by John Shirley
Her face was bloated, stern, and craggy. If I’d ever seen her smile, I didn’t remember it. She met my gaze directly and said, “Walk with me.”
I did. We wandered the halls seemingly without direction. It didn’t much matter where you went here. Every hall felt the same, every room showing no real personality besides the church’s own. A thousand Christs, ten thousand crosses, St. Francis calling the animals, and more animals and more animals. I didn’t understand how any of them shouldered the weight of two thousand years of blind dogma and history.
“Your mother has been worse of late.”
“In what way?” I asked.
“Her nightmares have returned. The visions. She sometimes screams in the middle of the night.”
“You should have sent her up to the Bronx psych center when you had the chance.”
“You know I couldn’t do that. She’s not crazy.”
I grunted. “How close an eye do you keep on her?”
“She’s in the near-constant care of Sister Katherine and Sister Ruth Joyce.”
I didn’t know either of them. They must have been two of the younger nuns who were being tested in their own way.
“I need to see her.”
At one time Mother Superior used to read me the riot act, make me promise to not upset my mother, not make her exert herself, not discuss certain topics with her. But she knew now that if I was here there had to be a dark reason for it. I didn’t come around to bring cookies or flowers. I didn’t show up for the neighborhood church basketball games or the street feasts or talent shows and choir rehearsals. I came when I was called, and I was never called for any sweet pretext.
We reached the sprawling staircase. I put my hand on the gray railing and could feel all the years of the convent trapped beneath the layers of paint like muted cries. I snatched my hand back like I’d been burned.
“Do you want me to take you up?” she asked.
“No.”
“She can be quite … taxing.”
“I know.”
She turned her austere features from me, possibly out of courtesy. She had questions. Everyone had questions. She was a good woman. She thought I still had a soul to save.
I took the stairs alone. I walked up to the fourth floor and could feel my pulse beginning to speed up. I took a minute to calm myself but it didn’t help. I knocked at my mother’s door and a young pretty nun appeared. Behind her, seated and reading the Bible, was another young woman with thick glasses and deep acne pits. Sister Katherine and Sister Ruth Joyce. They knew who I was. I told them I wanted to speak to my mother alone. They nodded and left.
My mother sat in the corner of the main room of her suite, near the window, but facing the wall. The sunshine lit up her back and the black garments seemed to drain the light away.
“Hello, Ma.”
She glanced up at me, and for an instant I almost saw her the way she was before the old man had started to beat her and the darkness had fully gotten hold of her. She smiled in that easy way she had once always had about her. She’d at one time been comprised of a great grace and calm even when serious troubles were hitting. Now her eyes held a hint of amusement.
A strange tightness filled my chest. It might have been sorrow or regret. I had a catalogue of laments stacked up behind my heart. I wanted to drop to my knees and hug her. I had twenty years of tears dammed up.
“I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again,” she said.
“Can’t get rid of a bad thing.”
“You’re not a bad thing.”
I grinned. My grin made some men fall to pieces and drop to their knees. My mother merely smiled back. Her smile made priests cross themselves.
“Oh, I know,” she continued, “that you’ve murdered. But have you ever hurt an innocent?”
“Nobody’s innocent, Ma.”
But I knew what she meant, and she was right, though that didn’t absolve me in the eyes of God or even in my own. I’d never hurt anyone who wasn’t already in the bent life, on a mob payroll, playing the syndicate game, or out to make the streets run red. It didn’t make me a good man.
I could see that she hadn’t been sleeping. Dark circles framed her eyes. She sat wearily, her face haggard, fatigue written into her features. I took her hand and she smiled again briefly. I sat beside her and she tightened her grip. It was almost enough to make me flinch. My mother didn’t have an ounce of fat on her. She had real power.
“What have you been dreaming?” I asked.
“The same as you, son.”
It was true that over the past couple of weeks I’d awoken from nightmares, sweating and groaning, unfamiliar words trapped in my throat. But I couldn’t remember my dreams anymore. And I was certain that my mother could still recall her own.
“Who is it, Ma? Who killed Frankie? Some of the other nuns, they’re talking about—” I couldn’t make myself say the words. Demonic intervention. Satanic influence.
“I know what they’re talking about,” she said.
Her gaze tilted aside. She was looking into the places where no one could see without giving up a large part of themselves. Sweat dappled her forehead and ran down the creases that outlined her mouth. Heat emanated from her, and like flames passed from treetop to treetop, her fever set fire to mine.
Within seconds my scalp prickled and I had to undo my tie and take off my jacket. Sweat slithered across my chest and threaded down my back. I watched the pulse in her neck snap against the cowl.
She began to whisper prayers and blessings. I knew them well, and a part of me wanted to recite along with her. I had to force myself to keep from doing it, but the words grew louder and louder inside my head. My mother took my hand and pressed it to the side of her face. I wondered how we had ended up this way. It had something to do with my father. Something to do with our heritage. We’d been blessed and cursed and forgotten by God. She forced her head down and drew my palm across her eyes.
Images flashed in my mind. It was a familiar feeling even though this hadn’t happened to me since I was fifteen. I watched light break upon the darkness. Blood splashing upon a tree. A beautiful curvaceous blonde woman without a face, who wasn’t a woman. A strange black bug bouncing inside a glass jar. My mother’s prayers became something else. Her words twisted and grew less decipherable. The language was no longer English. It wasn’t Latin. It wasn’t Greek. It might not have been human. I watched her and could feel the fever burning her alive, and I began to hiss out against God.
Whatever she was doing, whatever was happening to her, it had an effect on everything else around us. A gathering of crows flapped their dark wings against the windows. Screams of children from the schoolyard next door took a more vicious turn, as if they were killing each other. The temperature dropped. Our breath frosted in the air. Still we burned. The room dimmed. Clouds covered the sun. A few drops of rain spattered against the glass.
I glanced around at the Catholic iconography around me and could feel the eyes of the saints and martyrs, of Christ and his mother, of the cardinals and the bishop, of the Pope, staring sorrowfully with forlorn hearts.
My mother’s mouth was full of tongues. She spat and growled and then there were many voices rising from her. I’d lived through this before as a boy. Like then, I tried to focus on what they were saying, what they wanted from her as well as from me.
I spoke to them, “What are you saying? What are you trying to tell me? I’m here, I’m listening, just spit it out, damn it.”
The din continued. In the midst of the noise I could hear my mother arguing with other voices. She sounded strong and competent. I heard my name mentioned. The argument continued and I couldn’t be certain if she was winning or losing. She seemed to be giving it her all. So did the others packed into her, whoever they were, whatever they wanted. I thought maybe I heard my father there for a moment. My name was a curse. They choked on it like broken glass.
I took her palm and kissed it.
And then the sp
ell was over.
The heat dissipated. Sweat cooled on my face and the crows flew on. The children’s screaming sounded less like killing and torture and more like kids squabbling over who was next up at kickball.
“There is a will at work,” my mother said.
“Whose will?” I asked.
“Pythoness.”
“What?”
“Fishwives.”
The words rang bells from my altar boy days but I didn’t remember why at the moment. “I don’t understand.”
“Familiar spirit.”
I shook my head. “What do I have to do, Ma?”
She came out of her trance in an instant, her eyes clearing. “I can’t tell you that. You’ll find your course. The same as you always have.”
Then she slumped forward in her seat and nearly hit the floor. I caught her in my arms and carried her to her bed. I laid her on the mattress and sat beside her, watching her sleep for a while. She deserved better than having been married to my old man. She deserved better than being married now to Christ. She certainly deserved better than having me for a son.
I got up, straightened my tie, and put on my suit jacket. Distant thunder rumbled the walls. The blessed heart pictures all seemed to clatter in time together, beating to a particular rhythm. I walked out the door and Sister Katherine and Sister Ruth Joyce bid me good day and returned to my mother’s side.
Cole Portman called together the capos to thrash out family business. Six of them along with members of their separate crews sat with Portman in the back room of the antique furniture warehouse that fronted some Ganucci bookmaking and drug-running. Someone had brought zeppoles and cannoli, and they sucked them down along with a couple of bottles of wine.
Chaz Argento had really gotten his shine on. He had a fresh haircut, a four-thousand-dollar suit on, and smelled of expensive cologne. I stood at the window staring at the last remnants of my mother’s storm being carried east.
“Tommy has only had limited experience with the Ganucci trade,” Portman said. “Running a few errands for his father here and there. The kid’s a freshman at Brown, for Christ’s sake. So let’s not waste time discussing the option of whether he’s in or out. He’s not a serious contender for the business.”
Everyone around the table nodded and agreed. I wondered if Frankie would have been pleased that they were cutting his kid out or if he would’ve gone ballistic that they weren’t even considering his blood to head the family now. For the first time in fifty years a Ganucci wouldn’t be running the show.
“So who becomes the skipper?” someone asked.
Chaz’s legbreakers chuckled to themselves. Chaz couldn’t contain his smile. He turned it on, full wattage. He touched the double Windsor knot of his tie and made sure it was perfect. He started to climb to his feet.
“I do,” I said.
Portman groaned under his breath. Chaz looked like he’d just been tasered. His eyes got wide and his body began to tremble, and it seemed as if ten thousand watts were going through his brain. His boys jumped up and took two steps toward me. The rest began to argue and shout and rush around the room, strongarms holding back their captains, legbreakers unsure of how far they should go now. Wine spilled. The cannoli hit the floor. I turned back to the window. Someone snarled that they had never trusted me. Whoever it was was the smartest guy in the room.
Chaz’s voice sliced through the rest of the noise. “I’m next in line. You think I’ve paid my way up the chain since I was ten years old, stealing soda cans and beer bottles out of old man Diego’s market, just so that someone can cut me out now? You know how much I’ve earned for this family over the years?”
“Nobody’s cutting you out, Chaz,” I said.
“Damn right! And you, how do we know it wasn’t you who clipped Frankie? You think we don’t know you’ve been shacking with his daughter? This how you make your move?”
There were some murmurs at that. Apparently not everyone knew about me and Gina. There was some eye-rolling. There were glances of castigation. Chaz went back to smiling, only this time it was full of resentment and fierceness. He’d been in the life a lot longer than me and everyone liked him. I liked him too. He didn’t hide much. He came at the world head-on.
Chaz reached for a zeppole, chewed it down in two bites, and then licked the sugar off his fingers. He knew how to work a crowd and get people on his side. He’d be a good boss when the time came.
He took out a cigar and clipped off the end, lit it, and took a nice long puff. He’d gotten himself under control. His voice was much quieter now, but just as filled with fury. “So you think because you’re the a-number-one hitter nobody can move against you? You think we’re that frightened of you? You’re just another mook on the payroll. When you go down there’ll be a dozen to replace you. Every man in this room has done what you do.”
He looked at the firepower all around and grinned. If everyone came after me right now there’d be no way for me to fight it out. He knew it and I knew it and everyone else knew it, but that didn’t mean it would ever happen. I wasn’t worried. We were all one family. We’d fought off waves of attacks by outsiders.
But when you got down to it, when you got to the heart of the matter, we were all a bunch of thieves and murderers, and we didn’t trust each other at all.
Most men, even wiseguys, don’t like violence. They had to ramp themselves up for it. They had to throw back a few shots of liquid courage, or find a partner to go shoulder to shoulder with. They had to sneak up on the other guy and take him from behind. They had to shoot out a window during a drive-by, let the crazy noise and the action get into their blood. They had to let the rage and terror take them to the place where they lashed out in fury.
I didn’t need to do any of that. That’s what set me apart from the other men who killed.
Chaz glared at me, and his two soldiers tried to act rough and imposing by letting their heavily muscled bodies and sheer bulk do their talking for them. They were used to being intimidating. They had faces like rock formations. They could crush an enemy’s bones to powder if they made the effort. Their vanity and confidence was scrawled in their features. They scowled at me.
I wasn’t carrying. I usually didn’t. In fact, I hated guns. When I did my business I usually used a knife or my hands. I had strong, fast hands that could break stone.
Chaz was barely keeping control over himself. His best friend’s death had rattled him and I’d embarrassed him in front of the family. I hadn’t handled the situation well and there was no stopping the runaway train now. Chaz made no signal but his boys moved out to brace me. Portman said nothing to stop them. Neither did anyone else.
The thugs were used to men who backed away and ran. They moved in on me with a slow and methodical pace. Instead of waiting for them to reach me, I lunged.
It wasn’t going to take much to take them. I chopped one in the throat and he doubled over and threw up on himself. I brought my knee up into his nose and the cartilage mashed and blood arced in an explosive fountain.
The other threw a lumbering roundhouse. I wheeled, turned my back to him, and watched his fist come rushing over my shoulder. Facing away from him, I caught his wrist in my right hand and pulled down hard, levering the bone over my shoulder blade. His arm bent the wrong way across the hard muscled ridge of my collarbone. I kept yanking on it as he screamed, his shriek eventually hitting a high and keening note until the bone snapped. I spun and drew his body across my hip and hurled him against the far wall.
I watched the subtle hint of fear and grudging respect swirl into Chaz’s eyes. It wasn’t enough to stop him from moving against me, but he’d keep in line for at least another few days. The rest of his crew gathered up his two wounded soldiers.
The other troops remained silent. No one pulled their piece on me. No one else tried to muscle me. No one else bitched or grumbled. Chaz looked cool and a touch humbled. I knew I should say something to the men, but I had no idea what. I was hoping Port
man would come in and quiet them all and bring them around, but he just stared at me a little nervously.
“Rally your troops,” I said to the capos. “Keep them in line. Wait for orders. Chaz will take his turn soon. Until then, keep the course and watch your backs. You know that the other mobs like to move in during these times of stress when a don dies. And there’s still someone out there who might be coming for us.”
“Out there?” Chaz said. “Or is he right here with us?”
“Either way, we’ll find him.”
I let the dig pass. Nobody believed I would have capped the Ganooch anyway. They knew I was loyal. They just didn’t like this turn of events. It didn’t matter. Some of them wouldn’t like Chaz taking over immediately either. Some of them wanted to run the show themselves. It would all come out in the following six months or so, and then we’d all settle back into our usual routine.
The crews filed out of the warehouse. I looked out the window and watched them pulling faces and gesturing and bitching me out as they crossed the parking lot. The sky was completely clear.
Portman sat and poured himself a glass of wine.
“That was foolish,” he said.
“It’s only until we figure out who iced the Ganooch,” I told him.
“I know that. But you should’ve explained it to them. You should’ve elaborated upon your position.”
“Elaboration isn’t my strong suit, Cole.”
“Neither is keeping the crews in line. Instead of bringing us together in this time of trial you’ve got them all foaming at the mouth.”
“They weren’t going to listen to me no matter what I said. Chaz is too headstrong. He would’ve felt disrespected either way. This way, it’s all in the open. They know I’m not going behind anybody’s back. It’ll keep them steady.”
“There’s going to be repercussions.”
“There always is.”
He poured me some wine and pushed a glass over to me. I took it and finished it in one sip. He stared up at me and shook his head again. “You’re doing this so that you stand out in the spotlight. You want to see if whoever clipped the don will come after you now.”
