Thieving Weasels (14 page)

“Why was your father indicted?” I asked.

“He develops real estate for a living. Sometimes projects require money, kickbacks, or other . . . things.”

“What kind of other things?”

“Bribes, jobs for idiot nephews, you name it. One time he even hired a hooker for a city councilman. When my mother found out about it she didn't talk to him for a month. So you see, Skip, your family isn't all that different from mine.”

“I wouldn't go that far.”

“You can go as far as you want, but you need help, and I'm going to help you.”

I closed my eyes and tried to clear my head. The only intelligent change to make to a plan at the last minute was to abandon it entirely, but that wasn't going to happen. I had to go through with the job, and as much as I hated involving Claire I needed her help.

“Okay,” I said, opening my eyes. “Let's do this.”

“All right.”

“But first,” I said, reaching for my iPhone, “could you turn off that Find My iPhone app? The last thing we need is anyone knowing where we are tonight.”

N
OW
THAT
C
LAIRE
WAS
PART
OF
TH
E
JOB
,
MY
CHALLENGE
was to keep her exposure to a minimum. The original plan had been to park the Accord near The Cheshire Arms and ride my bike back and forth to Shady Oaks. Claire drove instead, and by the time we got to Shady Oaks there was an inch of snow on the ground. If that wasn't bad enough, according to the weather app on my iPhone the storm was sending ice-cold water into the canals. It was going to be a frosty night.

I clocked in for my shift and after I checked to make sure no patients were wandering the halls, I pulled out a ladder and set all the clocks ahead two hours. This wasn't the most sophisticated trick in the book, but if a patient happened to see me and was later called to testify, they might—I repeat, might—say I was at Shady Oaks at 2:00
a.m. instead of at Fat Nicky's. Sometimes it's the little things that wind up saving you.

Claire's revelation about not going to Princeton totally destroyed my ability to focus, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I had forgotten something. I stopped by Mr. DeNunsio's room for a glass of anisette I didn't drink, but it was something to kill the time because I was nervous, nervous, nervous. My mind kept bouncing between Claire and the job and the job and Claire, and at some point I realized Mr. DeNunsio was whistling the same three notes over and over.

“Will you cut that out!” I barked.

“Why?” he asked. “What's the matter?”

“What do you think is the matter? I'm scared.”

“You should be. Killing a man is scary business.”

I swished the anisette around in the glass and said, “I've been thinking. Maybe I'm the wrong guy for this job.”

“No, you're the right guy.”

“How do you know?”

“Because, son or no son, you had the stones to say yes.”

I sat on the edge of Mr. DeNunsio's bed. “And another thing. Fat Nicky's an old man. Realistically, how much time does he have left? Two years? Three? Maybe we should let him slide.”

“Not in a million years,” Mr. DeNunsio replied with dead certainty. “If he had only one minute left to live. I'd take it away from him in a heartbeat.”

“Why?”

“You want to know why? I'll tell you why.” He sucked on his inhaler and lit a cigarette. “The night before I put my family in the ground, I got drunk and broke into the funeral home. And there they were. Three coffins. Two big and one small. Ever see a kid's coffin?”

“No,” I whispered.

“Well, let me tell you, it's the saddest thing in the world. And drunken fool that I was, I opened it. God help me for doing so, but I had to see what was inside. You know what was in there?”

I shook my head.

“A shriveled up foot in a black patent leather shoe. That's it. One foot. That was all that was left of my baby.” He blew some smoke out of his nose and said, “Any more questions?”

“No.”

“Good.”

There was nothing left to say, and we stared at our glasses in silence. Then, in the distance, I heard the sound of metal tapping on glass.

“What's that?” Mr. DeNunsio asked, looking up.

“I don't know. But I better go find out.”

But I knew exactly who it was. It was Claire dropping by to say she had changed her mind! She had decided to apply to Princeton after all, and all her talk about affairs and rummage sales was a mistake. Her timing couldn't have been worse, but I didn't care and raced down the hallway
to meet her. I skidded into the lobby, but instead of finding Claire I found Frank. He was leaning against the door and banging his keys against the glass. He looked drunk, stoned, or some combination of the two.

“The Pavilion's closed,” I said. “Come back in the morning.”

“I know the Pavilion's closed. Let me in.”

“Sorry. It's against the rules.”

“Screw the rules,” he slurred. “And when did they change the locks?”

“Right after they fired you. Now get out of here before I call the cops.”

The C-word made him take a step back and he said, “Okay, but do me a favor, will you?”

“What?”

“You know Sal DeNunsio in room 128?”

“Yeah?” I croaked.

“Next time you cross paths tell him I said hello. Okay?”

“Tell him you said hello?” I repeated in a lifeless voice. “Anything else?”

“No. That's it.”

Frank walked away, and I raced back to Mr. DeNunsio's room. There had to be a reason for Frank to appear out of nowhere, and my anxiety-riddled brain latched onto the most obvious reason I could find.

“You had a visitor,” I said, throwing open the door.

“Who?”

“Frank.”

Mr. DeNunsio looked confused. “Frank? Who used to work here? What did he want?”

“He said to tell you hello. Now what do you suppose that means?”

“I don't know. What do you think?”

I knew just what it meant and grabbed a fork off the nightstand. I jammed it against his throat and said, “You asked him to kill Fat Nicky first? Didn't you? Didn't you?”

Mr. DeNunsio barely blinked. “I said think, not go crazy. Now be a good boy, and try to use your brain for a second. Why do you think Frank got fired?”

“For stealing drugs.”

“And why did that happen?”

“He said somebody didn't know how to keep their mouth shut.”

“Right. And who do you think that somebody was?”

I thought about it a moment and said, “You?”

Mr. DeNunsio smiled. “Bingo.”

“Why did you do that?”

“So I could spend some quality time with members of the O'Rourke family.”

I exhaled loudly. “Ohhh . . .”

“Now, will you do me a favor and take that fork away from my throat before I soil my dignity pad?”

I set the fork on the nightstand and said, “I'm sorry, Mr. DeNunsio. I totally freaked out.”

“Don't worry. It happens to everyone. Now hold out your hands and let me see how steady they are.”

I held out my hands, and Mr. DeNunsio slapped me across the face.

“You little punk,” he growled. “I don't care if you are my kid. You threaten me again, and I'll tear your fucking lungs out.”

I put a hand to my cheek and it felt hot.

“Did that hurt?” Mr. DeNunsio asked.

“Of course it hurt.”

“Good. A little pain keeps you on your toes. Now get the hell out of here and go kill that bastard.”

Seeing no alternative, I picked up the empty glass of anisette and headed for the door.

“Oh, and Skip?”

I turned around, and Mr. DeNunsio was holding up his hand like a gun.

“Remember. Two in the head.”

T
HIRTY
MINUTES
LATER
I
WAS
C
OVERED
IN
DARK
BLUE
neoprene and diving into the icy waters behind the Cheshire Arms Apartments. The Accord was parked two blocks away, and Uncle Wonderful's gun and false teeth were in a Ziploc in my backpack. Claire, meanwhile, was sitting in her BMW at a Taco Bell in Amityville. The plan was for me to steal the picture, swim back to the Accord, and meet up with Claire who would drive me back to Shady Oaks. A fast food restaurant wasn't the best place in the world to ditch a getaway car, but it was a safe place for Claire to wait, and therefore a good compromise.

I had never jumped into freezing water before, and even with a neoprene hood covering two-thirds of my head, it was like getting smashed in the face with a block of ice. My lungs contracted and my testicles shot so far up my gut I thought they would shoot out of the top of my head.
Ice-cold water slipped into the nooks and crannies of my wet suit, and I began to shiver. I tried to warm myself by swimming as fast as I could, but between my tensed up muscles and contracted lungs it was slow going.

“Why didn't they have a thicker suit?” I asked the darkness, but the darkness didn't answer, and I kept swimming until I reached Fat Nicky's dock.

I grabbed onto an aluminum ladder and as I pulled myself up I half-expected a dog to bark, or a security light to pop on. Nothing happened. This should have been my first clue that something was wrong, but I was too cold and scared to give it much thought. There was a large glass window at the back of the house, and as I moved toward it I was struck by how normal it looked inside. It could have been my house or Uncle Wonderful's or anyone's. A TV was on, and the light from the screen danced over the furniture and walls.

I followed the light across the room, and that's when I spotted the man I'd been hired to kill. He was asleep in a recliner with a newspaper in his lap and his mouth hanging open. I stared at him for what felt like an eternity, but no matter how long I stood there he just didn't seem capable of the crimes Mr. DeNunsio had described. Then again, I didn't look like a professional killer, so I guess that made us even.

I slunk to the back of the house, and my heart thumped harder with every step. I pulled a penknife out of my backpack and with surprisingly little effort popped the lock
on a side window. It had been years since I'd broken into a house and I felt out of practice, but once inside, it was just like old times. My eyes adjusted to the light, and as I swapped my neoprene gloves for a latex pair I saw that I was in a bedroom. Like the rest of the house it looked as normal as normal could be. I got the gun out of my backpack and clicked off the safety. Even through my gloves the gun felt colder than death, and as I made my way into the living room I had to breathe through my nose to keep from hyperventilating.

Easy does it
, I told myself.
And no matter what happens, don't do anything stupid
.

A bald head poked over the back of the recliner, and a plastic tube ran from the chair to the oxygen tank beside it. I spied the picture of Frank Sinatra hanging over the TV, and as far as prized possessions went, it was pretty underwhelming. I took a deep breath and made a wide arc around the recliner, keeping my eyes on Fat Nicky the entire time. He didn't grunt, snore, or fart, and I reached out for the picture. It came off the wall with ease, and I was about to slip it in my backpack when the telephone rang.

“What the hell—” Fat Nicky said.

I spun around, and as I aimed my gun at Fat Nicky things began to make sense. The house. The car. My messed-up financial aid. They were all distractions to keep me from figuring out the real plan, which was for me to kill the man sitting less than five feet in front of me. The key to the entire charade was the part about faking Fat Nicky's death. It
was so stupid in an O'Rourke-kind-of-way that my family knew I would fall for it.

Fat Nicky rose from his recliner, and I pointed the gun at his forehead.

“Sit down, old man,” I said in the toughest voice I could muster.

He settled back in his chair and looked me up and down. “Okay,” he said in a weary voice. “Who sent you?”

I was too busy figuring out my next move to answer his question. The person who had made that phone call knew exactly when to do it, which meant that either Roy or Uncle Wonderful was outside watching my every move. They must have thought I'd freak out and shoot Fat Nicky the moment the phone rang. Or that he'd shoot me. Either way, they'd get what they wanted, which was money or revenge.

“C'mon, kid,” Fat Nicky said. “The least you can do is tell me who's putting up the capital to have me killed.”

Funny you should mention that
, I wanted to reply.
Because I was thinking the same thing.

“You want to know something?” he said. “I've been sitting in this chair for over a decade waiting for you to come. When you didn't show after the first couple of years I started to think you weren't coming, and that maybe they forgot about me.” He started to laugh.

“What's so funny?” I asked.

“I never thought you'd be so young and innocent looking. Are you toilet trained yet, baby?”

“Keep your hands where I can see them, and you can call me whatever you want. Just remember, I'm the person who's going to hear your last words, so if you have something memorable to say, you should be nice to me.”

“You're smart with your mouth, but you're not too smart doing a job. If you were, I'd be dead already.”

“And miss all this great conversation?”

Fat Nicky smirked and said, “It was Martinelli who hired you, wasn't it?”

“No.”

“Pozzaglia?”

“Sorry.”

“Juliano?”

“Not even close.”

“Who was it then? I give up.”

“Mr. DeNunsio.”

Fat Nicky blinked. “Who the hell is that? I don't know any DeNunsio.”

“His nickname was Sally Broccoli.”

“I don't know any Sally Broccoli, either.”

“You killed his family in the eighties.”

“What are you talking about? I never killed anybody.”

“What about those guys in that restaurant in Bay Ridge? The newspapers said you killed two of them.”

“I haven't been to Bay Ridge in, like, twenty years. I think you broke into the wrong house, kid.”

I held up the picture and said, “Then why does the person standing next to Sinatra look so much like you?”

“Because it is me. So what? Last time I checked that wasn't a reason to shoot a guy.”

“No, but blowing up a man's family is.”

“Blowing up a—Hold on a second. Who do you think I am?”

“Fat Nicky Gangliosi.”

“The mobster? I thought he was dead.” The oxygen tube fell from his nose, and he reached up to adjust it.

“Put your hand down, or I'll shoot you in the stomach.”

“Fine. Go ahead and shoot me. But I'm still not Fat Nicky Gangliosi.”

“Then who are you?”

“Louie Jingo.”

“That name means nothing to me.”

“Big deal. I've never heard of you either.”

But what he said made sense. The wide open backyard, the big picture window, the absence of bodyguards. Retired or not, no former mob boss would ever leave himself so vulnerable.

“Open your shirt,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Open your shirt. Fat Nicky was shot in the chest. If I don't see any scars, then I know you're not him.”

He did as I asked and his chest was clean.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Overjoyed.”

“Just out of curiosity,” he said, buttoning his shirt, “how much are you getting to take me out?”

“Four hundred bucks.”

Louie Jingo's jaw almost fell in his lap. “Are you kidding me?”

“Why?” I asked. “Is that too little?”

“Abso-freaking-lutely. I should be worth at least twenty times that. Tell you what. Let me pay you ten grand, and we can forget all about this.”

“It's not about the money,” I replied. “It's about my freedom.”

“Bullshit. If there's one thing I've learned in this world, it's whenever somebody tells you it's not about the money, it's
all
about the money.”

“Not for me.”

Fat Nicky snapped his fingers. “Now I know why I never heard of this Sally Broccoli character. He's subbing you out.”

“What's that?”

“A subcontractor. Somebody hired him to do the hit, and he hired you to do it for him. How'd you meet this guy, anyway?”

“In a nursing home.”

“Retirement money!” he said with a laugh. “This guy's a beaut. Somebody pays him twenty Gs to whack me, and he slips you four hundred and hightails it to Miami Beach.”

“No way.”

“Believe what you want, kiddo. You're being had. Sally Broccoli? Gimme a break.” Then his eyes grew wide and he shouted, “Now, Vito!”

I turned to see if someone was behind me as Louie Jingo
jumped up and grabbed the end of my gun. It was a good move and might have worked if his fingers didn't get caught up in the hose for his oxygen tank. I pulled the trigger, and he flew backward, hitting his head on a table.

“Jesus Christ,” he screamed. “You shot me.”

“No, I didn't. That was just muzzle flash.”

Louie Jingo pulled his hand away from his chest and saw it was clean. “You're right,” he said.

“Unfortunately, your head is another story.”

He ran his hand through his hair and his fingers were red with blood. “Damn, that really hurt.”

“You'll live,” I replied as I picked up a pillow and wrapped it around the barrel of the Walther.

“What are you doing?” he cried.

“Saving both our lives.”

“Wait a minute, I—”

I aimed the pillow above his head and pulled the trigger three times fast. The pillow made an excellent silencer, but I forgot about the feathers, and they filled the room like the snowstorm outside.

“That was stupid,” I said, wiping a feather from my face.

“Are you out of your mind?” Louie Jingo hissed.

“Stop moving,” I said. “You're supposed to be dead.”

I lowered the gun and looked around. “You have a first aid kit someplace? I need to patch up your head.”

“What do I look like? A park ranger?”

“I guess we'll have to improvise. But first I need to get you away from that window so whoever's out there thinks
I really killed you.” I grabbed his ankles and said, “You know what I still don't understand? If you're a nobody, why would somebody pay twenty thousand dollars to have you killed?”

“Because a long time ago I stole something.”

“What?”

“Two million bucks.”

I let out a low whistle. “Two million. That's pretty sweet.”

“Biggest mistake of my life.”

“Why?”

“I didn't know it at the time, but the money was meant for a government sting operation. The job went bad, and by the time the dust settled, I had the Feds after me, the guys I robbed after me, and my ex-partners after me, too. So, as far as people wanting me dead, the list is as long as your arm. Just out of curiosity, what does this Broccoli guy look like?”

“Old, kind of tall, walks with a couple of canes.”

“And let me guess. His knuckles are covered with scars.”

“How'd you know?”

“Because his real name is Chaz Martinelli and he was one of my partners on the heist. I had really hoped the son of a bitch had died.”

“How come he changed his name?”

“Because he shot a treasury agent in the leg, and cops tend to have long memories about stuff like that.”

Now the con—with all its twists and turns—was coming into focus: Louie was lying low with the stolen money, and Chaz was hiding out from the Feds. He'd changed his name
to Sal DeNunsio and at some point had a fling with my mother. Years later, my mother found out her old boyfriend was living at Shady Oaks and figured she'd con him out of his life savings. She lost some weight, got herself committed, and tried to convince Chaz I was his son. The only question remaining was whether my family was conning Chaz, or if Chaz was conning my family.

I dragged Louie Jingo into the kitchen with his oxygen tank still hooked to his nose and pulled a dish towel from a drawer. As I bandaged his head, I realized that he and I had something in common. We both had people who wanted to kill us for money we stole.

“And you know what the saddest part of my story is?” he asked.

“What?”

“The money was worthless. It was less than worthless.”

“Why?”

“The bills were marked. I tried to pass a couple and I nearly got pinched by a dozen treasury agents.”

“Do you still have it?” I asked.

“What? The money? Only an idiot would hold on to something like that.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

Louie Jingo smiled. “Of course I still have it. I went through hell getting that money and I'll be damned if I was just gonna throw it away.”

“Good,” I said, seeing a chance to get away from my family once and for all. “Because I want half of it.”