Payback

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “I fell to my knees and gazed down at the damage I had done,” I said. “Even though I had never seen a dead man before, I was sure the beaten and bloody mess that lay before me was no longer breathing. I turned away from the man and looked at Jack. He was on his feet, crying quietly, both hands clutched against his mouth, as if he were swallowing a scream. His eyes were wide open, and his tanned skin now seemed to me to be ghost white. I stared at Jack and he stared back at me, the dead man on the ground a bloodied barrier that lay between us.”

  “You had no choice, Tank,” Carmine said, breaking the silence in the room. “He was hurting your brother. If it were me in that room, on that day, I would have done the same thing. Probably even worse.”

  “I could have stopped after the first blow,” I said. “But I didn’t. It unleashed a rage inside me that I didn’t know was there. That scared me as much as killing the man. From that day to this, I knew that hidden rage would always be a part of me.”

  “That’s something I’m afraid we all have,” Pearl said. “We’re born with it, I suppose. Don’t really know why it’s there, inside of us, but it does rise to the surface now and again. And, on that day, it was a damn good thing it did. For you and for Jack. God only knows what that sick bastard could have done.”

  I looked at Pearl and nodded. The voices around me sounded like echoes in a cave, and my eyes could barely focus on their faces. Instead, all I could see, no matter how often I tried to blink it away, was me, Jack, and the dead man, all in that tiny, disheveled room in a cabin reeking of booze and smoke.

  “Time stood still for us in that room,” I said, “so I don’t know how long it was before our mom and dad showed up. By the time they did, Jack had made his way out of the cabin, walking backward, hands still clutched across his mouth, his face still covered with tears, his nose running. My father came into the cabin, gazed down at the bloodied body, and gently took the bat from my hand. ‘Let’s get out of here, Tank,’ he said in a calm voice. ‘Get you out of this shithole and away from all this.’

  “I turned to my father and took one final look at the man I had beaten to death. ‘I killed him, Dad,’ I said. ‘I killed that man.’ My father didn’t respond. He just walked me out of the cabin, his arm around my shoulders.”

  “Did you go to the cops about it?” Chief Connors asked.

  I shook my head. “We didn’t tell the cops,” I said. “We didn’t tell anybody. My dad left me and Jack with my mom while he emptied our gear from the cabin into our car. He cleaned the place, left it spotless. We waited until it was dark, and then the four of us got in the car and drove away. We never bothered looking back. The next day was set to be our last day at the cabin, so no one would find it odd that we pulled out the night before. We drove most of the way in silence and turned our backs on Rockport forever.”

  “Is that why you and my dad never spoke to each other?” Chris asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Jack wanted to forget what did happen and what could have happened in that room. Not talking about it helped him come to terms with that. Plus, I imagine he saw a side of me that scared him almost as much as what that man had planned to do to him. And, to be honest, I wasn’t eager to revisit it, either. So we never talked about it. Not me, not Jack, and not my parents. It made it easier for us to live with it. There were no winners that day. A man died, deserving or not. I lost my brother and he lost me.”

  “So, as far as Rockport PD is concerned, it’s still down as a cold case,” the chief said.

  I nodded. “The dead man’s name was Frank Muncie. He was a predicate felon with a long rap sheet, including two convictions for rape of a minor.”

  “Never for the life of me will I understand why they let scum like that out of prison,” Carmine said. “You do harm to a child just once, you lose the right to call yourself a human. Toss him in, lock the cell, and lose the key.”

  “It’s a cold case but not one anyone was all that eager to solve,” I said. “Seems the cops up there had the same attitude Carmine has. One less child rapist for them to worry themselves about. There wasn’t much activity on it back then, even less as the years passed.”

  “Did the local cops reach out to your folks?” the chief asked.

  “They got our home number from the guy we rented the cabin from,” I said. “Called the house and asked my dad a few questions. He told them what he knew about Muncie, which wasn’t all that much. Dad answered all their questions, they seemed satisfied with his answers, and they never called again.”

  “So no one knows it happened?” Bruno asked.

  “Somebody knows,” I said.

  “Who?” Chief Connors asked.

  “Eddie Kenwood,” I said.

  I took one final sip of wine, rested my glass on the coffee table, and walked slowly past my crew and friends and out of the room. I needed to grab some fresh air, take a long, slow walk, and let them digest what I had told them.

  As I began my walk through the tree-lined streets of my neighborhood, I wondered how it would affect Chris and if it would alter the relationship the two of us had managed to forge. And what about Connie? Would her love for me change now that she knew the full details about the man Jack saw me murder? Yes, she had been raised knowing what her father did for a living and she knew being a cop came with the risk of taking a life. But this was out-and-out murder, in the most cold-blooded of ways. A murder committed by a man she loved.

  I wasn’t sure if it would affect how my crew perceived me. If they would now view me under a different scope. And the same was true for Chief Connors and Pearl. The two of them, along with Carmine, had known me for decades and seen me in action. They knew what I was capable of and that I had a temper that would erupt if provoked. I never went looking to cause trouble or bring harm to anyone. But if trouble came my way or if someone close to me was in danger, then I would react, often in a deadly way.

  As concerned as I was about the reactions of my friends, one question kept returning to the front of my mind: How did Eddie Kenwood know my secret?

  I stopped at a corner and sat on the middle step of a brownstone stoop. I raised my face to the warm sun and closed my eyes. As I sat there, soaking up the sun and looking to erase the image of a much younger me swinging a bat at a defenseless man, I hoped I would not need to wait long for the answers to my questions or the resolution of the two cases that lay before me.

  All it would take was for more blood to be spilled and more bodies laid to waste.

  What had been true back in Rockport, Maine, would prove to be even truer in New York City.

  50.

  TRAMONTI’S

  TWO DAYS LATER

  CONNIE SAT ALONE AT THE bar, working on the day’s menu, her second cup of decaf resting near her right elbow. This was her favorite time to be in the restaurant, early in the morning, the streets outside dark and silent, the mad rush of the day still a few hours away. She glanced at the legal pad, put her pen down, and lifted the warm cup of coffee to her lips. Her early-morning ritual was also a good time for Connie to clear her head and give some thought to any concerns she needed to confront.

  Her life with Tank was in a warm comfort zone; not even his admission of what she believed was a justified murder committed by a frightened teenager would be strong enough to damage the love they shared. She worried about the effect the two cases he was working were having on him, but she also knew he was strong enough to take them on. She knew how important it was for him to resolve both, how much it mattered to the entire team, and knew there was little for her to do but be by his side and help in any way she could.

  The transition of having Chris move in with him was getting better by the day, helped no doubt by Pearl joining them and now the addition of a puppy. Still, Connie couldn’t help but wonder if Tank and Pearl had bitten off too big a piece. They were often outnumbered, but in this instance, the opposition seem
ed more ruthless and dangerous than the last case they had taken—a drug boss doing all he could to hang on to the mini-empire he had built. But the drug lord had limited resources when compared to those of Eddie Kenwood and the accounting firm. The combination of the two lethal forces was enough to keep her up at night.

  A noise came from the back of the restaurant, over by the kitchen. It was too early for any of the workers to be starting their shifts and too late for the cleaning crew to still be working. Connie put down her cup, slid off her seat, and walked toward the rear of the restaurant. She had turned off the alarm when she came in less than an hour earlier and all had seemed to be in order. But she hadn’t gone to the kitchen area. Instead, she went behind the bar, brewed herself a pot of coffee, and began work on the day’s schedule.

  She entered the kitchen and looked from left to right. Everything was where it should be—pots and pans hanging off hooks, cleaned and polished; stove tops scrubbed free of grease and oil; the floor mopped and shiny. Connie nodded and smiled. A clean kitchen was a point of pride with her, as it had been with her mother, and she was unrelenting in her quest to keep it as spotless as possible. “She’s the police commissioner of the kitchen,” Carmine liked to say, teasing her in an approving way. “Just like her mother was. If you can’t see your reflection in any of the pots, pans, countertops, floors, there will be hell to pay.”

  She felt the harsh breath of the man the second before he wrapped an arm around her neck. He had been hiding in a corner of the kitchen, behind one of the swinging doors, and came at her with silent footsteps. “Do what I say,” he whispered in her right ear, “when I say it.”

  He turned her around and led her out of the kitchen and back into the main area of the restaurant. “The register’s empty,” she managed to say, the man’s forearm wedged tight against her throat. “We take the money out every night at closing time.”

  “That’s good to know,” the man said, pushing her deeper into the restaurant. “Especially since I’m not here for any of your money.”

  They stood in front of a booth and the man released her and shoved her against the side of a table. He kept both hands on his waist, revealing a holstered gun on his hip. “Sit down,” he said. “Now.”

  Connie caught her breath and sat in a corner of the leather booth. “Well, you must have come here for a reason,” she said. “If not money, then what?”

  “To teach you a lesson,” a second man said from over her shoulder. She turned and gazed up at a thin man in a brown leather jacket and tailored white slacks. He was holding a pair of brown leather gloves in his right hand. He turned to the first man, who wasn’t as well dressed, was much more muscular, and had an angry look on a ragged face that made him appear much older than he probably was. “Get me a chair, Jerry,” the second man said to him. “I want to sit as close as possible to the lady. Make sure she hears every word I’m going to tell her.”

  Connie and the second man stared at each other, waiting as Jerry pulled a chair from one of the empty tables and brought it over to the booth. The second man sat down and took a deep breath. He rested the brown leather gloves on the table and folded one leg over the other, careful not to put too much of a wrinkle in the crease.

  “What do you want?” Connie asked.

  “I’m here to deliver some news,” he said. His voice was soft and low, with a slight hint of a foreign accent. “None of it good, I’m afraid.”

  “Let’s hear it, then,” Connie said. “And make it fast. The sooner you’re out of here, the better it will be for you. The staff should start arriving soon.”

  The man smiled and shrugged. “I’m well aware,” he said. “And I don’t wish to keep you from your business, so I promise to be brief.”

  “I see your lips moving, but I haven’t heard one word I need to hear,” Connie said. She was angry and doing her best to keep her temper at a low boil.

  “You are indeed your father’s daughter,” he said. He turned to look at Jerry, hovering on the other side of the booth. “Don’t you think so?”

  “She’s better looking, I’ll give her that, Mike,” Jerry said. “But the flash temper sure as shit was passed down.”

  “You bet your ass I’m his daughter,” Connie said. “Even more my mother’s. She always kept a sharp—very sharp—kitchen knife in her apron, all day, every day. Came in with it in the morning, left with it at night. If only I had held up that family tradition. I’d be sitting here drinking coffee, watching you spitting up blood.”

  “Well, you didn’t and we’re not,” Mike said.

  “What’s your news?”

  “Someone close to you is going to die,” Mike said. “Your father, perhaps. Your boyfriend. Maybe even the boy living with him or his friend in the wheelchair. The target has been chosen, but that particular piece of information has not been given to me.”

  “And who is going to kill that someone?” Connie asked. “You? Or your steroid-chugging pal?”

  “You don’t need to know that,” Mike said.

  “So far you don’t seem to know shit,” Connie said, practically spitting out the words.

  Mike took the brown leather gloves from the tabletop, raised them, and slapped Connie hard across the face. He landed three forceful slaps, causing her face to redden and her eyes to tear. “You need to learn to be polite,” he said. “Allow me to finish what I came here to tell you. Have I made myself clear?”

  Connie nodded.

  “The target will die within the next forty-eight hours,” Mike said. “Now, I’m in no position to prevent that from happening. But you are.”

  Connie didn’t say a word. She stared at Mike, her moist eyes filled with anger, pain, and concern. She never raised a hand to her face, ignoring the burning caused by the fierce blows.

  “Have your boyfriend back away from his investigation of a legitimate and very successful business, and perhaps no further bloodshed will be necessary,” Mike said. “But he needs to do so today. If he insists on continuing, then I’m afraid someone you hold dear will die. Can I count on you to relay that message to him?”

  Connie shook her head and for the first time that morning smiled. “I think it would be better if you told him yourself,” she said. “It would mean so much more to him to have it come from you.”

  Mike looked at his watch and then back at Connie. “Tell him, don’t tell him, it’s all the same to me,” he said.

  * * *

  —

  I SPOTTED THE TWO men as I walked past Tramonti’s on my way from the brownstone. Through the glass windows I could see one sitting and the other standing, both too occupied with Connie to take any notice of me. I opened the front door as quietly as possible, crouched down, and rested my morning papers on the floor. I moved on hands and knees until I reached the back of the first booth. I leaned with my back against the soft leather and listened to what they were saying. I then got back to my knees and poked my head out, long enough for me to catch Connie’s eye. I stood and moved toward the two men.

  I came up behind Jerry and landed two hard kidney punches to his right side, then crashed my left elbow against the side of his head. The blows sent Jerry to his knees and happened so quickly that Mike had little time to react. I reached over and yanked him, sprawling, to the ground. I glanced up and saw Bruno running in from the front door toward the booth. “Keep an eye on the guy on his knees,” I said to him. “I’ll deal with the tough guy with the leather gloves.”

  I grabbed the brown leather gloves off the tabletop. I picked Mike up by his shirt collar and rained several blows down on his face with the gloves, and I didn’t stop until his face was beet red and blood oozed out of his nose and down his lips.

  I tossed the gloves back on the table and turned to Connie. I took one look at her face, welts forming across her left cheek, and once again I snapped. I picked up a chair and smashed it down on Mike.
One of the legs splintered off, and the back end caught Mike flush on the top of his head. I kicked him in the chest and then jumped on him, my legs straddling his upper body, and punched him with both hands, each blow harder than the previous one.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Jerry reach a hand inside his jacket, and in the same moment I heard Connie shout, “He’s got a gun, Bruno!”

  Bruno punched Jerry in the center of his gun hand, cracking bone with one blow. He then grabbed the man’s hand and snapped it back, the crunching sound loud enough to be heard by the five of us. “He’s got a broken wrist, too,” Bruno said.

  I got off Mike and stood above him. I stomped my feet against his hands, looking to break as many bones as I could. I kicked at his chest and stomach, hearing him moan and watching him cough up thin lines of blood after every blow. Mike turned on his side and I landed hard kicks against his spine and upper back. My fury was unleashed, doing damage to a man who had dared to hit Connie. I was lost in a dense fog of violence. It was a place I had been before and had found solace in.

  Connie got up from the booth and I looked at her, my right leg lifted to lay down another blow on the crumpled and bleeding man. She was scared and trembling. “Stop, Tank,” she said, her words barely above a whisper. “Please stop.”

  I stared back at her and nodded. I lowered my leg and reached out for her. It was then I noticed both my hands were coated in blood and the skin on my knuckles had been flayed off. I put my hands back by my sides. “You okay?” was all I could manage to say.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “You and Bruno need to get these two out of here. My father could walk in the front door any minute.”

  “I’m sorry, Connie,” I said. “I hate that you just saw that.”

  “But I did, Tank,” she said. “And it scared me. Scared me more than these two did.”

  “We’ll get them to a hospital,” I said to her.

  Connie started to walk toward the back of the bar, making her way to the kitchen. “I’ll clean up the blood,” she said. “And the less my dad knows about this, the better.” When she reached the bar, she stopped and turned around. “Would you have killed him, Tank?” she asked me. “If I hadn’t stopped you, would you have beaten him until he was dead?”