The Boys from Eighth and Carpenter

by Tom Mendicino

  “How you doing back there?” he calls over his shoulder, his voice hearty with false cheer.

  “Good,” Frankie pants. “How much farther?”

  Michael forges ahead, splashing through shallow waters. He can feel the muck underfoot, a sign they’re near their destination. Ahead, beyond the green colonies of new spring cordgrass, the receding tide reveals the surface of a wide mudflat glistening under a clear sky of low-lying stars. The dead-of-night stillness is shattered by the rifle-shot crackling of an army of fiddler crabs as they retreat from the surprise invasion of human footsteps.

  “Almost there,” he promises, his arms aching from his clumsy hold on the body. He wants to drop it, relieve the strain on his lower back, but he plows ahead, wading into pools of briny water. “We’ll do it here. X marks the spot,” Michael announces as he unzips the wardrobe bag.

  They struggle to wrap the long, heavy chain around Mariano, weighing him down at the waist and looping it twice around his neck before securing his wrists to one of the concrete blocks and tying his ankles to the other. Michael drops him in a cluster of swamp grass and they watch him sink as he’s slowly swallowed by the soft mud. The entire plain will be flooded come high tide.

  “How do we know he’ll stay there?” Frankie asks.

  “He will. And between the gases and the fish, there won’t be much left of him soon.”

  “Shouldn’t we say something?” Frankie asks, reluctant to just walk away.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. A prayer or something?”

  “You should have asked your priest buddy to help you if you wanted to have a funeral Mass.”

  But his brother is right. The occasion calls for a formal ceremony and cathartic ritual, so Michael pulls his dick out of his fly and takes a long, steaming piss on Mariano’s watery grave.

  “Satisfied?” Michael asks as he shakes the last dribble from the tip of his penis. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  APRIL 21, 2008

  The moon still shines brightly, but the stars are starting to recede as night fades with the arrival of dawn. The wise decision would be to drive without stopping until they’re twenty miles deep into the mainland, but their throats are parched and their limbs ache, their bodies craving sleep. The local convenience store, open twenty-four hours, sells Cokes and day-old Krispy Kremes and a fresh pot of Maxwell House is on the burner. The cashier has been dozing, her head on the counter; she’s too groggy to ask why their jeans are soaking wet and filthy and their sneakers caked with mud. She’s anxious to bag their purchases and send them on their way so she can grab a few more minutes of sleep. The coffee is weak and flavorless, but Michael drinks it anyway, needing a caffeine jolt for the long drive home. The menacing billboard Jesus is less intimidating in the brightening sky, only a cartoon demon sprung from the childish imagination of an amateur artist. Frankie yawns as they pass the churchyard, staring dreamily out the window. Soon they’re several miles deep into the mainland, where grain silos and soybean fields dominate the coastal flatlands and the stench of manure, not salt, infuses the air. No police sirens are shrieking and no flashing domes are visible in the rearview mirror.

  “Throw your shoes out the window, Frankie. Now, while there aren’t any cars on the road.”

  “Jesus, is that your feet or mine?” Michael coughs, gagging on the sweaty funk.

  Frankie curls up in his seat to sleep, trying not to think about the future he’ll awake to. Michael will go home to his wife and his son, leaving him alone in that house. He doesn’t want to ever go back there, knowing a sense of dread will crush him every time the doorbell rings, forever fearing Christine or the two messengers carrying concealed weapons or even Randy, released on bail, will return looking for their little burro. The story that Mariano simply disappeared one night taking Frankie’s wallet and Papa’s watch will grow less credible as more time passes without anyone hearing from the boy, not even a phone call or a text. He wishes he could board up the windows and padlock the doors and walk away, never to return. If only Mikey could keep driving, to Los Angeles or Phoenix, someplace far away where Frankie can live in a house where no one has ever died and no restless spirits roam the rooms in the night. He drifts into a shallow sleep, dreaming of a home of his very own, without a history, a brand-new high-rise condo with floor-to-ceiling windows and no steep staircases or dark basements.

  “Frankie, are you awake?” Michael whispers to his gently snoring brother, getting no response. Traces of blue and pink are beginning to seep into the first gray light of dawn. In twenty miles the office towers of Wilmington will appear on the horizon, just as the sun is rising on a brand-new day. He retraces every footstep from the moment they tossed the body into the trunk. Human tissue will deliquesce quickly underwater and even the denser skeletal remains will eventually crumble. The wardrobe bag will rot in the marsh and salt water has already washed away any incriminating fingerprints on the indestructible vinyl curtains. Their shoes have been disposed of. The imprint of the tire treads in the soft muddy ground will disappear with the next rainfall and, even if they don’t, there isn’t the remotest possibility anyone will attempt to trace them to a vehicle registered in Pennsylvania.

  One possible but unlikely problem will keep him awake at night. The markings of the bullet lodged in the skull of the dead doe can be matched to the rifling of the barrel of a handgun registered to Michael Rocco Gagliano. He feels a sickness in his bowels as he berates himself for taking pity on Bambi and putting her out of her misery. He realizes he’s overreacting. Who would do forensics on an obvious mercy killing of a mortally wounded animal? No one will ever waste the state’s precious resources on a fucking dead deer. Unless, of course, some bright and curious investigator has a hunch, connecting a slab of roadkill to an unidentified body discovered in the salt marshes. But it would take a Rube Goldberg contraption of coincidental evidence to link Michael and his brother to a decomposed corpse found in a swamp three states away if it’s ever discovered, which it won’t be. He’s made sure of that. He’s startled by his cell phone, knowing a call at this hour of the morning can only be bad news.

  “Mr. Gagliano?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to have to inform you that your sister arrested ninety minutes ago.”

  Arrested? For what? Who would issue a warrant for a comatose woman barely able to breathe?

  “Cardiac arrest secondary to end-stage emphysema.”

  He realizes the extent of his exhaustion and its effect on his ability to think reasonably.

  “I assume you won’t be requesting an autopsy?”

  “Of course not. You can release her to the funeral director. The arrangements for direct cremation have already been made.”

  “Mr. Gagliano?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a problem. The son is insisting on taking custody of the body. He says he’ll own the hospital if his mother isn’t given a decent viewing and burial.”

  There’s silence on the line as Michael lights a cigarette and inhales a chestful of smoke.

  “I’m going to hang up now. Give him this number. Tell him to call me back. Now.”

  Frankie stirs in his seat as the cell rings again.

  “Don’t say anything, Carl. Not a single word. I’ll do all the talking. The name of the District Attorney of Westmoreland County is Jim O’Hare. I have his personal number in my contacts. We’ve been friendly since the Chief Justice asked us to serve on the criminal rules committee. The courthouse opens in three hours. I will provide the District Attorney probable cause for a judge to issue a search warrant for your house and your vehicle. I will agree to personally testify that I saw you sell prescription narcotics to your own daughter. That’s a mandatory prison sentence. You won’t thrive in prison, Carl. You’ll be dead by the end of the year. Now give the phone to the doctor.”

  “Hello? Mr. Gagliano?”

  “You can release the body for cremation as soon as the death c
ertificate is completed. There won’t be any more trouble from her stepson.”

  APRIL 22, 2008

  A twenty-four-hour Acme had a large selection of flip-flops and no one had seemed fazed by the sight of two middle-aged men shopping in their stocking feet. They’d rented a room in a Red Roof Inn just across the Pennsylvania border and slept well into Monday evening. They’d showered, ate, and bought the supplies they needed at Wal-Mart and the Home Depot. Michael insisted on postponing the trek across the state to collect Polly’s ashes until after they’ve completed the final chore. They’d waited until after midnight to back the car into the alley when any curious neighbors who might question why they’re carrying buckets and mops and cases of bleach into the house are fast asleep. The basement and master bathroom are both windowless rooms and the staircase is in the interior of the house so curious eyes passing on the street won’t wonder why lights are blazing brightly in the wee hours of the morning. Michael will start in the cellar, working his way up the steps, while Frankie scrubs his way down from the Jacuzzi.

  Michael has the tougher job, dirt floors being porous and notoriously difficult to clean. He wipes down the freezer chest. Next week he’ll have it hauled away, along with all the other shit that’s accumulated in the cellar over the years, and bring in a contractor to lay a concrete floor. After an hour, his knees are aching and his back is stiff. He’d quickly become impatient with the clumsy and awkward rubber gloves and his hands are raw and chafed. The powerful chemicals have ruined the finish on the wooden steps, but Frankie’s unconcerned about the damage. He’s wanted to have them stripped and stained anyway. There are only a few hours until daylight as Michael and Frankie drive to the wetlands out near the airport. There’s no traffic on the access road to the cargo terminal at this hour and there are no drivers to witness them quickly dispose of cleaning buckets and mops, rags and gloves, empty bleach bottles and used sponges, in the tidal pool.

  “Are you hungry?” Michael asks as they pass the all-night diner on Passyunk Avenue.

  “I just want to get a few hours sleep,” Frankie says. “I’ll meet Connie when she comes in this morning. We’ll reschedule the appointments for later this week.”

  There’s a parking space a block from the salon, a minor miracle.

  “I need this shit today like I need a hole in the head,” he grumbles when he sees the number of the incoming call as he locks the shop door behind him.

  Steven Kettleman’s priorities always take precedence over a minor inconvenience like an emergency in his Chief Deputy’s family.

  “You sound wide-awake for six thirty in the morning,” the District Attorney comments.

  “Not really.”

  “By the way, how is your sister?”

  “She died last night. Peacefully.”

  “My condolences. Are you still in the wilderness across the Alleghenies?”

  Michael says he has a few estate details to handle (emptying the trash, changing the locks on the doors to Polly’s house) before returning home.

  “Sorry to inconvenience you, but I need you to take care of something. You can do it from out there in God’s country by phone conference. I’ll have the office organize it. Can you get to a landline? These fucking cell phones are too fucking unreliable.”

  “I’m sure I can find one.”

  “Call in at two. The fucking press is looking for a comment for the evening news and I’m meeting the governor when he arrives from Harrisburg. I’m writing the introduction he’s making at the victory celebration tonight. It’s gonna be a landslide for our girl, Michael. Hillary’s gonna crush that arrogant asshole. Besides, I think it’s more appropriate for you to be the one to comment on Tommy Fucking Corcoran. The Grossmans are pressing me to raise your profile.”

  Michael’s heart leaps into his throat. There can be only one reason the media is seeking a reaction from the Office of the District Attorney. Tommy Corcoran must be dead. Michael hopes it was deservedly gruesome and painful. A garroting or stabbing or his skull bashed in by an inmate swinging a dumbbell in the weight room. Maybe there is justice in the world.

  “Just stay on message, Michael. Don’t let your emotions run away with you. The vultures reached out to the little fucker through his sister. It’s more money than that family of low-rent scum could ever expect to see in a lifetime. Do they really expect we’re going to let them keep it?”

  Tommy Corcoran has entered into an agreement to sell the rights to his life story to a production company with an exclusive deal with HBO. Access Hollywood is reporting a young teenage star from the Disney Channel is attached to the project. They’ll cast an actor with shady, suspicious looks to play Michael, one who’s been typecast as a ruthless climber who would never let the truth stand in the way of his ambition. Someday his son will flip the channels and stumble upon this fairy tale and wonder if the father he thought he had known, his hero, had been this villain, hell-bent on leading an innocent lamb to slaughter.

  “Every goddamn penny of that blood money is going into the pockets of Carmine Torino’s parents, Michael. Get that message out loud and clear. Every last penny.”

  Michael has an even better story to feed the public’s voracious appetite for sensational tales of blood and death, if only he could sell it. It would be worth millions, set his family up for life. Hollywood would be after it like sharks in a tank. Fuck HBO. The material is too good to waste on anything less than a feature film with an A-list star. Too bad Pacino’s an old man now. It’s a role that would be as iconic as Michael Corleone and Serpico. Oscar bait. Michael Rocco Gagliano, an ambitious prosecutor sworn in as District Attorney after covering up a fatal felony by dumping a dead body in a tidal marsh. Imagine the fadeout before the final credits: the leading man, an accessory to a violent, bloody crime, hand on the Bible, swearing an oath to see that justice is served and that those who have broken society’s laws are justly punished.

  It’s a true story of loyalty and obligation, the movie based upon actual events. Only the ending would be pure fiction. Michael may be many things, but a hypocrite is not one of them. His integrity is intact, despite the blood on his hands. He will never again put a man behind bars, branding him as a criminal for life, then retreat to his comfy, cozy life at the Nook knowing he is guilty of the same or worse. The press conference will be his final official act before resigning as Kettleman’s deputy and successor.

  The press will have to settle for audio only. All three of the local Philly newscasts offer to send camera crews from their network Pittsburgh affiliates. Michael declines, requesting respect for the privacy of his family at this difficult time. Frankie’s number on his private line is blocked, so there’s no caller ID to reveal the Chief Deputy is sitting in his brother’s kitchen less than a mile away. The phone conference is mercifully brief. They only need a sound bite to balance the pathos of the teary-eyed sister and the producer’s solemn announcement that Tommy Corcoran is an American tragedy, a cautionary tale of a young man society had thrown away. Michael is surprised by his own complacency over this unexpected turn of events. After all, Corcoran will still rot in jail, Carmine’s parents will be able to buy a vacation condo in Ocean City, and the teen idol will get his chance to show his chops as a serious actor, praised by the critics for his sympathetic portrayal of a misunderstood victim of the criminal justice system.

  The house at Eighth and Carpenter feels claustrophobic, airless. He needs to get out, escape this self-imposed prison, stretch his legs in preparation for the long drive. He’s just going to go around the block. He’ll be back before Frankie’s finished showering and dressing for the long trip. It’s a perfect spring day, unseasonably warm. Two kids race by on bicycles, brushing his elbows. One of them turns his head, not apologizing, shouting Obama’s name. A white retiree in plaid Bermuda shorts is sitting on a lawn chair on the sidewalk, sunning his bare, hairless legs. He curses the little bastards, asking the saints to knock them off their bikes and break their necks.

  “
What’s going on?” Michael asks.

  “They want to see the guy they think’s gonna be their president,” he sneers, assuming Michael shares his low opinion of the candidate from Illinois. “I just heard on KYW he’s down the street. That Obama. Signing autographs at Pat’s. They’re coming out like flies to shake his fucking hand.”

  Of course. The obligatory photo op for every politician trolling for votes in the City of Brotherly Love, captured for posterity chewing on a torpedo roll stuffed with thin slices of fried beef and waxy processed cheese food.

  “He’ll probably start crying when he finds out they don’t serve watermelon,” the old man cackles, a nasty twinkle in his eye.

  More kids flash by on their bicycles, hooting and hollering, excited by their proximity to History. A young canvasser from Organizing for America is running along the sidewalk. Rail thin, with Buddy Holly glasses and a battered thrift-shop Harris Tweed cap, this dedicated hipster, forever detached and jaded, has abandoned any pretense to cool.