The Immortal Game

by Mike Miner

  “Do you play, Christopher?” Vilma asked.

  The boy touched one of the pawns and nodded.

  “Then we will get along just fine.”

  “Christopher,” Lonny said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Christopher looked nervously at Lonny. “Does she have a gun?”

  She chuckled. “Vilma does not need guns to scare people off.”

  Christopher looked skeptical.

  20

  Kelly thought about calling him all day. What would she say? She wasn’t sure how she felt about what had happened last night. Hadn’t realized how hungry she was for human contact, for intimacy.

  It had stirred up memories, good and bad.

  Still, wasn’t that better than the numbness her life had become? A daily avoidance of feeling. Wasn’t that what Dylan’s drinking was about, numbness? We all chased our demons away, however we could.

  She opened the door to her apartment building, stopped at the mailbox, while an inner debate raged over whether to call him. A list of the things she missed did battle with the list of the things she didn’t. Dylan Thomas Lonagan was a coin and you never knew which side he would land on, Jekyll or Hyde.

  In her apartment, she set the mail on the dining room table, flipped on the light, and froze.

  A man was sitting in her leather chair.

  She screamed.

  He held a silver handgun in his right hand, and casually pointed it at her. He put a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

  She recognized him. The blond man from the night before, with Dylan. He looked a bit like the new James Bond actor. In this light his eyes appeared colorless, his expression blank, cruel, comfortably numb.

  She was having trouble breathing. “What? What do you want?”

  He blinked and said, “I want you to call Dylan Lonagan.”

  An accent. German?

  Lonny was in the Boston Commons, near the swan boats, when his cell buzzed. He recognized her number.

  “I was kind of hoping you’d call,” he said.

  “Dylan, I don’t know what’s happening.”

  The panic in her voice was like fingers around his heart.

  “What is it?” He knew, but hoped he was wrong.

  At first, he thought he lost the connection. No, she was crying, or trying very hard not to. “There’s a man. With a gun.”

  Lonny stopped walking. “Where are you?”

  “Ah, Herr Lonagan,” a new voice said. The German. The ice in his voice made Lonny shiver. “Never mind about where we are.”

  “What do you want?”

  “The boy.”

  “A trade?”

  “A fair trade, no?”

  “Where?”

  “Quincy Market. The north steps.”

  “When?”

  “One hour.”

  “What if—”

  “Enough. You know the answers to these questions. Bring the boy to the north steps. Leave him. The woman will be at the south steps. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Keep your phone close. You will receive instructions.”

  *

  The German put her phone in his pocket and sighed. He did not enjoy involving civilians in his work. Too unpredictable. He stood.

  “You heard?”

  The woman nodded. Beneath the fatigue and the fear she was quite beautiful.

  “Do what you are told and everything will be fine for you and Dylan.”

  “Who is the boy?”

  The German punched her, hard, in the stomach. She crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath.

  “The boy does not concern you. You will ask no questions. You will do as you are told. Understand?”

  The woman nodded and wept.

  So beautiful. Such a waste.

  “Sit, please.”

  She did it quickly, like a well-trained dog, eager to please.

  The German nodded in approval. He lifted a case and opened it. His long-range rifle. A DSR-50. He had never missed with it. He quickly checked all the parts, made sure he had his .50 caliber bullets. Then he closed and latched the case. As always, he felt comforted by the sight of the well-oiled machine.

  The boy would not be there. The German understood this. A clean shot at Lonagan was all he wanted. Perhaps the Italian would be there as well. Then this woman, unfortunate, but necessary. No loose ends.

  Then the German could locate the boy. With no interference.

  *

  Whitey answered on the first ring.

  “Trouble?” he said.

  “The German,” Lonny said. “He has my wife.”

  Whitey absorbed this, then said, “And he wants to trade.”

  “Yes. For the boy.”

  “He can’t have the boy.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good. Where’s the meet?”

  “Quincy Market. The north steps.” Lonny rubbed his face, tried to control the panic buzzing at the back of his brain.

  “Where does she live?”

  “Beacon Hill.”

  “Okay. We’ve got time.”

  “For what?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Northeastern.”

  Whitey’s heart surged as he explained how to proceed. The life of a hero, he thought. Someone needed saving and Lonagan had called Whitey.

  The German and Kelly walked from her apartment. It was a frigid day. The wind bit at the tears in her eyes.

  There was no talking. They both knew the way.

  The German kept his hands in his pockets. His right hand held a small firearm. Smaller than anything Dylan had owned. But in the bag over his shoulder was the biggest rifle she’d ever seen.

  “You will wait at the steps. If you leave—” the German shrugged apologetically— “I must kill the boy. And your Dylan.”

  My Dylan, she thought and sighed.

  They passed a policeman.

  Kelly tensed as if she might not be able to control herself.

  The German smiled, as if amused by her thoughts.

  They walked. Past the old capitol building with its gold dome shining. To their right, in the Boston Commons, Kelly could see a skating rink, could hear the sounds of children on the ice. Cruel noises to her ears.

  They took a left through Suffolk University. College kids rushed to class, their breath steaming from their mouths.

  None of them knew, not a soul, how much trouble she was in, how dangerous the blond man next to her was.

  How could they?

  Lonny spotted them, walking past Government Center.

  He dialed Whitey. Herd ringing in his earpiece.

  “Go,” Whitey said.

  “I’ve got them. Coming down the steps next to Government Center.”

  As Lonny watched, a crowd of business folk crossed in front of them. The German was gone. Kelly kept walking down the steps.

  “Dammit, I just lost him.”

  “I’ve got him. Go get Kelly out of here.”

  Lonny stepped out of the coffee shop, scanning the crowd for either the German or Whitey. Both were ghosts. Instead, he spotted Vincent, Red’s well-dressed lieutenant.

  Kelly was halfway down the steps.

  Vincent was moving away, back turned to Lonny. He moved like he dressed. Smooth, elegant, gliding through the thickening crowd like a dancer. He did nothing to call attention to himself.

  Over Vincent’s shoulder, Lonny spotted Whitey, who was as engaged as Vincent on his prey. Eyes locked on his target.

  It was almost comical, this chain of armed men, and the unsuspecting commuters surrounding them, walking home half asleep, on auto pilot. They were in for a rude awakening.

  Lonny had his gun in his hand and was considered firing into the air when Vincent aimed his pistol at Whitey. No more thinking, just action. Lonny’s bullet found the center of Vincent’s back. He crumpled.

  The commuter zombies woke up, turned into a panicked mob, running, screaming.

  Whitey h
ad Lonny in his sights, then lowered his weapon. He briefly looked at Vincent, then back at Lonny.

  Lonny was frozen. His joints had locked and his eyes did not blink, could not stop staring at the first man he had ever killed.

  The serene evening commute turned into a riot. One woman looked down at the blood that had spilled from Vincent onto her pretty, blue overcoat, howling as if she had been shot.

  Lonny’s eyes took it all in.

  Vincent’s trembling hands.

  His body twisting, head angling to see his executioner.

  His eyes found Lonny’s, a recognition, before they turned into hazel marbles.

  Whitey’s hand on Lonny’s shoulder. His voice, calm, clear, in Lonny’s ear.

  “We need to get Kelly.”

  She heard the gunshot. She had never heard a gun shot in real life before, but the report was unmistakable. Who was dead?

  The boy?

  Dylan?

  Or had Dylan turned the tables on the German?

  Should she go back? Should she still go to the steps? Frightened people ran past her, shoved, tripped. She held onto the railing of the stairs, leaned on it as more tears welled in her eyes.

  She fought with herself, but after a moment she turned and rushed, against the current, back up the stairs.

  Her skin tingled. She imagined the German watching her through the scope on his rifle, thought about his finger on the trigger. She shivered.

  At the top of the steps, she saw Dylan rushing toward her.

  And she heard screaming. A woman was screaming. A beautiful woman with red hair was screaming, it seemed, right at Kelly.

  The German was long gone. But Linda Scarlotti was watching Kelly with her finger on a trigger.

  This was not how it was supposed to go. Nothing had happened the way it was supposed to.

  Whitey was supposed to be dead. A gift for the Denatales. A show of good faith.

  And Vincent was supposed to be the one to find the boy. Her husband’s trusted general. But no, Red had to go outside the family and find this drunk shamus, like a dog with a bone, who just wouldn’t stop sniffing. Kat had called an audible up in Vermont. At least she’d got what she deserved.

  Mrs. Scarlotti pictured the tangled web she had constructed, now torn apart.

  The only one caught in it was her.

  And now her Vincent, her man, was dead.

  All because of that goddamned Lonagan.

  That’s what she was shouting, “Lonagan!” As she pulled her dainty .22 out of her pocket and pointed it (like it’s your finger, Vincent told her) at Lonagan’s ex-wife.

  “Lonagan!”

  She was close enough to smell the bitch’s scent. Estee Lauder and fear.

  Lonny could not understand what he was seeing. His wife and Red’s wife and a gun. Still shaking with adrenaline, Lonny thought of Red’s son; this had the feel of a dream. It was nothing like real life.

  “Lonagan!” Mrs. Scarlotti shouted, her face a twisted, ugly sneer.

  Then Whitey dropped her with a bullet to the head.

  More chaos as the crowd screamed and scattered, unsure where to go now.

  “Where is Christopher?” Whitey asked Lonny.

  Kelly threw up all over the steps. The vomit steamed in the frigid air.

  Lonny knelt next to her. “Northeastern. Just before the museum. With Vilma.”

  21

  She knew.

  Before the door opened. Before she saw the blond man’s face. She often claimed a supernatural awareness, a sixth sense if you like.

  She knew when bad things were going to happen, even as a child.

  In Guatemala, in her youth, she had known when the dark mood was about to descend on her father, possess him. She knew to be still, to avoid his eyes, his dark, dark eyes.

  Her brothers never saw it coming. They paid for their ignorance, with pain.

  And her mother, Vilma had known what she would do to him. She still kept that secret locked in her heart.

  So she knew, when she heard those soft, slow footsteps in her hallway, that the boy was in trouble.

  They were playing chess. It seemed to soothe him. The game soothed her too. The boy wasn’t bad. He had foresight, thought a few moves ahead, so rare in boys, rarer still in men.

  A sad smile on her face as he took her queen and looked at her proudly. Men could never resist that trap.

  She was hoping to teach him a lesson.

  But then she heard, and knew, so instead she leaned close and whispered, “Time to run, Christopher. Out the window.”

  *

  The German was surprised to find the door unlocked. He chuckled to himself as he pushed it open.

  The woman nodded at him. She was sitting at a table in the kitchen, a chess set in front of her. The game had not started.

  He did not see the boy, did not hear him, but he could smell him.

  She motioned to the board. “Do you play?”

  The question caught him so off guard, he smiled and nodded.

  She pointed to the chair across from her. “Sit.”

  He sat. It was a beautiful, wooden chess set. Absently, he touched the king, stroked it.

  The woman looked at him with amusement. No fear. She was no killer but she knew he was. And still no fear. He was impressed.

  “If you’re in a hurry,” she said as she pulled something from under the table, “we could play a timed match.”

  A small box with two clocks. She clicked her side and moved her queen’s pawn to Q4, then smacked the button on her clock again.

  The German was on the clock. He realized with something like shock that he was still smiling. He moved his king’s knight and hit the timer.

  The game had begun.

  He was not used to being on the clock, but he was good.

  When she took his knight, after a vigorous chase, he knocked the table in acknowledgment. When she tried to snare him, he did not take the bait, but left her queen be. She winked at him.

  He was the better player. Went right for the jugular. A killer in every way.

  When it was clear to both of them, she knocked her king over in resignation.

  He nodded. “You enjoy the game, not so much winning.”

  Her teeth flashed. The joy of being understood. A wonderful final thought, he decided, and ended her life with a burp from his silenced revolver.

  Regret was a rare emotion from him, he did not enjoy the throbbing now in his tiny, cold heart, but there it was, unexpected and unwelcome.

  He closed her eyes with his fingers and sighed.

  The German looked in the other rooms. In one, an open window let in a biting breeze. He looked outside. No sign, the boy was in the wind.

  22

  When Lonny and Whitey got to Vilma’s apartment, the door was unlocked, the apartment cold, and another dead woman greeted them in the kitchen.

  Lonny saw the chess set in front of her and flipped it over.

  “Stop,” Whitey said. “We need to find Christopher.”

  Lonny shook with rage, but quieted.

  They found the open window.

  “She stalled him.” Lonny smiled tightly.

  “While Christopher went out the window?”

  “That’s what she told him to do.” Lonny walked over to the closet, a thoughtful expression on his face. “But kids don’t always listen.” Lonny opened the closet door.

  A trembling Christopher peered up at them.

  “It’s okay.” Lonny knew it was a lie, but wasn’t sure what else to say.

  The boy looked feral, lost. Lonny remembered, as a child, when a squirrel had climbed into his family’s chimney. Christopher reminded him of that scared squirrel. He had fallen down a rabbit hole into a frightening world of creatures he had previously only seen from afar.

  “Christopher?” Whitey said.

  The boy’s mouth quivered until his voice cracked. “Uncle Whitey?”

  “Stay where you are, kid.”

  The bo
y nodded.

  Whitey looked at Lonny. “He’s still out there. He’ll wait for us to leave.”

  “What’s our move?” Lonny gazed out the open window, looking absently for the German assassin.

  There was a flash across the street and then Whitey knocked Lonny to the floor and a bullet hole appeared on the wall.

  “Stay with the boy,” Whitey said.

  Lonny wanted to argue but knew it was the right play. This was Whitey’s battle to win or lose.

  Whitey rushed over to the closet. “Christopher, I need you to be brave for me. I need you to listen to Lonny.”

  Christopher nodded.

  “I’m gonna take care of the bad man.”

  “Get him good, Uncle Whitey.”

  Whitey kissed his nephew on the forehead. The look in his eyes when he touched Lonny’s shoulder made the former detective shiver as Whitey’s expression changed from affection to the hardness of a born killer. The man who left that room had only one thing on his mind: vengeance.

  The German was furious. He had revealed his position and hadn’t killed anyone. He pressed a button on his phone.

  “The boy is probably on his way home. Perhaps you have men to watch for him?”

  He did not wait for a reply.

  The German knew the Italian would come for him. The detective would pursue the boy. A killer and a protector by nature.

  Whitey was scared.

  He stood in the lobby of Vilma’s building sucking air into his lungs. He needed to cross the street and he wanted the German to take a shot at him, reveal his location. Was he in the same room? More than anything, Whitey needed the German to miss.

  He inhaled, opened the door and poked his head out and pulled it in. No shot. He ran outside. He stopped, stutter stepped, faked left, and then went right. He pictured himself in the German’s crosshairs, tried to time how long it would take to line up the shot. With every step, he bet his life.

  Cars swerved around him, slammed on their brakes, honking. Pedestrians squinted in his direction.

  His entire body clenched, braced for the German’s bullet.

  It didn’t come.