by David Mark
“I think that one’s broken, Mr. Pugliesca,” says Alto tactfully.
Pugliesca sucks on his lower lip. “I think you’re right. But I’m enjoying thinking I’m fixing it. This one belongs to a friend of a friend. It wasn’t mine to break. At least, when he gets it back, he’ll know I tried. I don’t want to use my own phone. I got a sense people are listening.”
“That’s kind,” says McAvoy.
Pugliesca swivels his eyes from Alto to McAvoy. “You look like fucking Shrek. Sound like him, too. I’ll be guessing you’re the Scotsman.”
“I am.”
“And your new best friend here says that if we give you a little of our time, you can vouch for the Irishmen.”
“That’s the hope,” says McAvoy.
Pugliesca looks at his number two. “You hear that, Nicky? That’s the hope.”
“I’m full of hope,” says Savoca, taking a drag on his cigarette. “Hope sustains me.”
“Faith, hope, and charity,” says Pugliesca thoughtfully. “It’s how I try to live my life.”
“There are worse ways,” says McAvoy, forcing himself not to look away.
“Sit down,” says Savoca, pushing a chair across with his boot. “You too, Ronnie.”
McAvoy lowers himself onto the wooden chair. Alto does the same.
“Drink?”
“I’m fine,” says McAvoy.
“You’re not. Drink?”
“I’ll take a Coke,” says McAvoy.
“You won’t,” says Savoca. He speaks to the man at the bar without looking at him. “Get our friends here something they’ll like.”
At the table, Pugliesca has returned to his task, trying to fit tiny fragments of glass back into the smashed screen. It is clear that his consigliere will be doing the talking.
“The press have it,” says Alto. “You’re going to be in the eye of the storm for a while. They’ll be digging things up, pulling things out of the archives. I’m sorry.”
“I bet you fucking are,” says Savoca.
McAvoy considers the large man. McAvoy has known many grieving parents. He knows the taste of the air in the rooms where they mourn, has grown accustomed to that numbness, that stillness, that comes over men and women whose loved ones have been taken before their time. He catches a whiff of that in the man before him. He does not strike McAvoy as the sort who will give in to tears but there is no doubt that this is a man who is gripped by pain. He would die before letting it consume him.
“I don’t want to make you any false promises,” says McAvoy quietly. “I’m a visitor here. I’m not particularly welcome and I’m horribly out of my depth. I’m looking for a family member who has got caught up in something much bigger than him or me. It seems we’re all as confused as one another about what happened out in the woods, but I can promise you that as far as anybody back home is aware, the lads came out here for a boxing tryout. Somehow, they got caught up in an underground bout and that led to blood. People are keeping a lot of secrets and I can’t go home without knowing the truth.”
“He always talk like this?” Savoca asks Ronnie. “Why you think you’re here, you prick? You’re here to make a promise, that’s all. A promise that whatever you find out, if you find out anything at all, you tell it to Ronnie here before anybody else. We’ve got people asking our own questions. I just wanted you to know how things work, and Ronnie here said you were a man with talents. Talents should be rewarded. And it would take a talented man to find out anything I don’t already know. So, if you get the opportunity to impress me, don’t think it would go unrewarded.”
A glass of rust-colored liquid is placed in front of McAvoy, a beer with a foaming top in front of Alto. “Thank you,” says McAvoy automatically, and the corner of Savoca’s mouth twitches.
“You seem all right,” says Savoca, and he takes his glass and raises it in McAvoy’s direction. McAvoy takes a sip of his own drink. It’s a bourbon, but tastes sufficiently of toffee apples for him not to shudder. He looks at Alto, who is studying a poster on the far wall, a curvy, dark-haired woman on a Vespa, grinning as she glides past a group of wolf-whistling men.
“I don’t think we should talk like that,” says McAvoy quietly. “I don’t really like it.”
“You don’t?” Savoca grins.
“No. That’s not a conversation we ever need to have again.”
Savoca glares into McAvoy’s eyes. McAvoy refuses to look away. His pulse is racing and there is sweat soaking into his clothes but his glare is a statue’s and Savoca is the one who nods, blinks, and settles back in his chair.
“Valentine Teague,” says McAvoy, a little breathlessly. As he reaches into his pocket, he notices Savoca give the tiniest of hand gestures, telling the man to stand easy. McAvoy tries not to blush or get himself flustered as he shows him the picture. “This is the man I’m looking for. He came here with Brishen Ayres and Shay Helden. Different flight but it seems they were due to meet up. At some point, there was an underground boxing bout. The following day, Brishen and Helden stole a car and headed upstate. They were found soon after. Brishen is still in a coma. Somebody put his nose in his pocket around the time they shot him in the head. Your son was found not very far away. You can understand why I need to ask some questions.”
Savoca looks right through him. “You’re saying my boy was with them? Or are you saying he did this to them?”
“Yeah, Shrek, what is it you’re saying?” asks Pugliesca, not looking up.
“I’m not saying. I’m asking. I’m asking if you know Valentine. Because if he was involved in something that led to the death of your son, it’s possible that you discovered that information before anybody else did. And perhaps . . .”
“Perhaps what?”
McAvoy leaves it there. In his chest, his heart feels as though it is three times too large.
Savoca sucks his cheek, staring at McAvoy. “Perhaps I found the motherfucker and fed him to the dogs, is that what you’re asking me?”
McAvoy stays silent. Takes another sip of his drink.
After a moment, Savoca turns to the man and nods in McAvoy’s direction. “You believe this guy? You believe the balls on him?”
“It’s a question you’ll be asked by the feds,” says Alto soothingly. “They’ll ask it soon.”
“But I won’t be fucking answering,” says Savoca, his voice rising. “Do you know how long the feds have had a hard-on for me, Ronnie? You know how many hoops they have to jump through just to get a minute of my time? Do you know how many lawyers I have at work keeping them from messing with me? Do you know how fucking excited they are that they’ve got a reason to get close to me now? Using my own dead son against me? Those fucking mutts!”
Savoca’s hand comes down hard on the table. McAvoy glances at Pugliesca. The old man had picked up the broken pieces of cell phone the moment his associate’s voice started to rise. He places it back on the tablecloth and continues with his work.
“Why did you agree to speak to us?” asks McAvoy.
“Ronnie and me go back,” says Savoca, running his hand through his hair and moving himself in a way that suggests he is trying to rein in his temper. “When he was in Homicide South we came to an agreement. If he wanted to talk to me, I’d talk to him, so long as he never came to the house or made me look like a fucking idiot in front of the people who matter to me. He kept the shit from my doorstep and I respect him for that—even if he did get a little fucking impolite toward the end. It’s been a while, though, Ronnie. And favors don’t last forever.”
McAvoy turns to Alto. He wonders how much more Alto has to tell him. How many secrets his brain holds.
“So . . .” begins McAvoy.
“I ain’t heard of no Valentine Teague,” says Savoca slowly and clearly. “Unless Teague is some Chechen name I ain’t familiar with, I don’t know shit about him.”
“Who the fuck else? I knew them bastards wasn’t to be trusted. They got us cozy and now they’re sending a message. We should never have showed weakness!”
Pugliesca raises his head and looks at his associate. “Finish your drink, Nicky. Calm yourself.”
“Sorry, Paulie,” says Savoca, breathing hard. “I’m all wound up.”
“Of course you are, my friend. But these gentlemen might start to feel uncomfortable.”
“You’re safe to say what you like,” says Alto. “McAvoy has no authority. And anything you say to me is unofficial.”
“Safe?” asks Pugliesca, and his voice is suddenly ice. “I don’t believe my safety is something that rests in your hands, Ronnie. I don’t wake in the morning hoping to God that some detective from the Seventh will be there to make sure nothing bad happens to me.”
“I didn’t mean to offend—”
“But you managed it anyways.”
McAvoy throws himself into the awkward silence by putting his drink down too heavily on the table and spilling a splash of it.
“Fucking klutz,” says Savoca, checking his clothes for splashes but looking at McAvoy for just long enough to betray a modicum of respect for the interruption.
“I’m so sorry,” says McAvoy, dabbing at the tablecloth. “Was that expensive?”
“Everything worth having is expensive,” says Pugliesca, turning away from Alto and considering McAvoy as if for the first time. “People talk about the simple things in life being what matters. Family. Peace. Love. I’ve lost all of that and the only thing I have to keep me warm at night is money. But if you’ve got enough money, you can be warmer than you ever thought a man could be.”
McAvoy holds the old man’s gaze. “You lost your son,” he says softly. “Salvatore.”
Pugliesca waves a hand idly. “There’s not a day goes by I wouldn’t change places with him. He was my eldest boy. A good boy. And those motherfuckers killed him to get to me. Turned that beautiful boy inside out. We couldn’t even have an open casket. It destroyed his mother. His sisters, too.”
McAvoy scratches the back of his head. He realizes that the fear inside him is slowly dissipating. The more he feels like a policeman, the less he feels like he is about to have his head blown off.
“It must be frustrating, knowing that nobody was ever caught,” says McAvoy.
Savoca gives a tiny bark of a laugh and Pugliesca’s mouth splits in a grin. “Nobody caught?”
“It remains an unsolved murder, is what I mean.”
“Maybe it does in your books,” says Savoca, hard. “We have our own.”
McAvoy feels himself begin to color. “I understand there was another victim. Tony Blank.”
“The fucking Dummy,” says Savoca dismissively. “Creepy bastard.”
“Lay off,” says Pugliesca, snapping his head in Savoca’s direction. “He was my godson. He was Sal’s friend. He was no dummy.”
“Kid didn’t speak, Paulie.”
“Some people don’t listen, Nicky. And they’re a lot more of a dummy than somebody who keeps their mouth shut. The kid saw things. Things it’s hard to come back from. He could have been okay.”
Savoca gives a little nod of his head. If he were a simian, he would be extending an upturned palm in supplication.
“There’s not a lot of information about Tony,” says McAvoy.
“Drew a blank, did you?” asks Savoca, and laughs at his own joke.
“But I understand he spent some time in some specialist hospitals.”
“He was no retard,” says Pugliesca. “Sorry, I know that’s a bad word. He had problems. I did my best by him. But he was wired wrong. You know what happened to his parents?”
McAvoy doesn’t know if it will help his own agenda in the slightest, but is not about to start making enemies by telling the Mob boss that he’s not interested. “Tell me,” he says encouragingly.
Pugliesca shrugs. “Jewish family. His dad was a friend of mine. We did some business together. He was a tough fuck. Didn’t take shit. People believed he knew more than he did. They went to his house. Hung him from the light in his living room. Went to work on him with cleavers. He still didn’t say shit. So they started on his wife. By then I think they’d forgotten what they were there for. Left Tony’s father dead and his mother not so far off. They didn’t know Tony was hiding in the crawl space under the house. He saw it all. Sat with his mother’s corpse for three days before anybody raised the alarm. He didn’t speak again after that.”
“But you took him in?”
“His dad was a friend.”
“He was your godson, you said.”
“Easiest way to describe it. His dad was a Jew, I’m Sicilian. Stuff gets lost in translation.”
“Tony and your son were close?”
“Sal loved him. I’m not saying he was always kind. Kids can be mean. But he saw him as a brother.”
“The bomb that killed them both . . .”
Pugliesca gives a tiny shake of his head. He doesn’t want to think about it. “Cowards,” he mutters. “If Sal was gonna die, he deserved to see it coming. And it was me they wanted. I said to them, go after me like a man, not my boys. They broke their word.”
McAvoy gives him a moment to compose himself before continuing to probe.
“The facility where Tony spent time. Saint Loretta’s. There was another patient. A Peter Molony. Mr. Molony is sacristan of Saint Colman’s Church and a close friend of Father Whelan, with whom I believe you are well acquainted, Mr. Pugliesca.”
Savoca’s body language changes. Pugliesca’s does not.
“Ronnie, what the fuck is this shit?” asks Savoca. “Why’s he asking this bullshit?”
Pugliesca has not taken his eyes off McAvoy. After a moment’s pause, he lifts the cell phone and shakes all of the fragments of broken glass back onto the pristine fabric.
“Father Whelan is a good man. He’s from the neighborhood. We go back a ways. This Molony? I don’t know if I know the name. I wasn’t around so much when Tony was away. I was doing time. But Saint Loretta’s was better than where he’d been. He got better there. Got well enough to look after himself and breathe the air of a free man.”
“When you were in Rikers between nineteen eighty-eight and nineteen ninety-three, Father Whelan visited you once a year.”
“He’s my priest.”
“He’s Brishen’s priest, too. And he secured the letter that got Valentine Teague into the country.”
“He’s a good man. Good men do the right thing.”
“And you’re saying you don’t know Molony?”
“You got something wrong with your ears?” asks Savoca, his whole tone and posture changing. His temper is a fiery thing.
“Why was Luca so far from home?” asks McAvoy, turning his attention to the bigger man. “What was he doing in those woods?”
Savoca puts both hands on the table. He looks like he wants to push it over and smash McAvoy’s head with his ashtray.
“I think that we’ll leave it there,” says Alto, putting a hand on McAvoy’s arm.
McAvoy does not move. He is sick of being lied to. He is sick of not understanding. He is far from home and feels completely adrift. What he wants more than anything else is to wrap his arms around Roisin and the children and tell them that everything’s okay because he’s home. And all that stands between this moment and the one he seeks is shaking some truths out of the mouths of accomplished liars.
“Somebody sent him to that little stretch of road,” says McAvoy, staring hard into Savoca’s eyes. “We know from ballistics that he fired his gun. He put a bullet in Brishen. He cut his nose off. He maybe even slid a short, sharp blade into the back of Shay Helden’s head. And
then somebody skewered him on a tree.”
Savoca turns to Pugliesca, his face red. “Paulie, what the fuck?”
Pugliesca clears his throat. He has begun placing the pieces of glass back in the shattered screen. He does not look as though the outburst has affected his pulse.
“I think we’ve probably been about as helpful as we’re going to be,” says Pugliesca slowly. “Thank you for your time.”
McAvoy feels pressure on his arm as Alto begins to pull him upright. Half crouched, half standing, McAvoy pauses, his face betraying his frustration.
“You look uncertain, Shrek,” says Pugliesca. “I understand that. You’re struggling with a whole new set of ideals. You want things to make sense. You want answers. You probably want to go home. The thing is, life isn’t as neat as all that. Sometimes, things happen and there is no good explanation. In ’ninety-six, I had the misfortune of spending eight months in a prison run by spics and blacks in California. Hell of a place. The feds were fucking with me, working up some bullshit charge out of state so I would do time far away from my wife and girls. I did the time. There weren’t many white faces down there. There were spic Nazis running the place. You believe that? Spic Nazis! And while I was inside, word came down that there was a contract out on me. You imagine that? You’re living in hell, a hundred-and-twenty-degree heat, food that tastes like somebody’s already eaten it, an hour’s exercise in the fucking dog run they called a yard. And now my life’s in danger. So what do I do, Shrek? What’s my solution? I ain’t got no weapons. I ain’t got no friends. All I got is my brains. So I keep my ears open. I learn who’s going to do the hit. Do I whack him first? Shit, I can’t get close. So I do the next best thing. I’m good with my hands. I can make anything. I can take an envelope and roll it tight and I can chew the gum from the flap and I can make a catapult hard as wood. I can unpick the elastic on my shorts and come up with a drawstring. I can whisper in the ear of low-life degenerates who will do anything to get their hands on a little meth. Which guards are dirty, which ones need a little pocket change. I find my guy. One of the guards opens the hatch to the guy’s cell and tells me I have thirty seconds. And I take my shot. The inside of a Bic goes through the grille and into his chest like a fucking arrow. And nobody fucked with me anymore.”
