The Immortal Game

by Mike Miner

  The German watched it all through his rifle lens, a tight smile of respect on his lips. It was rare that the German came up against a worthy adversary. Now today, two. The woman with the chess set and this Italian. Nice to deal with people who knew and accepted the stakes of the contest. Life and death. The only stakes worth playing for.

  The Italian would not allow the German to get comfortable; three times the German thought he might have him but then a twitch of movement would throw him off. So be it. Now the Italian wouldn’t know the whereabouts of the German, who could exploit his opponent’s uncertainty.

  He remembered Afghanistan. The helicopter crash, into the side of a mountain. He remembered everything constricting, his gut, his chest, even his heart, before impact. Fear, an unfamiliar sensation. The pilot had been crushed in the cockpit, two others impaled by glass and metal.

  Scraped and bruised, but alive, he checked on the dead soldiers before grabbing his rifle and jogging to higher ground.

  Five Afghanis coming for him, and when they moved through open sand, they had moved with the same herky-jerky movement as Scarlotti. The younger German had fired, but hit nothing, five times, bullets he couldn’t spare, and now they knew exactly where he was.

  He returned to the helicopter, and wiped more blood on himself from his platoon mates, rubbing the sticky fluid onto his face, the rusty smell overpowering. He sat. He waited.

  Not very long.

  They were quiet, fast, securing the area. They inspected the helicopter. The German watched, eyes wide and dead, careful not to move his pupils. Using his peripheral vision, he braced for a bullet from their American-supplied weapons. That tight feeling, fear.

  It was there in the helicopter, playing dead. He knew he wouldn’t be following anyone’s orders again.

  Their voices rose with the belief that the shooter had fled. The German waited, not sure what to do, not sure where he was. One Afghani was going through the pockets of the pilot, gathering his weapons and throwing them to the soldiers outside.

  Then the radio crackled to life and the German turned toward the sound, and the young Afghani in the cockpit noticed. It was the last thing he would ever notice. The German’s bullet hit him in the left cheek, the ones outside, he hit in the chest.

  There were two more, about twenty meters away. They panicked, opened fire on the helicopter. The German felt a stab of pain in his arm, just below his shoulder. But he remained calm. One never knew until the moment was upon them, if he could be cool under fire.

  The German was cool. Carefully he lined up a shot and fired a burst at the closest soldier. He didn’t miss.

  The last soldier continued the panic of gunfire as the German crawled into the cockpit, over twisted metal and shattered glass, reaching for the radio. English sounded so precise compared to the sing-song gibberish of these soldiers. “Hang in there,” the British officer told him. “We are en route.”

  The German waited and observed the soldier firing at him. A pattern emerged and the German knew when the man would pop up and fire, and the German readied the .45 bullet to be waiting for him when he did.

  He’d been lucky. Those men had been too young, too green. When the moment came, they had panicked, been sloppy.

  He knew William Scarlotti was none of these things. He tried to shake it off but that was like shaking off smoke, the now familiar, unwelcome sensation of fear squeezing his chest.

  The trick, Whitey thought, was to assume you were going to die. It freed up your mind to worry about other things. It was amazing what you could accomplish when you weren’t busy trying to save your life.

  When you thought you were living your final moments, the world came into sharp focus. The details sang. This dim, quiet hallway would fit right into a Hitchcock film. The cigarette burns on the rug. The melody of street sounds, tires squealing, horns honking. You never knew what the last thing you were going to notice would be.

  He gripped the pistol in his hand and tried the door to the apartment, the one the German had fired from. Unlocked. He pushed it open. It squealed on its hinges like something out of a slasher movie.

  There was a woman slumped back in her chair in the kitchen, but Whitey didn’t think about her; he saw Karen, shot between the eyes, in a triangle house in Vermont, dead before she knew what hit her, dead because of him, because he couldn’t stay away. He might as well have pulled the trigger.

  His heartbeat rang like a bell in his head. He felt heavy, like he was underwater, limbs moving through liquid.

  Some sins you never stopped paying for.

  Why was she holding a gun?

  For half a second, he thought it was her ghost, come back from the dead to exact revenge. For half a second, he was ready to accept his punishment. Then instinct took over. He shot the corpse, right through her heart, and heard a man curse in German.

  Whitey didn’t realize at first that he had been hit in his left arm, a glancing blow. He was too busy admiring his opponent. The German had put his arm though the sleeve of the woman’s sweater. She was on his lap. He seemed to hold her tenderly.

  Then the pain in his arm made him suck in his breath. He found a towel to press on the wound.

  “Almost.” He touched the dead man’s shoulder. “Almost.”

  23

  Angelo Denatale Junior was going to end this war today. Not any henchmen, not the German, not his father. Him. End it with a few well-placed bullets.

  He would do what he had to do and leave no doubt who ran Boston’s underworld. Him. Angelo Denatale Junior.

  He dressed casual, stuffed the .45 into his jeans and covered it with a sweater, then put on an overcoat and a hat. When he stepped outside he didn’t notice the cold, his blood the same temperature as the frigid air outside.

  Lonny and the boy were on the trolley, the inbound E-Line. He was bone weary, fighting sleep, but every time it threatened to claim him, the face of the man, Vincent, was waiting for him. He observed the boy, who seemed to be in the midst of a similar struggle. The kid gazed out the window at a world filled with danger, with death. Lonny pictured the boy’s mother and shuddered.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  The boy shook his head, then changed his mind. “Do you think Aunt Kat is in Heaven?”

  The question knocked the wind out of him. “What do you think?”

  The boy pressed his lips together and shook his head just slightly. He looked into Lonny’s eyes. Lonny wanted to look away, but didn’t.

  “Is my dad a bad guy?”

  Lonny looked up at the ceiling as the trolley ground through a turn underground, then he turned back at the boy. “How old are you?”

  “Ten.”

  “You read a lot?”

  The boy nodded.

  “I suppose it’s about time you learned.”

  “What?”

  “Real life’s not so much like books. Most people aren’t just good or bad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes good people do bad things.”

  The boy thought about that. “Like killing someone?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But you’re a good guy.”

  “I try to be.” He stopped. “I used to be.”

  “Aunt Kat said you were.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yup.” The boy seemed comforted by the memory. “Mr. Lonagan?”

  “Call me Dylan.”

  “Why is there so much bad?”

  What a terrible question to have to ask. “Nobody really knows, kid. But some people think this is all there is. No Heaven. No Hell. Just right now. Right here. And some of those people will do whatever they have to to get what they want. Money, power, you name it. For those people there are no rules. At least not the kind the rest of us play by.”

  Then Lonny thought about Whitey and Kat Scarlotti. “There are others who believe they are already damned and so it’s hopeless.”

  “Can they be saved?”

  “I hope so.” L
onny touched the boy’s shoulder. “This is our stop.”

  Almost home, Lonny wondered how Red would explain to Christopher what had happened to his mother. What would that do to this boy? What would happen to his heart? What would it turn this boy into? For a moment, Lonny didn’t envy Red his son, his healthy, inquisitive boy and all the complications it brought.

  “We’re going home?” the boy said, hopefully.

  And then the wound, the wound that never healed inside Lonny was ripped open again, and he would have done anything to have his son back. Anything. He nodded at Christopher and cleared his throat.

  They were walking up Hanover Street, the trees bare in the brisk wind, the sidewalk awash in the smells of the North End, marinara sauces, olive oil, dough, the air a carnival for the nose.

  Christopher seemed to relax at the familiar scents and sounds of home.

  A block away, Lonny rang Red and told him he was bringing his son home.

  They turned a corner and saw the tall, brick building, and Christopher broke into a run, his father at the front door, a rainbow of emotions splashed across his haggard face. By now the news about his wife had reached him, but seeing his son made joy win. A smile cracked his face in half.

  Then Lonny noticed the car, a silver Mercedes. A man at the wheel. And he knew something was wrong.

  Angelo Denatale Junior emerged from the driver’s side wielding a hand cannon.

  Lonny would never know who he was there to kill, maybe both of them. Lonny never hesitated, never doubted, guided by his new killer’s instincts. Angelo never got a shot off. The three bullets were grouped perfectly around his heart.

  24

  Lonny didn’t have to wait long for the police to show up. They barked orders and he followed them, put his gun on the ground, hands behind his head. Handcuffed, he took a ride to the station house. They brought him to a room with a one-way window. His reflection kept him company while he waited, and waited. Lonny knew the routine, would have done the same thing. Outside that room, the police had a lot of dots to connect and a trail of dead bodies to uncover.

  Christopher was safe with his father. In the end, that was all he really cared about. He thought of the two men he had killed, now being poked and prodded and ripped apart in the coroner’s lab, and he had no regrets.

  Eventually, Lonny dozed.

  He woke when the door opened, and Agent Riley entered.

  The federal agent sat across from him and sighed like he was about to do something he didn’t care for. “It’s like the goddamned wild west out there today. Bodies all over the place.” He folded his hands on the table, looked at Lonny. “Been reading ballistics reports all day.”

  That would tell quite a tale, Lonny thought.

  “Places your gun at several crimes scenes today. Not only did it take out the heir to the Denatale crime family, Angelo Junior. It also punched Vincent Gubatosi’s ticket. Know him?”

  Lonny only listened, waited. He’d been on the other side of this table before.

  “Bit of a clothes horse, Vincent. Worked for Richard Scarlotti. Know him?”

  “Everybody in Boston knows Richard Scarlotti.”

  Riley nodded. “It gets crazier though. We’ve got a woman’s body in an apartment off Huntington, near the MFA, in her kitchen. One shot to the head. Looks like she lost a game of chess.”

  Lonny closed his eyes, but the image of Vilma, cold and dead, was all he could see.

  “Now across the street there’s another woman’s body. Same gun killed her. Only she’s sitting on a dead man’s lap. Get this, he’s holding the gun that killed both women. But not just them. Also two patrolmen smoked on Beacon Street in that crazy chase yesterday. The same gun—and here’s the cherry on top—that iced Kat Scarlotti.”

  Was that only yesterday?

  “Know who we think this guy is?”

  “The German.”

  Riley scowled at Lonny. “That’s right.”

  There was one more piece to this puzzle, Lonny knew. He waited for Riley to say it.

  “Ballistics also tells us the bullet they took out of the German came from the same gun that took out Red Scarlotti’s wife.”

  Riley watched Lonny’s reaction.

  “We both know who that was.”

  Lonny didn’t move.

  “If I was Whitey Scarlotti, I’d be a little worried about that information becoming public knowledge.”

  Lonny wondered how that would play out.

  “The next time you see Whitey, tell him the federal government has no further need of his services.”

  *

  Word of Angelo Junior’s death traveled fast through the wiseguy network. When it reached the ears of the old family men in Federal Hill, a decision was reached.

  The war was over. One more casualty. A mercy killing.

  Angelo Senior took his nightly shower, his head twirling with the logistics of street warfare. Not an unpleasant sensation, battle brought out the best in Angelo. It was all a chess match. He was willing to trade pieces. The German for Kat Scarlotti. The trick to greatness was to think a few moves ahead.

  Lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed someone enter. Not until their shadow swallowed his. There was only one reason for anyone to be here.

  Angelo did not turn to see his killer. He closed his eyes, concentrated on the heat of the water soothing his old muscles.

  The rough fingers around his throat felt like ice.

  Checkmate, was his last thought.

  “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.” Riley leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So our star witness is free to go. We’ll honor our immunity agreement for his past sins.” Riley’s eyes went hard. “Not his present ones.”

  “That’s a lot of information to process.”

  “I’d love to keep you for questioning, Lonagan. Rake you over the coals. But there’s a lawyer out there whose shoes cost more than our lives, and he’s threatening to sue the whole world if we don’t kick you loose.”

  Riley stood and stretched his back. Lonny did the same.

  “Tell Whitey to get gone and stay gone.”

  Lonny didn’t care about any of it. He had done his job The boy was with his father. He was relieved that there would probably be no retribution now for Angelo Junior. Some people had to die. That was a price Lonny was willing to pay. He thought sadly of Vilma. He would have paid much more to save his own son, a much higher price.

  His new lawyer got Lonny out quickly and gave him a ride home. The attorney’s shiny black Porsche Carreira gleamed like his polished shoes.

  “Mr. Scarlotti wanted to express how grateful he was to you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “He would also like to discuss some possible future employment with you.”

  Half a chuckle escaped Lonny’s mouth. “Please tell Mr. Scarlotti, thanks but no thanks.”

  A tight smile on the lawyer’s lips. “That was the answer he expected.”

  The drive was so smooth, Lonny almost didn’t want it to end. But it did. The lawyer pulled to the curb, handed Lonny a fat envelope.

  “Mr. Scarlotti wanted to make it very clear, if you are ever in need….”

  Lonny smiled and stepped out of the car.

  When he got to his apartment door, he heard activity inside. He reached for his pistol but it was in an evidence room downtown. Fuck it, he thought, and pushed open the door.

  Kelly, his ex-wife, supervised workers as they finished replacing the glass door in his living room. She had already cleaned the floor where Kat had died.

  “Hi,” was all she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are, Dylan.”

  “For everything.”

  “I know.” She hugged herself.

  He grimaced as he bent and touched the cool floor; the sun made the polish shine. “I guess some messes are harder to clean up than others.”

&nbs
p; “How did it go with the police?”

  “Could have gone worse.”

  The two repairmen were picking up their tools. “We’re all set here, folks,” one of them said.

  They smiled at both as they packed up and left.

  Kelly slid on her coat. “I guess I’ll see you around town, Lonny.” She opened the door and turned.

  “I hope so.”

  “The boy is safe?”

  “I hope so.”

  She walked away before he could see the tears in her eyes, before she could see the tears in his. Maybe that was what finally ended things between them. They had grown tired of seeing each other cry.

  25

  If he isn’t working, Lonny often finds himself at Mike’s Pastries in the late afternoon, an espresso and some sort of confection in front of him. The longer he waits, the tighter the fingers of worry squeeze his heart, until finally Christopher Scarlotti strolls by, his backpack stuffed, and more often than not, a dreamy, melancholic expression on his face. Lonny knows that look well, when you can’t decide whether it’s better to remember or forget.

  Usually, the boy waves at Lonny and Lonny waves back.

  Sometimes, Christopher comes inside.

  “Hi, Mr. Lonagan.”

  “Haven’t I told you about a hundred times to call me Dylan?”

  The boy smiles. “Yes, Mr. Lonagan.”

  Today, Christopher hands Lonny a postcard, like he’ll do on occasion. Always from somewhere warm. This one is from California.

  “How’s school, Christopher?”

  “Okay.”

  “Can I get you something? Gelato?”

  “No thanks. I gotta head home.”

  “Say hi to your dad.”

  “Okay, Mr. Lonagan.”

  Lonny gives him a sharp look but they both laugh, then Christopher leaves.

  The postcard has a chess move on it, and a note:

  Knight to Q6

  Okay, you bastard, I’ll take your queen. Happy?

  Lonny watches Christopher disappear down the street, another knight with no queen.