Cruel Mercy

by David Mark

  “That’s Luca Savoca,” says Tymoshchuk, and her finger pushes down on his face as if she’s squashing a bug. “I’m a firm believer that in this life, there are no absolutes, but I make allowances for this kid. He’s an absolute piece of shit. He’s the son of Nicky ‘Bathtub’ Savoca. Savoca is number two to the acting NYC boss, Paulie Pugliesca. He has been for years. On paper the family belongs to Andrea Benzano, but he’s not due out of prison until a week before his one hundred and eighty-ninth birthday. I wouldn’t set aside money for a cake.”

  McAvoy’s head is spinning. The names flow over him like water. His confusion shows in his face.

  “And you think Salvatore Pugliesca is involved?”

  Tymoshchuk looks at him as if he’s an idiot. “Salvatore died about three months after that picture was taken. He opened his front door and a nail bomb turned him into ravioli.”

  “Why?” asks McAvoy.

  “There are no shortage of theories—give it five minutes and there’ll probably be a documentary somewhere offering different ideas. We’re pretty damn sure it was the same old story. Power struggle. Sal was whacked in order to send a message to his old man, Paulie. It was a good hit. Expert.”

  “Right,” says McAvoy, keeping up. “So . . . Luca Savoca? The man with the tree branch in his midriff?”

  “This picture was taken last week at woods off Silver Spur Road,” says Tymoshchuk, as if talking to a child. “This spot,” she adds, tapping the trees and snow, “is about a quarter mile from where Brishen and Shay were attacked.”

  “He was found later?” asks McAvoy, grasping for something to hold on to.

  “Not by much,” says Alto.

  “But this information wasn’t made public. It wasn’t shared. You didn’t tell me.”

  “No,” says Tymoshchuk. “That’s because there are jurisdictional challenges, like Ronnie here said. The challenges in this case are the huge operations we’ve been running for the past two years and which we’ve sunk millions of dollars of taxpayers’ money into. We have indictments coming down soon on senior figures in both the Chechen and Italian Mobs, and a big part of that is the testimony of various low-level members of Pugliesca’s crew.”

  “Including this boy?” asks McAvoy, indicating the photograph.

  “Afraid not,” says Alto with a glance at Tymoshchuk. “The feds couldn’t flip Luca. He took the whole loyalty shit seriously. But he knew more about his daddy’s business than anybody, and for that reason he was a prime target. To keep him out of harm’s way during what he knows to be a tricky time, Daddy Savoca sent his son to look after some of the family’s interests upstate. He’d been keeping his head down, staying out of trouble.”

  “And?”

  “And we’ve had a wire on his cell phone for the past three months,” says Tymoshchuk with a hint of pride. “Last week, he took a call from somebody we didn’t recognize but which we’ve since tracked down to a neighborhood in Philadelphia. There was a piece of work to be done. Luca was invited to participate. Luca couldn’t have been more excited if you told him he was throwing out the first pitch at a Yankees game.”

  “And?” says McAvoy again.

  “Luca was told to switch to another phone and we couldn’t hear any more. But less than twenty-four hours later, Brishen and Shay had been shot and Luca was impaled on a tree.”

  McAvoy looks at the picture again. “There has to be more.”

  “We recovered Luca’s gun,” says Alto. “He put the first bullet into Shay Helden but not the second.”

  “And what did he do to Brishen?” asks McAvoy, unsure he really wants to know.

  Tymoshchuk sucks her teeth. “There was a switchblade recovered from the scene. It had been used to cut off Brishen’s nose. But the bullet in his head came from a different weapon. What’s more, the knife belonging to Luca wasn’t used to finish off Helden.”

  McAvoy realizes he has closed his eyes, shutting down his other functions so as to better make sense of what he is learning. His face flushes as he realizes the bit that matters most.

  “So, this whole thing may be nothing to do with Valentine,” he says brusquely.

  “We never thought it was,” says Alto. “It might seem that I wasn’t doing much to follow that line of inquiry but that was because we knew from the beginning this was a gang hit gone wrong.”

  McAvoy screws up his face as questions line up like soldiers. “But how did Brishen and Shay become targets in the first place? Where were they going? Who had they upset?”

  There is a moment’s silence before Alto speaks again, apologetically. “The Italians and the Chechens have been getting closer. Working in tandem, you might say. Your Irish boys upset the Chechens somehow. God only knows how but they found themselves in the middle of something and now we’re getting word that both the Italians and the Chechens are blaming one another and treating it like a prelude to a fucking war. We’re hearing that the repercussions are going to be biblical.”

  “Why?” asks McAvoy. “How?”

  Tymoshchuk shrugs. “Ninety percent of my job is sifting through bullshit and bragging. We’ve got some ideas, but the truth is, we don’t know what has upset the relationship or what the hell Luca was doing up there. What we do know is that the night after they arrived in New York, Brishen and Shay managed to get themselves involved in a bare-knuckle boxing match. We’re sweating informants and we’re looking for key witnesses, but whether Shay won or lost, it went bad.”

  McAvoy looks at Tymoshchuk. He tries to calm his thoughts. Dredges up a name. “You’ve been undercover with Sergey Volotov’s crew for a long time?”

  “I’ve been getting closer,” she says. “His boys are all muscle and they needed somebody with a brain. I found one of his cyber team on a chat room on the darknet. Got through his security in under thirty seconds. Told him I’d spread word unless he vouched for me with his bosses. Got a foot in the door, so to speak.”

  “But you don’t know about the fight?” asks McAvoy, looking incredulous. “Who won, what went wrong?”

  “He keeps me away from the street stuff,” she says. “You were my first chance to prove myself. I told him I’d been monitoring communications at the FBI. Some big guy was coming over from Scotland or Ireland or who the hell knew where and it would be best to check him out. There was some fear that you were connected to the Heldens or the Teagues. I figured you wouldn’t mind being used as a tool.”

  McAvoy looks at Alto. “You both used me.”

  “You should be pleased.” Tymoshchuk shrugs. “We don’t want Valentine for murder. I’m sure he’ll turn up. You can tell your wife that the feds have assured you he wasn’t involved.”

  McAvoy scratches at his head, wondering if this woman can possibly be for real. “You expect that to end things? They won’t accept that. I won’t accept that.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” says Tymoshchuk. “Maybe Brishen will wake up soon and he can make a call home and everything will be sweet. Maybe not. We’ve indulged you and we’re grateful for your cooperation. Ronnie here will drink your health with the boys from the Seventh. They’ve all heard about the way you slapped that bitch Ellison down, and that’s the reason I found a half hour to thank you, and to tell you that you can relax now, your work is done. Ronnie here reckons we owe you more than that but he’s not the one calling the shots. He shouldn’t have asked you to help him out with Murray Ellison either, but that’s for him and his conscience. Now go get yourself another ice cream.”

  Tymoshchuk stands up, and McAvoy reaches across to take the file before she can. She shakes her head and he lets go of it like a well-trained dog with a Frisbee.

  “Your wife’s a lucky lady,” says Tymoshchuk, and she looks momentarily genuine. “I like the way you operate. But you’re going to get hurt. Leave this alone. Ronnie, come on. You can run me back.”

  Alto’s lips are press
ed together in a tight line. He seems about to offer a handshake but resists. “I’ve had your bag dropped off at the hotel. What you did last night . . . I shouldn’t have asked, but it mattered.”

  They leave without another word.

  For a full thirty seconds after they have departed, McAvoy sits staring into the sticky swirls of his melted sorbet. Then a small, tinny voice makes him jump.

  “She was a fucking bitch,” says Pharaoh from the phone on the tabletop. “Is she bigger than me? Could I take her? I bet she’s one of those fit people—the sort who go upstairs to have sex because they can handle the climb. What a bell-end.”

  McAvoy lifts the phone and feels as though he is coming to after a bout of unconsciousness brought on by repeated kicks to the head.

  “Did you believe any of that?” asks McAvoy, who had called Pharaoh the second the two officers walked in.

  “Some,” says Pharaoh begrudgingly. “But if you don’t talk to Molony, then I’m going to fly out and do it myself, and then Roisin will get all cross, and I hate the thought of that.”

  “You can’t afford the flight,” says McAvoy around a tired smile.

  “Nor can you. Now, go and do something that pisses people off. You’re good at that. Who knows, they may end up thanking you for it.”

  “You think?”

  “Not a chance. I’ve got to get off. I’m about to charge an arsehole with murder. We’ve got you on speakerphone. I think this anecdote may keep him entertained in the cells.”

  “Thanks, Trish.”

  “No bother.”

  PART

  THREE

  1975: THE FOURTH ABSOLUTION

  Father Whelan sits in the back of the black Cadillac and watches the man in the driver’s seat ignite his cigarette with a gold-plated Ronson that flames red and gold in the darkness. The man breathes out a plume of smoke and gives the priest a smile that accentuates his delicate features. He’s pretty, this Sicilian. Has delicate fingers, too. Thick black hair and pleasant brown eyes. He looks harmless enough. But Father Whelan has been taking his confession for the past three years and knows the man who drives the car is anything but.

  “He’ll listen to you. You’ve got the juice. Tell him it will look good for him on Judgment Day. That’ll mean a lot to him, because if he don’t play ball, Judgment Day’s going to come a lot faster than he thinks. We can make a donation to one of your good causes,” continues Paulie Pugliesca softly. “You know how this can go. Whatever you like. Just tell this prick he’s a lost sheep. He’s a good boy. Just made a mistake. The girl will be okay. We’ll buy her something expensive.”

  Father Whelan wishes he could better explain to this man why he cannot simply walk into the Sixteenth Precinct and demand they release the young man they picked up tonight for grabbing a thirteen-year-old girl as she walked home from school. He drove around with her for an hour. Dropped her off two blocks from home, scratch marks on her face and bloody down to her bare feet.

  “He’s a ball breaker, this one,” says the driver to his large, silent partner in the passenger seat. “I do everything he asks and he denies me this courtesy. I move the Dummy to a nice place upstate. I pay for his therapy. I let him come home. I give him a job and a family. I give money to the Church, to the poor, I have my guys digging gardens and painting windows each feast day. And he won’t even show me some love on this one. What’s with this guy?”

  Father Whelan casts around for the right words. He hopes he is a good priest. He loves his flock. Loves his church, with its great pillars and columns and its beautiful blue glass. He never wanted to get to know these men. But circumstances brought him into their lives. He begged a favor from the guardian of a scared boy in a filthy hospital and the cost is higher than he ever imagined. He gives the man in the driver’s seat absolution for his sins and carries around the knowledge of his misdeeds. It weighs heavily upon him.

  “Supposing it’s not a misunderstanding,” says Father Whelan. “She’s just a girl.”

  Paulie gives him a knowing look. He’s growing tired of having to be persuasive. Both men know that Whelan will acquiesce. He’ll do what Pugliesca asks because Pugliesca owns a part of him now. He has already done far worse for this bright, ambitious man who has risen to become underboss of a New York crime family before the age of forty-five. His son, now twenty-two years old, is expected to become even more successful. Whelan had always known him to have a mean streak, but he did not expect the young man’s tastes to run to such excess. The things he did to that poor young girl. At the hospital they said she would never be able to have children . . .

  “Some of these girls ain’t no girls,” says Paulie. “Some of these girls are women. They’re tramps. They lead you on and then bitch when you try to give them what they’ve asked for. He’s young. He’ll learn. I’ll beat him till he knows how to behave, but he ain’t gonna do time for this.”

  Father Whelan clutches the tumbler of whiskey between his knees. “She was thirteen,” he mutters.

  “He didn’t know that. She led him on.”

  “He may not listen,” protests Whelan. “This policeman, I mean.”

  “You’re a priest, Father. A good man. And this prick is one devout motherfucker. You vouch for the boy and I swear, I’ll keep him on the right path.”

  “His brother . . .” begins Whelan.

  “Tony ain’t no goddamn brother,” says Paulie, anger flashing in his eyes.

  “He was there, wasn’t he? Watching. Helping.”

  “Sal was showing him the ropes.” Paulie shrugs. “How to be a man. How to take control.” He smirks. “Y’know, like a big brother should.”

  “I want Tony away from his influence,” says Whelan, his voice shaking. “A nice place. A place of his own.”

  “My home not good enough, huh? You weren’t so high and mighty when you was begging, Father.” Paulie twists his jaw, then forces himself to relax. “I understand, Jimmy. I’m fine with whatever you say. Sal’s got plans anyway. A nice house for Tony. Pretty place upstate, where he can watch the birds fly and the flowers grow and roll about in his own shit like a fucking lord.”

  Whelan thinks quickly. Tries to turn this situation into something positive. “And one of my flock—a man working so hard to become a better person. He’s bright. Creative. I want a job for him. Something with a future. Something he can feel proud over.”

  “You hear this guy?” asks the driver. “The Church don’t like blackmail.”

  “This isn’t blackmail. It’s a contract.”

  “Whatever you say, Father. Just get him out of there. He’s not a bad boy. He just made a mistake.”

  Father Whelan climbs from the car. It’s a cold night but sweat makes his dog collar stick to his neck.

  As he walks toward the lights of the station house, he finds himself making the sign of the cross.

  Despite his bargain, he knows there is no such thing as a moral calculus. There is no equation or algorithm that can bring him comfort for tonight’s work.

  SIXTEEN

  Wave now. Wave to Daddy. Good girl!”

  On the screen, Lilah is smiling her huge, gummy, gap-toothed grin, trying to grab the image of her father’s face as it looms at her from thousands of miles away.

  “Are you being good, my sweet?” asks McAvoy, focusing all his attention on his daughter. “Are you pretending you like those clothes?”

  Roisin’s face fills the screen as she pouts at her husband. “She looks adorable!” She lifts up Lilah for closer inspection and examines the leopard-print dungarees and furry gilet that the two-year-old is currently sporting. “I don’t know what you’re moaning about; she looks sensational, so she does.”

  In the back of the taxi, McAvoy finds himself grinning. His notebook sits on his lap and Roisin and Lilah have been taking turns to try and lift his spirits. The snow has not yet begun to fall but it is
only a matter of time. Not long ago, a commuter who wanted to get to the office before the blizzard began made the mistake of stepping out in front of a delivery van. McAvoy’s cab is stuck in the resulting traffic jam. He is doing better than the commuter, who is stuck beneath the wheels, and exceptionally dead.

  “The hair?” asks McAvoy, shaking his head.

  “She’s amazing,” says Roisin, and kisses her daughter’s neck, which prompts a fit of giggles.

  “She looks like Pebbles from The Flintstones,” says McAvoy, gesturing lamely at the solitary pigtail that sprouts from the top of his daughter’s crown.

  “Never seen it,” says Roisin dismissively. “I’m a lot younger than you, remember.”

  McAvoy feels better just looking at his wife. She’s wearing a velour tracksuit top over a low-cut black T-shirt and there is a fake tan and glitter across her chest. She has done her makeup the way she does it when he’s not around: thick lashes and lots of sparkle. Sometimes she leaves so much glitter in their bed that it looks to McAvoy like the kind of crime scene he would find following the murder of a pixie.

  “Run and play,” says Roisin to her daughter. She puts Lilah on the floor of the caravan that she and the children have been staying in for the past few days. The girl blows her father a kiss. “She’s loving it. Wants to go home, but still loving it.”

  McAvoy feels suddenly cold. It’s a little after nine a.m. but it feels like twilight. The air is the blue-black color of a fresh bruise, and the shivers of the pedestrians who hurry past the cab windows seem strangely contagious. He feels as though he has been wrapped in wet blankets.