Paradise City

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “I was hoping you were smart,” Sunshine said. “I guess I was wrong about that.”

  He reached under his shirt collar and pulled out the knife, snapping it open with his right index finger. He leaned down closer to the boy, anger and madness joining and uniting as one. “You’ll need your tongue to talk and your ears to hear,” he snarled. “The rest now belongs to me.”

  Sunshine lifted Felipe by his hair, standing him up to his feet. He jabbed the sharp end of the knife against the boy’s right palm, the touch of the tip drawing blood. “Think of this as your last chance, little Rican,” he said to him. “After that, I won’t stop until you beg me to.”

  Felipe glared into Sunshine’s eyes and smiled. “Do what you came to do,” he said. “But remember, without me, there is no money. And on your own, you wouldn’t find it if it was hidden in one of your pockets.”

  “Maybe so,” Sunshine said. “But I’ll make sure you won’t get a chance to spend it either.”

  “Then it’s a waste of a good haul all around,” Felipe said. “Nothing for me and even less for you.”

  Sunshine stuck the blade into Felipe’s hand, causing the boy’s legs to give and his vision to blur. The sharp pain was the only relief that kept him from keeling over. “If I ain’t getting the money,” he said into the boy’s ear, “then I might as well enjoy myself some other way. And I’m looking to have myself a good time.”

  The hard blow caught Sunshine right between the base of his head and the bridge of his shoulder. It was sharp and direct and sent a shooting pain down the center of his body, forcing him to release the knife and hold on to the wall for support. The second punch landed in his left kidney and had him gasping for breath. He whirled around slowly and caught the third blow flush to the center of his face, smashing the bones in his nose and sending his blood spraying through the small vestibule. Lo Manto stood over Sunshine and pulled a white handkerchief from his rear pocket, then he leaned over toward Felipe and yanked the knife out of his hand and tossed it against the wall behind them. “Wrap this around the wound,” he told him. “Tight as you can. Then keep your arm elevated. It’ll help stop the bleeding.”

  Sunshine, head still resting on the cold tiles, coiled two arms around Lo Manto’s left leg and opened his mouth, ready to clamp down on some skin and bone. Lo Manto lifted his right boot and stomped on the side of Sunshine’s face, the thick end of his heel snapping the hood’s head back, sending three chipped teeth and a mouthful of blood tumbling to the ground. Lo Manto stared at Sunshine for several seconds, waiting to pounce again in the event he moved, then turned his attentions back to Felipe. The boy was standing by his side, his lithe body still shivering, his warm eyes watery and looking as if they were about to melt. The white handkerchief wrapped around his hand was now a hard shade of red, his fingers trembling, thin rivers of blood running down toward his elbow. Felipe lowered his head and leaned it against the center of Lo Manto’s chest, resting it there, allowing the fear to wind its way through his body. Lo Manto raised his left arm, embraced the boy, and brought him closer to his side. Felipe was crying now, his shoulders shaking with every sob, the brave front he had put up against Sunshine’s menace fast melting away. He shed the cover of the tough and gruff street survivor, tossed that heavy shield to the ground and allowed himself briefly to be a frightened little boy. Lo Manto let his tears flow, granted him the silence and the respect such moments demanded, content to gently rub the back of the boy’s head.

  Lo Manto was angry that Felipe had been hurt. Especially by a low-tier street scavenger like Sunshine, now sprawled and bleeding several feet to his left. But he was also pleased to see him release his fears and find comfort in his trust of Lo Manto, a man he had known for less than three days. He often wished he had known someone when he was that age who could help him unleash the burdens he felt, let loose the anger that raged inside. He had, much like Felipe, learned to maintain a constant guard against weakness, never showing that side of himself to anyone, especially a foe. Lo Manto had spent so many years burying deep any sense of fear and vulnerability that he doubted now if he could bring it to the surface even if he wanted. If his enemies only knew the truth about the cop they felt had no heart.

  “I’m sorry,” Felipe said, lifting his head, looking up at Lo Manto, his face washed with a veneer of tears. “I don’t usually do something like that.”

  “You don’t usually get stabbed every day,” Lo Manto said. “You should see me when I get shot. I sound like an old woman at a funeral.”

  Felipe smiled and wiped at his face with dirty fingers, glancing down at Sunshine. “I should have figured he would have moved against me sooner than later. Guy like him can’t stay away from money for too long.”

  “What makes him think you have any money that someone would want?”

  “Because I do,” Felipe said. As he spoke the words, he realized he was entrusting someone with a secret he had promised to keep only to himself. And while he liked Lo Manto and clearly trusted him, it was still something he felt uncomfortable doing. “It was a gift to me from a local guy who owns a bar. Only I can’t touch it for at least a couple of years. Nobody can.”

  “Where is it?” he asked.

  “In a place where nobody would think to look,” Felipe said with a quick nod toward the bleeding man on the ground. “Especially a bottom feeder like Charlie Sunshine.”

  “He would have made you tell him,” Lo Manto said. “Making people give up information is the only thing guys like him are good at.”

  “Do you want to know where it is?” Felipe asked. The pain in his hand was shooting up into his arm now, the blood flow slowing to a trickle.

  “What makes you think I’d care?” Lo Manto asked. “It’s your money and it’s hidden in your place.”

  “But you’re a cop,” Felipe said with a fast shrug.

  “Not that kind of cop,” Lo Manto said. “I don’t want a cut of it and I don’t want to know where it came from. Those are things you never need to tell me. Doesn’t matter if we stay friends for just a week or for the rest of our lives.”

  “The guy that gave it to me, I used to work for now and then,” Felipe said. “He told me to use it to get an honest jump on life. Get away from the way I have to live now.”

  “That’s great advice,” Lo Manto said, resting one hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I hope you take him up on it.”

  “I plan to,” Felipe said. “If I live long enough.”

  Lo Manto smiled and led Felipe out of the vestibule, both of them stepping over the still body of Charlie Sunshine. “On that end, maybe I can help you,” he told the boy. “For starters, find a doctor and get that hand of yours stitched up.”

  “And don’t worry,” Felipe said as they walked into the hot sun and heavy air. “I promise I won’t embarrass you and cry in front of the doctor. And I won’t faint on you either.”

  “I wish I could promise you the same,” Lo Manto said. “But to tell you the truth, needles always make my head go a little light. So anything could happen in there.”

  “I’ll cover for you,” Felipe said, smiling up at him. “You can count on that.”

  “I know I can,” Lo Manto said.

  Paula sat on the edge of the fire escape, her thin legs hanging over the side, buffered by two rusty railings. She had half a vanilla ice cream cone in her right hand. Overhead, the late afternoon sun was being overshadowed by an advancing army of thick clouds, each weighed down with heavy pockets of rain. She licked at the ice cream running down the side of her hand, the cool taste refreshing to her dry throat. She had been on the move since earlier that morning, following her visit with her Uncle Giancarlo in the downstairs bathroom at Grand Central Terminal. She had made her way uptown, into the Bronx, mixing long walks down hot steamy streets with quick rides on air-conditioned buses, always shadowed by the two tiring Camorristas stepping on her trail.

  She found the tenement building on Ely Avenue, a five-story walk-up with a shiny brown do
or, sandwiched between a bakery and a florist, just where her uncle said it would be. She squeezed into the narrow alley, made her way into the backyard crammed tight with fresh flowers, fruits, and vegetables, and jumped up to catch the lower tier of the fire escape steps. She went up to the top floor, pulled the Ray’s ice cream bag out of her small waistpack, and sat down for the first time that day. She was tired and weary, still confused as to why her uncle didn’t just grab her and bring her to a safe spot, even though she could now see the dangers he faced with much clearer eyes. She also knew that her escape from the Rossi compound was not the result of her brilliant planning and execution but only one more devious device to ensnare her uncle in a trap that ultimately would lead to his death.

  She glanced down at the lush garden below and spotted the two men who had been on her trail since the night she walked from the compound. They were partially hidden by long rows of tomato and basil plants, crouched down, their knees brushing up against thick mounds of brown dirt. They seemed tired and possibly frustrated, knowing even less about her plans than she did, wondering where the hell it was this young runaway was leading them. Paula was startled, nearly dropping the last piece of the ice cream cone, by the whispers of the old woman at her back. She turned her head slowly and saw the dark, hard-lined face smiling at her behind an open window, her full features hidden by the curtains rustling in the soft breeze. “Face forward and listen to what I have to tell you,” the old woman said, her voice low and raspy, coated with a heavy Italian accent. “I am a friend of your uncle.”

  “Is he okay?” Paula asked.

  “He has the heart of a saint,” the old woman said with a chuckle, “but the soul of the devil. He will one day die, but not in any way his enemies would expect.”

  “Where is he, then?”

  “Doing what he needs to do,” the old woman said. “And now it is time for you to be brought to a safe place and end your chase with these thugs.”

  “How?” Paula asked. “They’re right in the garden below me. They can see every move I make.”

  “That is a pretty dress,” the old lady said, switching gears, making an attempt at softness. “My granddaughter has one just like it. Same color, same design. She’s also about the same age as you.”

  “Maybe we can meet someday,” Paula said, trying hard not to show her frustration. “I don’t think now would be a good time, though.”

  “You’re wrong,” the old woman said firmly. “Now would be the best time.”

  “Only if you want to risk her life, too,” Paula said. “Those two down there see me with anybody, they’ll have no choice but to shoot. I don’t think that’s what you’d like to see happen.”

  “Get up slowly,” the old woman said, her voice in full control of both the situation and her emotions. “Pick up your pack and walk toward the steps leading down, but stay close to my window.”

  Paula closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. She then lifted her legs through the thin bars, glancing down at the two men below, who were pretending not to notice her and were busy plucking ripe red tomatoes off thick vines. She grabbed her pack, fingers still sticky from the ice cream cone, and eased toward the steps down the fire escape. She had her left hand out, pressed firm against the worn brown bricks, only inches from where the old woman stood behind the open window. She turned her head slightly and looked through glass panes, past the breeze-blown curtains, and made eye contact with the old woman, smiling up at her with a nod of her head. She was close enough to smell a chicken roasting in the oven and a fresh pot of sauce percolating on top of a small gas range. The old woman leaned closer to the sill, chunky hands rich with veins gripping the splintered wood, her head peering out the open window. “Get in,” she said to Paula. “As fast as you can.”

  The old woman took three steps back, away from the window, and braced herself against one side of a wall. She watched as Paula dove in headfirst, catching herself on a small wooden coffee table nearest the couch. The old woman grabbed the waistpack from Paula and then turned to a young girl standing in the shadows, handed it to her, and then helped lift her out onto the fire escape. The girl, same age and height and in the same outfit as Paula, and with her hair combed in the same haphazard manner, began a slow walk down the fire escape steps. Within seconds, the switch had been made and the girl was soon out of sight. Paula stood stunned in the middle of a darkened living room, the drapes once again blocking out the sunlight, keeping the room surprisingly cool. “What the hell just happened here?” she managed to ask, her mouth as dry as an empty swimming pool. “Those guys will figure out soon enough that they’re chasing a different girl. Then, they’ll come here looking for you and expecting to find me.”

  “By then I hope it will be too late,” the old woman said. “Since there will be nobody at home for them to find.”

  “How will we get out?” she asked. “One of them will make sure the backyard stays covered. The other will probably head toward the front of the building. And it won’t take them very long to call for help.”

  “That is why we must not waste any time,” the old woman said. “We need to get to the basement before they realize my Regina is not you. Once we get there, we can use the underground steps and come out three buildings down the street, right next to the gas station on the corner. There will be a car waiting for you there, with a driver who has known your uncle for many years. On the road, you will hand him your wristwatch and sneakers. He’ll know what to do with them.”

  “And he’ll take me where?”

  “Where your uncle asked us to take you,” the old woman said.

  She reached for Paula’s hand and led her out of the narrow apartment, grabbing a shoulder bag as they ran. The woman was stout of figure and short in stature and moved at a faster clip than her age would indicate. Her thick gray hair was combed straight back and held in place by a small battalion of bobby pins and she wore a medallion of the Blessed Mother around her neck. She had a thin angular scar running down the right side of her face and her breath reeked of stale tobacco. Her name was Assunta and she was the widow of Alberto Conte, murdered in front of his three children nearly twenty-five years ago because of his refusal to pay any further tribute to the Camorra bosses who ran the New York waterfront. Since then, since the morning she watched four hefty men lower her husband’s casket into the cold ground of Woodlawn Cemetery, Assunta had waged a private war against the members of the criminal organization that so callously had ended his life. She helped rescue those they sought, found refuge for the innocents they looked to kill, and dispensed funds to those in need of paying off massive debts. Declaring her own war against the members of the Camorra had made her an underground legend, a woman who worked in the shadows and brought harm and chaos to those who had given her such a great deal of pain. The Camorra had become Assunta Conte’s lifework and she thrived on it.

  Much like her godson, Giancarlo Lo Manto.

  The old woman and the young girl raced down the tenement steps, eager to reach the basement before one of the Camorristas made it to the front door. Assunta led the way, her thick right hand using the rickety wood railing as a guide, often taking the cement steps two at a clip. “What if we don’t make it?” Paula asked, her lungs burning from the run, fear starting to creep into her words and thoughts. “What if he catches us in the lobby?”

  “You will let go of my hand and head to the basement,” Assunta told her in a voice as strong as honed steel. “I will deal with the Camorrista.”

  They crossed the second landing and ran toward the first. Paula could feel weariness and age start to creep up on the old woman, the rasping in her lungs loud enough to echo off the cold walls. A handful of the bobby pins had fallen away, freeing strands of her hair now left hanging loose and wet with sweat against the sides of her beefy neck. Paula’s back was drenched through and the laces on her right sneaker had come undone. She was having trouble catching her breath as they ran into the large lobby, the walls covered with tatt
ered, old framed photos of the Italian countryside, a sealed-up fireplace in the center, its black brick opening filled with a fresh bouquet of flowers. She pulled her hand free from Assunta and came to a stop. The old woman never lost a step, continuing down the side corridor leading to the large red basement door. She released the latches and swung the door open, for an instant peering down the darkened steps below. She then turned to Paula, waiting as the girl came running toward her, her hair flowing wildly against the coolness of the shuttered air.

  It was then that the old woman saw the gunman walk into the shadowed darkness of the lobby. His steps were heavy, their echoes bouncing against the thick walls. Assunta could see the gun in his right hand, hanging down low, primed and ready to be fired. She put her hands on Paula’s slight shoulders, her fingers squeezing the soft skin. She leaned over and kissed the girl on the forehead and gave her a warm smile. “Be careful as you go down those steps,” she said. “When you get to the bottom make a quick turn to the left. Keep going until you get to the boiler. Next to it, you’ll see an opening in the wall. Run through that as fast and as far as it will take you. That leads to a short stairwell up to the street. Once you’re there, you’ll see a black car with the engine running. Get in and let the driver do the rest.”

  “What about you?” Paula asked, glancing past the old woman’s girth at the approaching shadow. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

  “I will see you again, little one,” Assunta said. “This I promise you.”

  Paula looked into the old woman’s hard eyes and nodded. She then turned and ran down the narrow steps, disappearing quickly into the darkness below.

  “That was a big mistake,” the man’s voice said. He was standing behind Assunta now, the gun poised at waist level. “She’s not going to make it. And neither are you.”

  Assunta hung her head and turned slowly toward the man with the gun, her right hand wedged inside the front pocket of her checkered housedress. “You would kill an old woman and a child?” she asked.