The Immortal Game

by Mike Miner

  “You’ve got more resources than the average man. Who is running that? Your man who brought me here?”

  “Vincent. Yes.”

  “I’ll need to hear what he’s found out, where your people have looked, who they’ve talked to.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going to walk your son’s path to school. Then I’m going to get this to a lab. Then I may go to Ludlow.”

  “You think they’re related?”

  “A strange coincidence if they’re not. I’d like to talk to your wife tomorrow morning. Here’s my card. Call with anything.”

  Red tried to speak but had to clear his throat. “Should we be concerned that there is no ransom note?”

  “Yes. But be ready for one. And if it comes, be very concerned.”

  As he stood, Lonny noticed a chess set in the corner. It was in mid game. “Are you black or white?”

  “Black,” Red said. “In both games.”

  Lonny saw another board on the other side of Red’s desk.

  “Vincent has your retainer. If it isn’t sufficient….”

  “It will be.” Lonny was studying both boards. “You’ve lost your queen in this game.”

  “We’ll see if it works.”

  5

  Christopher was pretty sure he had the board set up exactly like the board in his father’s office. Why had his father let him take his queen? A trap. Had to be.

  He stood and walked around the table, looking for the danger. Was it too late? He didn’t see an immediate threat but that wasn’t his dad’s style. He tried to see two or three moves down the road. That was the trick, his father was fond of saying. Don’t know the next move, know the next ten moves.

  Christopher sighed and closed his eyes, the chess pieces still in his brain. He stretched and looked around the room. It wasn’t so bad. He remembered the last few times this had happened. He understood that sometimes his father was in danger, which meant that Christopher might be in danger too.

  “A bad person might hurt me?” he had asked his father.

  “I will never let anyone hurt you.” His father pointed to the chessboard. “See the soldiers in the front row?”

  He nodded.

  “They are protecting the pieces in back.”

  “Like Uncle Whitey and Aunt Kat?”

  “They are like our bishops and our knights.”

  Danger was just a fact of life in the Scarlotti family. His mother didn’t like it. Christopher could tell. Christopher felt a little less safe now that his Uncle Whitey was dead. But he knew, in the way children know things without fully understanding them, that his father was now the most dangerous man in Boston. Of course it helped that his Aunt Kat was the most dangerous person in Boston.

  And she was looking after him.

  Christopher thought he might see his father’s plan. The king. It was easy to forget how dangerous the king could be, even when cornered.

  6

  Whitey had a lot of questions buzzing in his head. One loomed larger than the others.

  Were his wife’s actions business or personal?

  He wasn’t sure which was worse. He could understand personal. Could maybe even forgive it. If someone had hired her, who? Not many candidates.

  Had she hit the right target?

  From where she’d fired, she could have been aiming at either of them. A game of inches. It would have been a tough shot. But if she wanted the girl, why let her go in the house?

  To send a message.

  So even if it was business, it was personal.

  Whitey met his wife in church. Hard to believe now. Saint Leonard’s on Hanover. He almost always attended the 8:30 mass on Sundays. Mostly Whitey and a bunch of gray-haired women, a few families, a few old gangsters trying to save their souls.

  Whitey knew his soul was a lost cause, but wasn’t Jesus a lost cause? He liked the idea of church, of prayer, of salvation. He would sometimes imagine himself as the good thief.

  Kat, just a nameless stranger, came slightly late that morning, just after the procession. She sat at the opposite end of Whitey’s pew, towards the back of the church. Dressed simply, she wore a black skirt down to her knees, a short sleeved blue sweater. Her skin was olive, her limbs slender and lithe. At the sign of peace, they met halfway in the pew, the church a whisper of blessings.

  Brown eyes, high cheeks, a smile that belonged in an old black and white movie. “Peace be with you,” she said, offering a warm hand.

  Disarmed, he could only stammer, “Peace.”

  Whitey’s prayers turned from his soul to the chance that the woman might return next Sunday.

  Whitey did not take communion. Neither did she.

  After mass, she gave him a tiny nod and a flash of teeth before genuflecting on her way out.

  She was there again the next week. In the same pew when Whitey arrived and sat in his same spot.

  Pants this time, and a blue oxford shirt. Her dark hair up and curled. Her exposed neck, for some reason, fascinated him.

  He knelt. Whitey’s prayers were informal, more like a conversation, in which God of course knew Whitey’s thoughts, his sins, his desires. Whitey was grateful. He sat back and chanced a look at her. She returned a smile, mouthed, “Hello.”

  He felt like he was in fourth grade again, making eyes at Kelly Toomey, whose father would later forbid her from talking to Whitey.

  When they exchanged the sign of peace this time, she pressed his hand a bit harder, maybe lingered a moment. Her voice was deeper than he remembered, kind of smoky.

  On the way out, he got stuck talking to Father Silva and lost sight of her. It was raining outside. Whitey pulled up the collar of his trenchcoat as he walked through the sanctuary. A black umbrella blocked his way.

  She tilted it back, smiling. “Where you headed?”

  “Thought I’d get a coffee at Maria’s.”

  “Want to share an umbrella?”

  “Sure.”

  She lifted the umbrella over his head and stepped next to him, their shoulders touching.

  “Here,” he took the handle from her and held it over both of them.

  She put her arm around him as they walked the stone path between the statues of saints. She giggled. He smiled. He did not recognize her scent. The women he knew didn’t wear it. She smelled faintly of roses and baby powder.

  It was only a few blocks to Maria’s Bakery. Whitey went there every Sunday. They sat at a little table near the front window and ordered coffee: espresso for him, cappuccino for her. The smell of brewing coffee and flour and sugar mixed with the rain and the new smell of this girl. Whitey closed his eyes for a moment picking the details out of the air. Then he watched the way she drank.

  Something jumpy in her eyes. Was she nervous? Did she know who he was? He sighed. Maybe this is what it was like for regular folks. The nine-to-five crowd, the shop owners, the salt of the earth. What might have been, he thought. He decided to savor this innocence for as long as he could.

  “My name’s Katherine,” she said and there was a sudden hardness in her expression, an unexpected sharp edge.

  “I’m William.”

  She nodded. “I know.” She said it like she knew more than his name, like she knew the combinations to every hidden vault in his head. “You’re Whitey Scarlotti.”

  He couldn’t speak. He watched, fascinated, as her eyes turned to thin slits and a beautiful cruelty bloomed on her face.

  “You hear a lot of things about Whitey Scarlotti in the North End.” Her voice was a seductive whisper. “I hear you knew my father, John Sarno.”

  He did. It took everything he had to keep his expression frozen.

  She flashed that killer smile of hers, showed her saber teeth. She leaned forward. “I heard you killed him,” she purred, her voice, a secret whispered in his ear.

  He stood on shaky legs, certain that she was here to murder him. Sure that she would pull a tiny gun, something dainty and deadly, out of her purse. Whitey knew how to
spot an assassin. He spotted one every time he looked in the mirror.

  He threw some money on the table.

  Katherine chuckled. She could do more damage with her eyes than most people could do with a knife. “Whitey Scarlotti, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  She was still laughing when he opened the door and walked outside. Her laughter mixed with the noises in his head: the screams of her father; it had taken a long time, a lot of tears, a lot of begging. “I have a daughter,” Whitey remembered him saying. “Don’t do this to her.” Whitey believed those were his last words.

  “Who’s the girl?” his brother, Red, asked him later in the week.

  They were in their father’s house, in his study, sitting across from each other, a chess game between them.

  “What girl?” Whitey said, studying the board, looking for a point of attack.

  Red chuckled. “This is a small neighborhood, bro. You think those old ladies you go to mass with aren’t all yapping about seeing you with the same girl two weeks in a row?”

  Whitey exhaled and took Red’s rook with his bishop.

  “Hey, I don’t care, man,” Red said. “You don’t want to talk about it, we can talk about something else, like watch yourself.” Red picked up his knight and scanned the board, calculating, always calculating with that big brain of his. “Checkmate.”

  “Dammit.”

  “We’re in a territory dispute with the Denatales. Maybe it’s not the best time for distractions.”

  Whitey was still looking at the board. Wondering where he went wrong.

  “You’re too aggressive. You can’t play offense all the time.”

  “Look, she’s nobody. There’s nothing to talk about.”

  Red squinted at his brother, cocked his head. The same look his father used on people he didn’t believe. “I hope so, brother. Another game?”

  “Fuck off.”

  The dainty steps of Red’s wife walking into the room. Whitey smelled her familiar perfume. He avoided looking at her eyes, like you avoid looking at the sun.

  “William Scarlotti, what’s this I hear? You got yourself a girl?”

  This is what I get for going to church, he thought, and knew his face was turning scarlet.

  She came to church the next week.

  He was kneeling, and maybe sneaking a few glances toward the back. Out of the corner of his eye he sensed her, same pew, same spot, she crossed herself and knelt.

  He fought the powerful urge to look at her, knew all the old ladies were watching, Mrs. Aiello, Mrs. Londino, old Mama Saienni, just praying for some gossip. When he did finally risk a glance, Katherine caught him, and winked at him.

  He shook his head, gritted his teeth. What was with this broad?

  He wasn’t going to offer her the sign of peace, would just stay where he was. But she walked all the way across the pew, grinning the whole time. What was he supposed to do? They shook. “Peace be with you, William,” she said. Her eyebrow arched. A question? A taunt? He smiled tightly. He had to admit, he enjoyed watching her walk back to the other side. When he turned toward the altar, all the old ladies were beaming at them.

  Whitey looked up at the fans on the ceiling.

  When the mass was over, Katherine left in a hurry.

  Whitey was relieved, but curious. What gives?

  He was distracted on the way to Maria’s. Didn’t notice the shadows following him, the shadows in dark suits, packing heat, clocking Whitey’s movements.

  She found him at his usual table. His usual double espresso in front of him. When she sat across from him, Whitey couldn’t help but notice the shit-eating grins on the girls behind the counter.

  He looked up at her. Hers was a hard face to read. A good poker player, no doubt.

  “Did he suffer?”

  Whitey took a sip of espresso, put down the cup, trying his best not to look rattled. He adopted the manner he used in police interrogation rooms. He had plenty of experience. “You got the wrong guy.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Maria placed a cappuccino in front of Katherine and a plate of biscotti. Nobody had ordered anything. “Eat,” she said. “Both too skinny.”

  After Maria walked away, he said, “I don’t know what game you think you’re playing….”

  “No game.” She tasted her drink. Rubbed a spot of foam from her nose. “I just hope he did suffer. He was a son of a bitch. And he had it coming.”

  She dunked a biscotti. Took a bite. Looked at Whitey.

  “You are too skinny,” he said.

  Her eyes widened.

  “You know Felicia’s down the street?”

  “Everybody knows Felicia’s.”

  “Maybe I buy you a meal.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. Eight?”

  “Maybe I’ll be there,” she said.

  He was too busy watching her leave to notice the wise guy across the street taking notes with his eyes.

  Felicia’s was on Hanover, up a flight of stairs. You walked past pictures of celebrities eating there. Sinatra, Bob Hope, Roger Clemens.

  She kept him waiting a half hour.

  They started with red wine and clams casino.

  She grew up in Brighton, went to college at Suffolk. Her mom passed away two years ago. Cancer.

  “Tough break,” Whitey said.

  “That’s the way the cookie crumbles,” she said. Her eyes were not looking for sympathy.

  “Tough not having family around.”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

  He wanted to apologize. Almost said the words.

  She shook her head. “No apologies, Whitey. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to get out of here.”

  *

  He was nervous. Self-conscious. He wanted to impress her. Hadn’t felt that way in a long time. He didn’t say much when they got to his place, as she explored his Spartan apartment. He watched her drag her finger along his leather couch, inspect the few pictures on the walls, mostly black and whites of his family. She asked who they were and he told her the truth. She nodded.

  “Nice,” she finally said. “Simple.”

  “I bought it for the view,” he said and opened the curtains to reveal Boston Harbor.

  “That’s worth the price of admission.”

  Watching her, framed by the scene and reflected in it, his breath caught, he would always look back at that as the moment he fell for her.

  “Come here,” she said.

  She tasted like the good red wine they had with dinner; he nibbled her earlobes and was rewarded with groans. She pushed him against the glass door and pressed into him, her breath rushing against his face, his neck, her hands feeling down his chest, his stomach, tugging his belt.

  They started on the couch, their pale reflections danced and writhed among the boat lights in the glass.

  Her body was like a gift he was unworthy of but still greedily devoured; she was wiry and supple and demanding. Eventually they made it to the bedroom and got down to serious business. She kept asking for more. He provided it.

  To break into an apartment with a good security system is not rocket science. All one requires is money and an inside man to pay off.

  In Whitey’s apartment building, that man was Hassan, known as Hoss by most of the tenants. Whitey knew the secret to breaking and entering, and he knew Hoss would be approached some day by hard men offering hard cash. Hoss had strict instructions of what to do. Hold out for as much money as possible, then provide them access. All Hoss had to do was give Whitey the signal. Let his home phone ring three times, wait thirty seconds, then let it ring once more. The rest was up to Whitey.

  His home phone had never rung before that night. Whitey paused.

  “If you answer that phone….”

  It was the signal. Whitey shifted her toward the nightstand, where he kept his .38 with the silencer.

  Two of them.
The two that had been tailing him all day. They used the key Hoss had provided. Guns drawn, they slunk into Whitey’s apartment. He was still with the woman. Excellent. She was not quiet. Silently, the two men shared lascivious grins. One pointed toward the noise. The other man nodded and they tiptoed single file down the hall.

  The bedroom door was shut. Damn.

  But Whitey clearly had his hands full. The first man held up three fingers. Then two. One.

  Whitey’s hands were full. He caught the first man between the eyes, the second in the chest, like target practice.

  Kat’s head hung off the bed upside down, her hair brushing the floor. She looked back up at Whitey, who made to separate from her. She squeezed her legs around him.

  “Don’t go without finishing.”

  Whitey let his pistol fall to the floor. He knew at that moment, that this girl was trouble. He couldn’t have cared less.

  7

  Lonny arranged for his Uncle Tom to set up a meeting with the Chief of Police of Ludlow, Vermont, Herb Eddie.

  Ludlow, at the base of Mount Okemo, had prospered from the ski boom, and this time of year out-of-state plates outnumbered local ones. Lonny’s grandmother had been born and raised there with his uncles, Tom and Jack.

  Chief Eddie had a house on Lake Rescue, right next to his Uncle’s spread. Lonny had known Herb since he was about two years old.

  “Christ, Dylan Lonagan, nice as hell to see you.”

  They shook hands. Herb’s office was small and messy but charming, just like the chief.

  “Tom said you might stop by. What’s up?”

  Lonny couldn’t help but smile. “Well, Chief—”

  “Son, you call me Herb, dammit.”

  “Well, Herb, it’s about that mess you had a few days ago.”

  Herb nodded. “Uh-huh. I kinda figured. Mind shutting the door, partner?”

  Lonny pulled it shut.

  Herb rubbed a hand down his face. “Biggest thing to happen in this little town since who knows when.”

  “How goes the investigation?”