by Brent Coffey
Gabe inwardly cringed. He’d explained his orders for Luke to be in Watertown, and he’d explained his involvement with Bruce, but how was he going to explain August’s presence when Luke saw him?
“Now isn’t a good time. We’re having a Family dinner,” Gabe answered, winking at Victor, hoping his new capital earned him the right to speak on behalf of the Family. It did.
“He’s right. We’ve got company,” Victor said, returning Gabe’s wink. “Now’s not a good time, Luke. Come back tomorrow.”
As Gabe and Victor held court with Luke, Opal suspiciously eyed August and made no pretense about examining him.
“So, kid,” she spoke in a low voice, leaning across the table, “who’s your real father?”
August visibly shuddered. It was frightening enough to have his cover blown without Gabe around to help him, but thinking of his real father unsettled him even more. He forced an answer:
“Gabe.”
“Gabe, huh?” She laughed. “Don’t lie to me, kid. I’ve known Gabe since he was your age, and I know when he’s full of shit.”
He cringed at the swear word. He sensed trouble brewing.
“You can tell me, kid. I won’t tell my husband. If you want to pretend to be Gabe’s son when he’s around, then that’s fine by me. I just want you to level with me. You can trust me. No more games, no more stories. Who’s your real daddy?”
“Gabe.”
He couldn’t hold her gaze, and his voice was shaky. His age and inexperience in the underworld ill suited him for this poker game.
“Again, kid, don’t lie to me. I’m no fool. You look nothing like Gabe.”
“You look nothing like him either, but he’s still your son.”
She blanched at the unexpected comeback. Touche! You little bastard.
“So, you wanna be smart, I see,” she shot back. “He’s not my real son. Don’t get cute with me, kid. I asked you a question, and I want the truth.”
He said nothing.
Before she could interrogate him further, Gabe and Victor returned to their spots at the table. She threw him a menacing look that said Don’t speak of this or else!
“Well, where were we?” Victor asked, sitting down and smiling at August.
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The door opened without a sound. No lights were on. No lights were needed. Their goggles’ infrared vision lit up the place in red and black. Georgio and Antonio Filippo, brothers, had been dispatched by their father and Family head, Donatello Filippo, to kill Gabe. They made their way through the empty apartment, guns silenced and stuffed with hollow points. They combed the entire place, room for room, frustrated to find no one home. They knew Gabe held other residences, and there was no way of knowing when he’d be back. Hanging out to wait for him seemed like a bad idea. Finished searching for Gabe, Georgio sat on a sofa.
“Where do you think he is?” Georgio asked, sounding relieved Gabe hadn’t been home.
“How the hell would I know?” Antonio replied.
“What are we going to tell Father?”
“We’re going to tell him the truth. We came, we tried, but we didn’t find anyone home. What more can we tell him?”
Georgio paused, thinking. Then:
“We could tell him mission complete.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Georgio continued. “We could tell him mission complete. We could tell him we killed Gabriel Adelaide. Think about it. Father’s never going to come over here and check to verify it. Besides, do you really want to come back later and risk a gun fight with this guy? And what if he isn’t alone when we find him?”
“But Father’ll find out we didn’t actually kill him. Then what?”
“How will he find out? Our sources say Gabriel’s on the down low and has been since his trial. He’s not doing much of anything these days. Seems to be flying below the radar. As long as he maintains his low profile, he’s as good as dead to Father.”
“What happens if he doesn’t keep his low profile? What happens if he shows up in our turf and Father gets wind of it?”
Georgio, more worried about being in a gunfight with Gabe than being reprimanded, casually shrugged:
“Then we say we shot him and left him for dead, but he managed to survive anyway. We’ll chalk it up to good luck for him and bad luck for us. As long as our stories match, how’s he going to know we’re lying?”
“I don’t know, I mean…”
“You don’t know what? Do you want to come back here and actually find him home? And what if we do kill him and his father wants our asses for it?”
Georgio made more sense by the second.
“I guess it’s a damn good thing we killed him tonight,” Antonio replied.
“That’s right. It’s a damn good thing we killed him tonight.”
The Filippo brothers, anticipating a fight, had been too high strung to notice the kids’ clothes in a bedroom’s corner.
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As the Filippos were combing through his apartment, Gabe and August drove through Watertown after their dinner at the Adelaides’ estate.
“Where are we?” August wanted to know.
“Just outside of Boston.”
“Are we still in Massachusetts?”
“Yes, we’re still in Massachusetts. I need you to be quiet for a few minutes, so I can concentrate.”
August didn’t know what Gabe was focused on, but he caught that serious adult tone in Gabe’s voice. He decided his questions Are we there yet? and Can I pee? could wait.
Gabe only drove through the main highways of Watertown once, and, thanks to his darkly tinted windows, he guessed he and August hadn’t been seen. Luke was right, he saw. There were lots of guys loitering on street corners. Too many guys. The Filippos had expanded their number of made men. Trailing behind some of the goons from a close distance were whores, dolled up in flamboyant street attire. Wild frizzy hair, short imitation leather skirts, and extremely tall high heels did the implicit advertising that law enforcement forbade them from doing explicitly. Their apparel shouted Whore for Hire! and there was nothing the cops could do about it, since there was no law against wearing tacky clothes. Watertown’s municipal government had tried to crack down on its streetwalkers, by passing zoning ordinances against loitering, but that hadn’t worked. To avoid loitering charges, the whores started walking from one street to the next, instead of standing around. Not only did they still make their evening rounds, but they got more advertising in due to all the walking. And not even the toughest anti-whore city councilmen could find legal grounds to support an ordinance against walking.
Gabe noticed the number of girls had increased since his last trip through Watertown. His business acumen was impressed with the higher quality look of many of the new girls. Sure, they still had that trashy vibe you’d expect from a whore, but the look of boob implants and face lifts was evident in many, and that drove up the sticker price. The Filippos were going for quality, and he suspected they were funneling cash to a plastic surgeon for some part time work. They were pushing a particular brand of whore; the kind that didn’t look like a STD riddled crack addict. It was a step up from the whores he’d peddled over the years and an improvement over the ones his uncles still managed. The old adage was true: it took money to make money. The Filippos had spent money making their whores look slightly more attractive than your average sperm dumpster, and they were evidently reaping huge dividends. The guys shadowing each girl told the story of the Filippos’ success. Gabe reasoned the Filippos were spending quite a pretty penny on this increased muscle. If Donatello Filippo was willing to shell out that kind of cash, he must own the outlying metropolitan area’s market on whoring. Luke was right to be worried. It’s impossible to drive through here more than once without someone noticing. This place is too heavy.
The growing Filippo clan worried him, though he’d now lost interest in competing w
ith them for turf. Since his time with August, he’d kept his nose clean, relatively speaking. Sure, he’d hit the occasional joint, and technically he’d removed the kid from his foster family without legal permission, but, in light of his past crimes, all that barely qualified as breaking the law. He’d surprised himself at how straight laced he’d become. How law abiding he’d become. How respectable, how fatherly… That last thought gave him pause. He still didn’t know what to do with August. His plan to hook August up with the Hudsons had fallen through, ever since August had voiced his opinion on the matter. And frankly, he was relieved August didn’t want to live with them. He’d grown attached to the little guy, and he no longer minded the thought of the kid sticking around. Still, assuming the role of father seemed daunting, and he didn’t know what he’d do for a living if he went legit and became a parent. He’d have to get out of the Family business, and, even assuming that was possible, he had no marketable skills. His name and face had been in the local press, and the Associated Press had run nationally syndicated columns on him during his trial, stigmatizing him for life. Landing a legit job seemed impossible. For the first time in his adult life, a steady and lucrative income wasn’t guaranteed. If I’m really doing this, if I’m really going to be a father, I’m flying straight. He refused to bring up August in a life of crime. As he drove out of Watertown and back into Boston proper, he considered his options.
He could become a public defender, he reasoned. That seemed like a square deal. The Family always needed a good lawyer, and Victor didn’t require his lawyers to do anything illegal, because he didn’t want to risk having their licenses revoked. Being a public defender might be just the compromise he was looking for. It might be his ticket to going legit. He could still serve the Family by defending any member who stood accused, and he wouldn’t have to break any laws to do so. If he could sell Victor on the idea, he might be able to retire from mob life after all. And August would never have to grow up in the underworld. August would never see him make any deals with the devil. August would just think of him as his adoptive father, a guy who happened to be a lawyer. The idea quickly grew on him. Victor would still assume that he’d run the Family business in later years, but he had no intentions of doing that when his “father” kicked the bucket. And Victor can get me off the hook for taking August from the Ringers.
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When Gabe and August returned from their drive through Watertown, Gabe immediately glanced at the answering machine perched on the counter separating the living room from the kitchen and saw a flashing “2” in bright red. To the unsuspecting, this meant he had two phone messages. He knew differently. His answering machine was actually a motion sensor device wired to other sensors hidden throughout the place. The flashing number didn’t indicate the number of phone messages. It told the number of people who’d been in his apartment since he and August had left. He wheeled around to face August, who was literally shadowing him by making a game of walking in his shadow, and indicated with a raised finger that August should be eerily quiet. August caught the seriousness of the situation and clammed up. Gabe silently motioned for August to sit on the couch. Gabe took out two Glocks and searched the entire apartment for intruders. He was relieved to find none, as the last thing he wanted to do was kill someone with August around. After making sure they were alone, he puzzled over the possibilities. Had Victor sent someone over? He thought this was possible, but unlikely. Victor seemed to buy his story about helping Bruce in order to increase the Family’s political clout. And Victor had apparently also bought his story about August being his son. That left the cops and the Filippos. If the cops had come across new evidence of his old crimes, then they might’ve obtained a warrant and come to arrest him. He doubted this possibility too. The D.A.’s office had fished far and wide with the broadest net imaginable to gather evidence against him, and it was unlikely they’d come across something new. The cops might also be looking for him, because he’d taken August from the Ringers. But he doubted they knew where he was, as his Roxbury place was off their radar and rented to an alias. That left the Filippos. He knew the Filippos had connections in Boston’s slums that could locate him even when the police couldn’t. If the Filippos had paid him a visit, then their group was even larger and ballsier than he’d thought, or they never would’ve risked a turf war.
“Come on, we’re leaving,” he told August.
“Do we pack?”
“We don’t have time to pack. We’re just leaving.”
August reached under the couch and pulled out Zoggy. Something told him he’d never see this place again, and he wouldn’t risk being separated from his first friend.
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Gabe stopped at an ATM in a well lit district of Boston’s financial sector and withdrew $500. He wanted a hotel for the night, as he plotted his next move, and he didn’t want to pay with a credit card that the Filippos could trace. Back in his Benz GL, he whipped out his phone.
“I need to make an important phone call, and I need you to be quiet.”
“Okay,” August agreed.
He called Victor. He’d thought more about the intrusion into his apartment, and he was convinced that the Filippos were the likely culprits. Victor answered after the first ring:
“What can I do for you, son?”
Though Gabe despised the title, he was glad to be called ‘son’ tonight. It meant they were on good terms, and right now he needed the Family’s muscle.
“My apartment was broken into by two guys. I don’t know who did it, but I think the Filippos are behind it. Also, I drove through Watertown tonight, and I can confirm that Luke’s right. The Filippos’ men are everywhere, on every street corner, under every street lamp. They got goons, tons and tons of goons. I think they’re expanding, and I think they tried to pay me a visit while I was out tonight.”
“Where are you now?”
“On my way to a hotel, with cash on hand.”
“Smart move. Stay low for a couple of days. Feel free to use the Swiss account for anything you need.”
That offer meant Victor was definitely pleased with him. The Swiss account was the most secure one the Family had, and it contained the bulk of the Family fortune.
“We’ve got to do something about the Filippos horning in on our turf,” Gabe said, pretending to care about the Family’s business, when all he really cared about was using the Adelaides’ forces to protect him and August.
“We will. I’ll look into it, son.”
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Chapter Eight
Bruce sat in his office with his left leg folded across his lap so he could massage his ankle. His colitis flare had activated his arthritis, and his ankle’s skin looked like it was stretched around a growth. He moaned, as he tried to force some of the tension out of the swelling. In the back of his mind, he hoped for a resolution to his arthritis, after the colitis was gone. His operation would probably happen soon, he guessed, though he didn’t know when Gabe would arrange to pay the rest of the money needed for his surgery. He wanted to believe he’d soon no longer have colitis, and, if he was lucky, he might not have some of its worst complications.
He’d made peace with taking the mob’s money. He knew they’d come by their money illegally, but he reasoned it was past time to see that cash spent on someone who wasn’t a career criminal. It seemed like karma had tipped its hat in his favor. He also wasn’t (very) worried about Gabriel Adelaide trying any funny business during his time at St. Knox’s. Dorsey had promised him cover to make sure he came through the surgery safely. The hospital would be packed with cops 24 hours a day for as long as he was there. He truly felt like this surgery could be the life changer he needed. And it might help August. He and Martha no longer talked much about adoption: they were too worried about the kid’s immediate safety. Knowing he was with Gabe sent chills up their spines that neither could su
ppress. The possibilities were too frightening to even consider. More than once they’d considered contacting Sara to ask how he’d been abducted, but they decided the “how” didn’t matter.
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Sara parked her Honda in the Ringers’ driveway and made her way to their front door, proudly carrying a bag full of toy blocks. She’d finally remembered the blocks she’d promised August weeks ago. That time now felt like another lifetime ago, before her worry about the mob, before finding her home vandalized, before discovering the cash stuffed in her purse (which she’d turned over to authorities), and before her reconciliation with Bruce. So much had transpired between then and now that she surprised herself by remembering the toys.
She rang the Ringers’ doorbell, with a confidant smile. She still had it: that ability to remember the little things in life that pleased kids. She warmly anticipated August’s shy smile awaiting her.
Gina spied her through the front door’s circular lookout. Yesterday, she’d cashed both Gabe’s check and one from the state for pretending to take care of August, and she had no intention of giving up that golden goose by letting this nosey social worker know that the kid was no longer here. She’d been expecting this visit for some time. She knew Sara stopped by once a month, and it had been a little over five weeks since her last visit. She’d been practicing what she’d say, and she didn’t worry about Bill contradicting any lie that she told.
“Sara! Good to see you! Come in!”
“Thanks, Gina. Good to see you in high spirits. I finally brought these for August,” she said, lifting the open bag to indicate the blocks’ visible tops.
“He’ll love ‘em,” Gina replied, secretly planning to trash them as soon as Sara left. “Too bad you just missed him.”
“I did? Where’d he go?”
“He’s at a friend’s birthday party. One of his pals from school is celebrating at a pizza place, and a bunch of kids from his class went.”
