Fuckin' Lie Down Already (6 page)

Clay drove over to 73
^rd
Street and circled the neighborhood a few times until he found the Experience-L'Esperienza Bella-right off Central Park West. He double-parked out front and left the engine running.

The agony had become so total now that he had somehow gone beyond it, detached but still hurting, making peace with his own slaughter. Clay could feel himself winding down, the heavy fist tightening around him even as his heart slammed in his chest, lungs struggling to keep his nearly dead, poisoned body going.

Not much time left, and none to waste on subtlety. He had his .38, the throwaway .32, and the service revolver he took off Tommy Yahmi. Plus the two sets of handcuffs. Clay didn’t much like the feel of Tommy Yahmi’s piece so he stuffed it into the glove compartment, carefully maneuvered the guns in his jacket pockets and kept his finger on the triggers, hands out of sight.

Clay walked into the restaurant and immediately spotted Chuckie Fariente in the back at the VIP table with Big Frankie Merullo, Roma Bartone, Fabrizio Allegante-the main players in the Merullo crew. Sure enough, they were all forking the shit out of a plate of calamari and red peppers.

Did he know his boys or what?

Smug Chuckie Fariente, with his ferret-face drawn into a perpetual sneer, was browbeating Bartone over the east side construction unions. Clay was still a little surprised that nobody had put a hit on Chuckie yet just for the way he looked. Always grinning and self-satisfied, ready to toss his wine on someone’s shirt.

All those stony, round, small dark faces looked up at the same time, four black pompadours frozen thickly in place with oil and mousse, even big Frank who was pushing seventy.

Snorting blood, Clay drew both guns and casually pointed them at the crew, covering everybody. He said, “All I want is Chuckie. He comes along and the rest of you fat fucks get to finish your dinner. We clear?”

Big Frankie turned to Chuckie and said, “I thought you told me this cop was dead.”

“Look at him, he is.”

“Not enough.”

“Give him a few minutes to keel over.”

“I don’t think he’s gonna wait.”

Clay braced himself against the table with his hip. Fabrizio had been inching his left hand under his jacket, where he kept his knife upside down in a holster. You had to give it to some of these Sicilians, they sure had style. Clay put the barrel of the .32 in the wiseguy’s ear and said, “How about if we just remain respected adversaries, eh, Fabi?”

Now it was Roma’s turn to start acting up. “Don’t we pay your goddamn precinct enough? What, you didn’t get your cut from the bag man this week?”

Fabi’s hand strayed another half-inch under his arm. Clay sighed, wishing there’d been another way to handle this, but still not too bothered by it. He pulled the trigger and a small piece of Fabi’s head flew laterally down the room. It landed with a wet slap on the lady sitting over there, her gray Prada strapless suddenly mired in blood and bone chips. The screeching started and people ran around the restaurant yelling in Italian, the kitchen help going at it in Spanish.

Boss Merullo went, “Ah, motherless-”

Clay pursed his lips, met Big Frankie’s gaze, drew down and shot him and Roma Bartone twice in their chests.

“Come along, Chuckie. We’re going for a drive. You like dogs?”

Man, the cool on the guy. Chuckie continued to sip his wine, unwilling to move a second faster than he wanted. You had to admire somebody with that much poise and calm who wasn’t pumped full of heroin.

“You’re in charge, at least for the moment.”

“Ain’t it the truth?”

“What do you want?” Chuckie asked. “It’s easy enough to pull the trigger.”

“I’d have nothing to do with the rest of my life then.”

“How long’s that gonna be? Five minutes?”

A spasm whipped through Clay’s abdomen and he almost went over. Another burst of blood worked up his throat and leaked out of the corners of his mouth. “Give or take.”

“You got any idea what you look like?”

“Let’s go.”

Chuckie hadn’t gotten a speck of dust on his suit. He slowly finished his wine, wiped his lips with the cloth napkin, buttoned his coat and walked past Clay. Like they might be heading off to take in a Knicks game at Madison Square Garden.

They got outside where the horrified faces clustered in the shadows and the sirens screamed over the city, coming at them. The guy he’d blocked in by double-parking was huddled in his front seat with his hands on top of his head.

Chuckie peered into the Caprice. “The junkie dead?”

“Consider my state of mind, then ask again.”

“He was just supposed to warn you off. The rest of this…it had nothing to do with me.”

Clay grinned at him, feeling the infection on his own teeth. He opened the back door. “Climb in.”

“You’re crazy!”

“I only wish. Now, inside.”

“Forget that nonsense, you psycho son of a bitch!”

“There’s just enough room. Everybody’s been waiting.”

“Fuckin’ lie down already!” Chuckie cried, his voice cracking. “You’re dead!”

“Not just yet.”

“You’re leaking shit like you just had twelve enemas.”

“You sure talk pretty, Chuckie.”

“Fuck off, dead man!”

“You’re going to start hurting my feelings soon.” Clay pointed both guns at Chuckie’s eyes. “Get in.”

Chuckie Fariente, worth about six million or so, wearing fourteen hundred dollars of silk suit and another eight grand in gold jewelry, with the ruby ring, Rolex watch, and diamond stick pin, went gray and threw up all over himself.

“That goddamn smell!”

“You get used to it. Move.”

Finally Chuckie started to clamber in. Clay slashed down with the barrel of the .32 and sent him for a little loop. It would make things easier. Chuckie flopped backwards, moaning but awake, and the flies gusted into a lazy black cloud. Frost sprinkled down from overhead like snow flurries. Clay got the air freshener and sprayed Chuckie’s dripping coat, hitting all the undigested calamari and bits of salami. They didn’t need a new stench.

He handcuffed Chuckie’s right ankle to Rocco’s left one, and used Tommy Yahmi’s set to cuff Chuckie’s left wrist to Edward’s strapped-in baby seat. The prick wasn’t going anywhere.

“Let me out!” he groaned, the beautiful panic contorting his features. “This is a charnel house!”

Clay started the car and eased out past the stunned folks lining the street. “It’s the fruits of your labor.”

“It’s a meat locker in here! I told you, none of this was my fault. This stupid cocksucker here was only supposed to scare you off.”

“How?”

Lips crawling, Chuckie remained quiet.

“I’ve been living in your garbage for four years now, taping every move you made, Chuckie, and I could never make anything stick. So why the sudden need for such an extreme move?”

“It’s not so sudden. You’ve been getting on my nerves. Between the attorney fees and the payoffs and the all the bribery, you know how much money you’ve been costing me?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you rotten bastard.”

It wasn’t much but it made Clay feel a bit better, like maybe it hadn’t all been a complete waste. He’d done the best he could at his job, and even if he didn’t win out in the end, at least he’d pissed these people off. That was something to cling to now, when he needed it most.

He slid into traffic on Central Park West just as the ambulances descended on the restaurant.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Not much farther to go.”

“Why didn’t you just firebomb my house like a normal person?”

“Ask my son.”

They drove uptown and took the transverse road at 86
^th
street into the park. Traffic was heavy, as always, but Clay waited until there was a break between taxis and stomped the pedal, yanked the wheel hard to the right, hit the curb and jumped it.

“Stop this car!”

They drove across the park, tearing up the fields where Clay’s father used to take him to play ball on Saturday mornings, when nothing mattered but his hopes of being a cop like his old man. He’d done that much right.

The Caprice was skidding like crazy, Clay starting to laugh some. At last, Chuckie began whining, then begging, then really letting out these agonized sobs from deep in his body. Clay grinned and closed his eyes, took his hands off the wheel and just rolled with it.

They clipped a tree at the top of the hill and the Caprice became airborne. Clay couldn’t see anything and snuggled in his seat, enjoying the feel of lift-off. He counted three seconds and knew it would be bad when they came down. The explosive impact became a storm of anguish in his belly as his organs tore and rattled. Glass shattered and the shriek of twisting metal filled his head along. The diamond spear point of agony thrust into his brain, but it wasn’t enough to drown out Chuckie Fariente’s cries scattering across the tattered field as the Caprice came to an abruptly insane stop.

Smoke rose and the air conditioner kicked out.

The deluge of silence immersed the city.

Flies crept over Clay’s throat and zipped off when his Adam’s apple bobbed.

He heard the handcuffs rattling as Chuckie tried to free himself. Clay looked at his lap and saw nothing but a gaping black hole where his stomach had been, all of it ripped wide and emptied.

He opened the door and crawled out, pieces of himself slipping to one side and then the other. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth but he still wasn’t down. Not until Chuckie went first.

He leaned into the busted back window and saw Chuckie’s battered face.

“Still with me, Chuckie?”

“Just die, you bastard. Look at you! Just die!”

“In a minute.”

Clay gathered up the canisters of apple cinnamon air freshener and put them in Chuckie’s lap. He tilted down and kissed Edward on his black forehead and said, “Goodbye, my boy.”

Clay backed up a few steps dragging viscera in a lengthy line. He pulled out the .38, aimed at Chuckie’s seat, and pulled the trigger. Chuckie howled and the high-pressure canisters detonated and ignited the interior of the car. Clay watched as slick Chuckie Fariente’s face flamed up, the fire eating all that goddamn mousse in his hair, the double Windsor knot of his tie, and those uncool, petrified eyes.

The front of the Caprice had been completely buried in the crash, three tons of dirt splashing up like an colossal wave to encompass the hood and windshield. It was as good a grave as he was going to be able to offer them.

The overwhelming moonlight gave the park a beautiful silver glaze which only brightened the harder he stared.

Clay wandered down a hill a few steps, shuddering violently, maybe chuckling.

There, in the shimmering luster of night, Kathy did a cheer in her high school outfit. Smiling, welcoming the opportunity to help him set free his failures and grant him another chance to get it right. But first-first, she said, with a glint of love in her eyes, hand swaying over his ass as if they were about to embrace in a wonderfully slow dance, first he had to take a little rest.

So he laid down.

~ * ~

----For Coop; time to pull over and clean the car out, bro’

Read on for an exclusive sneak peek at the new novel by Tom Piccirilli

The Last Kind Words

Available in June 2011

Visit
www.thecoldspot.blogspot.com
and send an e-mail to be notified when the book is available to order.

"Perfect crime fiction ... a convincing world, a cast of compelling characters, and above all a great story."
—LEE CHILD,
New York Times
bestselling author of
61 Hours

“For the first time since
The Godfather
, a family of criminals has stolen my heart. A brilliant mix of love and violence, charm and corruption.  I loved it.”
—NANCY PICKARD,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Scent of Rain and Lightning

"You don't choose your family. And the Rand clan, a family of thieves and killers, is bad to the bone.  But it's a testimony to Tom Piccirilli's stellar writing that you still care about each and every one of them. 
The Last Kind Words
is at once a dark and brooding page-turner and a heartfelt tale about the ties that bind. Fans of Lee Child will love this hard-boiled, tough-as-nails novel."—
Lisa Unger,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Fragile