by Robin Yocum
Using his left hand, Duke struggled to reach down the waist of his pants and removed the Colt .45 Commander. His finger pounded and made his right hand virtually useless. He pushed the Beretta into his belt behind his back and kicked the remains of the old car seat off the safe. He fumbled with the No Parking sign, unwilling to take his eyes off Tony or switch the gun to his damaged right hand. Using his foot and two fingers on his throbbing right hand, Duke moved the sign to the side, exposing the safe.
Tony started laughing and struggled to his feet, a stream of thick blood matting his hair and running down his neck, mixing with dust, sweat, and Timmy’s ashes. Duke kept his gun trained on Tony.
“Goddamn, Ducheski, you’ve got more balls than I gave you credit for.”
Duke tightened his grip on the revolver as Tony reached for his hip pocket.
“Keep your hands where I can . . .”
Tony pulled a handkerchief from the pocket and wiped the gooey mixture of blood and ash from his eyes. The blood from the gash in his head continued to run down the side of his neck, soaking his collar. He pressed the handkerchief to the wound and winced. “So, now what? You gonna shoot me?”
“No, that would be too easy. I think I’ll just let the FBI handle you. I want to see you on the witness stand, afraid every second for your pathetic life because you know Joey Antonelli will kill you the first chance he gets. I hear all this talk about the Mafia code of honor. Well, let’s see what they do when they hear those tapes and find out you were going to blackmail them.”
Tony shook his head. “You must think this is a movie or a television show. That’s not how things work. I’d rather you kill me. But here’s the rub, Ducheski: I’m still in control. You don’t have the balls to pull the trigger. What are you going to do, desperado?”
Duke pointed to the beaten footpath with the barrel of his pistol. “Tony, either you walk down that path, or I swear to Christ I’ll put a bullet right in your heart.”
Tony licked his gray lips and spat. “No, you won’t. I know you. You don’t have it in you. Not the great Duke Ducheski, hero of all Mingo Junction. You couldn’t do it, especially if you had to look someone in the eye. If you had it in you, you’d have already shot me.”
“Walk away, Tony.”
“What are you hiding, anyway?” He strained his neck, trying to look beyond Duke. “You have my money hidden up here, don’t you?” Tony smiled and tapped his forehead with the index finger of the hand holding the bloody handkerchief. “I’m a smart motherfucker, huh, Ducheski? You hid the money up here, and you need me to leave so you can get it.”
“Go, Tony.”
“No. That’s not going to happen. I’m coming after you, and either you’re going to run or I’m going to take that gun off you and kill you with it.” He took a step; Duke aimed the Colt at his chest. “Don’t test me, Tony.”
Tony DeMarco grinned a hateful grin and took one more step.
It was his last.
In the instant that Tony lifted his leg, Duke recalled how Tony had talked about killing Sammy Stein, the Jewish produce distributor from Weirton. Tony said he enjoyed strangling Sammy because it gave the fat puke a little time to think about the gravity of his mistake. Stein had a moment of consciousness when he realized his life was about to end. Now, probably for the first time in his life, Tony DeMarco was the prey instead of the predator. It was his time to look into the eyes of a killer, and in that lightning streak of a moment, he realized the gravity of his mistake and how badly he had underestimated the will of Duke Ducheski. It was too late to stop the events that would kill him in another instant.
He didn’t flinch. The muscles in Duke’s left forearm tightened, and he squeezed the trigger. Tony heard the roar and felt the sledge-hammer-like impact to his chest as the bullet exploded through his sternum and pierced his heart. The impact blew him off the ground. He landed on his tailbone, arms and legs stretched out before him, and he tumbled twenty yards down the hill. The gun blast echoed through the hills and continued for several seconds after the body had stopped rolling.
Duke’s arm fell limp to his side, the pistol loose in his fingers. “Can’t go with my left, huh?” Duke tucked the revolver back into his belt and stepped sideways down the hill to where Tony DeMarco was sprawled on tufts of dead foxtail, faceup, his lifeless eyes staring into a cobalt-blue sky.
As kids, Moonie, Angel, and Duke would sometimes sneak into the Junction City Mine No. 2 and drop stones down the abandoned shaft and wait for what seemed like an eternity for them to hit bottom. It would serve as the perfect resting place for Tony DeMarco. He grabbed an ankle with his good hand and the cuff of Tony’s pants with the thumb and three good fingers of his right hand, and started dragging the body the quarter mile over the north face of Logan Hill toward the abandoned mine shaft. Just walking the distance over the overgrown hillside was a daunting task; dragging a body without the full use of both hands made it an exhausting trek. Honey-locust trees, weeds, and thistles had grown high over the mine entrance; the wooden seal of heavy logs was solid, but the corner was still pulled from the side beams where they had moved it away years earlier. Duke crawled in on his belly, then dragged the body of his former nemesis through the opening. Light filtered through the splayed wood slats, golden beams in which swirled faint particles of coal dust that had kicked up when the body of Tony DeMarco slapped against the mine floor.
It was several minutes before Duke’s eyes adjusted to the darkness of the mine. When he could begin to make out his surroundings, he sat down and with his feet started rolling Tony’s body toward the shaft. His right hand throbbed and was almost useless in providing any stability. With each roll of Tony’s body, blood mixed with the coal dust on the floor of the mine. It was an arduous task, but Duke took perverse pleasure in kicking the corpse of Tony DeMarco across the ground.
The elevator housing still stood guard over the shaft. Duke kicked aside one of the timbers that made a poor cover of the shaft, clearing just enough room for a corpse. Though he thought it a bit morbid, he fished Tony’s gold money clip from his pants pocket, stripped it of a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills, and returned it. He took a cleansing breath and said, “Better than you deserve.” He put his feet behind the corpse’s thighs, and started to push. As he did, the legs folded and the bottoms of Tony DeMarco’s expensive, custom-made Italian shoes were exposed to Duke. Each had a silver-dollar-sized hole in the sole. Duke Ducheski smiled at the thought of Tony DeMarco heading off to eternity without his wad of cash and with holes in his shoes.
And with that, he kicked hard and sent the corpse into the abyss.
He didn’t remember hearing the body hit the bottom of the shaft. He was exhausted and sat for several minutes, catching his breath and his bearings. Pushing himself to one knee, Duke slowly stood, hunching at the shoulders in the low cave. He slipped the Beretta from his belt and tossed it down to its owner. This time, he listened. When the pistol clacked at the bottom of the shaft, the Duke of Mingo Junction turned and made his way back toward the light.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
By the time he walked back to Fort Logan, the pain in his right hand was sending showers of sparks up his arm. He retrieved the Troll’s blue duffel bag from the safe and Timmy’s urn from the weeds. A few minutes later, Duke wheeled the Buick back onto Route 38 and took the back road toward Steubenville. He was dirty, sweaty, and exhausted, but he felt oddly at ease about the morning’s events. Within the space of a few hours, he had injected his son with a lethal dose of potassium chloride, and then put a bullet through the heart of his brother-in-law. And yet, he was eerily calm. Perhaps it was the fact that he was leaving the Ohio Valley forever that eased his nerves. More likely, he thought, it was because Timmy was in a better place and, hopefully, nowhere near the tortured soul of Tony DeMarco.
As he drove past the downtown exits to Steubenville, Duke eased the Buick into the left lane and, at the north end of town, turned up Stony Hollow Boulevard and drove to the
bowling alley. His was the only car in the parking lot. He walked up to the pay phone mounted on the outside wall near the front door. The phone book had been stolen, and he had to call directory assistance for the first number he needed. The phone rang twice before it was answered.
“Yeah.”
“Carmine, are you alone?”
“Who’s this?”
“Duke.”
There was a silence that lasted five seconds. “Yeah, I can talk.”
“All right, don’t say anything, just listen. Go up to Tony DeMarco’s and help yourself to whatever’s left in the safe. It’s all yours. No one will be around for hours, and no one will ever come looking for you. Go now.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Carmine said, violating Duke’s only directive. “How long will it be safe?”
“Carmine, I don’t have a lot of time. Trust me on this. Go now. Go get the money, the jewelry, whatever’s in there that you want. No one will ever come looking for you, ever. You have my word.”
There was another pause. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Duke could hear Carmine start to giggle. He whispered, “Where’s Tony?”
“We never had this conversation, Carmine. Buy yourself one of those little pastel houses on the beach and enjoy your life.” He hung up.
The second number he knew by heart. Angelo Angelli awoke and groaned his greeting.
“H’lo.”
“Jesus Christ, Angel, are you still in bed?”
“Duke?”
“Yeah, come on man, get out of the sack.”
Angel bolted upright and summoned himself to alertness. “Duke! Man, I need to talk to you. Tony DeMarco came in late last night, looking for you, pissed as all hell about something, wanting to know where you were. I told him—”
“Angel, I know,” he interrupted. “I know. Believe me, it’s nothing you need to be concerned about.”
“Oh, Duke, but he was pissed. I mean, pissed! I could see it in his eyes, you know that look he gets when—”
“Angel, be quiet for a minute and just listen. I want you to go down to the restaurant and get into the safe in my office. The combination is on the last page of the notebook in my desk drawer.”
“Okay. What do you need?”
“I don’t need anything. What’s in there is yours.”
There was an awkward moment of silence. “Are you ever going to tell me what this is all about?”
“Angel, you’ve been a great friend for as long as I can remember. Just read the letter that’s in the safe. When you’re done with it, burn it. Okay?”
“But, Duke—”
“I’ve got to go, Angel. Everything’s in the safe. Don’t worry about Tony getting in your face. Everything will be fine.”
“But, Duke—”
“You take care, buddy.”
Angel kept his ear to the humming dial tone for a few seconds, then hurriedly dressed and drove to Duke’s Place. The cook was in the kitchen, preparing the specials for that day’s lunch crowd. Angel walked straight to the office and found the notebook. Scrawled in pen was the combination: R-16, L-14, R-38, L-90.
Angel closed the office door and with a quivering hand began dialing the combination. On the floor of the safe he found a manila envelope. Inside were two legal-looking documents and a twice-folded sheet of paper. He unfolded the paper and found a handwritten note.
Angel:
Hopefully, I was the one who directed you to find this letter, otherwise, I’m probably dead.
I know this is going to be hard to understand, but it will become clearer in the months to come. First of all, I’m never coming back to Mingo Junction. I can’t say why, but someday you’ll understand. You’re going to be asked a lot of questions about me. People will want to know where I am. You don’t know anything, so you won’t have to lie. Your only response should be, “I don’t know.”
In this envelope is the deed to the restaurant. Duke’s Place is now all yours. Angel’s Place, huh? The cost of the restaurant, building included, is $70,000. I’m financing the sale, and the terms of the agreement are that you pay me a dollar a month, interest-free, until the restaurant is paid off. (I’m not sure when you’ll have it paid off, but it will be a while. You figure it out. You’re good at math. Ha.) Also, I turned over the bank account to you. Take the document that’s in the envelope to the Miners and Mechanics Bank and sign it. That will give you access to the money and the right to sign the checks. Whatever’s in the account is yours. You’ve earned it.
It’s all yours, buddy. You always wanted to run your own business, so here’s your chance. I’d like it if you kept the picture of me making “the shot” up behind the bar and the championship record in the jukebox. That’s your call, though, as it is your restaurant, now.
I know this is a lot to swallow and right now it doesn’t make any sense. It will, over time. You’ve been a good pal, and I know you’ll take care of the place.
I need you to do two things for me. One, burn this letter right after you’ve finished reading it, and, two, when they come asking what you know, please don’t know anything.
Your friend,
Duke
Angel set the letter on the desk and looked at the deed and the document transferring ownership to him. The bank document required a signature and a notary seal, then the deal would be complete. He put the legal documents back in the safe and went into the men’s room. Holding the letter over the toilet, he lit the bottom and held it until the flames licked at his fingers, then he dropped it in the bowl and flushed it away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
June 1995. If life could be any less fulfilling for the former Duke Ducheski, he couldn’t imagine how.
It had been a year and eleven days, to be exact, since Duke had handed over the transcripts of the tapes to Agent Kinnicki. After a slight detour to a local emergency room, where his entire hand was set in a cast, he was flown to Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas, for safekeeping. It was a far cry from the mountaintop retreat he had first envisioned. He was living in a cottage on the grounds, and he had a civilian job as a file clerk in the basement of the medical center on the base. He didn’t have to work, but it helped pass the time, and he got used to interacting with people under his new identity.
The prosecutors had admonished him not to make friends. That order had not been hard to follow, since he was the only file clerk working in the archives department, which was in a cavernous sub-basement that the employees called “the dungeon.” There were a theater, a swimming pool, and a bowling alley on the base, but he had little interest in those, save for an occasional movie. He took his meals on the base and spent his evenings watching cable television, which was his only luxury. The cottage was small, was furnished with battered, government-issue furniture, and had a window air-conditioner that did little good when pitted against the insufferable Texas heat. To the accommodations, he had added only a clock-radio and two suitcases of clothes. The rest of his possessions, including the duffel bag full of cash, remained in the trunk of the Buick, which was in a secured, government-owned warehouse somewhere in Georgia.
He was now Ronald Edward Reynolds, born October 30, 1952, in
Chicago. At the FBI’s suggestion, he had grown a moustache and sported a pair of wire-rim glasses. Fort Sam Houston was known to be a hiding place for protected witnesses, and there was speculation around the hospital that he was a witness in an international drug case. When his boss, Peggy, told him about the rumor, he asked, “Do you believe that?”
“You can be Pablo Escobar for all I care,” Peggy said. “Just get those medical reports filed.”
The occasional cigarette he once enjoyed with a beer had increased to a pack-and-a-half-a-day habit. And he had gained fifteen pounds that were showing up in a pair of love handles just over his belt. Once in a while, he walked to the base’s outdoor courts to shoot baskets, but he couldn’t motivate himself to work out
on a regular basis. After work he would eat, then go home, drink beer, and fall asleep in front of the television, waking up at 3:00 a.m. to an infomercial, his skin stuck to the fake leather of the chair. The only piece of mail he received during that year came compliments of Kinnicki—a copy of the divorce decree, which granted Nina everything, including his Jeep.
He missed his freedom. He missed Mingo Junction more than he dreamed possible. He missed Timmy and Angel and Moonie and the cast of characters that had made Duke’s Place a success. He missed Carmine. He missed being his own boss and making Duke’s a success. His missed being the Duke of Mingo Junction. And, most of all, he missed Cara. Drinking alone, chain-smoking, and staring at the walls of the cottage were not helping.
Kinnicki called every week or two to update him on the case against Joseph Antonelli. The investigation was going incredibly well, Kinnicki said. They had found four bodies near a private hunting lodge near Youngstown, Ohio. Bullets recovered from what remained of the corpses matched guns recovered at Antonelli’s house.
“This isn’t like dealing with Il Tigre,” Kinnicki said. “Turns out, these guys are amateurs and very sloppy.”
Once they matched up the conversations on the tapes with other reports, they were able to link Antonelli with eight murders and a prostitution, drug, and illegal gambling operation that spread over three
states. The Internal Revenue Service had been called in to investigate Antonelli’s personal returns, as well as those of the car washes and coin laundries that he used to launder his money.
“Joey’s organization is crumbling around him,” Kinnicki said. “Some of his capos have offered their testimony in exchange for immunity. Others have just disappeared. Our boy Joey is going down hard.”
“You still haven’t found Tony DeMarco?” Ronald asked.
“Not a trace,” Kinnicki said. “Either he took off and is lying low, or Antonelli got to him; that’s the way I’m betting. He’s probably at the bottom of the Ohio River.”
