“Hello.”
“Which little piggy stayed home?”
“That you, Jilly?”
“Hey, that’s answerin’ a question with a question. I’m surprised the nuns didn’t teach ya better.”
“I’m not a Roman Catholic. I’m a Lutheran.”
“That ain’t what I asked ya. I asked ya which little piggy stayed home. As in, who am I fuckin’ talkin’ to?”
“This is Agent Ewing. I spoke to you last time you called.”
“Did you do what I told ya to do?”
“What’s that, Jilly?”
Theresa watched Uncle Jilly closely, hoping for some hint of what was expected from her. He was breathing real fast through his mouth, which he always did when he got mad. What she didn’t know was who he was mad at, her or the man on the phone. She wanted to wriggle away, to slide across to the other side of the car, but the arm wrapped around her waist was rock-hard.
“You wanna play fuckin’ games?” Jilly’s eyes were blazing. “Cause I got games you never dreamed about.”
“No, Jilly.” The man’s voice was very calm, as if he was trying to soothe a frightened puppy. “She’s here, just as you asked.”
“Good. Now put the bitch on the phone.”
“Hello, Jilly?”
“Is that my ever-lovin’ wifeykins? Is that my sweet honey-girl?”
Even though her crying time was past, Theresa felt like she wanted to sob. Mommy was part of her old life and she couldn’t think about her old life without becoming very, very sad. That was why she didn’t think about her old life.
“Please, Jilly … Theresa …”
“Fit as a fiddle. Except for when her right hand got crushed with the pliers.” Uncle Jilly’s laugh boomed out. “But she’s a southpaw, right? So it ain’t no big deal.”
Theresa held her right hand up to her eyes. What was Uncle Jilly talking about?
“I’m okay, mommy. My hand’s okay, too.” Theresa shouted the words into the telephone, then squeezed her eyes shut. She was sure Uncle Jilly would kill her for talking before he said to, but Uncle Jilly just kept on laughing.
“Theresa? Theresa?”
Uncle Jilly jammed his fingers over her mouth before she could answer.
“Listen up,” he said, his voice suddenly cold enough to send a shiver up the back of Theresa’s neck. “Because I ain’t got a whole lotta time here. See, I got no reason to hurt the little brat. Theresa ain’t done nothin’ to me, if ya catch my drift. But that don’t mean I won’t go into one of my shitstorms. Ya with me on this?”
“I’m listening, Jilly.”
“Okay, so what ya gotta do is gimme some kinda reason to hand her over. Like before I go off. Y’understand?”
“Tell me what you want.”
“What I want is my fourteen fucking years back.”
“I can’t give you that.”
“Well then, we got something in common, bitch.” He paused, wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand. “Because I got somethin’ you want. Somethin’ I can’t give back.”
When Uncle Jilly finally shut off the phone and loosened his grip, Theresa slid over to the opposite side of the car. Before she could make any sense of what had happened, Uncle Jilly leaned forward and tapped Uncle Jackson’s shoulder. “A little ways up,” he said, “you’re gonna see a sign for the Cross Bronx Expressway. Take the exit for the east Bronx. We’re goin’ to the zoo.”
“The zoo?” Uncle Jackson seemed very excited. “That’s just great, Jilly, but you better keep a sharp eye out. Bein’ as you know I cain’t read no signs.”
“Would you mind telling me exactly what you’re waiting for?” Gadd put the Caprice in gear and pulled out onto Montauk Highway. She was careful to keep two vehicles between their car and Sappone’s van, as instructed, but she had the definite feeling she could ride on Sappone’s bumper without his noticing. “Because if this goes on much longer, the mope’s gonna overdose and we’ll end up taking him to the hospital.”
They’d been following Sappone for more than an hour, trailing him as he bounced from one bar to another along a seemingly endless series of commercially zoned roads that crisscrossed Suffolk County’s southern shore like varicose veins on the back of a dowager’s thigh. Privately owned businesses lined both sides of the road, sharing strip-mall space with the inevitable fast-food operations and the company-owned gas stations. McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, Wendy’s, Taco Bell, Citgo, Exxon, Gulf, Texaco … the list went on and on and on.
The terrain itself was table-flat, the buildings no more than two stories high. As if the county planners had conspired with nature to create a world so lacking in definition as to be without any character at all.
“What it is,” Gadd said, once she realized that Moodrow wasn’t going to respond, “is that I’m used to vertical. Horizontal makes me seasick.”
What it is, Moodrow said to himself, is that your nerves are showing.
Still, she was right about Sappone. He was distributing powder (most likely to bartenders running a little coke business on the side) and clearly sampling the product as he made his rounds. With each ten-minute stop, he looked a little more like a mature gobbler on the weekend before Thanksgiving. Getting him off the street would be no problem. Getting him off the street without being seen by some misguided citizen was something else again.
Moodrow forced his attention back to the detailed map spread across his knees. Even if the abduction—there was no other word for what he planned to do—went smoothly, they still had to transport Carlo to some private place. Transport him without getting lost on the way. Once Sappone was in the car, of course, both he and Gadd would have enough to do without reading a map.
Sappone’s van made a right turn onto Route 110, a road marked Broadway on Moodrow’s Hagstrom map. Gadd dutifully followed, stopping directly behind him at a traffic light. Even with her window rolled up, she could hear the heavy thud of a bass drum pounding inside the van.
“I got a bad feeling here, Moodrow. I got a feeling our boy’s on his way home. It sounds like he’s celebrating.”
Moodrow shook her off, his finger tracing Route 110 as it wandered north through the town of Amityville, past the Southern State Parkway and Republic Airport to the Long Island Expressway. Satisfied, he carefully folded the map and laid it on the seat.
“Carlo’s got at least one more stop to make. We’ll take him there. You all right?”
“Me? What could go wrong? I step on the gas; I step on the brake; I turn the wheel. It’s not exactly particle physics.” The light changed to green and she allowed Sappone to put some distance between himself and the Caprice before following. “You hear that music? How loud it is? It’s hard to believe he’s riding around in a bloodred van with smoked windows and ear-splitting music if he’s still carrying drugs. It’s goddamned suicidal.”
Sappone’s van pulled to the curb before Moodrow could respond. The street was dark, every store closed with the exception of the Landmark Tavern in the middle of the block.
“Circle around, then pull in next to the pump in front of his van. We’ve got him now.” Moodrow pressed his palms into his thighs, took a deep breath, told himself to calm down. Sappone would have to walk right past him to get back to his van.
“Do you know you’re grinning from ear to ear?”
Moodrow touched his mouth, was surprised to feel teeth instead of lips. “We’re gettin’ close, Gadd. I can tell because I always twitch when I get close.”
Gadd kept her eyes glued to the rearview mirror. When Sappone turned into the club, she spun the car into a U-turn, came back down the road, made a second U-turn, and parked. Moodrow was out of the car and leaning back through the open window before she could shut off the headlights.
“This street runs all the way up to the Long Island Expressway. According to the map, it wanders a little bit, so be careful; if we make a wrong turn, we’ll be weaving through these developments for the next two weeks. Take the Expresswa
y east to exit 70, then your first right. It’s a long way out, at least an hour from here, but that’s to our advantage because he’ll be coming down by then.”
Gadd nodded thoughtfully. Hoping her partner wasn’t as crazy as he looked at that moment.
“I could put the question to Sappone in the car,” Moodrow continued. “That’d save a lot of time. Only I’m afraid he’ll lie and I have no way to get back to him if he does. I figure an hour in the backseat with me for company …” Moodrow snuck a look at the door to the Landmark Tavern, willing it to open. When it remained closed, defying his psychic abilities, he turned back to Gadd. “What I’m gonna do here is convince Sappone that I’ve been sent by Carmine Stettecase. You can see the point, right? Carlo might lie to the cops, but he can’t bullshit Carmine. Not unless he plans to leave town.”
“That sounds great, Moodrow, but where do I fit in?”
“You remember that movie? The one with Angelica Huston and whats-his-face?”
“Jack Nicholson.” Gadd smiled. “I think it was called Prizzi’s Honor.”
“That’s the one. You’re gonna be a hit lady.”
“Does that make you a hit gentleman?” Gadd’s head jerked up before Moodrow could answer. “Enough with the small talk,” she said. “Our boy’s on his way.”
Moodrow didn’t move a muscle. “Lemme know when he draws even with the car.”
Gadd watched Sappone hesitate in the doorway, take a deep breath, rub his nose with the back of his hand. Drops of sweat ran down the side of his neck and into his collar. She’d seen it all before, of course, seen it on the mean streets of New York. The man was halfway to an overdose.
“What’s he doing?”
“I think he’s waiting for the sweat to dry.” She glanced at Moodrow. His eyes were tightly focused, though on what she couldn’t say. “Look, this guy’s heart is probably close to exploding.” She slid over a bit, put her hand on Moodrow’s cheek and kissed him. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but if you hit the bastard too hard, you’re liable to put him in the morgue.” She drew back a few inches and smiled. “He’s moving. Twenty feet away … fifteen … ten … five … now.”
Moodrow spun, took a single gigantic stride. He was expecting some kind of resistance, but Sappone simply continued walking until Moodrow wrapped a hand around his throat, then slammed a fist into his right kidney. The pain buckled Sappone’s knees, but he didn’t fall. Instead, his body rose momentarily, then flew across the space between himself and the Caprice. The resulting collision would have been devastating if Gadd hadn’t already opened the back door. As it was, Sappone’s momentum carried him across the seat and against the far door. Moodrow’s body followed, pinning the much smaller man.
“Do me a favor, Carlo,” Moodrow said as the Caprice pulled away from the curb, “and don’t make me kill you in the car. The last time I killed somebody in a car, they crapped their pants and I had to ride with the stink for weeks.”
Jilly Sappone did everything he had to do without once losing his temper. That, Theresa realized, was because the first thing he did (the first thing he had to do) was take his medicine. Theresa watched him open the folded paper, raise it to his nostrils, suck in the white powder, toss the paper out the window. She watched him sit there holding his breath until his eyes closed and he sank down into the seat.
When he opened his eyes again, he caught her by surprise, caught her looking directly at him, but he didn’t get angry as she expected. Instead, he smiled at her.
“Wrap that blanket around yourself, kid.”
“C’mon, Jilly,” Uncle Jackson said, “you promised there wouldn’t be no more goin’ in that darn trunk.”
“I said no more unless it was necessary, Jackson.” Uncle Jilly looked at her, but she was careful not to raise her head. “Whatta ya think, kid, is it necessary?”
Theresa didn’t answer, because she didn’t know what Uncle Jilly wanted her to say.
“Hey, I’m talkin’ to ya.” He reached out and turned her head to face him. “Do ya think it’s necessary?”
“There’s a sign up ahead, Jilly. Better see what it is or I’ll miss my turn.”
Uncle Jilly let her go with a final instruction: “Wrap yourself in the fuckin’ blanket and do it now.” He looked out through the windshield for a moment. “Okay, Jackson, this is it. You wanna keep all the way to the right here. If we make a wrong turn, we’re gonna end up in New Jersey.”
Uncle Jackson must have done everything the way Uncle Jilly told him, because when they were on the new highway, Uncle Jilly leaned back, saw that she had the blanket around her, and smiled again.
“Where we gettin’ off, Jilly?” Uncle Jackson asked. “I don’t see a zoo no place around here.”
“We’re gettin’ off at the Bronx River Parkway. Make sure ya don’t miss the sign.”
“But I cain’t read no sign.”
“Then why don’t ya shut ya fuckin’ mouth and keep drivin’ till I tell ya what to do?” Uncle Jilly waited a minute, then turned to face Theresa. “I ain’t gonna put ya in the trunk. That’s because ya been a good girl and ya done everything I asked. But I don’t want anybody to see ya when we get to the zoo. That’s why ya gotta wrap yourself in the blanket and lay down on the seat. Understand?”
Theresa nodded, but Uncle Jilly had already forgotten about her. He was leaning forward, speaking into Uncle Jackson’s ear. “Ya know what we’re gonna do?”
Uncle Jackson shook his head. “Uh-uh.”
“Ya don’t remember I told ya this morning that we’re gonna pick up some weapons?”
“Yeah, I remember now.” Uncle Jackson was looking at Uncle Jilly in the mirror. His head was bouncing up and down. “Guess that means we ain’t goin’ to the zoo, right?”
“Just to the parking lot. That’s where we gotta meet a guy named Espinoza. He’s gonna sell us the guns.” Uncle Jilly was being very patient, pausing between every sentence until Uncle Jackson nodded to show he understood. “Now the thing is, Jackson, if a dude sells guns, he has guns. And a dude that has guns might use guns to rip his customers off. You gettin’ this?”
“Sure.”
Uncle Jilly shook his head. “It’s fuckin’ hopeless.” He tapped Uncle Jackson’s shoulder. “Take this exit comin’ up. Go to the light, make a left, then another left, then get on the parkway.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes. Theresa, wrapped tightly in the blanket, looked out the window, but it was already dark and there wasn’t much to see except for the other cars. She was getting very tired, but she didn’t want to fall asleep, not with Uncle Jilly talking about guns.
“Lemme give this one more try, Jackson. Ya remember when ya were back in Clinton?”
“Yeah.”
“And ya remember some of the boys in the joint, they wanted to hurt ya real bad?”
“You mean like the niggers, Jilly? Like the niggers wanted to tear me a new …?” He looked at Theresa in the mirror. “Like what they wanted to do?”
“Now ya got it.” Uncle Jilly put his hand on Uncle Jackson’s shoulder. “And do ya remember the look they had, the look in their eyes just before they came after ya?” He waited for Uncle Jackson to say, “I sure do,” then continued. “Well, if ya see that look tonight, it means we got big trouble. It means we gotta be prepared to defend our sacred honor.”
By the time they rolled into the Buffalo parking lot of the Bronx zoo and parked next to the red car, Uncle Jilly had forgotten all about her. He must have, because he didn’t ask her to lie down on the seat like he said he would. Instead, he and Uncle Jackson got out of the car, walked up to a short fat man, and shook hands. They spoke for a minute before Uncle Jilly took a roll of bills out of his pocket and handed it to the fat man, who counted it really fast, then opened the red car’s trunk.
Theresa couldn’t see what Uncle Jilly was seeing, but it must have made him happy, because when he turned around with the box in his hand and started walking toward her, he was gri
nning. The grin stayed on his face while he opened the trunk of their car and put the box inside and closed the trunk again, but it disappeared when Uncle Jackson started shooting.
“I seen it, I seen it,” he screamed. “You ain’t tearin’ me no motherfuckin’ new asshole.”
Uncle Jackson’s gun went off six times before Uncle Jilly got to him. Theresa counted the shots, then counted the clicks. One click, two clicks, three clicks, four clicks. Then Uncle Jilly and Uncle Jackson were running back to the car and the car was flying out of the parking lot.
“I seen it, Jilly,” Uncle Jackson said. “That damned look. I seen it real, real clear.”
At first, Theresa thought Uncle Jilly was going to use his own gun. Use it to kill Uncle Jackson. But then he started laughing. He laughed for a long time, his chest bouncing up and down like he just couldn’t stop, like he’d just seen the funniest thing in the world.
Moodrow had planned to ride in utter silence, had actually encouraged this twice in the first few miles by slamming his elbow into the side of Carlo Sappone’s head. Unfortunately, the shots, though well delivered, had the opposite of the intended effect. They stimulated Carlo’s already pumping adrenal glands to even greater efforts, the hormone then chasing the cocaine through his brain and into his tongue.
“What? It’s money, right? It’s money you want and, baby, I got it. Down in my basement I got a safe it’s packed with cash. That’s cause I got a buy comin’ up tomorrow. Sixty-five large, man. It’s a score, a fuckin’ score, all ya gotta do is jump off the Expressway at William Floyd Parkway. Take ten minutes at the most and ya walk away splittin’ sixty-five large. Hey, it couldn’t hurt, ya know what I mean?”
Moodrow slowly turned his head, letting it swivel like a tank turret until his eyes were inches away from Sappone’s.
“You’re really getting me pissed off, Carlo,” he said. “I mean really pissed off.” He took out the .25 automatic, laid it on his lap, watched Sappone’s eyes widen. Hoping it would shut the man up.
“This ain’t right. I mean it just ain’t right. I haven’t done nothin’ to nobody. Like I never step on nobody’s toes, like I don’t owe nobody, like I don’t mess with nobody’s old lady. I’m a fuckin’ good guy.”
Damaged Goods Page 14
