Cruel Mercy

by David Mark

  SEVENTEEN

  10:15 A.M., NORTH SIXTH STREET,

  Brooklyn

  Two naked men are hanging from a hook in the ceiling of a dark, dirty cellar on North Sixth Street, Brooklyn. They share a pair of handcuffs, and the short metal chain that connects them looks shiny and new against the rust and blackness of the unyielding metal. The cuffs are biting into the men’s wrists, slowly chewing through tissue as their own body weight acts against them. They are perhaps four feet off the floor. One of the men is dead. The other is watching his own blood puddle on the floor beneath him. The blue tattoos on his legs are almost completely obscured with blood and each time his heart beats, a fresh gout of crimson erupts from the wounds in his knee and shoulder.

  “Time’s marching on,” says Claudio ruefully. He’s catching his breath, one hand pressed against the dusty gray wall of the basement. He raises his other hand and wipes the sweat from his forehead onto the back of his brown calfskin glove, staining the leather a darker shade.

  “That’s it,” says the man through gritted teeth. “That’s all. I swear. Christ, I swear.”

  Claudio turns to him and gives a little nod of thanks. The living man is Igor Zavarov, though his friends call him Zav. As of twenty minutes ago, those friends are one fewer in number. The man who hangs beside Zav was called Viktor. He and Zav had been friends for years. Came to America within weeks of each other. Had drunk and danced and fucked and killed together. And Viktor’s last blood-speckled breath is slowly drying on Zav’s face.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m a cruel man,” says Claudio, and it occurs to him how true the sentence is. “I don’t like doing this. I don’t believe that pain is worse than death. If I have to kill you, I kill you. That’s how it works. But these are changing times. I never thought your people and mine would end up such good friends. When I was a boy, my mother used to say that the Italians are givers and the Russians are takers. I know you’re not Russian, not strictly speaking, but that’s all politics and it’s not my area.”

  Zav lets rip with a stream of curses in his native tongue. Claudio grimaces at the ferocity of the attack.

  “I needed to be sure,” says Claudio, as if his prisoner had not spoken. “It’s hard to believe what a person tells you unless they’re bleeding when they say it, but I can’t spend my whole life making people bleed.”

  Claudio looks down at the cement floor of the basement. Whoever built the place did a poor job, and there are patches where the cement was disturbed before it dried.

  “There will be consequences,” says Claudio to himself. “My employers asked me to kill those Irish boys and they knew I wouldn’t ask why. But, like I just spent a pleasant few hours explaining, what we didn’t know was what your boy was doing there. Was Luca a target? Was this a hit? Was I being set up, and if I was, what the fuck for? I tell you something, you’ve blown my mind with the shit you’ve spilled. I’m grateful.”

  Claudio wishes he were at home. He would probably have let Belle stay home from school today. He would be reading to her right now, or listening to her read to him. He’d have made her a sandwich with whole-grain bread and she would have spilled her milk as she placed it back on the coffee table too heavily. She would smell of toothpaste and orange juice, and she would be pressing her brown fingers against his face and trying to shape his features into something less fearsome.

  The details that Zav provided are written on a scrap of paper in the pocket of Claudio’s brown suede coat. He could have found the lawyer’s address with a phone call home, but Zav had spat it out among the safe-house and stash-house locations that he had wept and bled onto the floor. When he has memorized them all, Claudio will eat the paper. He has been doing this his whole life. One day, he expects to shit a telephone directory.

  “You can’t tell them,” says Zav, gasping. “Please. You can’t say I talked.”

  Claudio gives a warm smile. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, my friend. You’re dying. You need medical care. Anybody in your position would have done the same. Not your friend, of course—he chose to die rather than tell me what your boy was doing in that trunk. But you’re a pragmatist. I’m sure Sergey will see that.”

  Zav gives in to sobs and Claudio feels an urge to put him out of his misery. He has the weapon for it. It was a present from his father and it has never been far from Claudio’s grasp. He feels its pleasing weight against his shin. It’s a beautiful item. A “misericord,” they’d said in the antique shop when he had it valued to satisfy his own curiosity. It is a small dagger with a thin blade, and the handle is decorated with the faces of pagan gods—a collage of piercing eyes and twisted mouths. It is a weapon of mercy, carried on the battlefield in more noble times, used to deliver the death strike to a fallen enemy. Claudio has used it often. He has grown adept at sliding the point into the base of the skull and extinguishing life as if turning a key in a lock. While he has never felt any emotional attachment to the guns he has used in his career, he cannot imagine being parted from the blade. It has witnessed much.

  As he watches the heavyset man swing in the darkness and listens to the sound of the tendons and joints in the man’s elbow beginning to creak, Claudio finds himself oddly unsettled. The image he glimpsed on the computer in the Chechens’ car has brought back memories he has never allowed himself to properly examine before. Claudio is not a man troubled by guilt or regret, but he has never felt good about the death of Sal Pugliesca all those years before. He and Sal had a respect for each other. While Sal was a great man’s son and destined to become a boss before his thirtieth birthday, Claudio’s own lineage was less celebrated. His father wasn’t cut out to be a member of a street crew. He had no mean streak. He hated bullies. He couldn’t take pincers to a finger joint or a blowtorch to an eye. But he could kill, quickly and efficiently, if the situation called for it. That was the job he did for Angelo Bruno and the Philadelphia Mob for the best part of thirty years. Claudio was a willing and enthusiastic apprentice. He had no desire to make collections or strong-arm shopkeepers into handing over protection payments. He was a good killer. Quiet, methodical, and precise. By the time of the Mob wars, Claudio was very much in demand. He never asked questions. Nor did he worry overmuch about loyalty. He did what had to be done. Provided his actions were sanctioned by Philadelphia, he was free to take whatever job he was offered. In ’81, he detonated the bomb that turned Salvatore Pugliesca into so much meat and grit. The blast killed Sal’s friend, too. The Dummy, who trotted around after Sal like a lapdog and whom Sal never tired of pushing around. What was his name? Claudio struggles to remember. He has never liked bringing the Dummy to mind. He can picture him now, half-dead on the floor of the kitchen, the left side of his body trapped beneath bricks and wood and fallen masonry. He had a cleaver. God only knew where he had picked the thing up. And he was bringing the blade down on his mangled skin like a coyote trying to chew off its own trapped leg.

  Claudio had shown mercy. He had knelt atop the Dummy and watched as his lips moved soundlessly, his eyes seeking out something only he could see.

  Claudio slipped the blade into the back of the Dummy’s skull and watched the light go out of his eyes. He can still picture his face, trapped there in an expression of mild disappointment, as if somebody had prematurely ended the game.

  “You should never dwell on the past,” says Claudio conversationally. “It can lead to madness. I blame you for all this nostalgia. That picture. The priest. Madonna, but that brought back some memories. You’ve got me thinking and I don’t know if that’s wise.”

  Leaning against the wall, Claudio realizes the truth of what he is saying. Life was tolerable a few days back. He had money. Had Belle. Had his reputation and he was pretty confident he was going to go to his grave without doing any more serious time. Then he got the call about the Irish boys. He had little time to react. He set up a pincer operation using the mean young fuck from upstate and trapped the Iri
shmen on a cold, snow-filled road that scythed into a forest the color of tar. Then it all went wrong. The Chechen was in the trunk, angry and bleeding and desperate for blood. When he saw what Luca did to Brishen’s face, he ran. So did the big dumb boxer. It all turned to shit and the Chechen ended up impaling a made man on a tree. Claudio is pretty sure he understands what went down in the woods, but the information he has discovered has started eating away at him. The lawyer. The priest. The face from before. His job was to find out why the Chechen was in the trunk. But he suddenly feels an urge to dig deeper—to dig into the events of his own past. He’s earned the right to ask a few more questions. Idly, he wonders about the resale value of his information and just how best to profit from telling his Mob associates that the Chechens have been infiltrated by a pretty, hard-faced bitch with purple hair. Claudio feels a little maudlin. This building is only a short walk from the river and he feels an overwhelming urge to go and stare at the waters and hear the traffic trundling across the Williamsburg Bridge. He hopes the sound of the gulls and the tankers and the endless procession of wheels will drown out the sound of his own thoughts. Because despite himself, Claudio is putting the pieces together. He is thinking about a fat lawyer and a priest with the voice of a serpent, whispering in quiet corners as the sun shone through stained glass and pitched blue light onto their faces.

  Without intending to, Claudio has removed the small leather bag from around his neck. To still be in possession of it breaks many of his own rules, but he does not seem to be able to bring himself to part with it. The pouch is made of soft leather, like Claudio’s gloves, and hangs from a length of cord. Several nights ago, Claudio took it from the pocket of Brishen Ayres’s coat. While he was happy to ditch the Irishman’s wallet, keys, and cell phone, Claudio was unable to toss the pouch in the East River along with the rest of the poor bastard’s possessions. Claudio made the mistake of looking inside. And what he found had shaken him. He had not seen its like since he was a boy. He had no doubt that what the bag contained was a part of a person, an object fashioned like a lace handkerchief but made up of human tissue.

  Claudio takes his hands out of his gloves and slides two digits into the warm silkiness of the bag. He has to suppress a shudder as he traces his calloused fingertips against the delicate mesh. Touching it makes him want to make the sign of the cross, and he finds himself doing so repeatedly, as if seeking the strength to put the strangely powerful object away. He gives himself a little shake, insisting he keep his eye on the job. He is a weapon—a blade wielded by more powerful men. To overthink it can lead to madness. He puts the pouch back around his neck and wonders whose face he is wearing beside his heart.

  “I’m going to say ciao,” mutters Claudio. “I think you’ll survive this. What you do with the rest of your life is up to you. I’m not sure your boss will welcome you back. I’d go to the cops if I were you. But I’m not, so I can’t offer much better advice.”

  Claudio makes a neat pile of the Chechens’ clothes and pulls a small tin of lighter fluid from his back pocket. He gives a generous squirt and tosses a lit match onto the pile. He has taken both men’s wallets, phones, and jewelry.

  “Please,” says Zav, wriggling as the light of the flames casts flickering shadows on his bare torso. “I can’t burn. I can’t!”

  “You don’t need to,” says Claudio warmly.

  “The key. Please. Get me down!”

  Claudio walks to the stairs and pauses with one hand on the wooden rail. He knows that he is only a dozen steps from another world, where cars cruise slowly down icy streets beneath a sky full of snow. Here, just a flight below the level of the road, a man is in hell. Claudio does not like such thoughts. They make him wonder why he has never thought them before.

  “Zav, I know you’re a bright boy. You’ll work this out. You can get free if you really want to.”

  The island of flame seems to grow as Claudio watches Zav fight with his mounting terror. Claudio feels a moment’s pity and decides to make it easier for him. He nods at the corpse that hangs next to Zav.

  “Bite his arm off. Then walk out the door.”

  Zav’s mouth drops open and the light of the flames dances on his tongue. Claudio is gone before the bellow of horror and rage can reach his ears.

  EIGHTEEN

  A detective from England. Well, Scotland, actually. Investigating the killing of an Irishman. In America. I know, I know, it’s very multicultural. Might I ask, am I right in thinking you’re Mr. Molony?”

  Molony? That’s who’s been sitting here? Sitting here talking all that shite about idolatry and repentance and the good deeds that extinguish the burning in the soul. That voice. That whining monotone, page after page, psalm after psalm, Scripture after Scripture . . .

  “Might I see your warrant card, Sergeant? I do believe it would serve as much purpose as a metro card in terms of your authority to make inquiries in the U.S., but that is not a matter of any concern to me. Of course, I should be delighted to assist. McAvoy, you say? An Irish name. County Wexford, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You’re a student of Irish history?”

  “I’m a student of all things, Detective Sergeant. I am a great believer in the importance of continually expanding one’s mind.”

  Prick! Fucking slimy prick! Hit him, McAvoy. He answers better when you hurt him.

  “That’s a nasty bruise, Mr. Molony. Have you been in the wars?”

  “The curse of growing old, Sergeant. I missed my footing and took a tumble.”

  “It’s kind of you to spend this time with Brishen. Am I right in thinking you met at Saint Colman’s?”

  “Indeed. Saint Colman’s has an excellent relationship with the community in Galway of which Mr. Ayres is such an important part. He came to light a candle in honor of my friend Father Whelan, who, as I’m sure you are aware, was once a young pastor at the church where I am so honored to be sacristan. We shared a brief moment of pleasantries, and then he and his friend expressed a wish to see the almost as splendid Saint Brigit’s, so I showed them the way. The next I heard was that they had met with tragedy. I felt compelled to sit at his bedside and try to bring him some comfort.”

  Lying bastard. Lying bastard!

  “Am I right in thinking you’re also a lawyer?”

  “Of sorts. I am not a regular in courtrooms, but I represent clients whose situations are not always as straightforward as the world would like them to be.”

  “Very cryptic. Could you elaborate?”

  “Forgive me, Detective, but I wonder whether you have considered the consequences of poking around in a strange country into things that are so very complex. If we were to consider poor Brishen here as an example—his handsome face has been butchered. The lesson would seem clear—some things are best left alone.”

  I can hear the copper breathing. He sounds like a big guy. Lungs like a bear. He’s leaning over me. I can feel him. Feck, Brish, wake up. Wake up and tell him what this lying bastard did to you . . .

  “I’m here to try and find a young man who was an associate of Brishen and Shay Helden. Valentine Teague. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  It does to me! Punch that could shatter your chin, but no fecking discipline. No self-control . . .

  “I’m afraid not, though I recognize the name. I believe the Teagues are travelers, as you would call them.”

  “Yes. My wife was a Teague.”

  “A traveler married to a policeman? How delightful.”

  That fella! Roisin’s man. Valentine’s brother-in-law. Took Giuseppe down like he were made of bread. Feck, they’ve sent the cavalry. Wake up, Brish. This one might actually listen . . .

  “We’re very concerned for Valentine. Look at this picture. Do you recognize him?”

  “He has your coloring, Sergeant. But fewer scars.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I have not ha
d the pleasure.”

  “Might I ask what chapters you are reading to Brishen?”

  “I allow the Lord to open the pages at random. He selects what Brishen most needs.”

  “And today?”

  “I believe this is a private communion, Sergeant McAvoy. You will forgive me if I do not feel compelled to share it with a stranger, however well intentioned he may be.”

  Movement. The sound of rustling fabric and the sudden smell of crushed flowers and damp earth.

  “Don’t go on my account, Mr. Molony. I came to see Brishen. I had planned to call at your office to ask you a few questions . . .”

  “I work from my home, and I do not enjoy visitors. I apologize if this seems rude, but I have learned to enjoy solitude.”

  “So when can I see you for a proper discussion?”

  “I think it would be best if you did not.”

  “Best for whom?”

  “‘Whom’? How delightful. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Why are you being so evasive?”

  “The police and I have differing views. I do not wish to go into any more details.”

  Don’t let him go, big man. Drag him down the ground by his fecking jaw.

  “I’m here on behalf of friends and family in Galway. Friends and family who are being sustained during this difficult time by Father Whelan—your friend. I would not wish for news to reach him that you are being so obtuse.”

  “Good-bye, Sergeant. Do give my regards to your delightful traveler girl.”

  He’s gone. The smell’s fading. I can hear the temper coming off the Scotsman. He’s looking down at me and shaking his head. Muttering, muttering . . .

  “What did you learn, Brishen? Why did you need to get out of the city so fast? Where were you going?”

  I want to wake up, big man. Christ, I do. I want to tell you the lot. But I’m just a dream, floating between places, a fog of half-remembered things and whispers that cannot be real. I remember arms growing cold against my skin, the taste of dust and dirt and something sour. And the ground shifting. Fissures opening up at my ankles as they broke with the shifting ground . . .