and stopped at the security desk just inside the door. Despite his haggard appearance, the female guard smiled when he approached her desk. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Malone, please.”

  “He should be in any minute, sir.” She pointed with the eraser end of her pencil to a row of battered chairs along a near wall and a table on which sat a coffee pot. “You’re welcome to take a seat and wait. Help yourself to some coffee.”

  “I probably look like I could use a cup, don’t I?”

  She only smiled.

  Duke poured coffee into a foam cup and took a seat, quietly waiting for his cousin to arrive.

  Duke hadn’t seen Mitch in three, maybe four years. His only contact with him during that time had been an annual Christmas card with a family photo and a photocopied letter that gave an update on the family and the various goings-on of his daughters. Duke remembered looking at the cards and thinking how drastically differently their lives had evolved. He had become a mill rat with a lunatic wife and Timmy. Mitch had gone to college, written a book, and become the editor of the Ohio Valley Morning Journal. The Christmas-card photo of the idyllic family—beautiful wife and two daughters dressed in matching navy dresses—had been like a dagger to his heart. He wasn’t jealous of his cousin, just envious.

  It was 9:15 when Mitch Malone walked into the lobby. His step was brisk and, except for some flecks of gray that were creeping in from the temples, he looked like the cousin Duke remembered from his youth—trim and with a quick stride. As he passed by the security desk, Duke said, “Good morning, Mr. Malone.”

  Mitchell turned his head, smiled, and said, “Good morning,” then took two more steps before his brain began processing the image. He stopped, then turned back. “Duke!”

  “Is this where I come to sign up for a subscription?”

  Mitch gave Duke a hug and laughed. “Man, it’s good to see you,” he said. “What brings you down here?”

  “I needed to talk to you for a few minutes,” Duke said.

  “I just happen to have a few minutes. Come on up to my office. Let’s catch up. I’ve got an editorial board meeting at ten.”

  “It won’t take very long,” Duke said, following him into the elevator.

  In his office, Mitch poured himself a cup of coffee and dropped in two packets of sugar. “That’s a habit I wish I could break,” he said. “I don’t even want to think about how many pounds of sugar I’ve consumed in my coffee over the years.”

  “It doesn’t look like it’s hurt you much. You’re looking pretty fit.”

  He patted his stomach. “Swimming. I joined the YMCA in Elm Grove and took up swimming. Great exercise. Easy on the joints.” He stirred his coffee, shook the remnants of the brew from the spoon, and set it aside. “So, Duke, I haven’t seen or heard from you in years, and then you suddenly show up unannounced at the office. I hate to sound cynical, but what do you need? I’m guessing you already have a subscription to the Morning Journal.”

  “Busted. Yeah, I already get the paper.”

  “So, what’s up . . . really?”

  “I need a little help.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I need you to take care of this for me.” Duke slid the manila envelope he had been carrying across the table.

  Mitch frowned as he opened the envelope and peeked inside. “Cassette tapes? What’s on them?”

  “Conversations that you would be better off not knowing about.”

  Mitch massaged his brow. “Okay. So, if I do this for you, Duke, could I end up going to jail?”

  Duke smiled and shook his head, sipping at his coffee. “No, Mitch, there’s no possible way you would go to jail.”

  “Could you go to jail?”

  “No. If the guy I took those from ever finds out I’ve got ’em, jail would be a much-preferable option.”

  “Christ, Duke, what have you gotten yourself messed up with? Is your life in danger?”

  “It’s a long story, Mitch, and, frankly, I don’t want to get you in the middle of it. I just need this one favor. No one knows I’m here. And nobody would ever think to come here looking for them. I just need you to hold those tapes until someone from the FBI comes asking for them. If you don’t hear from me or someone from the FBI in two weeks, send them to this guy.” He shoved a folded sheet of typing paper across the table. On it was the name of Michael Kinnicki and the address for the Pittsburgh office of the FBI.

  Mitch rubbed his hands over his cheeks and slowly exhaled. “The FBI, huh? Duke, I love you like my brother. I’d do just about anything for you. But even for my brother, I wouldn’t put my wife and kids in jeopardy. I need your word that someone other than the FBI isn’t going to show up at my front door looking for these.”

  Duke shook his head. “I’d never let that happen, Mitch. Never. There are only two people in the entire world who know where the tapes are. You’re one and I’m the other, and I’m not talking.”

  Mitch looked at the envelope for a long moment. “Is there any news value to those tapes?”

  “Maybe not today, but with any luck there will be very soon.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  After he left his cousin’s office, Duke drove north on the West Virginia side of the river to Weirton, then over the Fort Steuben Bridge back into Ohio. He had lunch at the Big Boy on Sunset Boulevard, then drove out to the fishing cabin at the old sportsman’s club. He sat alone in the dark, the dust heavy in his nostrils, thinking of his father, of Timmy, Cara, and his life, or what little might be left of it.

  He had no way of knowing what, or who, was waiting for him at home. There was always a chance that Tony already knew the tapes had been stolen. No matter how careful he and Carmine had tried to be, they could have slipped up somewhere, leaving behind some minute evidence of their mission. Duke needed some time to ge
t things in order, and, after that occurred, he hoped the bastard did find out.

  It was late afternoon when he locked up the cabin and headed back to Mingo Junction. Duke nosed the Jeep into the alley and pulled it up alongside the house. He reached under the front seat and grabbed the pistol, slipped it under his belt, then untucked his shirt for cover.

  There was an embankment from the alley to the walk leading to the back stoop. Duke had made the short climb thousands of times. On this day, however, it seemed like an insurmountable hurdle; his legs and lungs burned. He was tired, hungry, and scared.

  He wanted desperately to be more angry than scared; he wanted to feel the way he had when he was coming back from Fort Logan after finding the cash Moonie had stashed. He wanted to feel the way he felt when he was returning from Moonie’s funeral, his eyes tearing, his fingers squeezing the steering wheel as he fantasized that it was Tony DeMarco’s neck. But it was hard to maintain that level of intensity. There were moments when he had second thoughts about his plan, doubts that he could pull it off. When that happened, Duke focused his thoughts on the image of Moonie bleeding to death on the floor of the restaurant, of Tony DeMarco leaning into his face, issuing an ultimatum in a breath of garlic and stale merlot. Normally, it enraged him. But as he climbed the stairs to the house, he was just too exhausted.

  As usual, the shade to the back door mudroom was drawn—part of Nina’s continuing effort to keep any trace of sunlight from entering the house. Sunlight wasn’t her enemy as much as what it represented—life and the outside world. The back door was slightly warped, and he used his shoulder to push it forward.

  Duke hadn’t taken a full step into the mudroom when he froze, shocked by its unusual brightness and the solitary figure standing before the kitchen sink. It had been years since he had seen his wife look so beautiful. She was scrubbed and made-up, her hair washed, curled, and set with tiny ringlets framing her chubby face. She wore a floral skirt of red, purple, orange, and green, and a light-green top sculpted around the love handles at her waist. The scent of her perfume filled the kitchen. Even her fingernails had been buffed and polished.