House Reckoning: A Joe DeMarco Thriller

by Mike Lawson

  House Reckoning

  Also by Mike Lawson

  The Inside Ring

  The Second Perimeter

  House Rules

  House Secrets

  House Justice

  House Divided

  House Blood

  House Odds

  Rosarito Beach

  House Reckoning

  MIKE LAWSON

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  New York

  Copyright © Mike Lawson 2014

  Jacket art and design by MJC Design

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or permissions@groveatlantic.com.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-0-8021-2253-7

  eISBN: 978-0-8021-9253-0

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  www.groveatlantic.com

  To Jamison Stoltz, senior editor at Grove Atlantic.

  Thanks to his hard work, his astute comments, his attention

  to detail, and his insights, the published version of my novels

  is always significantly better than the original manuscript.

  Part I

  1

  “We got a problem,” Enzo said.

  Carmine Taliaferro was feeding his fish. He’d never figured himself for a fish guy, but he was in a pet store with his granddaughter one day, looking at the puppies, and saw the aquarium there. He didn’t know the names of the fish then; he just liked the colors: the bright yellows, the iridescent blues and greens. His favorite was a little black one about two inches long with a red stripe on each side, like the racing stripes on an Indy car. So he bought the aquarium and put it in his den and he’d sit there, watching the fish, thinking about nothing, just relaxing. It was like watching baseball on TV with the sound turned down.

  “What kind of a problem?” Carmine asked, glancing over at Enzo.

  When Enzo Marciano was younger, he’d looked like the hood he was. As he’d gotten older, hard muscle pooled into layers of fat, he lost most of his hair, and started wearing glasses. Now all he needed was a mustard-splattered apron and he could be the guy behind the counter at the corner deli—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still a hood.

  “It’s DeMarco,” Enzo said. “He identified the guy who killed Jerry Kennedy. He’s gonna kill him.”

  “Goddamnit,” Carmine muttered. “I knew this was going to happen.”

  “He came to ask permission but he wasn’t really asking, if you know what I mean. I told him I was gonna have to talk to you and he said he understood, but he’s not gonna let it go, no matter what you say. You know how he is.”

  When Carmine shook his head, Enzo misinterpreted the gesture and said, “Yeah, I know. We can’t let him do it. We don’t need that kind of heat.”

  Carmine laughed. “Heat? There won’t be any heat if DeMarco kills him. The kid will just disappear and nobody will have a clue what happened to him.”

  “What are you saying? You’re gonna let him do it?”

  Carmine lit a cigarette and started coughing as soon as he drew smoke into his throat. Fucking cigarettes were the thing that was going to kill him one day.

  “No. That kid’s young, but he’s smart and he’s connected. What I’m saying is, I need him more than I need DeMarco.”

  Carmine picked up a plastic bag sitting next to the aquarium. It was filled with water and contained about twenty small fish, each fish maybe a quarter of an inch long. The fish were almost transparent and if you looked closely you could see their tiny hearts beating. He took a switchblade out of his pocket—he’d killed a punk with the knife when he was sixteen—and split the bag and dumped the fish into the aquarium. Then he just watched, not realizing there was a little smile on his face, as the other fish attacked the new fish. They wiped them all out in about two minutes. Those brightly colored fish didn’t look like predators—but then neither did guys like him and Enzo.

  “Damnit, Enzo,” Carmine said. “It’s really too bad about DeMarco. It just breaks my heart.”

  2

  Maureen DeMarco glanced into the living room. Again.

  He was still sitting there in the big recliner they both thought of as his chair. He was probably, almost certainly, brooding over Jerry Kennedy. He’d been brooding about Jerry ever since the funeral. When he’d first sat down it was just starting to get dark outside and now it was completely dark, and he hadn’t even turned on the light next to his chair. He’d been sitting there for an hour.

  She felt like screaming at him. She wanted to say, “You just forget about Jerry! He was a useless, drunken bum. You got your own family to think about.” But she knew screaming at him wouldn’t do any good. Screaming at Gino DeMarco was like screaming at a rock. He didn’t get mad. Well, he probably did get mad—but he never did anything. He’d never raised a hand to her in the twenty-seven years they’d been married. For that matter, she couldn’t remember him ever raising his voice to her. If she started yelling at him, he’d just leave the house and not come back until after he was sure she’d gone to bed. And in the end, he’d do what he wanted, no matter what she said.

  She was making a pie because Joe was coming home from school for a visit tomorrow, and she was making as much noise as she could, banging dishes around, kneading the dough like she was hitting a punching bag. She knew she was just ruining the piecrust and would have to make another one. She also knew Gino could hear her and he knew, with all the noise she was making, that she was mad. But would he turn around and ask what was bothering her? No, not him. Not ever. He was a rock.

  She was a junior in high school when she met him at a St. Patrick’s Day dance. Even now, when she was mad at him, she still smiled when she thought about that night. He was there with a bunch of other Italian boys who’d snuck into the gym and he kept looking at her, but then he’d look away as soon as she looked at him. She could tell he wanted to ask her to dance—and she knew he wouldn’t.

  She still couldn’t believe it, all these years later, how she’d walked up to him, tapped him right on his big chest, and said, “I like this song. Why don’t we dance?” Her girlfriends had been mortified, but she didn’t care. She knew she had to make the first move because he never would have. Yeah, she knew what he was like before she even knew him at all.

  He’d gotten a bit heavier as the years had passed but he wasn’t fat and he was still a handsome man: dark hair not thinning a bit, a big nose that fit his face, the cleft in his chin, the muscles in his arms. She’d always loved his arms. She always felt safe in them.

  Her father had pretended not to like him at first. He’d say things like “You going out with that dago kid again?” Irish fathers felt obligated to say things like that back then. And she’d respond by saying, “Don’t you go calling him that. That
’s prejudice. Plus, he’s Catholic. That should make you and ma happy.”

  The fact was, her father had actually liked him right from the start. He had three daughters and had always wanted a son, and he and Gino used to go to Mets games together all the time before her father died. And when Joe got old enough to go with them . . . Her father had lived for those Sunday afternoons, sitting there in the cheap seats in the upper deck, telling his grandson what bums the Yankees were.

  When they got married, her mother had basically told her to be subservient to him, although her mother had never used a word like subservient in her life. “Your job,” she said, “is to be a good wife and make a good home for him. You take care of his house and his children. You learn how to cook. And you don’t be a nag. I know you, Maureen. You got a mouth on you. Don’t you turn into one of those sharp-tongued harpies and drive him into another woman’s bed.”

  She’d taken her mother’s advice for a while, for as long as she could. She’d been the sweet little wife, going along, not questioning things, but at some point she’d said to hell with it and began to assert herself. The only problem was she waited too long because by then he was already working for Carmine.

  That was the worst thing about their marriage: it wasn’t just what he did, it was that he wouldn’t talk about what he did. When they first got married, he was working on the docks, over in Jersey. It was a union job, a good job, and she was proud to tell people her husband was a longshoreman. He didn’t make a lot of money, and the work wasn’t always steady, but he made enough—enough to make the down payment on the little house they still lived in. Then two things happened: she got pregnant and he got laid off—and that’s when he went to work for Carmine.

  In those days the neighborhood in Queens where they lived was like a little village where everybody made it their business to know what was going on. Who was cheating on his wife; who’d been fired for drinking on the job; whose kid had just been expelled from school . . . The neighborhood, like a living organism, always knew. It was a vast network of gossiping wives, old ladies with nothing better to do than sit on the porch all day and watch, butchers and bartenders and waiters always listening as their customers talked. So the neighbors knew her husband was working for Carmine Taliaferro maybe even before she did.

  Every once in a while, one of the wives, one of the unhappy ones who wanted everyone to be as miserable as she was, would ask: “So, Maureen, what’s Gino doing these days? I heard he got laid off, you poor thing.” She could tell by the gleam in the woman’s eyes that she knew who her husband was working for.

  Maureen DeMarco had heard the term “property manager” someplace, and that was the lie she always told. She’d say that Gino worked for a man who owned a lot of property—and Carmine did own a lot of property—and that Gino collected the rents and fixed stuff that was broken, that sort of thing. She told the lie so often she almost believed it herself; she knew nobody else did. Eventually, the only women she confided in was a lady down the block whose husband was in prison and her best friend, Connie, who lived all the way up in Albany.

  It had been a strange and stressful marriage, the three of them all pretending they were a normal family. Gino would go to work, although he didn’t work normal hours, and when he came home, he never said what he did that day and she finally stopped asking. It actually became easier after Joe was born because then they all had something to talk about: they talked about Joe.

  He’d been a great father; she had to admit that. He went to his son’s games and went to the school with her to meet the teachers. He made Joe do his homework and always stressed the importance of a good education. It was really Gino, more than her, who insisted Joe go to college, and it was Gino who encouraged him to get a law degree. What a laugh that was: her husband working for Carmine Taliaferro and her son on his way to becoming a lawyer.

  She’d tell herself—all the time, she’d tell herself—that she should count her blessings instead of complaining all the time. Gino had always taken care of her and Joe. They’d never been rich, but they’d never gone hungry and her son never went to school with holes in his shoes. The mortgage on the house was paid off and they’d been able to send Joe to Catholic schools. And somehow—God only knows how—Gino had been able to make enough to pay Joe’s college tuition. So maybe she wasn’t proud of what her husband did, but he was an earner and he’d never spent even a day in jail. There were a lot of women she knew who couldn’t say that about their men.

  The other thing about him was that he wasn’t like those goombahs he worked with—guys like Jerry Kennedy, who was Irish but was still a goombah. Gino DeMarco wasn’t a drunk, he didn’t have a girlfriend stashed away in the city, and he didn’t go down to Atlantic City to gamble. He was a family man, and when something needed to be repaired around the house, he always did it himself and seemed to genuinely enjoy the work. And when Joe was old enough, he let him help so Joe would know what to do when he owned a house.

  But, damnit, he made her mad. Then it was like she couldn’t help herself, like she was possessed or something. She slammed the rolling pin into the dough and yelled, “Well, for Christ’s sake! Are you just going to sit there in the dark the whole damn night?”

  Of course, he did just what she’d known he would do. He got up and put on his jacket and a old gray tweed flat cap and said, “I’ll be back in a while.”

  Jesus! Why couldn’t she ever learn to keep her mouth shut?

  3

  The tavern was a neighborhood dive called Angelo’s, although Angelo had sold it three years ago and retired to Florida. It was small—ten seats at the bar, four booths along the wall—and dimly lit to better hide the shabbiness of the place. The jukebox hadn’t worked since Angelo left, which was a good thing as far as Gino was concerned. On a shelf over the bar was a ten-inch Sony with bent rabbit ears showing a West Coast game: Seattle against Oakland, and Gino had arrived just in time to see Ken Griffey Jr. park one in the bleachers of the Kingdome in Seattle. Gino had never liked indoor ballparks and was glad Shea Stadium didn’t have a dome.

  He took a seat at the bar as far as he could get from two squabbling old drunks at the other end, and ordered a beer. As the bartender placed the drink in front of him, he said, “Now don’t make me have to cut you off tonight.” That was the bartender’s idea of a joke; he knew Gino would sit there sipping the one beer until he left.

  Tomorrow, Enzo was going to tell him that Carmine didn’t want him to kill the kid. Enzo would say killing him was bad for business. But Gino knew, even if Enzo didn’t, that Carmine was glad Jerry Kennedy was dead. The kid had actually done Carmine a favor. Gino needed to decide—he’d been trying to decide ever since Jerry’s funeral—if he was going to disobey an order from Carmine. Was Jerry Kennedy worth what it might cost him? And what would Carmine do if he went through with it?

  Maybe Carmine would order a hit on him. Maybe—but he didn’t think so. For one thing, Carmine knew he’d be hard to kill and if Carmine tried and failed, he’d have no choice but to go after Carmine. He also knew that even if he killed Carmine, they’d get him in the end. He couldn’t fight off the entire Taliaferro family.

  But he didn’t think Carmine would kill him. Most likely he’d just stop giving him work. He’d ostracize him. Exile him. He wouldn’t have any money coming in unless he could find a straight job, which would be hard to do after what he’d been doing the last twenty-some years. The good news was that he had a lot saved up, the house was paid off, and this was Joe’s last year of law school. They could go a long time before he and Maureen would need money. Then after a while, maybe a year, Carmine would need him for something his other guys couldn’t handle, and then Carmine would chew him out, make him swear he’d never disobey another order, hug him, and things would go back to normal. At least, that’s the way he thought it would play out. The thing was—and Carmine knew this—he didn’t really have a choice when it came to the kid.

  Jerry Kennedy was the first person G
ino DeMarco ever got into a real fight with, the kind of fight where you threw punches and didn’t just roll around on the ground wrestling, afraid to hurt the other guy because he might hurt you back. They were both in fourth grade and when the fight was over he had a bloody nose and Jerry had a black eye and a cut lip, and their shirts were torn. Sister Catherine Mary had screamed at them, spraying spittle everywhere, which made them laugh, and the nun smacked them both. They became best friends after that.

  They were altar boys together. They stayed over at each other’s houses. They played on the same teams, although Jerry rode the bench more than he played. Jerry stole the booze the first time they got drunk, and Jerry was the guy who got him laid the first time, too, these Polish sisters who would go to bed with anybody in the neighborhood if you bought them a six-pack of beer. Jerry was the best man at his wedding and he was the godfather of one of Jerry’s kids. Jerry had loaned him money when times were tough. And Jerry was the guy who got him the job with Carmine Taliaferro.

  After he and Maureen got married, he stopped hanging out with Jerry except for a beer now and then. For one thing, Maureen had never really liked the guy and working on the docks was hard and the hours were sometimes brutal; after work all he wanted to do was go home and sleep. But he didn’t mind the work and was grateful to have a job, and he and Maureen put money down on the house.

  Right after that, right after he made the down payment and signed the mortgage, it all went to hell. He didn’t understand what was going on with the economy: on the news they talked about inflation and deregulation and foreign trade imbalance, and a lot of other shit he didn’t understand. All he knew was they cut back his hours, then sometimes he’d get work only a couple of days a week, and finally, because he didn’t have seniority and wasn’t related to anybody important, they laid him off. And when they did, Maureen was three months pregnant.