The Immortal Game

by Mike Miner

  Christ. Not now, Lonagan.

  Whitey needed him clean and sober. He decided to go explain this to Lonagan. He knew where the detective lived.

  Christopher was not sleeping well.

  Nightmares.

  But he no longer dreamed of monsters, under his bed or in the closet. Gone were the snakes and spiders and creepy crawly creatures of even six months ago.

  Now he dreamed of men. With guns. Dreamed of heads exploding, heads he knew, his Aunt Kat, his Uncle Whitey, his father, his mother.

  He woke screaming.

  His Aunt Kat would be there, with a hand on his head, fingers brushing through his hair. A soothing “Shh” on her lips.

  His tears shamed him. He wanted to be tough and brave like her, like his uncle, like his dad. Brave. But he was scared and knew if not for his Aunt Kat’s protection he would be dead.

  Like his Uncle Whitey.

  Nobody really talked about what happened. When asked, grown-ups looked sideways, avoided the question. A better place, his father said.

  “Heaven?” Christopher asked.

  His father would look away, and almost smile. “Not quite.”

  He was dreaming again. A man, a bad man, in black clothes was shaking him.

  No, it was Aunt Kat.

  “Hey, Christopher,” she said and stroked his cheek. “We gotta get up, buddy.”

  It was early. The dimmest of light through the bedroom window, the world just a sketch, an outline without colors.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “Where are we going?”

  “To see a man I know.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone who might help us.”

  Might? Christopher thought.

  She smiled at him. “You’ll like him. He used to have a boy your age.”

  He used to be a hero, she thought. He used to save people.

  18

  Lonny knew there was someone else in his apartment.

  Something was off, a scent, a sound.

  He drew his pistol.

  Strong hands squeezed around his other arm, like a vice around his wrist. Panic seized his insides just as hard.

  “Easy, Lonagan. It’s Whitey.” He let him go.

  “Motherfucker,” Lonny spat.

  He walked to the kitchen. A bottle of water in the fridge.

  “Just getting in?”

  “You got something to say, Whitey?”

  “I need you to hold it together.”

  Lonny closed his eyes and drank.

  Whitey studied him.

  Lonny wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Where would she go?”

  “How the fuck—”

  “You taught her, right? Taught her everything she knows. Where would she go?”

  “Out of the state. Out of the country. But the kid throws everything off.”

  “How?”

  “With the kid, you’re more vulnerable, slower, easier to spot.”

  “What the hell is she doing with that kid?”

  Whitey shook his head. “Hey, watch out for a guy. Blond hair. Blue eyes. They call him the German.”

  A face appeared to Lonny from the night before. “What about him?”

  “He works for Denatale. I caught him tailing me last night.”

  Lonny tried to put the face in context, but it would only float, isolated in the murk. “Does he have a scar right here?” Lonny touched the side of his face.

  Whitey nodded. “You too, huh?”

  A knock on the door.

  Whitey’s pistol was in his hand.

  Lonny quietly stepped to the door, looked through the peephole, thinking, please be Kelly, please be Kelly.

  Kat Scarlotti’s serious face stared back at him. Next to her, the boy, Christopher.

  Lonny leaned his head against the door,

  “What’s up?” Whitey whispered.

  “Put that piece away.”

  “What?”

  “Holster it.”

  Reluctantly, Whitey did as he was told.

  Lonny took a deep breath and opened the door.

  “Lonny, I need your—” she started to say then her jaw turned slack and useless.

  “Uncle Whitey?” Christopher’s eyes sprang wide, joy spreading over his entire face as he ran to him.

  Whitey spread his arms and picked the boy up in a bear hug. “Christ, look at the size of you.”

  “Everyone said you were dead.”

  “Ha!” Whitey said. “Man hasn’t been born who could put me down.”

  “Aunt Kat can you believe it?”

  “No,” she said. “I can’t.”

  She hadn’t moved a muscle.

  Christopher ran back to her and pulled her inside the apartment. Her eyes never left Whitey.

  “You’re a son of a bitch, William Scarlotti.”

  Lonny was poised. Ready to block an attack. Not sure who it would come from.

  “Me? I’m the bad guy?”

  “You were always the bad guy. Like the kid said, you were dead. But you weren’t, were you? You might have told your wife. The love of your life. Oh, but maybe you did. Maybe that’s not the same person.”

  “They wouldn’t let me contact anyone.”

  “Since when do you take orders?” she whispered, then shouted, “Since when?”

  Whitey looked at Christopher.

  The boy seemed utterly lost. Lonny knew how he felt.

  “Look what happened when you found me.”

  A sad smile as she shook her head. “You’re not just a son of a bitch. You’re a stupid son of a bitch, William Scarlotti.”

  “That girl didn’t deserve—”

  “You made that choice when you invited her into your life. And don’t you dare talk to me about deserve.”

  Whitey’s face turned red, then purple.

  “I wasn’t paid to hit her. The Denatale’s wanted you. If it wasn’t me, you’d be dead.”

  “You want I should thank you?”

  “You think you can just start over? Become someone new? You think you’re some kind of dirty saint that can still get into Heaven?”

  Whitey’s eyes burned. Maybe that was what he thought.

  “Put yourself in my position, Whitey. What would you have done? What would the old Whitey have done, the real Whitey? The killer. The man I loved.

  Whitey trembled with emotion.

  Kat came closer to him. “Do you remember what you taught me? Everyone is expendable.” Her eyes were shiny with tears. “Everyone but us. Remember? It was us against the world.”

  Whitey cleared his throat. “I remember.”

  A gunshot.

  Broken glass.

  Kat. In the chest.

  The speed of Whitey’s return shot, as fast as a cobra strike.

  Whitey glanced at Lonny, who realized, as if waking from a dream, that he had pushed Christopher to the floor and was covering him with his own body. Lonny nodded. “Go get him.”

  Whitey squatted next to Kat, took her hand. “Everyone but us,” he said and kissed her lips.

  Then he was out the screen door and over the railing.

  More gunshots.

  Lonny moved over to Kat. She knew what Lonny knew. She was acquainted with deadly wounds. He put a pillow over the hole in her chest. She hugged it.

  Christopher knelt next to her.

  “It’s okay, Aunt Kat. This is just one of my dreams. I’m gonna wake up any second.”

  A smile trembled on Kat’s lips. The expression in her eyes, a look Lonny knew so well; it was the look of breaking someone’s heart. She reached for Christopher, who took her hand, those deadly hands, which never touched anything so gently.

  Lonny clasped the boy’s neck. “Kiss her goodbye, Christopher.”

  A flash of gratitude on her face. “Take good care,” she whispered to Lonny, the blood filling her lungs. She coughed.

  “I will,” Lonny said.

  “Don’t trust her,” she said.

 
“Who?”

  “Tell Whitey….” Her eyes drifted.

  “I will,” Lonny said. “But he already knows.”

  The last breath shuddered out of her. Lonny watched her eyes as they froze on her nephew. Lonny couldn’t help but notice, she made a very pretty corpse.

  The German had seen a light go on. On the third floor. After the girl and the boy went in, the German climbed up the side of the building.

  Easy enough. Plenty of big brick blocks to hold onto.

  He moved slowly.

  At this hour, the street was quiet. A handful of pedestrians. None looking up.

  He pulled himself over the deck’s metal railing, fingers still cold even through his gloves.

  He watched the heated exchange of the Italian couple, the killers. He let her speak her piece.

  Aimed.

  Fired.

  A blur of movement, a blink, and the German’s shoulder exploded with pain. He went over the railing, caught the next floor’s railing, then dropped to the pavement, his ankle twisting. He limp-ran down the street.

  Above him, a sliding door opened with a splash of glass falling.

  A bullet missed him by an inch. Maybe less.

  The German lurched into an alley. Knew he had only moments to save himself.

  A poor unsuspecting fool, a man in a suit, an agent of the devil, was unlocking his car. A German sedan. He was still, frozen by the sound of the gun firing.

  The German raised his pistol. “The keys,” he said.

  The man dropped them on the seat.

  The German shot him in the head. The man nodded stupidly, as if he was in agreement with everything happening, then collapsed. The German slipped into the car and started the engine.

  Whitey saw him duck into the alley. He knew another route, and sprinted down a different alley, ran around an apartment building. Heard the crack of a bullet. One more poor bastard down.

  He emerged into the German’s alley. Saw the stockbroker or lawyer or accountant on the ground. Saw the German at the wheel, waiting.

  Whitey crept up to the car.

  Sirens in the distance.

  A woman came out of a door. She squinted at the man lying in the street, then at Whitey, pistol in hand, and she screamed.

  The German turned and saw Whitey. Punched the gas.

  Whitey opened fire. Two tires popped. The back window shattered. He emptied his clip. The car skidded on metal rims, turned the corner and sped away.

  The woman who had screamed remained frozen on the sidewalk like a scared statue.

  Whitey sighed. “Call the police,” he said.

  The German was easy for the police to spot, sparks flying from the metal rims grinding pavement. He saw the flashing lights in his rearview. One cruiser, then another.

  They were on a bridge.

  The German squeezed the steering wheel as he braked.

  When the first cruiser was even with him on his right, the German stomped the gas pedal and turned the wheel into the squad car. The cruiser jumped the Jersey barrier and punched a hole in the chain link fence, and then tumbled, nose first, onto the Mass Pike.

  The German swerved back onto the road and slammed on the brakes.

  In a blur he was out the passenger door, gun drawn, before the other cruiser had even stopped or realized he’d left.

  The officers opened their car doors, buzzing on adrenaline and fear, their heads full of curses to scream but mouths stuttering in rage and shock.

  Then the German came out of nowhere, like a bird of prey; and there were two more cop widows in Boston, three more orphans.

  Cars were piled on both sides of the bridge, plenty of witnesses to interview, a glorious confusion for the police to try and make sense of. The German grinned as he scaled the fence and leapt half a story to a courtyard below. The landing made him cry out. Then he vanished into the swarms of students crowding the campus of Boston University.

  He sent a text. “Finished with woman, pursuing child, sorry for mess.”

  Whitey remembered the last time he had spoken to his brother, face to face.

  “Sooner or later,” Whitey said, “Angelo will make his move.”

  “So let’s make ours.”

  Whitey shook his head. They were in Red’s office, what used to be their father’s office. Whitey liked that his brother was here, that his family was here. He needed to protect them. “Our move is, I turn state’s evidence.”

  “Go G?”

  Whitey nodded.

  “Doesn’t really seem like your style.”

  “Maybe it’s time to change my style. I’m not getting any younger.”

  Red looked at the chessboard between them and smiled a toothless smile. Lately, his brother’s game had gotten more conservative. They both knew this was the best plan, but neither wanted to do it. For one simple reason. They would miss each other. They knew how rare it was to have someone who knew you so completely. That’s not what wives were for.

  “And Kat?”

  “Nobody can know.”

  “You’ve already talked to the Feds.”

  It wasn’t a question. Whitey said nothing.

  “Things used to be a lot simpler, didn’t they?” Red said.

  Whitey shrugged. “We knew less. That didn’t make things simple.”

  “Yes, it did.”

  Yes it did, Whitey thought. He sat on a bench inside a small, gated playground across from Joe’s American Bar and Grille. The playscape and swings were crowded with kids, like ants on a dead animal. Nannies with strollers chatted while they supervised the mayhem. Whitey was filled with the typical envy adults have watching kids play. Whitey tried to imagine them grown up, picked out the bullies, the cowards, the sluts, the princesses.

  A man in a dark suit opened the gate, alone, no children. His brother. Red sat on the same bench as Whitey.

  “I’m sorry about Kat.”

  “Christopher is okay.”

  Red closed his eyes, Whitey knew, to force back the tears.

  “Where?”

  “With Lonagan.”

  Red nodded. “I thought maybe…. I remember Christopher loved this park.”

  “It’s not safe,” Whitey said.

  “Denatale?”

  Whitey nodded. “Who knew, Richard? About me?”

  “I knew. But I didn’t know everything, did I?”

  Whitey had to look away from his brother, back at the children. He tried to pick out the future adulterers. “You knew everything you needed to know.”

  Red nodded. “You were protecting me. Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” The lie died on his tongue. The hair on the back of Whitey’s neck tingled. He scanned the crowds for the well-dressed Vincent. Braced himself for the sound and feel of a bullet. Sweat beaded on his face.

  “I should have sent Kat up to kill you.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Are you dead?”

  “So who knew?”

  “The Feds.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Red smiled. A smile that had nothing to do with happiness.

  “Who?”

  “My wife.”

  Whitey sighed. “Things used to be a lot simpler.”

  Linda Scarlotti, the only addiction Whitey ever had. She was like China White heroin. He was hooked after the first taste. Like any junky, he couldn’t get enough, would take silly chances just for an hour alone with her. With Kat, everything was rough and hard. With Linda, it was soft and easy. Linda was the yin to Kat’s yang. Just thinking about her could make him shudder with withdrawal as he pictured her long, lean, freckled body, the beautiful, quivering paleness of her.

  “Do you ever wish it was you?”

  He had to concentrate to hear what she said when she was naked. “What?”

  She dragged her index finger down his chest. “Running things. Do you ever wish it was you?”

  “Never.”

  It was the last question she ever asked him. She had left in a hurry, her li
ps like sharp icicles as she kissed him goodbye.

  After she was gone, he was afraid. Afraid of what she might make him do, what he might be willing to do if she withheld herself from him.

  That was when he came up with his plan. He needed to go away, forever.

  19

  Vilma lived near Northeastern, in the Fens off Huntington Avenue. She was a professor of Latin America studies. Lonny had never been to her home before, but she had described it enough times to make it easy for him to find.

  In a daze Christopher followed as Lonny knocked on her door.

  The sound of her footsteps inside. “Hold on,” her voice called. More footsteps and the door opened.

  “Dylan?” She sounded more curious than surprised. Vilma had been through enough not to let an unexpected visit from a friend distress her. “Come by for a game?”

  “I wish.”

  “Who is this?” Christopher said from behind Lonny.

  She squinted at the boy. “Ah, y que es esto? Como te llamas, chico?”

  “Christopher, this is Vilma. Vilma, Christopher. Christopher Scarlotti.”

  The last name caused her eyes to widen. She appeared to be doing some calculations in her head. “How long?”

  Lonny sighed. “A day? Give or take.”

  “Please come in, you two.”

  “I need to use the bathroom,” Christopher said.

  “At the end of the hall my little amigo.”

  When the bathroom door shut, Vilma said, “The boy is in danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are in danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “How exciting.”

  “I’m sorry to put you in this position, Vilma.”

  She smiled, then she looked concerned. “How was your fall?”

  “Come again?”

  “Off the wagon?”

  Lonny looked away from her. “Hard.”

  She nodded. “Esta bien, amigo. Not today and not tomorrow. Okay?”

  He swallowed. “Okay.”

  The toilet flushed.

  “And Vilma?”

  “Si?”

  “The boy has been through some awful things today.”

  She grimaced. “I understand. You be careful.”

  Christopher came out of the bathroom. His eye caught the wooden chess set on the kitchen table. The pieces reminded Lonny of the Easter Island statues or totem pole faces.