Payback

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  Kenwood stepped toward me and smiled. “Have it your way, Tank,” he said. “If I can’t take a washout like you, then maybe I deserve to die.”

  “I was thinking the very same thing,” I said to Kenwood.

  He landed the first blow, a hard right to my jaw. The booze and cigarettes may have slowed him down over the years, but he was still strong and his punches still packed heat. I ducked under a left and then took a glancing swing off my right arm. Kenwood bobbed and weaved as he inched closer to me. I moved from left to right and snapped two quick jabs to his face. I ducked under a right cross and landed with a sharp uppercut to his stomach, then followed that up with two more blows to his rib cage. I had spent a good deal of time working out in Bruno’s gym in my time off the job and had learned a lot from the ex–heavyweight contender. Bruno always preached the old boxing maxim of “If you take the body, the head will follow,” and that was what I wanted to do. Kenwood was more brawler than boxer, and he was trying to close in, jump me, and pin me to the ground. Once he had me there, it would be to his advantage. His weight would hold me down and I would be helpless to stop the barrage coming my way.

  Kenwood lunged for me, one hand open, looking to grab me by the hair and yank me down. I landed three quick and hard jabs to his stomach and heard him gasp for air. He pulled away and kicked my right leg, just below the kneecap. My leg buckled, and I waited for him to get closer. He leaned toward me and punched the left side of my neck. The blow stunned me for a second as I scrambled back up to my feet.

  Kenwood rushed me, his body bent at the waist, and I spun around and wrapped my hands around his head and slammed us both to the ground. He crashed face-first on the hard dirt, while I let my ass take the brunt of the fall. I lifted his head and smashed it against the ground several times, rubbing his face in the brown soil, raining punches on his neck and back. I held him down and got to my knees and straddled him. I lifted his head one more time, his dirty face now up enough for his red eyes to glare at me. I wrapped my hands around his throat and began to ease it back. I braced one of my knees in the center of his back.

  I could feel his neck muscles tighten and knew, from this position, I could snap his neck and end his life. I pulled his head farther back and dug my knee deep between his shoulder blades.

  I looked down into Kenwood’s eyes, my body poised and ready to take away the life of a man who had brought pain and ruin to so many.

  “Tank,” Pearl shouted. “Don’t do it. Don’t do that piece of shit any favors. It’s not time for him to be lowered into the ground. He needs to go to prison. That’s where his coffin is waiting. Not on this ball field.”

  I looked away from Kenwood and at my partner and closest friend. Pearl wheeled himself nearer to me. “He needs to pay,” Pearl said. “For Rachel. For Zeke. And for all the ones he sent to prison for no reason. He needs to pay.”

  I took a deep breath and let go of Kenwood’s neck. I lifted myself off him and started to walk away. Then I stopped, turned, and delivered one final hard kick to the side of his head. “That’s for Zeke,” I said. “He would have done it himself if you came at him one-on-one.”

  Pearl grabbed my arm and squeezed it. “Proud of you, partner,” he said.

  I looked at Pearl and nodded.

  Within minutes we were surrounded by Chief Connors and a small platoon of uniform and plainclothes officers. I looked past the cops and watched Alban and his men disappear into the darkness of the park. Chief Connors came up to me and held out a set of handcuffs. “You want to cuff him?” he asked.

  I smiled. “I’m not a cop anymore, Chief, remember?” I said.

  The chief returned the smile. “You’ll always be a cop,” he said.

  I took the cuffs from the chief, walked back over to Eddie Kenwood, and placed both his hands behind his back. I slapped the cuffs on his wrists and locked them in. “You’re under arrest, you son of a bitch,” I said.

  I got back to my feet and shook the chief’s hand.

  “Case closed,” he said.

  “Case closed,” I said, and began a slow walk off the baseball field.

  62.

  ATTICA, NEW YORK

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  IT RAINED THE ENTIRE WAY up from the city, hard and heavy drops blasting at us from all sides. Pearl sat in the passenger seat, a Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons CD playing on low volume.

  “You’ve always loved listening to these guys,” Pearl said. “Ever since I’ve known you.”

  “They were my Beatles,” I said. “Their songs fit me and the neighborhood. Just like you feel about the Temptations. Those songs stay with us, reminders of who we were and who we still are.”

  Pearl nodded. “I’ll never forget what you did,” he said. “Getting this kid out of jail is not something I could have managed to do on my own. I don’t know how I can ever thank you, Tank.”

  I glanced over at him and smiled. “Just stay my friend, that’s all,” I said.

  “No worries there,” Pearl said. “We’re in this together for the long haul.”

  “You could also take the dog for a walk now and then,” I said. “And maybe you and me could go to a movie or a show. Grab a bite. Make a night of it.”

  Pearl laughed. “You need me as a friend,” he said. “Who the hell else would put up with you?”

  “Looks like we’re here,” I said.

  I eased the car to a stop under a canopy of trees. I got out and pulled Pearl’s wheelchair from the back and opened it. I slid open his door and helped him into his seat. The rain was coming down as if off a waterfall. “I don’t think I have an umbrella, Pearl,” I said. “Although with this wind, it wouldn’t be of much help anyway.”

  “I don’t need one,” Pearl said.

  We both stared through the rain and haze at the gates leading to the Attica Correctional Facility. “Randy should be by the front door,” I said. “I called the warden earlier and told him what time to have him ready for release.”

  “You coming with me, right?” Pearl asked.

  “No,” I said. “This one’s all you, partner. I may have helped free the kid, but it was you that brought the case to me. If he needs to see and thank somebody, that somebody is you.”

  Pearl looked at me, nodded, and made his way to the gate.

  I leaned against the front of my car, the rain pouring down on me like an early-morning cold shower. I heard a door creak open, and then the gates began to rattle and slide. And then there he was, walking slowly toward Pearl.

  When Randy Jenkins got to the wheelchair, he fell to his knees and hugged Pearl, both of them as wet as if they were in the middle of the ocean. They stayed that way for the longest time. It was a grand moment to see.

  I took a deep breath of the cool air and watched my friend hold on tight to Randy, no longer a prisoner for a crime he did not commit. He was out of a system he should never have been put in.

  Randy lifted his head to the sky, his arms still wrapped around Pearl, and he let out a loud and happy cry.

  It was the cry of freedom.

  And Randy Jenkins had waited a very long time to let out that cry.

  63.

  GATE OF HEAVEN CEMETERY, WESTCHESTER COUNTY

  THREE DAYS LATER

  I STOOD IN FRONT OF THE headstones for my brother, Jack, and his wife, Susan. Chris was by my side, his puppy, Gus, nearby, spread out and happily chewing on blades of grass. It was the first time either of us had visited the grave site, and I felt a twinge of sadness for not thinking of bringing Chris up here earlier.

  Gate of Heaven is a massive cemetery, with hundreds of headstones and mausoleums covering the manicured paths. Many of my friends, family, and some enemies are buried on the grounds.

  “Should we tell them?” Chris asked.

  “Tell them what?” I asked. “That you’re living with me?�
��

  “That’s one of the things,” Chris said.

  “What’s another?”

  “That you caught the people who killed them.”

  “First of all, we nailed those bastards,” I said. “Together. You leading the way, me and the crew following. With help from Bobby and Dee Dee.”

  “I’m glad we came,” Chris said. “I miss them so much, but I try my best not to think about it all the time. It hurts, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know. And it will for a long time. I miss Jack, too. And I’m sorry I didn’t get to know your mom.”

  “They both would want me to be happy,” Chris said.

  “I do, too,” I said. “I’ll never take your dad’s place, and I don’t expect to. But I am glad that we’re together, you and me.”

  “And Gus and Pearl,” Chris said.

  I smiled and nodded. “You know, it forced me to dredge up memories of what happened so long ago, something I was so afraid of doing.”

  “Are you sorry you did?”

  “No, not at all,” I said. “I think it helped me get straight with Jack. I always loved him and missed having him in my life. I’m sorry he had to die for me to get him back. But I feel connected to him again, through you. And it’s a good feeling to have.”

  “Can we come back and see them again?” Chris asked.

  “As often as you like,” I said. “It’s a good thing for us to do together.”

  I leaned over Jack’s headstone and placed my right hand on top of the cold marble. “Rest easy, little brother,” I whispered. “And don’t worry about Chris. I got his back. And he’s got mine.”

  I stepped away and waited as Chris bent and laid a kiss on both headstones and bowed his head, saying a short, silent prayer for the parents taken away from him much too soon.

  He turned toward me and wrapped his arms around my waist, his head resting against my chest. Tears flowed down both our faces.

  I glanced over at Gus, still chewing on the grass, digging his paws into the soft earth. “We should go,” I said. “Before Gus leaves this place a barren field.”

  Chris let go of me and picked up Gus’s leash, and we made our way toward my car. We both turned to take a final look at the two headstones, gleaming in the morning sun.

  “Isn’t eating grass supposed to be bad for dogs?” I asked. “Can’t be good for his stomach.”

  “Gus thinks it’s like having a salad,” Chris said.

  “Gus is wrong,” I said.

  GUS CARCATERRA

  August 13, 2007—September 28, 2018

  My best friend. The sweetest, kindest, and most loving dog. Everyone who met you fell in love. I miss you more and more each and every day. You have my heart—always. See you on the other side, my Gussie. I’ll bring the treats.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I WANT TO THANK MY PARTNER in crime, my editor, Anne Speyer, for the hard work and effort she put into this book. Her edits and suggestions improved the story at every point. Plus, she loves dogs—it’s a tough combination to beat.

  Suzanne Gluck at WME has always had my back and always will. She’s not just an agent. Even better, she’s a friend.

  To my Random House/Ballantine family—thank you. I have been at this for a lot of years now and we’ve always been there together. As one.

  Thanks to Vincent, Ida, and Anthony of Manducati’s, and to the one and only Giuliano of Primola and his top-notch crew for keeping me well-fed all year long. You won’t find two better places to eat and drink in any of the five boroughs. They are simply the best.

  To my children, Kate and Nick, who are always there for me—with a phone call, a dinner, a drink, and, yes, for our yearly trip to our beloved island of Ischia in Italy. Love you both more than you can ever imagine.

  And welcome to the new crew of dogs—Sweet Siena and the lovable duo of George and Henry. Gus and Willow would be honored to have you on the team. No worries, Gus—you will always be top dog.

  BY LORENZO CARCATERRA

  A SAFE PLACE: THE TRUE STORY OF A FATHER, A SON, A MURDER

  SLEEPERS

  APACHES

  GANGSTER

  STREET BOYS

  PARADISE CITY

  CHASERS

  MIDNIGHT ANGELS

  THE WOLF

  TIN BADGES

  PAYBACK

  SHORT STORY

  THE VULTURE’S GAME

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  LORENZO CARCATERRA is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Safe Place, Sleepers, Apaches, Gangster, Street Boys, Paradise City, Chasers, Midnight Angels, The Wolf, and Tin Badges. He is a former writer/producer for Law & Order and has written for National Geographic Traveler, The New York Times Magazine, and Maxim. He lives in New York City and is at work on his next novel.

  lorenzocarcaterra.com

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