A Perfect Shot

by Robin Yocum

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The phone awakened Nina Ducheski from a hard sleep.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Ducheski?”

  Nina sat up on the couch and cleared her throat, still more asleep than awake. “Yes, who’s this?”

  “This is Edna Jackson from the Heinzmann Convalescent Center. I’m sorry to call at such a difficult time, but Mr. Ducheski left, and he forgot Timmy’s bag of personal possessions—mostly the things that were on his dresser, the decorations and such. I’m sure he just got distracted, but I just wanted to let you know they were here; we’ll keep them until he has time to pick them up.”

  Nina said, “I’m sorry. Who is this again?”

  It was at that instant that Edna realized that Nina did not yet know her son had died. “It’s Edna Jackson. I’m the night nursing supervisor at Heinzmann Convalescent Center. Mrs. Ducheski, have you talked to your husband tonight?”

  “No. No, I haven’t. What’s this all about?”

  Edna drew a breath. “Mrs. Ducheski, I am so sorry, but I thought your husband would have called you by now. Timmy passed away tonight.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. “Timmy’s dead?” Nina shrieked into the phone. “Oh my God, how could this happen?” She began sobbing and wailing in a manner that made Edna clench her jaw tight. You didn’t know Timmy was dying, because you never came to visit, Edna thought.

  “Mrs. Ducheski, this has been coming on for quite some time. Timmy’s been a very ill young man. Maybe you better get in touch with Mr. Ducheski. Would you please tell him that Timmy’s bag is up here, and we’ll keep it safe for him?”

  Nina hung up without responding, pounding out the number to her mother and father’s home. The phone rang ten times before Nina’s mother answered. “Oh, Mama, Timmy’s dead. He’s dead. The home just called. Nick was up there, but he didn’t even have the decency to call and tell me. What am I going to do? Timmy’s dead.” She cried and sobbed.

  “Your father and I will be right over,” her mother said.

  Nina turned off the tears as she pecked out Tony’s phone number. He was up and alert, awaiting reports from Rhino and Emilio, who were scouring Mingo Junction for Duke. “Tony,” she said, crying again. “Timmy’s dead.”

  “Timmy? Timmy who?”

  “Timmy, my son, goddammit. He’s dead. That bastard Nick, he knew and didn’t even bother to call me. I am so upset. Can you come over, please?”

  “What do you mean, Nick knew?”

  “He was there. He was at the nursing home when Timmy died, I guess, I don’t know for sure because he hasn’t even bothered to call me. What kind of man does that? I was that boy’s mother, goddammit.”

  What an unbelievable break, Tony thought. “How do you know he was at the home?”

  “Some nurse called me. I had to find out that my son died from some nurse. She called because Nick left a bag of Timmy’s belongings at the convalescent center. Can you believe how he disrespects me?”

  “Where’s Nick now?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care. That rat bastard. I hope he dies. Are you coming over?”

  “In a little while, Sis. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll run up to the convalescent center and get the bag for you and see what else I can find out.”

  “Oh, Tony, that would be so nice. Thank you. I want—”

  The line went dead; Tony DeMarco was on a dead sprint for his car. Route 7 between Mingo Junction and Steubenville was clear, and he raced past Wheeling-Pittsburgh Steel’s Steubenville plant and pulled off at Lincoln Avenue. He ran a red light at Harrington Road and arrived at the front door of the nursing home in just over fifteen minutes. The chameleon that he was, Tony put on a concerned face as he rapped gently on the front door. Edna was nearby, and she walked to the door but, not recognizing Tony, didn’t open it. She pushed a button on the intercom and asked, “Can I help you?”

  “Hello, yes, ma’am, I’m Timmy Ducheski’s Uncle Anthony.”

  “Oh, please, come in,” she said, pushing the door open.

  “My sister just called, quite upset, and asked me to come up and pick up a suitcase, or something that contained Timmy’s belongings?”

  “Yes, I have them up here,” she said, walking toward the duty desk. “Mr. Ducheski forgot it this morning when he left.”

  “Well, I’m sure he had a lot on his mind. My sister was quite upset, and I couldn’t get many details from her. What happened?”

  Edna shrugged. “It’s hard to say. Timmy had been very ill for a very long time, the poor child. It could have been just about anything. Frankly, I think his little body just gave out, and Jesus called him home.”

  “Such a tragedy,” Tony said. “Is Nicholas still here?”

  “Mr. Ducheski? No, he left with the body for the funeral home.”

  Tony lowered his head and nodded. “Oh, I wish he would have called. I hate for him to be alone at a time like this.” She handed him the bag. “Thank you. Thank you, very much. Did my brother . . .” He smiled. “Well, my brother-in-law, he’s like a brother to me, did he say which funeral home would be doing the embalming?”

  “Millard Funeral Home, the one on North Fourth Street. I asked Mr. Ducheski about services, but he said he didn’t know. I think he was planning to have the body cremated.”

  “I see. And, you say that he did accompany Timmy’s body to the funeral home?”

  She nodded. “Uh-huh. I watched him pull out of the driveway, following the station wagon.”

  “I so wish he hadn’t shouldered all this by himself.” He took her right hand and patted the backside three times. “Thank you, so much. We all appreciate the care you gave Timmy.”

  She smiled and said, “You’re welcome. We’re all sorry for your loss.”

  As Tony disappeared out the front door and jogged to his car, Edna turned to her co-workers and said, “What a nice man.”

  The youngest nurse nodded and said, “Cute, too. I wonder if he’s married.”

  In the narrow, gravel channel that separated Millard Funeral Home from the three-story brick apartment building just to its south, Tony DeMarco could see the white and chrome fins of the 1959 Buick Invicta protruding from behind the garage. “Duke, Duke, Duke,” Tony said aloud in a chuckling, sing-song tone. “Good plan, my man, but you are such an amateur.” Tony drove around the block and parked on a side street where he had a clear view of the car. He turned off the engine and slouched back in his seat, his eyes set on the Buick. He could not believe his good fortune. Duke was inside the funeral home, his heart probably racing, hoping that he could get out of town without being discovered. And there was Tony, the red-tailed hawk, biding his time on the tree limb, waiting for the bunny to stick his head outside the hole.

  He had to piss, the natural reaction to the several cans of Diet Coke he had consumed since returning from Cara’s and summoning his lieutenants. There wasn’t much traffic, but he didn’t want to be standing outside the car with his tool in his hand when the police cruised by or Duke returned to his car.

  Uncomfortable as he was, Tony had no choice but to settle in and wait. Despite the bladder pressure, he remained delighted that he nearly had Duke in his sights. “I’m going to enjoy the shit out of killing you,” he said aloud. He slouched and pressed his thighs together. “Goddamn, I have to piss.”

  The crematory at the Millard Funeral Home was behind a solid-steel door at the rear of the building, hard against the alley. The crematory could be accessed only through the steel door in the alley, keeping it well separated from the viewing parlors. The cremation chamber carrying the body was slid onto the concrete platform just above floor level. Gas jets on both sides of the body expelled flames that reached eighteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit. When the process was completed just over an hour later, all that remained of Timothy Ducheski was about four pounds of ash, and a few small pieces of bone and tooth. When the ashes had cooled, Dewey removed the remains with a hoe-like tool and place
d them into a pan. He then ran the remains through a small grinder in an adjacent room that reduced the remaining bone and enamel bits to the size of coarse sand.

  It was nearly six o’clock when the employee returned to the waiting room with a simple metal urn bearing the ashes of Timothy Ducheski. Dewey said, “I’ll need you to sign some release papers, and that’s pretty much it. I’m assuming you want to take the ashes with you?”

  “I do.”

  The papers were typed and neatly arranged on a desk. Duke signed them and left.

  At the same time that Duke was signing the documents, Tony DeMarco’s bladder was preparing to explode. From the cup holder on the dash he snagged an empty Diet Coke can, unholstered his tool, and pressed the end of his member to the small opening and let go, alternating his line of vision between his business and the Buick. At first, he moaned in delight, but he had badly underestimated the volume of his bladder, and there was no stopping the flow. The can overflowed like a miniature geyser, and Tony lurched forward in his seat, trying to contain the urine as it ran over his hand and splattered on his seat, pants, and floor mat. “Goddamn you, Ducheski,” he yelled, trying in vain to pinch off the flow. “I’ll make you fuckin’ lick this up before I kill you.” The last half pint went splattering on the black floor mat.

  He dropped the can outside the car and was reaching for his handkerchief when he saw the fins of Duke’s Buick disappear behind the garage. “Oh, motherfucker,” he yelled, reaching for the ignition key, piss dripping from his fingers. He pulled onto Fourth Street with his dick still dripping and hanging out of his pants.

  Tony caught sight of the Buick’s slanted taillights as they turned south on Ohio Route 7, heading back toward Mingo Junction. By this time, he had fished his handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his hands. The inside of his car smelled like a roadside rest outhouse. He stayed back a safe distance and stuffed his member back in his damp pants as he swung onto Route 7.

  Traffic was light, and Tony lagged back, staying out of Duke’s rearview mirror. When he saw the turn signal on the Buick come on just before Logan Avenue, Tony started laughing. As the Buick turned right and started climbing the hill, Tony thought, Ducheski, you are like reading a book.

  Duke placed the urn on the seat next to him and drove to where County Road 38 dipped behind Logan Hill. He pulled the car into the gravel turnaround, got out, and walked up the hunting trail on the backside of the hill. The sun was rising into a rare, clear sky. He stood for a moment at the overgrown parapet to Fort Logan. Spread out before him, the river made a slow bend to the north and straightened out for the stretch run past Mingo Junction. A barge laden with coal was moving slowly up the river; a coal train was crossing the river on the trestle just north of town. God, how he loved his valley. He would miss it.

  He squatted in the dewy grass with the urn on the ground between his knees. “This is Fort Logan, Timmy. It’s not much to look at now, but it was really something when I was a kid. I sure wish you could have seen it. I thought this would be a good place for you to be.” He looked down on the river for a long minute. “I’ve got to go now, buddy. You take good care of Moonie for me ’til I get there, okay?”

  He pulled the lid, turned the urn on its side, and began shaking it lightly, letting the ashes drift into the wind.

  “That was so fucking touching, I can’t stand it,” came a mawkish and familiar voice from the dense brush.

  The chills in Duke’s ribs were like getting stabbed with a thousand frozen needles. From behind the growth emerged Tony DeMarco, smiling, his Beretta hanging in his hand at his side.

  “Duke, you are the most predictable bastard I have ever known.”

  Duke looked at his brother-in-law, his head rolled back, and air escaped from his lungs. In a voice of resignation, he said, “Goddammit.”

  Tony said, “Do you remember when I played basketball against you in junior high? Remember, you were the big star and I was the scrub who never got off the bench? But I was the only one who could guard you in practice. Remember that?” He started walking slowly toward Duke, the gun now pointed at his chest. “I could stay with you like ugly on a baboon. You know why? Because you were too predictable. You only had two moves. You would either head fake left, drive right, or head fake right and pull up for the jumper. Every goddamn time. You could never go with your left hand—ever. You’re predictable. That’s why when I saw you get off at the exit, I knew this is where you were coming.” Tony pointed at the weeds with the Beretta. “You know, the Knights of Columbus parking lot is just over the hill—it’s a lot shorter than schlepping up the back of this mountain. But, I don’t suppose you wanted anyone to see you, did you? . . . Yeah, I saw you pull off and said, ‘He’s going to take the boy’s ashes and spread them up at his little fort.’ Ain’t that touching. And, what a coincidence that little Timmy died on the very night that you were going to boogie out of town. I’m sure you helped him along. I’m guessing that your nurse friend gave you a little something—potassium chloride, possibly—and you injected him. It stopped his heart, but no one suspected a thing, did they? After all, who would ever question the great Duke Ducheski?”

  Tony walked closer, keeping the gun pointed at Duke’s heart. The smile started to disappear.

  “You must take me for a total fucking moron, Duke. You actually thought you could pull this off? Breaking into my house and stealing the tapes was bad enough, but what really pisses me off is that you thought you were so much smarter than me. Oh, by the way, I figured out that Carmine was probably the one who cracked my safe. Not smart on your part. He’s the only safe-buster in a hundred miles of Mingo Junction. So, after I’m done with you, I’m going to kill him, too. See this?” he asked, holding up Timmy’s bag.

  Duke nodded.

  “This was your downfall. You got careless. That nigger nurse up at death’s doorway nursing home called Nina and said you forgot it. I volunteered to go pick it up, and they were kind enough to tell me where you’d gone.”

  “It must have really excited you,” Duke said. “I see you pissed yourself.”

  “You can’t even imagine how much pleasure I am going to get from killing you,” Tony said.

  Duke stared into the business end of the Beretta. His brain raced for an escape plan, but it seemed so hopeless.

  “What’s the matter, mister funny man, no cute little smart-ass remarks? Huh? The thought of your own death doesn’t strike you as funny? I’ve got to tell you, I think it’s fuckin’ hilarious. We can do this one of two ways. I’ll let you pick. One, you give me the tapes, and I’ll be merciful and put a bullet in your brain. It’s over in a hurry. No pain. Or, two, I start unloading clips in you—knees, elbows, shoulders, until you give me the tapes—and you will give me the tapes, because I know how to inflict a lot of pain while keeping you alive. Then, eventually, I will put a bullet in your brain. Your choice.”

  “Those sound a lot like the options the Troll gave Moonie.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yeah, right before Moonie killed the little shit and stole your money.”

  Tony jabbed Duke twice in the ribs with the barrel of the gun. “You got about ten seconds to make your decision. One, two, three . . .”

  “I don’t have ’em.”

  “Too bad for you, then. Four, five, six . . .”

  “I gave ’em to the FBI.”

  “You’re stalling, and you’re lying. Seven, eight, nine . . . Oh, by the way, Duke, after I kill you and Carmine, I’m going to kill that miserable cunt of a girlfriend of yours, too.”

  “I can’t believe that even you would sink that low.”

  “Oh, believe it, Duke, and I’ll never lose a minute’s sleep over it.”

  Duke forced a laugh and shook his head. “Yeah, well, I guess if your life’s ambition is to be Joey Antonelli’s bitch, congratulations, you’ve made it.”

  If there was anyone on that hillside that morning who was predictable, it was Tony DeMarco. Duke knew it wou
ld happen; he knew his words would cut Tony deep. His famous temper would flare and burn white-hot for an instant. When that occurred, Duke guessed that Tony would rake the Beretta across his face.

  He was right. The instant Tony raised the Beretta, just before he brought it forth like a hammer, Duke flung what was left of the earthly remains of Timothy Nicholas Ducheski into Tony’s open eyes and mouth. In the same motion, he ducked and rolled to his right. Tony fired twice. The Beretta sounded like a cannon going off in the narrow hills; the burrowing shells kicked dust a foot high. The Colt had been tucked into Duke’s waistband, but the jarring fall caused it to slide inside his jeans, and he couldn’t reach it. Things were happening at light speed.

  Before Tony could blink his eyes clear, Duke came off the ground holding a rock the size of a softball and lunged at Tony. The rock came down hard on the side of Tony’s head. It was not a clean blow; Duke’s index finger on his right hand was crushed between the rock and Tony’s skull; it snapped at the joint. As they fell into a heap, the pistol remained in Tony’s grip.

  Blood poured from the gash in the side of Tony’s head. Before he could get his bearings and fire another shot, Duke crashed down with the rock a second time, this time smashing Tony’s gun hand. The gun flew from his grip. Duke pushed his left hand into Tony’s face and climbed over him, diving for the Beretta. He grabbed it and rolled, coming up with it in his throbbing right hand.

  Tony groaned. He was lying in the dirt, woozy from the blow to the head, and clutching his crushed right hand in his left. Duke walked around Tony and sat on the rotting railroad tie that once served as a bulwark for Fort Logan. Tony struggled to get up on all fours, wobbling and unable to lift his face off the rocky ground.