Beyond Blue

by Austin S. Camacho

  “What do I know?” Gorman asked. “I’ll tell you what I know. I know what it’s like for kids when they lose a parent. When that lightning strike took my first wife, I thought I’d have a nervous breakdown. But then I found out that I wasn’t allowed to have a breakdown, because my kids might beat me to it. Now you might want to do that to your wife, I don’t know, but you damn sure don’t want to do that to your daughter.”

  Brooks looked lost, confused, his eyes darting from side to side. “Amy. My little girl. No. No, I don’t want to do that to her. What do I do?” He looked up at Gorman with big, pained eyes.

  “What you do,” Gorman said in a softer tone, “is pull yourself together and remember who you are. You’re an officer of the law. People need to be able to trust you, and believe in you. You go home, and you be with your family. And Monday morning, you go to your supervisor and you tell him that you’ve got some issues and you need some counseling. The NYPD still offers that, and ever since 9-11 they’ve figured out that even the best cops, even the strongest men sometimes need help.”

  “You think I can make it?”

  “Sure you can,” Gorman said. “This was a temporary weakness. You’re tougher than this.”

  Brooks looked at Gorman and nodded slowly. “Just don’t let her take my little girl away.”

  Lorenzo Lucania stood quietly while the thug on his left knocked on the door. Like the man on Lorenzo’s right, he was the kind of mug who didn’t mind being called a thug. They were both as wide as refrigerators with hard eyes and grim faces, but they managed to be menacing and subservient at the same time. Longtime made men, Lorenzo knew, always looked dangerous but always knew their place. Ambitions would get them killed just as surely as weakness would.

  The door swung open and Lorenzo stepped into a glass palace. At least it seemed that way. The far wall was lined with glass shelves displaying a variety of statuettes and expensive crystal. Mirror panels covered the wall on his right, visually doubling the size of the already enormous room. His host, Anthony Lacata was wearing a dressing gown, just like Capone used to. He sat on the sofa to Lorenzo’s left, beneath a huge cityscape and behind a glass coffee table. Lorenzo never expected to be standing in Lacata’s uptown luxury apartment, maybe five miles north of the Fulton Street fish markets and two hundred feet above the streets where Lorenzo worked for Lacata.

  “They tell me you’re a real Lucania, come down from Lucky, still using the original family name,” Lacata said, puffing on a cigar you could take batting practice with. “That true?”

  “That’s what they tell me,” Lorenzo said, still standing. “But Grandpa Charlie casts a long shadow. I’d just as soon not be under it.”

  “Yeah, well, you cast a long shadow yourself, junior,” Lacata said, opening the glass doors of his liquor cabinet. “I been watching you from a distance, and I think you might be the man I’m looking for. Scotch?”

  “Bourbon.”

  Lorenzo’s nose wrinkled at the sweet smell of Cuban tobacco, but he knew he had to keep his eyes from blinking. The two thugs moved a step away from him, as if to distance themselves from a possible target. Lacata looked over his shoulder, a bottle of twenty-one year old Glenlivet Archive in his hand.

  “I’m a Scotch man myself,” Lacata said around his cigar.

  “I like bourbon.”

  For the first time Lorenzo heard the soft jazz sounds in the background. He tuned in on the barely perceptible music while Lacata poured himself a double shot. Then Lacata returned to the leather sofa. His eyes locked on Lorenzo’s eyes. Neither man blinked for a minute. Then Lacata smiled, made a small chuckling sound, and nodded toward the liquor cabinet. Lorenzo nodded, walked to the cabinet, and looked around inside. His eyes settled on a twelve-year-old bottle of Wild Turkey Gold Label. Not the best ever made, but quite fine enough for the occasion. He poured a couple of fingers into a glass, turned, and moved closer to the sofa. Still standing, he looked a question at Lacata.

  “See, that’s what I like,” Lacata said in the tone of an instructor. “Patient, respectful, yet you know what you want. There’s no bullshit about you. You’re the real deal Lucania. Your granddad would be proud.”

  Lorenzo smiled, nodded, and poured a third of his bourbon down his throat. It was incredibly smooth and smoky, and he smiled bigger as the liquor curled up like a warm pet in his stomach.

  “I like the way you’re handling the rackets in the Lower East Side,” Lacata said. “I’m looking for a new man to handle protection and the union rackets citywide. Got to be somebody I’m, you know, copacetic with. You know? The last guy, he wasn’t doing too good. Had to let him go.”

  The silent laughter of the two thugs told Lorenzo that whoever was holding the man in question had not let him go at all, although he probably prayed that they would let him go before the end. Then he thought about how deep he could get into the machine if he ran the city rackets. He thought about how much of the whole machine he could bring crashing down.

  And he thought about the money.

  “I am honored and flattered, Mr. Lacata,” Lorenzo said. “If you think I might be the man you need, I would certainly like the opportunity to show you what I can do.”

  “That’s just what I intend to give you a chance to do,” Lacata said. He wiggled a finger at one of the thugs. The big man pulled a manila envelope from under his jacket and thrust it toward Lorenzo.

  “You don’t fill out an application for this job, Lucania,” Lacata said while Lorenzo opened the envelope. “It calls for a demonstration. That photograph you’re looking at is an assistant district attorney who’s really been getting to be a pain in my ass. I want him to disappear in the next seventy-two hours. And I want you to handle that detail for me personally. You understand? No stand ins, but hands on. I gotta know I got a hands-on guy in the seat I’m offering you. Now, are you the man I’m looking for?”

  Lorenzo managed to keep tight control on his breathing, although his head was spinning and he felt as if he was balancing on the edge of a knife. He pulled the photograph of his target out of the envelope and fixed his eyes on it. His stomach was jumping, but when he spoke his voice was solid and steady.

  “Yeah, Mr. Lacata. Yeah, I’m your man.”

  Francine Brooks stared down, her tears splashing the picture of her husband posed in his blue uniform. “He’s my man,” she said haltingly, “but I can’t stay here with him. It’s just too painful.”

  Chastity Chiba held Francine’s hand like a good friend should. Her arrival at the little house in Bensonhurst had played out smoothly. She had followed Francine and Amy at a discreet distance as they drove home from the hospital. Then she had let them get settled before placing an innocent call to see what her new friend was doing on a Saturday afternoon. Maybe they could get together for coffee. Then she received the horrible news that Francine’s husband had tried to kill himself. He was crazy, and Francine was going to have to get away from him. Chastity cursed the man and said she would come over right away to comfort her buddy.

  How could Francine resist setting up a good witness to Alex’s inhumanity? Chastity let it take her half an hour to get there and carried fear and concern into the house with her. So it was that the two actresses sat together on the sofa in mock pain, bemoaning the death of Francine’s marriage.

  Like any master spy, Chastity considered herself a superb performer, so she was certain she could recognize another, even if the other woman wasn’t quite on her own level. Francine had turned on the waterworks a little too quickly when Chastity arrived. Some women were better at it than others, but Francine went from zero to wracking sobs in 9.8 seconds. Chastity just nodded and shook her head.

  “I know, I know, hon. It’s terrible. But it sounds like your husband has some real problems. Maybe being a policeman is too much pressure for him.”

  “That’s what Mr. Irwin, my lawyer, told me,” Francine said. “I’ve tried so hard to make a good home for him, but his job just takes too much out of him.�
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  “You’ve tried so hard,” Chastity said, glancing around at the laundry piled on the sofa and the dishes piled in the sink. Her pert nose told her that the garbage hadn’t been taken out that day. Yeah, the effort Francine was putting into this marriage was just overwhelming. “But it’s clear he’s really troubled to have tried to take his own life. Don’t you think you should be trying to support him?”

  Francine hesitated for a moment, as if she had forgotten her lines. Then she looked away into the distance and let her lower lip quiver.

  “I can’t stay here,” Francine said. “Not because of myself, but for Amy’s sake.”

  “Has he been hitting her?” Chastity asked.

  “It’s worse than that,” Francine said, putting the picture down. “He touched her.”

  “What?”

  “He touched her in inappropriate ways,” Francine said. “He touched her in places a father doesn’t touch a daughter.”

  “She told you that?” Chastity didn’t have to fake the surprise in her voice.

  “Not at first,” Francine was back on her story track now. “She was acting out, so I took her to a therapist. It didn’t take him long to get to the root of the problem. She was being abused by her own father. It’s just too horrible.” Francine grip on Chastity’s hand tightened, her French manicured nails digging into Chastity’s creamy skin.

  “Yes, so hard to believe,” Chastity said, flipping her hair back behind her left ear. “Are you sure he’s right? Did you check this guy’s credentials? You know if you file for divorce, he’d better have the right credentials or it can all go wrong. They’ll try to make you the villain.”

  “Don’t you worry. Dr. Benson specializes in this kind of thing.”

  This kind of thing? Did that mean child abuse cases, or trumped up divorce cases, Chastity wondered. Francine had certainly lined up her team. A shrink who would surely swear in court that Alex was a child abuser. A lawyer who would make sure she got everything Alex had. And a boyfriend, who would make sure she had someplace to go while she sold the house to get away from their neighborhood. Unless Chastity could find hard evidence to break their story, poor Alex didn’t stand a chance.

  Rafe dropped his 350Z down into first gear and moved slowly up the hill. Beside him, Ruby looked left to right, trying not to overreact. The sunlight from the fat orb ahead of them splashed off the Nissan’s silver hood, making it hard to see the road ahead. But to either side of them, carefully landscaped lawns and sculptured trees gave the impression that they had driven out of New York and straight into wonderland.

  Actually, they had driven straight into Staten Island, into an area Ruby had never visited called Royal Oak. The air was clean and fresh there, the road pothole free, and the streets as clean as Disney World one minute before the gates opened. The trees, shrubs, and bushes seemed to muffle all sound, increasing the feel of a movie set neighborhood. This would be a nice place to live, she thought, when Gorman quadrupled her salary or she won the lottery, whichever came first.

  “When you gone let me drive this sweet thing, sweet thing?” Ruby asked, sliding her fingers into Rafe’s hair. “You afraid I couldn’t handle her?”

  Rafe smiled and rested his right hand on her thigh. “I think we should wait until we’re someplace where you can open her up. In this neighborhood, people drive quietly, even in sports cars.”

  “Then this is the wrong neighborhood,” Ruby said. “How much further, sugar?”

  “Not far at all, chica,” Rafe said. “In fact, it’s right up here at the top of the hill.” Rafe pulled his car into a wide driveway in front of a garage, pulled on the emergency brake and shut off the engine. Ruby wasn’t yet sure why they had stopped. Then he got out of the car, walked around to her side and opened the door. She still didn’t move until he held a hand out to her. She took his hand at last and stood up out of the car. She looked down at his face, trying to ignore the huge two-story block of glass and siding behind him.

  “Mi casa es su casa,” Rafe said, and swung his arm toward the house like Vanna White.

  “She-it,” Ruby said in her high, squeaky tones. “Your house? You bool-shitting me.”

  “You see what a smart businessman can do here in the land of opportunity?”

  Ruby let Rafe take her arm and guide her toward the door while she mentally inventoried the house. Bay windows to the right of the door, picture window to the left, an arched, glassed-in balcony above it. White crushed stones covered a well-maintained garden loop in front of the house. The garage, only one story high, lent the house the feel of a Spanish villa. Taking in square footage, probable acreage, and neighborhood location, she figured it for a million dollars or so. A hell of a lot of house for a single guy.

  “You must be expecting a lot of company,” she said as they walked in.

  “Tonight, lovely lady, I only expect the company of one. Do you mind if we eat in tonight?”

  As Rafe closed the door and set the security system, Ruby kicked off her heels on the welcome mat. She padded across the carpet, past a huge open kitchen.

  “Eat in? Sure, as long as you’re cooking. I’d never find a damn thing in that place.” She continued across the house, under the family room’s cathedral ceiling, to stop at the sliding glass door. She stared down at the large private yard in the last fading light of day. She had to keep her head in the game. Rafe was seductive and damned sexy for a little guy. But he was a drug smuggler, this house was bought with drug money, and she knew the drugs were there somewhere. The drugs and the tiger crap that made the drugs invisible to dog noses. It was a lot of house though. A lot of house to search.

  Then Rafe came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her neck. “And if you like dinner, I can guarantee that you will enjoy breakfast even more.”

  Breakfast. That would give her enough time to search, she thought. Then she turned to stare over her shoulder, and blessed Rafael with one of her heart-stopping smiles.

  “It’s nice to think we’ll have this big old place all to ourselves.”

  “Well, actually, I have a roommate,” Rafe said and then, smiling at Ruby’s obvious discomfort, he added, “My brother, Hector. I’ve built off a small apartment for him here.” He waved his arm toward a large wooden door at the end of the wide hallway, then shrugged. “I’m the big brother. With rents like they are in New York, what else could I do? Besides, my mother ordered me to take care of him.”

  “I wonder what your mother would say about me being here tonight,” Ruby said, preparing to breach the subject of sleeping arrangements. “Or my mama, for that matter.”

  “Well, when you talk to your mother you can tell her you spent the evening with a gentleman. Come on, I’ll take you upstairs and show you your room and you can freshen up. I’ll meet you down here in the kitchen again whenever you’re ready.”

  The bedroom in which the young man deposited Ruby was bigger than her first apartment. He left her alone and she padded across the room to stare down through giant sliding doors at the large sprawling backyard. It was illuminated by bright moonlight but there were also small electric lights spotted around the property and she realized that the lighting had been cleverly designed not to be garish but to throw just enough light to make sure there was no place for anyone to hide.

  She locked the door and started rooting around in a large walk-in closet. It was filled with empty hangers, empty clothes racks, empty storage bins, but as she expected it had a few women’s garments in it and she found a woman’s robe with Oriental beading and brocade work. Next to it were hanging several pairs of ladies silk pajamas, two skirts and stacked above them were three bulky one-size-fits-all sweaters.

  All the articles of clothing still bore dry-cleaning tickets on them.

  Rafe’s a good bachelor, Ruby thought. Without making the place look like the storage room for a harem, he had a small conservative supply of clothing in case an unexpected, unprepared overnight female guest showed up.

/>   Like Ruby.

  She undressed and hung her clothes up in the closet and put on the brocaded robe, and then rummaged through a floor rack of women’s sneakers and slippers until she found a pair of slippers that fit. She took her small .32 caliber semi-automatic from under the false bottom in her pocketbook, and jammed it under the pile of sweaters. Then she turned off her cell phone, put it into a pocket of the robe, and walked downstairs to see how this evening would eventually play itself out.

  Rafe had switched into jeans and a sparkling white tee shirt and he was busy working at the electric Jenn-air grill in the kitchen. He was grilling fresh shrimp.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  Rafe never took his eyes off the shrimp. “Why don’t you go in the living room and pick out a movie to watch?”

  Ruby found the cabinet in the next room right away and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of it. Although she started flipping through the movies, she got distracted by the compact discs on the lower shelves. One handful of CDs in particular almost choked her up.

  “Rafe. Baby. I think you’ve got the entire Warren Zevon collection in here.”

  “You know Zevon?” Rafe called from the kitchen. “He was a true sage, best writer of our age. He understood.”

  “Yeah,” Ruby said. “He understood about death and how to face it.”

  “Uh-huh. With humor and bravado, and you got to…” When he said the words, “look death right in the eye,” Ruby, sitting in another room, mouthed the same words. She had never met anyone else who made that connection, who identified with Zevon’s work on as personal a level as she did.

  “So I see you have off center musical tastes,” Rafe said. “But have you picked a movie?”

  “Well, I see some surprises in here,” Ruby said. “Could you stand to sit through The Princess Bride?”

  “Excellent choice. I love Mandy Patinkin trying to play Spanish. My name is Inigo Montoya,” Rafe called, imitating Patinkin’s clownish accent. “You killed my father.”

  “Prepare to die!” Ruby shouted, and then fell back on the floor, shaking with laughter.