Authors: Mike Miner
9
Kat Scarlotti hated waiting. She was a woman of action. Which was why, after Whitey died—or didn’t as it turned out—she kept taking contracts. The action. The rush when she turned out somebody’s lights.
Ever since that first dead body in Whitey’s apartment years ago, she was fascinated.
She remembered looking closely at those bodies. Their hearts like clocks that had stopped working. Messy clocks. She remembered the blood, thicker and darker and brighter than she had pictured—and much more of it.
“Do they always smell like that?”
“Usually,” he said.
She would find out later for herself how sometimes they released their bowels, sometimes even ejaculated. She’d find out for herself what a messy business killing was.
“Maybe you should go home,” he said.
“I am home,” she said.
She helped. Helped spread out the plastic, watched him roll one body onto it, then wrap it up. Same with the other. She acted as a lookout, opened the doors for him as he carried the corpses, one at a time, to his Yukon.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
“I’ll clean up.”
She found his cleaning supplies and scrubbed everything down. Whistled while she did it.
When he got back, she was in the shower.
“You okay?” he asked, coming into the bathroom.
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m lonely.”
He opened the shower door.
“Come get clean before I get you dirty again.”
She enjoyed the slack-jawed look on his face. She had never seen it before, the look of a man realizing: this is the one.
The feel of him in the shower, like slick stone.
Yes, she was the one. Not some doe-eyed, big-boned farm girl from the north country. Opposites attract. Bullshit. That was why that girl was dead. And any other girls he tried out. Maybe he understood that now.
So she was waiting. For him or for them. A lot of people were unhappy with her. This was the calm before the storm.
She heard her nephew walking down the hall. Put her Beretta inside her pants, against the small of her back. Pulled her sweater over it.
“What’s up, Aunt Kat? Any word from Mom or Dad?”
She patted him on the head. Normally, she didn’t much care for kids, but she was fond of her godson, Christopher. Sweet and quiet, like his dad and his Uncle Whitey. Fair and delicate like his mother. “Nothing yet, kiddo.”
He sighed.
“Hang in there,” she said.
“What’d you get at the store? Did you get my Frosted Flakes?”
“I got your Frosted Flakes,” she said, pulling the box out of the grocery bag.
The phone rang.
Three times.
A pause.
Once more.
The signal.
Kat’s Beretta was in her hands. Christopher’s eyes went wide.
She smiled at him. “Remember the drill.”
Christopher froze.
Kat slapped him. “To the bedroom. Then do just what I told you.”
Christopher bolted to the guest bedroom.
It was a well-kept secret that there was not a tenant upstairs. They owned that unit too. For just such an emergency. Christopher went into the closet, climbed the shelves and popped open the hidden trap door.
So it was them, not him. Good. A nice little appetizer for her. She watched the doorknob turn. Slowly. Quietly. The man never knew what hit him.
She guessed there would be two or three. Figured they’d never expect her to come out the front door after them. So that’s what she did. Crouched low, she ran and slid on the tile floor, gun ready, as she came out the other side. For a second, they were stunned. Which was all the time she needed. Pop. Pop. The fourth one (Goodness, Angelo, for little old me? she thought) fired and missed, then turned and ran. She clipped his arm as he rounded a corner. It slowed him down enough for her to get close, shoot his left leg.
He went down.
She stepped close, kicked his gun away. Put her face right in front of his. She liked her pretty smile to be the last thing men saw before they died.
His eyes hadn’t realized it yet. Hadn’t let go of his life.
“Denatale?” she said.
His eyes stopped darting, settled on hers. Saw what was there for him. He nodded.
She nodded back and turned out the lights for him with a headshot.
What a mess.
The boy climbed the fire escape up to the roof. He took in the view. From here he could see the water, the aquarium, Quincy Market. He listened to the sound of Aunt Kat’s gun.
All Christopher could think: Wow.
Two more shots.
So they really were after us, Christopher thought, and suddenly he was worried about his parents. Who was looking after them?
Aunt Kat’s head appeared at the top of the fire escape. “All clear, kiddo.”
Back inside, Aunt Kat threw things into a suitcase. “Two minutes. Pack everything you need.” She handed him a duffel bag.
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s going on?”
“The chickens are coming home to roost.”
10
The old man was not going to be happy.
Twice in one week things got all fucked up.
Don’t shoot the messenger, he thought, as he took the drive to Walpole. MCI – Walpole. Massachusetts Correctional Institute. But it wasn’t Walpole anymore, not like when he did his time there. The town had raised a stink. Now it was MCI – Cedar Junction. Call it whatever you want, Angelo Denatale, Jr., thought; it was still a dungeon that stole years in exchange for nightmares.
It took about thirty minutes to get there from Boston, depending on when you left.
Angelo Denatale, Sr., “alleged” head of the Denatale crime family, was awaiting trial. He had been denied bail. For two years, he had run things from the inside, talking to his son three times a week, sending messages, reaching people over the twenty-foot high walls, past the barbed wire and electrified fence
.
Plotting—always plotting—revenge against the Scarlotti family, and searching for the Feds’ mystery star witness, whose grand jury testimony sealed the arrest warrant. Murder, extortion, racketeering, mayhem, the whole nine yards.
Then they found him. Whitey Scarlotti, not so dead after all. Holed up north somewhere in the Green Mountains of Vermont.
But that bitch had fucked everything up, intentionally or not, and now she had to go. Gone. Forever.
*
Angelo, Sr. knew immediately that it had not gone well. Could tell from the way Junior was sitting that he was frightened of what his father would do. Even through an inch of glass, his son was scared to death of his old man. Senior almost turned and went back to his cell, a private one, where he received private meals, the only real perk available to him. That and the private showers.
“What happened?”
His son shook his head.
“Complete failure?”
A nod.
“Christ.” Senior considered punching a hole in the glass.
Junior was braced for just this reaction. He knew his father well.
“Have we taken care of the men who failed us?”
“She did that for us. But Dad, realize that our . . . problem . . . has gone off the grid. Let me push the judge for an earlier trial. Minus you-know-who, they can’t convict. They’ve got nothing. She may have given us just what we needed.”
“Angelo, you’re a good lawyer but a lousy criminal.” He didn’t know where he’d gone wrong, why his son lacked his own killer instincts, why he never wanted to confront problems, just avoid them, sidestep them. Senior sighed.
Junior rolled his eyes.
“Get after the judge. Speed things up. Then get a hold of the German.”
“The German?”
Senior nodded.
Junior gulped.
*
The German was not actually German; he was Swiss. But he looked German. He spoke German. The German had spent time in Iraq with the French Foreign Legion, and then later in Afghanistan, the Balkans, Africa. After several tours of duty, the German had settled in Rome and found employment with one of the larger crime families in Italy. After a few years, the German had become quite notorious, as well as quite wanted by the Italian authorities.
Angelo Denatale had sponsored his emigration to America, where he housed him in luxury. Denatale kept him available as a last resort, like a nuclear weapon. Because, word on the street was, the German would get the job done, just not always cleanly. When using the German, one had to account for collateral damage. He lacked the finesse of say Whitey and Kat Scarlotti. But Angelo was prepared for collateral damage in this case. After all this was war.
And if there was any Scarlotti man, woman, or child walking the face of the earth when the German was done, Angelo would murder them himself.
“But remember, son. Until one or both of our problems is solved, I’m safer here than out there,” Senior cautioned. “Especially from her.”
Junior nodded and saw something he had never seen before in his father’s eyes: Fear.
11
“Tell me about him.”
“My son?”
Lonny nodded. They were in some sort of living room. Beautiful hardwood floors, cherry, he guessed, surrounded a burgundy, patterned rug so thick it grabbed at your feet as you walked on it. A leather couch so lush, Lonny never wanted to get out of it.
“He is handsome.”
“I can see from the pictures.”
She flashed a sad smile. “He’s bright.”
“Like his parents.”
She shrugged. “What is the purpose of this? What do you want to know?”
“I’m not exactly sure. You learn, in this line of work, to find out everything you can. You never know what piece of information will do it. Better to have as much as possible.
”
A sigh. “I see.”
“Mrs. Scarlotti—”
“Linda.”
“Linda, does he have any hobbies? Video games?”
Linda thought. “He likes to read.”
“What’s he read?”
“Fantasy stuff.
Harry Potter
.
The Hunger Games
.”
Lonny nodded.
“His father used to read the first few
Harry Potters
at bedtime. Christopher got hooked.”
It was difficult to picture Red Scarlotti, the famous gangster, reading to his son about Dumbledore. But it made Lonny fonder of the man, he had to admit. The things men will do for their children…. What did Lonny used to read to his son? Ferdinand. Every night. Lonny read it so often, he could almost recite it from memory. Once upon a time, in Spain…
“Mr. Lonagan?”
Lonny snapped to attention. “Sorry.”
“You were thinking about your son.”
“Yes.” She was a woman who would be hard to lie to. Lonny wondered how Red did it.
“I remember reading about it.” As she spoke, she wrung her hands. “Then later, something happened to the man you suspected.”
“He vanished,” Lonny whispered.
“That’s right,” she said. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I was happy.”
“I was too.”
“But you aren’t anymore?”
Lonny tried to look her in the eyes, but they only reminded him of everything he’d lost. Those green, green eyes were trying to hold on to everything. Lonny knew how hard it was.
“Does your son know about his father?” Lonny asked.
“You mean,” Linda grinned, “does Christopher know that his father is a gangster?”
“I guess that’s what I mean.”
“He knows his dad has a dangerous job. A few years back there was some trouble.”
“The North South War?”
Linda nodded. “Christopher went to live with his Uncle Whitey and Aunt Kat.”
Lonny’s eyes widened.
“Can you think of safer guardians?”
“I guess not.”
“Christopher understands that his father has enemies.”
“When did you realize who he was?”
“What does this have to do with finding my son?”
“Nothing.” He was just curious. How one won the hand of such a lovely creature.
She closed her eyes and let out a long breath.
“We met in college. Richard didn’t put on airs back then. He was a terrible flirt.”
She seemed guilty, remembering fond things now.
“We went out a few times. A few places in the neighborhood. Everyone knew him. I figured he was just a popular, local kid.” She shook her head. “Things were going well. For Valentine’s Day, he decides to take me to Providence, to Federal Hill. The best Italian meal you’ll ever have, he says.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Camille’s.”
“Pretty good.”
“He was right. The food just melted on your tongue. After dinner, we’re waiting for the valets to get our car. There’s some guy there. Older. All dressed up. A little wobbly from booze. He’s mouthing off to the valets. He looks at me, then turns to Richard, says, that is a fine piece of ass.”
“The valets go bug-eyed. Richard stays calm and cool, doesn’t even raise his voice, just says, “Watch your mouth, sir.” Gives him his dead-eyed stare. My jaw drops. The old guy loses it.”
Lonny pictures it, this Ivy League, Irish catholic girl, in the middle of all these gangsters.
“Who the hell you think you’re talking to, you little punk, the guy says. Richard keeps giving him the eye. The old guy pulls out a gun. The valets wrestle him inside. I’m saying, Richard let’s get the hell out of here. Richard doesn’t say a word, but his face is bright red and he’s shaking. I thought it was fear.”
Not fear, Lonny thought. Anger.
“The valets must have explained who Richard was because a few minutes later, out comes the guy, red faced, near tears. I say, Richard let’s go, but he keeps looking at the guy. The guy won’t make eye contact with anyone but finally he looks at Richard. Richard is twenty years old, mind you. Guy looks straight at Richard, clears his throat, and says, I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Scarlotti. Richard gives him one of those smiles that isn’t a smile. Turns to the valets and says, Make sure this guy gets home safe.
“Now, my friends had made some jokes about Richard, some mob jokes. I never took them seriously. When we got back in the car, I turned to him and said, Who are you? He laughed. Just some guy with a mean dad, he said.”
“Lorenzo Scarlotti,” Lonny said. The boss of bosses.
“A lot of people would have known right then what they were in store for and gotten the hell away from him.”
“But not you,” he said.
She sighed and looked at him. “Not me.” She sniffed. “You think this is all my fault.”
“No.”
She smiled. It did things to his chest, her smile, made it hurt. Maybe that was just his heart, rusty at beating fast. “You’re a lousy liar.”
Lonny chuckled. “For what it’s worth, Linda, the heart wants what it wants. The choices aren’t always easy.”
Linda’s expression changed. She looked away then back at him. “My husband mentioned….” She turned away again.
“What?”
“His brother, William.”
“Yes?” He tried to read her expression, but it was tough. Concern? Fear?
“He’s still alive?”
“He seems to be. Have you heard from him?”
She shook her head. “I can’t believe it.”
Lonny decided to leave it alone. “I’m being paid to find your son. I’ll go try to do that.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lonagan.”
“Dylan.”
“Thanks, Dylan.” She touched his arm, squeezed it.
It made him want to kill people for her.