Apaches

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “I’m gonna grab a shower,” Mrs. Columbo said. “Let me know how it turns out.”

  She came out ten minutes later wearing a white terry-cloth robe and combing her wet hair straight back. Joe was leaning against a wall on the far side of the bedroom.

  “So?” she said.

  “I’m giving up mysteries,” Joe said. “That’s my last one. From now on, it’s romance novels for me.”

  “Like those endings are hard to guess,” Mrs. Columbo said.

  “Remember when I took you to see Chinatown?” Joe asked. “Halfway through, you knew John Huston was her husband, her brother, her uncle, whatever the hell he was to her. You knew.”

  “Honey, it’s my job to know,” Mrs. Columbo said, walking over and stroking his face. “Remember?”

  “It was your job, Mary,” Joe said quietly.

  “Oh, Joe, let’s not have this conversation again, please. I’ve got too much on my mind right now. If it’s still bothering you, we’ll talk about it when I get back.”

  “We were going to take Frankie up to Maine the year you got wounded,” Joe said almost wistfully. “We’d made the reservations and everything. Now here you are, going up all by yourself.”

  Mrs. Columbo stood frozen in her place. Her eyes narrowing in on her husband. “Joe,” she said slowly, “who told you I was going to Maine?”

  “I don’t know,” Joe was suddenly flustered. “You must have mentioned it earlier.”

  “Who told you, Joe?” Mrs. Columbo held both her place and her gaze. “Who told you about Maine?”

  “Does it matter?” he asked.

  Mrs. Columbo’s upper body shook slightly, her face was flushed, and her eyes were lit by rage. “It matters a great deal. Do you know what flight I’m on too?”

  “I want it to stop, Mary,” Joe said, ignoring the question. “It’s too dangerous. You’re going to end up getting yourself killed.”

  Mrs. Columbo sat on the edge of the bed. She was trying to think like a homicide detective, but the emotional rush was too strong. “Do you know what you did, Joe?” Mrs. Columbo asked. “Do you have any idea?”

  Joe came over to her side and knelt down before her. “I was trying to save the woman I love,” he said. “That’s all I did.”

  Mrs. Columbo reached down and held his face with her hands. “But you didn’t,” she whispered. “You put us all at risk.”

  “No one’s at risk if you stop it now.”

  She shook her head.

  “There’s too many out there against you,” he said. “You can’t beat them.”

  “Who did you go see?” Mrs. Columbo asked. There were tears in her eyes now. “Who told you about us?”

  “Deputy Inspector Lavetti,” Joe said after a long silence. “He was a big help to me after you got wounded. Somebody for me to talk to now and then.”

  “And you told him about me and the Apaches.” It wasn’t a question. It was the quiet, firm statement of a homicide detective.

  “I thought he was somebody I could trust.” Joe now wiped at his own tears.

  “He’s a dirty cop, Joe.” Mrs. Columbo reached down to hold her husband in her arms. “There’s no way for you to have known that. But he went out and did what any dirty cop does. He called the people who pay him and told them who we were.”

  “I didn’t go see Lavetti because I wanted you caught.” Joe buried his head in his wife’s robe. “I went because I was scared I was going to lose you.”

  “You were never in any danger of losing me, Joe,” Mary said quietly. “I put my years in with you and I did it for only one reason. The only reason worth doing it—I loved you.”

  “And do you still love me?” Joe asked. He stared into his wife’s eyes, searching for the answer before he heard it.

  “You have to deal with what you did,” Mrs. Columbo answered. “And what you did was lay a death warrant on the whole team. You have to stand for that.”

  “That’s the cop answer,” Joe said. “I’m looking for the wife answer.”

  “It’s the same answer,” Mrs. Columbo said.

  • • •

  BOOMER SAT BEHIND the wheel of the dark Buick, window down to let in the moist spring air, looking across at Mrs. Columbo’s house. Though he was never much of a smoker, he wished he had a cigarette. He settled for two slices of Wrigley’s Doublemint instead, chewing each piece slowly, rolling the foil into a ball and dropping it into the empty ash tin.

  Boomer was a fastidious man who liked to do things in orderly fashion. He was one of the few action cops whose paperwork was always properly filled out and submitted within hours of an arrest. He hated surprises and he despised mistakes, and now here he was, sitting in the middle of both.

  Boomer looked up when he heard the front door slam and saw Mrs. Columbo race down the steps, an overnight bag in her hand. She stepped around the front of the car, opened the passenger-side door, and slid in. Boomer kicked over the engine and pulled out of the spot.

  They didn’t say a word until they reached the Midtown Tunnel tolls.

  “It was Joe,” Mrs. Columbo said.

  “What was Joe?” Boomer asked.

  “He’s the one you’re going to be looking for.” Mrs. Columbo tried hard not to burst into tears. “He went to see Deputy Inspector Lavetti and told him about us.”

  “He say why he did it?” Boomer asked softly.

  “Because he loves me,” Mrs. Columbo said, turning her face to the passing traffic.

  Boomer shifted the car away from the toll lines and pulled it over to the side of the road, inches from a red brick wall. He looked over at the cars heading into the city, his mind filled with too many unanswered questions and little time to get them resolved. He now had an enemy in the one place he never thought he needed to worry about—inside NYPD headquarters. He spit the gum out the open window and ran a hand across his tired eyes, for the first time starting to wonder if forming the Apaches was a risk worth taking. In their short time together, Boomer realized how vulnerable the unit was—prone to error, open to the unsuspecting nature of clandestine work—their individual strengths as active cops weakened by their wounds and the passage of time.

  “He’s not like us, Boomer,” Mrs. Columbo said. “He’s got more heart than brains.”

  “How much do they know?” is all he asked.

  “They know I’m going to Maine.”

  Her face was sad and tired, the lights from the toll booths highlighting the fine features and running mascara. Boomer had always had warm feelings toward Mrs. Columbo. More than warm, if he was honest with himself. He admired the woman almost as much as he did the cop. There was always a relaxed ease to their friendship, with mild hints of sexual attraction.

  “No,” Boomer told her. “They know you were going to Maine.”

  “You can’t call this off,” she said, grabbing his arm and holding it tight.

  “It’s too dangerous. They’ll be there waiting.”

  “We’ve spent our lives going into places where people have been waiting,” Mrs. Columbo said. “Why should Maine be different?”

  “Because they’ll be waiting for you.” He turned to her, wanting so much to put his arms around her and protect her. But he didn’t. He just held the look and let it speak for him.

  For all his bluster, Boomer Frontieri had a tough time connecting with women. Maybe it was his background. Maybe it was shyness, or, worse, fear. Or maybe he just didn’t want to make a mistake. Whatever the reason, he could never share his emotions with any woman he cared about. It had left him alone, without a wife, kids, or semblance of a real life. It was an emptiness that pained him even more than his wounds. For Boomer Frontieri there wasn’t any choice. He had to continue his private war with Lucia Carney. It was all that kept him alive.

  Mrs. Columbo put out her hands and held Boomer’s face in them. “Then you be there, Boomer,” she said in a soft voice. “And make sure nothing happens to me.”

  He said nothing for a long time. Then
all he asked was “You got another plan worked up?”

  “Don’t I always?” she said.

  • • •

  THEY SAT AROUND the table at Nunzio’s, their food growing cold as they listened to Mrs. Columbo tell them about her husband’s betrayal and Deputy Inspector Lavetti’s deception. No one moved and no one other than Mrs. Columbo spoke. She laid it out for them like a cop, sparing no details or facts in the telling.

  As they listened they all realized what it was they were hearing. The Apaches were into more than a fight. They were in a war with an enemy eager to take them on. And now their names and faces were known.

  “Any of you want to walk from the table, this is the time,” Boomer said after several moments of silence. “The truth is, if we had any brains at all, we would all walk away. Face the truth and deal with it.”

  “What is the truth?” Rev. Jim asked.

  “That we are what we know we are,” Boomer said. “Which is a big difference from what we think we are.”

  “We’ve always known that truth, Boomer,” Geronimo said. “We said yes to this knowing we were only half of what we used to be. Nothing’s changed. Our destiny remains the same.”

  “Nobody in here is eager to die,” Pins added. “I know I’m not. But we always knew they would figure out who we were sooner or later. We’ve just got to make sure we’re better prepared than they are.”

  “They know who Mrs. Columbo is and what plane she’s on,” Dead-Eye said. “What they don’t know is what she’s going to be doing. Way I see it, we still hold the surprise card.”

  “We can put it off,” Boomer said, impressed with the unity of the group. “Give everybody a chance to think about it some more.”

  “I’ve done all the thinking I need to do,” Rev. Jim said. “It’s time to go to the dance.”

  “Let’s just figure out a way to get Mrs. Columbo in and out of there,” Dead-Eye said. “Alive.”

  “The same holds for you, Nunz,” Boomer said. “Lucia’s got your name too. You want to walk, now’s a good time.”

  “I’m where I want to be,” Nunzio said. “In my restaurant.”

  Boomer stared at each of them, looking for a dent in their resolve. He came away empty.

  “Okay, then,” Boomer said with a smile. “What the hell. Let’s hear Mrs. Columbo’s plan.”

  “How about I make some coffee first,” Rev. Jim said, getting ready to stand.

  “I’ll make the coffee,” Nunzio said, putting a hand on Rev. Jim’s shoulder. “My stomach still remembers your last batch. It was strong enough to kill.”

  “Maybe you should make that a part of your plan,” Dead-Eye said to Mrs. Columbo.

  • • •

  DEAD-EYE SOAKED IN the hot water of the ceramic tub, soap bubbles covering everything but his head. The heat from the water warmed his tired body. He had his head against the tile wall. A wet hand towel had been folded and slapped over his eyes.

  Eddie crept quietly into the bathroom, removed the towel from his dad’s eyes, and used it to stroke the sides of his face. Dead-Eye looked over at him and smiled, always amazed at how closely the boy he loved so much resembled his own father.

  The boy reached a small hand into the water and came out with a palm full of bubbles, wetting the sleeve of his Snoopy zip-up pajamas.

  “I’m using your bubble bath,” Dead-Eye said. “That okay with you?”

  “You can get some in your eyes and it won’t burn,” Eddie said. “But don’t get any in your mouth. Okay?”

  “I won’t,” Dead-Eye said with a smile.

  Eddie walked the length of the tub, dragging his hand through the water, making motor sounds with his lips. When he turned and came back up toward his father, his pajamas were wet to the length of the sleeve, four fingers cupped across the front of his face to hide the giggles.

  “Take your jays off and come on in with me,” Dead-Eye said, sliding the zipper down to the edge of Eddie’s right thigh.

  Dead-Eye waited until his son stripped off all his clothes and then grabbed him around the chest as he moved feet first into the tub. Eddie eased himself gently into the water and rested his head against his father’s chest, breathing quietly, watching as the bubbles floated off to his side.

  “Do you miss Grandpa?” Eddie said after several slow moments.

  “Very much,” Dead-Eye said, running a hand through his son’s hair. “He was my best friend. Even though he wasn’t always the easiest guy in the world to talk things over with.”

  “Like when you told him about being a policeman?” Eddie asked.

  “That was not the best of days to talk to Grandpa,” Dead-Eye said. “He was pretty upset.”

  “He told me you were a great policeman,” Eddie said, gazing up at his dad. “But he didn’t know why you wanted to be a great policeman.”

  “That’s the Grandpa we all loved,” Dead-Eye said.

  “Would Grandpa be happy you were a great doorman?” Eddie asked, squeezing water out of a closed fist.

  “I guess,” Dead-Eye said, leaning his head back against the tiles and closing his eyes. “I think he’d have been happy with anything I did so long as it was honest work.”

  “Would Grandpa be happy you’re an Apache?” Eddie said, still playing with the water.

  Dead-Eye lifted his head and opened his eyes, looking down at his son. “How do you know about that?” he asked.

  “I heard you and Mommy talking,” Eddie said. “I was in my room. Sleeping.”

  “Try sleeping with your eyes closed next time,” Dead-Eye said. “You won’t hear as much.”

  “So?” Eddie said.

  “So what?”

  “Would Grandpa be happy?” Eddie sat up and looked at his father. “About you being an Apache?”

  “Yes,” Dead-Eye said, running a hand down his son’s back. “I think he would have been happy.”

  “I’m happy too,” Eddie said, turning his attention once again to the now-lukewarm water to play with what was left of the bubbles. “Now there’s just Mommy left to make happy.”

  “Let’s take it one war at a time,” Dead-Eye said.

  “Which one first?” Eddie asked.

  “The one I can win,” Dead-Eye said.

  • • •

  REV. JIM SAT on the park bench, his legs stretched out, hands inside his pants pockets. It was dark and the buzzing streetlamp above offered little light. He pulled a hand from his pocket and ran it alongside the bench, feeling the chipped wood, the names carved in it, the rusty screws holding it in place. It was where his mother had sat on the night she died, waiting to pay off a drug dealer with borrowed money. He hadn’t been back there since that night. Rev. Jim wanted very much to cry and shout out his mother’s name. But too much had been ripped out of him over the years. He had no tears left to shed. Instead, he sat in the silent darkness and kept his hand over the wood of the place where a woman he loved once sat.

  • • •

  PINS WATCHED THE eight-year-old boy grab a bowling ball from its slot, crouch into position, and throw a hard spin down the center of the lane. Pins smiled as the ball curved its way to a strike.

  “All right!” Andrew said, pumping a fist in the air. “I’m going to beat you tonight, Pins. I just know it.”

  “We’ll see,” Pins said with a smile. He stood up, took a high-five from the boy as he walked past him, then reached for his ball.

  There were many boys who made use of the open afternoons at the alley, but none more so than Andrew. The boy didn’t talk much, reluctant to bring up a home life that revolved around drugs, beatings, and shouts in the night. Besides, Pins knew all he needed to know without asking. Andrew was there to bowl and to forget. So was Pins.

  Pins reared back and tossed a strike down lane six. “Still think you’re going to beat me?” he asked Andrew.

  “I know it,” Andrew said.

  “Want to bet on it?”

  Andrew cast his eyes down to the shiny floor. “I can’t
bet you,” he said in a low voice. “Got no money.”

  “It’s not a money bet,” Pins said.

  “What kind, then?”

  “I’m going to be gone for a while,” Pins said. “I need somebody to look after the alley for me. Make sure things don’t get out of hand. Interested so far?”

  Andrew’s face was lit with a smile. “Yeah,” he said. “You know it.”

  “Now, if you win,” Pins said, “if you beat me, I’ll pay you to look after the place. But if you don’t, then you work the place for free.”

  “That’s a sucker bet,” Andrew said, strutting to the floor and reaching for a ball.

  “Only for the loser,” Pins said, sitting back down and smiling up at the happy boy.

  He and Andrew bowled late into the warm night. Outside, the happy shouts of Andrew’s first victory over Pins could be heard echoing down the emptiness of deserted streets.

  • • •

  GERONIMO SAT IN the steam room, a white towel draped around his waist, the medallion his mother gave him hanging around his neck. He let the steam wash over him, the sweat flowing down his body like a waterfall, his eyes closed. It was a ritual cleansing for Geronimo, a warrior about to go off and do battle. He knew his time had come, his destiny near enough for him to touch, and it brought a smile to his face. It was the way it was meant to be. He no longer needed to fear being found crunched over a broken computer terminal surrounded by dust and a blank wall, his heart filled with a sad weight. Instead, Geronimo would meet up with the device that waited for him. A device that would challenge his spirit and bring life back to his soul.

  Geronimo removed the medallion from around his neck and rested it on the wooden slab by his side. He no longer needed its protection. His way had been found.

  17

  MRS. COLUMBO WALKED toward the black van, a bundled latex-covered doll held close to her chest. The van was parked off the side of a hill, hidden by a thick cover of trees, ten miles north of Camden, Maine. Four armed men stood around the rear doors, polished shoes scuffing against the sandy ground. Two others sat in the front seat, windows rolled down, their faces up to the sun, necks leaning on headrests. A black Cadillac was parked at an angle next to the van, its four doors open to the breeze, the three men inside checking and cleaning the clips on their semiautomatics.