Payback

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “You sure you don’t want anything?” Carmine asked Randolph. “You’ll be missing out on a treat.”

  “Positive,” Randolph said. “Now, please, get on with what you need to tell me. If not, I’ll be out of here before you take a bite out of whatever it is you ordered.”

  “All right, then,” Carmine said. “Let’s get down to it.”

  Carmine reached out a left hand and gripped the back of Randolph’s neck. He then slammed the thinner, well-dressed man’s face down hard against the Formica counter, causing blood to spurt from Randolph’s nose. Carmine pulled a handful of napkins from the small container sitting between the ketchup and hot sauce, lifted Randolph’s head, and dropped them on the counter, helping to soak up the blood.

  “You made a move on my kid,” Carmine said. “Nobody’s ever done that before, and I’ve done business with some pretty hard-ass types in my time. But you didn’t have the cubes to do it yourself, did you? So you sent some goons to do her harm.”

  Randolph clutched a wad of clean napkins and held them to his nose. His eyes were glassy, and the front of his monogrammed white shirt was spotted with blood. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he managed to say. His hands were trembling, and his eyes betrayed both his fear and his lie.

  “Don’t bullshit me,” Carmine said. “Otherwise, the next shot won’t be against the counter. It will be against the grill.”

  “Your daughter wasn’t hurt,” Randolph said. “It was just to send a message to her boyfriend, the cop. Which, by the way, you neglected to mention when you first approached me about investing with my firm.”

  “My daughter is free to date anybody she wants,” Carmine said. “It’s none of my business, and it sure as shit ain’t any of yours.”

  “It is when that boyfriend is the brother of the man who worked at my firm,” Randolph said.

  Carmine shrugged. “Save the fake anger, Randolph,” he said. “You knew the minute I walked into your office that Tank Rizzo was keeping company with my daughter.”

  Randolph dabbed the wad of napkins against his damaged nose. “Get to your main point,” he said.

  Carmine nodded. “You got one hundred fifty thousand dollars of my money stashed,” he said. “I expect to have that back in my hand before dark. Me and you are done doing business. And you can forget about me bringing anybody else I know into your firm. Not going to happen. As a matter of fact, I reached out to a few people I know that have their money invested with your firm. You’re going to meet a couple of them soon enough. Before me and them had our little chat, they were happy with you and your partners. After I was done, not so much.”

  Randolph’s face turned a shade whiter, and sweat began to form on his upper lip. He eased himself off the stool and stood with his back to a wall decorated with signed one-dollar bills. “What are you talking about?”

  Carmine smiled. “You know, the profits that should have gone to my pals, which made their way to you and your partners instead. Yeah, you were slick enough to show them some gains to keep them happy. Only not the kind of gains their money was really taking in. That found its way into your pockets.”

  Carmine got up from the stool and stood inches from Randolph’s face. “You had it down pretty smooth, I admit,” he said. “Had it all figured out. One of your partners beats up a girl, leaves her ruined for the rest of her life, no big deal. You ship the guy out of the country for a spell and that’s the end of that. But you went even further. You crossed the line into murder.”

  “You’re talking nonsense,” Randolph said. “And I don’t need to hear another word of it.”

  Randolph attempted to ease past Carmine and make his way out of Hubba’s. Carmine took two steps back to give him even more room. “I’m not going to stop you if that’s your thinking,” he said. “You walk out that door and there’s a nightmare waiting for you.”

  Randolph turned to Carmine. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You got a boatload of problems, is what I’m trying to tell you,” Carmine said. “And I don’t mean just my friends alone. Or the feds, for that matter. They’re going to be coming after you like a dog on a T-bone. But do you for a minute think that young lady your partner ruined came into this world alone? She’s got blood family, and they’ll be looking to peel the skin off your partner’s body.”

  Randolph glanced from Carmine to the closed door, then back to Carmine. “What is it you really want?” he finally asked, after a few moments that seemed to tick away like hours.

  “Jack and Susan Rizzo,” Carmine said. “Who ordered the hit and who carried it out? That, and my money, is all I need and want. The rest of it—the investors you’ve been ripping off, the schemes your firm is wrapped up in, the attack on Sasha—you’re going to have to work out with others. Not me.”

  Randolph licked his lips and lowered his head. He was shaking as if he were in the middle of a winter storm. “Jack was going to ruin the firm,” he said, the words coming out in spurts. “We couldn’t let that happen.”

  “That answers the first part,” Carmine said. “You were the one that laid down the order. You carried it out?”

  “He’ll kill me if I tell you,” Randolph said.

  “Don’t let that stop you,” Carmine said. “I might kill you for the scare you put into my kid. The cop might kill you for ordering his brother’s murder. The mob boys might kill you for skimming their money. Looks to me like your dance card is pretty packed when it comes to your possible demise.”

  Randolph closed his eyes, the weight of what stood before him slowly beginning to sink in. He looked up at Carmine. “I can pay you, if you help me,” he said. “I can pay you a lot of money. More than you’ve ever seen in your life.”

  “One hundred and fifty thousand dollars is all I want,” Carmine said. “Not a nickel more or less. Now, the next words I want coming out of your mouth, and the only words I want coming out, is the name of the guy you gave the contract to.”

  “Samuel Butler,” Randolph said. “I gave it to Samuel Butler.”

  Carmine glared at Randolph for a moment and then sat back down on the stool and nodded to the man behind the grill. The man walked over to Carmine, holding two paper plates in his hands, each one with a Hubba’s hot dog with the works on it. He dropped them in front of Carmine. “Enjoy,” he said.

  “I always have,” Carmine said to him.

  Carmine poured some hot sauce on his food and then turned to look at Randolph standing a few feet away. “You sure you don’t want to try any?” he asked him. “As last meals go, you could do a lot worse.”

  54.

  OUTSIDE HUBBA’S

  MOMENTS LATER

  DAVID RANDOLPH STOOD IN FRONT of Hubba’s, staring at the two men in front of a black four-door limo, engine still running. “We need to talk, you and me,” the bigger of the two men said. “Inside the car might be better. Got the AC on high.”

  Randolph hesitated for a moment and then said, “Mr. Massamilio. Mr. Conte. How nice to see you both, even in this rather barren place. Now, if it’s business you wish to discuss, it would be better if we met at my office. This would allow me to have your investment portfolios in front of me to better answer any questions you may have.”

  “No worries there,” Mario Conte said. “We brought all the paperwork you need. It’s in the car.”

  Nick Massamilio opened the rear door, stepped aside, and glanced over at Randolph. “It’s hot out here,” he said. “And I hate the heat. So get in the fuckin’ car.”

  Randolph froze briefly, then slowly made his way to the car and got in. Masamilio gazed inside. “Not in the back—that’s where we sit. Across from there, next to the guy in the suit.”

  Massamilio and Conte got into the car and slammed the door shut. Inside, there were two other men—one behind the wheel and one sitting next to Randolph. The accountant loo
ked over at the man. He was in his mid-thirties, easily twenty years younger than either Massamilio or Conte, with a strong upper body hidden under the folds of his well-tailored gray jacket and slacks. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Randolph said, putting out a hand to shake. “I’m David Randolph.”

  The man looked at Randolph and ignored the outstretched hand. “I don’t give a fuck who you are,” he said.

  “Don’t worry about Lou,” Massamilio said. “He’s cranky in the early part of the day. It’s us you need to worry about.”

  “What makes you say that?” Randolph asked.

  “Show him, Mario,” Massamilio said.

  Conte lifted a briefcase onto his legs, snapped it open, and pulled out a thick pile of ledgers.

  “Now, pay attention, Randolph,” Massamilio said. “Hang on every word Mario’s going to say. And when he’s done, you better have the right answers to all his issues.”

  Mario flipped through the ledgers for a few moments and then rested them between him and Nick. “It comes down to this,” Mario said. “The numbers on these ledgers tell us you’ve been fuckin’ us out of our money since we started our business with you.”

  “I don’t know where you got those numbers, Mr. Conte,” Randolph said. “But clearly they are incorrect. You’ve made a profit, a substantial profit, every year you’ve invested in my firm.”

  Massamilio nodded at Lou. Lou turned and punched David Randolph, the blow landing at his neckline and causing him to bang his head against a door panel. “I told you to listen,” Massamilio said, “not to talk. You interrupt again and Lou is going to get very angry.”

  “You’re right, bookkeeper,” Mario said. “We have turned a profit every year with you. But we didn’t see all of it, did we? You sent a fair share to us and the rest went into your fuckin’ pockets. These numbers don’t lie. But I have a strong feeling you do.”

  “It’s been true all our lives,” Massamilio said. “Guy like you, fancy schools, diplomas on the wall, looks at guys like me and Mario and sees two street wops he can shine on. Throw us a bone and we walk away happy. What the fuck do we know about investments and numbers and the rest of that bullshit, am I right, Mario?”

  “A hundred percent,” Mario said. “Except what guys like you don’t figure is that me and Nick here, we’ve been dealing with numbers all our lives. And we don’t write them down, we remember them. We know when we’re ahead, we know when we’re behind, and we know when we’re being fucked.”

  The inside of the car was AC cool, but David Randolph was still sweating, his mouth desert dry, and he was short of breath. “If there are any errors at all, they will be corrected,” he said in a voice no longer coated with its usual arrogance. “And if you are owed any additional monies, they will be paid to you.”

  “We don’t give a fuck about that,” Massamilio said. “You screwed us out of some dough. So you tossing us some extra cash that should have been ours to begin with won’t make what you did right. Won’t make us even. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “If anything, they’re simple accounting errors,” Randolph said. “Happens all the time. And not just at my firm. At any firm.”

  “Maybe so,” Mario said. “But, number one, we’re not at any firm. We’re at your firm. And number two, I don’t give a shit if it happens all the time. It never happens to us.”

  “Mario, you remember that guy—forget his name now—tried to take us for four hundred dollars?” Massamilio asked. “It was back when we were just starting out. Even younger than Lou there. Remember him? Remember what happened to him?”

  “I do,” Mario said. “Joey Dalli. They called him ‘Joe Doll’ on the street. He was a shark working around Midtown, restaurants and bars mostly.”

  “That’s right, Joe Doll,” Massamilio said. “We put some money out with him, at his request, and were told we’d get back fifteen percent profit on our initial investment. Back then, me and Mario were hustling for every dime we could get, so you can imagine how good a fifteen percent return sounded to us. Instead, Joe Doll took our cash and forgot about our profit. So tell him what happened then, Mario.”

  “I should prepare you,” Mario said to Randolph. “This story does not have a happy ending. At least not for Joe Doll. It seems he had an accident. Somehow—and please don’t ask me how—he ended up locked inside a dryer in one of those twenty-four-hour laundromats. It had been on high heat for quite a while. He had all his clothes on, but his pockets had no cash in them. Which is strange, since he always made a point of packing thick wads of money in each pocket. They found the body. They just never found the money.”

  Massamilio nodded and smiled. “Memories,” he said. “Me and Mario, we’re getting older, you know? Memories are one of the things we hold on to. One of the other things we like to hold on to is our fuckin’ money.” He looked at Lou. “See if Tony up there is awake,” he said to him. “Time to get back on the road.”

  Tony perked up, put the car into gear, and eased out of the parking space in front of Hubba’s.

  “Where are we going?” Randolph asked in a low voice.

  “Me and Mario are going home,” Massamilio said. “But we’ll make sure to drop you off first. No worries. We’re full-service. Just like your outfit.”

  “I don’t wish to be a bother,” Randolph said. “Besides, I drove here. My car is parked at the next corner.”

  “It’s no bother,” Massamilio said. “Believe me.”

  “And don’t worry too much about your car,” Mario said. “It’s not going anywhere. For now, at least.”

  “Does the driver know where I live?” Randolph said.

  Massamilio shook his head. “No,” he said. “He only knows where we’re dropping you off.”

  Randolph slumped into his thick leather seat and closed his eyes. “I can make it right, Mr. Massamilio,” he pleaded. “Just give me a chance. I will make it right.”

  Massamilio leaned closer to Randolph and spoke in a near whisper. “This is making it right, Randolph,” he said.

  55.

  TRAMONTI’S

  THAT SAME DAY

  THE RESTAURANT WAS EMPTY. I sat in a back booth across from Connie and Chris, Gus curled up on the floor, his head resting against the soft side of the booth, sound asleep.

  Connie and I were drinking hot cups of coffee; Chris had a large glass of Diet Coke, which he had barely touched. Both looked tired and seemed to be battling mixed emotions over my revelation a few days earlier. “I’m sorry I dropped it on you the way I did,” I said. “I just didn’t want to have to go over it more than once. Figured it was best to get everyone who needed to hear it in one place.”

  Connie reached out and gripped both my hands, holding them tightly in hers, fingers wrapped around mine. “I know it wasn’t easy for you, Tank,” she said.

  “Did hearing it scare you?” I asked. “All the details, I mean.”

  Connie took a deep breath before answering. “You were just a boy when it happened,” she said. “And you reacted out of fear and concern for Jack. So hearing that didn’t scare me.”

  “What did?” I asked.

  “Watching you beat that man who came into the restaurant,” she said. “That was a part of you I’ve never seen before. And that’s what scared me.”

  “It’s a part of me, Connie,” I said. “It was there in Maine and it was there the other day. And if you or Chris or Pearl or anyone I truly love and care about is put at risk, that part of me will surface again. There’s nothing I can do to change it.”

  “I know,” Connie said. “I’m not asking you to change it, Tank. Because I know you can’t. I just need time to have it sink in. I’m sure my father has that same dark side. But knowing it and seeing it are two very different things.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Take all the time you need,” I said.


  “Did you and my dad ever talk about it?” Chris asked. “I mean after that day?”

  “It wasn’t easy. Not for me and not for him. Our parents thought it best if we didn’t discuss it until we were back home. But, even on the drive back, me and Jack knew things between us would never be the same. I had seen Jack at his most vulnerable. He had seen my rage at full throttle. Both those images would be welded in our minds forever.”

  “But it wasn’t my dad’s fault,” Chris said, his voice breaking slightly. “And all you did was come to his defense. It would have been much worse for him if you didn’t show up and do what you did.”

  “I didn’t have to kill the man, Chris,” I said.

  “I understand why my dad didn’t want to talk about what happened,” Chris said. “And I understand why you didn’t want to talk about it, either. But why did you decide not to talk to each other at all?”

  “It seemed the best way to put it behind us,” I said. “I know it’s hard for you to understand. I didn’t want Jack to look at me and flash on what could have happened to him that day. And I didn’t want to look at Jack and see the fear and horror in his eyes.”

  “Did your parents send you to see someone?” Connie asked. “Someone to talk to, maybe somebody who could help you come to terms with what had happened?”

  “Like a therapist, you mean?”

  Connie shook her head. “I know how people from here feel about therapists,” she said. “My dad would rather eat his own leg than open up to a stranger sitting across the room from him.”

  “Especially a stranger charging him a hundred dollars every forty-five minutes,” I said. “Besides, me and Jack didn’t want to think about it, let alone talk about it.”

  “What about your parents?” Chris asked.

  “They figured it out on their own,” I said. “Once we got in the car for the drive back to the city, we left it all behind.”

  We stayed quiet for a few moments, each of us grappling with what to say next. “Did talking about it help in any way?” Connie finally asked.