by Mike Miner
Whitey took a small sip. A look of fond remembrance washed over his face. He took another sip. “Christ, I missed this stuff.”
“Was it Kat?”
“Why are the cops in my apartment?”
Lonny held up four fingers. “Four of Denatale’s men.”
“Kat?”
“She split.”
“We need to talk to Hoss.”
“I need to talk to your brother. Who’s Hoss?”
“The doorman. Hassan.”
No forced entry, Lonny remembered.
“Why do you need to talk to Red?”
“Christopher was there. He’s been missing.”
“My nephew?” Whitey covered his face with a hand. He shook his head slowly back and forth, eyes closed. “That’s why you’re in on this.”
“Yes.” Lonny stood.
“Okay, I’ll find you later.”
“Any message for your brother?”
“I’ll deliver it myself.”
13
The German was watching. His blue eyes clocked every detail of these two men. Perhaps they could lead him to her. The one man was obviously police. Either now or in a past life. Maybe he was private. The other was not what he appeared. The clothes he wore, the bandana, these were affectations. He moved like a soldier, head on a swivel. The German realized he would not be able to follow this man too closely, for if he saw the German’s face, he would not forget it.
There was a blankness to this tall man’s eyes, a hardness that the German recognized. This man had seen how bad things could be, and so spent most of his time observing the world with dull recognition. Only rarely would those eyes go wide, as they just had, and only when faced with true beauty or true horror.
The man was a killer. It took one to know one.
The policeman left first.
The German decided to stay with the other man. He risked stopping across the street for a moment; the lights in the shop would make looking out through the front window difficult.
The man sipped his coffee. The German watched, jealously, from the cold sidewalk, in a heavy winter coat and wool cap.
Something changed in the tall man’s face. A softness crept into his eyes. What? A memory, a regret? What warms your cold heart, he wanted to ask.
But then the man’s eyes shifted focus. Looked out the front window.
The German had lingered too long.
The man had registered the still shape in the window. He stood.
The German ran, dashed down an alley, over a fence.
He would have to be careful with this one.
He twisted his route, doubled back, slowed to a walk, got his breathing under control. He stepped onto Prince Street when he heard a heavy step behind him.
“Nice night for a stroll.”
The German paused. A smile on his face as he turned slowly toward the voice, the man from the coffee shop. The killer. A deep voice, ragged, and just a bit playful. The man knew what he was playing, who he was playing with. The German could see the tension in him, an echo of his own. Both men poised, ready for a sudden move.
Their eyes met, eyes that had seen a lot of people die in front of them.
“Yes, it is,” the German said.
Now is not the time, their eyes said, but both men felt the chilly knowledge that the time would come. Soon.
They both smiled. With anticipation? Curious to find out who the best was, but willing to wait.
14
“Let me get this straight,” Red Scarlotti said. “There are four dead men in Kat’s apartment right now? Denatale’s men?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s an act of war.”
Red’s hands were fists, his eyes and mouth thin slashes on his face.
Linda Scarlotti was pale. Her eyes never left Lonny’s face. She knew there was something else. “Dylan, tell us what you came to tell us.”
Red’s face was a mixture of rage and confusion. “What else?”
Lonny cleared his throat. “There were signs that a young boy had been staying at Kat’s.”
Linda’s hands trembled, her eyes shiny with tears. “Is he OK?”
Lonny held up both hands. “There’s nothing to indicate that anything happened to him.”
Linda sighed.
“I don’t understand,” Red said.
“Neither do I,” Lonny said. “Neither of you knew about this?”
Both just stared at him.
Lonny’s head hurt from the effort of trying to connect these dots. He felt like a man juggling chainsaws, not sure where he needed to grab.
Red looked ready to explode. Lonny thought of Napoleon or Hannibal, a general with his army cornered, trying to decide the proper course of action.
Linda’s voice fluttered out of her pretty mouth. “What do we do?”
“We find Kat. We find your son. Mr. Scarlotti, if anything changes, I’ll be in touch. Keep me in the loop on your end. And think about this—” Lonny waited for Red to look at him. “You can’t go toe to toe until your son is out of the line of fire. The old man knows that. So watch yourself.”
Reluctantly, Red nodded.
Linda walked Lonny out. “You don’t think Kat would….”
“I don’t think Kat would harm a hair on that boy’s head.”
“But she’s a killer, just like her husband.”
“Look what she did to the men who threatened your boy.”
“I think she’s come unhinged.”
Lonny thought of the woman who had made him breakfast years ago. Was he letting that small act of kindness cloud his judgment? He had glimpsed a rarely seen side of her.
Linda took Lonny’s hand in hers. “Find them. Bring my Christopher back to me.”
Lonny nodded, but in his head it was another boy he saw, another woman asking him to do the rescuing.
She seemed to sense his pain. “What was his name?”
Lonny looked at his feet. “Ryan.”
She touched his cheek, lifted his face. Her eyes were filled with tenderness. Lonny tried to remember the last time a woman had looked at him like this, touched him like this. His son’s face rose up before him instead, and Lonny wondered for the millionth time, what his son’s face looked like before he died. Had those innocent, sky blue eyes witnessed how horrible the world could be before they shut forever?
She was saying, He’s upstairs putting a war party together. Be my soldier, my avenging angel. Find him. Save him. Please.
Her lips on his cheek nearly knocked him over.
The first sip is like a first kiss, tender, tentative, sweet, like falling in love.
The first drink is like popping your cherry, fast and fun and over too quickly, no matter how you try to savor it. Leaves you thirsty for more.
So you have more.
Then the night turns into a child’s finger-painting.
It was not exactly like riding a bicycle for Lonny. More like riding a bicycle with no hands. He stumbled from bar to bar, as if riding downhill, pulled by some force, in and out of those seedy dives.
The German observed all of this with curiosity.
Every man has his breaking point. He had seen it many times. Every man handles it differently. The German’s impression was that this man had been broken before but he suspected this man might still rise up, might still prove dangerous.
The German did not want to underestimate him.
The bartender would not serve Lonny. Well, he would serve him water.
Lonny could not understand why. “How long have we known each other, Joe?”
The bartender looked at his watch. “Five minutes.”
“What are you talking about, Joe?” Lonny spoke as if someone were squeezing his cheeks together. “We go way back.”
“My name’s not Joe.”
“Man, you’ve changed. You used to have magic in those bottles.”
“Let me call you a cab, buddy.”
“That’s okay.” Lonny’s shoulders
slumped. “I live just around the corner.” He held his face in his hands. “The old lady will not be happy with me.”
The bartender nodded. “Well, go face the music. The sooner the better.”
Lonny nodded. Knocked on the bar. “Thanks, Joe. You still got it.” Lonny fell off his barstool.
A blond man with icy blue eyes helped him up.
Kelly knew who it was ringing her buzzer. Knew what condition he would be in. Another buzz. Black out drunk. He’d had a good run lately too. Years. She considered ignoring him, but she had to confess: she did not want to be alone tonight. Even if that meant being with the man who had ruined her life. It was comforting being with someone who understood her pain, who had been burned by the same fire, even if he had lit the match.
“Come up, Lonny.” She buzzed him in.
Lonny’s feet stumbled and his voice echoed towards her apartment door. “Salt of the earth,” he said. “You’ll never meet a finer woman.”
She rolled her eyes and opened her door.
There was a man with him, basically carrying him up the steps. Lonny’s arm was around his neck.
“Honey, sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bear.”
All sorts of witty replies came to her but she was reluctant to carve up her ex in front of this stranger, who stopped and, with two hands, held Lonny at the threshold of her apartment. He nodded to her.
He was handsome in a generic, Brooks Brothers model sort of way. “Ma’am,” he said quietly as he let Lonny go.
Lonny teetered, as if his feet were trapped in cement. Kelly caught him in one arm, a familiar act.
“Thanks, mister.”
He nodded. She didn’t like the way his eyes seemed to be everywhere. “He spoke very highly of you.”
“I’ll bet he did.” She backed away. “Thanks for getting him home in one piece.”
“My pleasure.”
His eyes were like polished steel and his gaze made her shiver. Those eyes stayed on her until she shut the door.
Lonny shuffled into the apartment, their old apartment. He took off his coat and put it where the coat rack used to be. It fell to the floor.
“Is the kid asleep?” he whispered.
She froze. Eyes wide and mouth stricken.
Lonny sat on the couch, slipped off his shoes. Just like the old days.
“You are a sight for sore eyes, darling. I had me a day.”
She wiped at her tears. Could he really be that drunk? Could booze bring their child back to life, their marriage?
“There are some terrible people in this world, my dear, and it’s my job….”
“To put them away,” she said softly, remembering him saying it a thousand times.
“Huh?”
“It’s your job to put them away,” she repeated. “Somebody’s gotta clean up our fair city.”
Lonny smiled. “Keep it safe.”
“For the kids,” they both whispered at the same time.
The tears had reached her mouth and she tasted the salt. Shut up, she thought, please shut up. But God, let’s pretend, just for tonight. The loneliness of her life was like a burning building she didn’t want to go into. Not tonight. Not alone.
She stood in front of Lonny. “Did you miss me?”
She pulled off her top.
Lonny squinted up at her, mouth and eyes crooked. She tried to picture her old Dylan. Her sweet Dylan. Her Saint Dylan, she used to call him when he worked too hard.
“You have no idea.” He was up, and almost fell but she guided him.
His cold hands turned her skin to goose flesh. She tore his shirt off, and her raised nipples grazed his bare chest
“It’s been too long,” he said.
She kissed his gasoline breath, hungry for the heat there.
It took a while to get him ready for her. She writhed on top of him, his fingers explored, squeezed. She ground against him as her hands clawed his chest. Too long since she felt this. She moved faster. Then faster. Her breathing, short gasps as she rocked herself to that sweet, quivering place, and she screamed as every inch of her shook.
Then she opened her eyes to meet Dylan’s dead, drunk eyes. Eyes that would remember none of this. Eyes that, right now, didn’t remember the disappearance of their child. And when he did, he’d try to chase those memories away with a bottle of whiskey.
He was out cold in seconds.
She cried herself to sleep on his chest.
15
In the streets, the war began.
Messengers from both the Scarlotti and Denatale families had been sent to Providence, to obtain permission to kill the other’s boss.
In a restaurant in Federal Hill, old men listened to conflicting positions. The old men sighed and sipped their espressos or their Sambucas.
The messengers waited.
The old men had seen these things before, these blood feuds. Better to end it quickly.
The oldest patriarch there finally cleared his throat and told the messengers, the families had one week to sort this out. After that, it would be sorted out for them.
So it began.
One of Red’s biggest earners was gunned down in the front room of La Famiglia. Early the next morning, a child found three dead drug dealers in the playground across from Joe’s American Bar and Grill.
The North End was turning into the Wild West, and Hanover Street became the Mason Dixon line. Scarlotti controlled the south, Denatale the north.
Angelo’s son explained all of this to his father, who only nodded.
“What does the German have to say?”
The younger Denatale grinned. “Apparently Red hired a private investigator.”
Angelo’s brow wrinkled. “What for?”
“To find his son.”
“Who took him?”
“PI thinks Kat’s got him.”
Angelo made a noise with his lips. “What’s that dame up to?”
16
The boy was making Kat nervous.
Christopher wanted to talk to his parents. He was worried about them. She was not used to this. Protection was not her thing. Offense not defense was her thing. This kid was a liability, made her weaker, slower. But she’d made up her mind. Nothing was going to happen to this child. Not while she was alive.
The idea of being hunted unnerved the huntress.
She was in one of her safe houses, an apartment in Chestnut Hill. Just a few miles away, but it felt like a different planet here. A world of brick mansions and luxury shopping, Range Rovers, men in suits, women with stiff jaws and perfect hair. A place where people didn’t look at faces, just clothes and cars.
Kat tried to visualize an end game she could live with.
Her best-case scenarios involved a lot of dead bodies. Her worst-case scenario included hers, too. She refused to imagine anything happening to Christopher.
“Do you think my parents are okay?”
“I know they are.”
“How?”
“People like your parents, something happens to them, it makes the news.”
So they watched the news.
Bad idea.
“Hey, that guy was at my birthday party. Remember?”
The title of the segment was “Mob War?” Kat winced when the reporter said, “Scarlotti crime family.”
War, Kat thought sadly. And I’m on babysitting duty. The segment ended. “See,” she said. “Mom and Dad are okay.”
Christopher shot Kat a skeptical look.
Kat remembered hearing about her father. From her mother. He was a son of a bitch, but it had still rocked her world. In her imagination, it had always been Kat who did the deed, to protect her mother. Kat knew how something like that could affect a kid. She didn’t want that for Christopher.
17
She was gone when Lonny woke up. The day hit him like a knee to the groin.
His head was full of exclamations, his hangover a swarm of hornets buzzing every inch of him. Naked, he lurched pathetically to th
e bathroom and vomited his soul into the toilet. The cool of the porcelain was the only mercy granted.
Pathetic.
He stared at the guilty face in the mirror.
Wretched.
It took all his strength not to take a swing.
He dressed, trying to remember more than a glimpse of his ex-wife’s kindnesses last night, but it was all fleeting.
He went home, head buzzing, conscience throbbing, partly over last night but mostly over the still missing boy. Christopher needed rescuing. Lonny couldn’t save himself.
His German shadow followed.
He had received his instructions.
Find the boy. Kill the girl.
Boy alive. Girl dead.
The German was not a kidnapper and was not happy. He did not enjoy having to be careful. But he understood the usefulness of a captive.
A thought occurred to him. A plan. A means of applying pressure. If needed, he thought. Let’s see where this man takes us first.
It was early and cold. The detective pulled his jacket tight as he walked through the empty cobblestone streets of Quincy Market. Just a handful of cars as he crossed to Government Center and climbed the steps next to it. The German followed him into a T station and descended a steep staircase to the tracks. There were only three or four other people waiting for a train. The German sat and glanced around. But not at the man he was following until a train arrived and they both got on.
The detective got off at Kenmore Square.
He walked past Fenway Park and cut through a large parking lot to get to Audobon Circle, an apartment just off Beacon Street.
The German trailed a safe distance, but clearly the detective had other things on his mind. Several times, he had to stop to cough and spit something to the ground.
The detective looked cold and weak, ashamed. Vulnerable. The German wondered if this drunk would be of any use to him.
Then he saw something he couldn’t believe.
There were a few people in the North End who knew Whitey was still alive. They told him about Lonagan.
