Butcher's Road (48 page)

He thought only briefly about Paul Rabin. It seemed clear enough the man hadn’t done his job. Whether that meant Rabin was dead or merely incompetent mattered little. In fact it was good news in its own way. The fewer people who knew about the Rose the better.

Heat from the inferno that had been his home broke the worst of the nighttime chill. It wrapped around Marco like a blanket, and he closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. For a moment, he imagined the near future, a calming trick that Lon had taught him years ago.

Tomorrow at this time the wrestler would be dead, he told himself. Marco would set his family up at the Drake and he’d head east, back to Brooklyn, to a house which stood only three miles from the dilapidated tenement his parents had called home. If Lonnie Musante hadn’t been blowing hot air up his ass, Marco would find weapons there waiting like plagues to spread death and submission—weapons so powerful he’d never have to worry about Angus Powell or Bugs Moran again. For that matter, he wouldn’t have to worry about Nitti or Ricca or anyone else in the rackets, either.

Twenty-four hours wasn’t long. It was all in the way you looked at a thing.

He opened his eyes and immediately saw motion on the periphery of his vision. DeNardo was loping around the side of the house, making his way toward him.

“Yeah, Rudy and Theo are morgue ornaments,” he said. “Looks like the wrestler got himself a heater and threw some lead. Our guys are tits to god.”

“Are Cardinal and that other fuck still inside?”

“Yeah, can’t tell,” said DeNardo. “It was quiet over there, but I wasn’t about to stick my head through the window to say, ‘Hello,’ if you know what I mean? I’m headed back over. Robertson and I will move in close and get the skinny, but I thought you’d want to know about Rudy and Theo.”

“What I want is Butch Cardinal in pieces all over this front yard, so why don’t you figure out a way to make that happen?”

“Yeah, sure,” DeNardo said nervously. The man spun on his heels and headed off.

Flames had reached the midpoint of his house. They roared like dragons, that had conquered a castle and perched on the roof to celebrate the meat in their bellies. Marco studied them, lost himself in their dance as he thought through the evening, using what had already happened to form a logical conclusion about what would happen next. If Cardinal had gotten out of the study, then he was likely lurking along the fence line, watching Marco and his men and waiting for a new opportunity. He’d want to thin the ranks further, maybe take out DeNardo and Robertson, before moving on Jake, Luke and Marco.

Through the dragon song of his house’s destruction, he imagined he heard his name, called softly or from a great distance. For the briefest of moments, he actually thought the fire was speaking to him, summoning him, but he recognized the impossibility of such a ridiculous idea. When his name again floated through the air, Marco turned away from the burning house.

“Boss,” Jake said, jabbing the muzzle of his machine gun at the distant gate. “Company’s coming.”

Two men walked across the snowy yard. Their faces were masks of orange catching the flame light at Marco’s back. The sight of them was part joy and part fury, like water hitting a pan of hot oil. His body sizzled and crackled.

Butch Cardinal trudged toward him, his hands clasped behind his lowered head. At his back was the cop—Lennon—who had his service piece wedged tightly behind the wrestler’s ear. Marco pushed his way through Jake and Luke and waved for his men to follow.

“Merry Christmas,” Lennon said. He kicked the back of Cardinal’s knees, and the wrestler dropped to the snow, head still lowered. Defeated. “When we spoke on the phone earlier you said something about my present. Ten grand?”

Before Marco responded to Lennon he grasped either side of Cardinal’s head and leaned in close. “They’ll find pieces of you inside,” he said, his voice barely audible through the wind and the roar of flames. “Give me the Rose and I’ll put two behind your ears before we start sawing. Fuck me around, and you’ll be wide awake when we take your arms.”

Cardinal didn’t respond, and his silence infuriated Marco. He wanted to hear excuses and pleading, and he wanted to hear the voice of the son of a bitch who had run him around the pole a hundred times. But apparently the wrestler had become resolved to his fate and saw no point in wasting his breath.

Marco turned to his guards. With a voice as serene as if he were asking a florist for a particular cut of flower, he said, “Jake, I want you to strip this guy down and check every pocket. Search him from tits to toes. Put your hands up his ass if you need to. If this guy is hiding anything, I want it found. Luke, you cover them. If Cardinal breathes wrong, blow out his knees.”

As Jake stepped forward and Luke took a firing stance at Cardinal’s side, Lennon lowered his gun and returned it to his holster. “Now how about you come across with that reward, so I can get back to my family?”

Marco eyed the detective with annoyance. The guy had nerve, Marco had to admit that, but he didn’t have to appreciate it. He pointed over his shoulder at the burning house, “Access to my funds is a little complicated right now. I know where to find you. You’ll be paid.”

“I hope you’ve got a fireproof safe,” said Lennon.

Why was the cop needling him? Did he honestly think now was the time to play it cute? When Marco’s house was about ten minutes from collapsing? He checked on the progress with Cardinal. Jake had the man’s overcoat in his hands and was searching the pockets.

“Check the lining as well,” Marco said. Then he turned back to Lennon. “You’d better be on your way, detective. I’ll be sure there isn’t enough of Cardinal left to warrant an investigation.”

“Actually, you’d be doing me a greater favor if you left him intact,” Lennon said. “We get a clean identification and we can close Musante’s case and everyone gets back to a normal life. Carve as many pieces out of him as you want, I’m just saying leave the face alone and have one of these saps drop the body someplace public. Or just shoot him as a trespasser and let us clean up the mess.”

Though it didn’t play into his need to hear Butch Cardinal’s screams, the detective’s suggestions were logical enough. Marco wasn’t completely swayed—there was a lot to be said for watching a rival bleed—but he had time to think it over.

“It’s no sweat off my brow one way or the other,” Lennon continued.

“You can go now, detective,” Marco replied.

“Boss,” Jake said, drawing everyone’s attention to where he stood beside Cardinal. “You wanna tell me what the hell that is?”

What looked like a wide, flat bib made of golden chain draped Cardinal’s shoulders; it lay across his chest and stopped at mid-belly. Though he couldn’t be certain, Marco wanted to believe it was another artifact from the Alchemi’s vaults, another bit of magical metal. Maybe Cardinal had several more pieces on him—a fine start to Marco’s collection.

“Take it off of him,” Marco said. “Toss it over here.”

“You’re a fancy dresser,” Jake told Cardinal. He lifted the odd garment over the wrestler’s head and flung it to the snow at Marco’s feet.

But Marco barely noticed the metallic bib. Once it was removed, he saw the necklace dangling from a chain at Cardinal’s throat. He recognized the ugly blob of metal from a sketch Lonnie had drawn him. It was the Galenus Rose. Anticipation suffused his system like a drink of water after a long dry spell. His nerves tingled and his head went light. All of this happened in a second, the length of time it took for the Rose to settle against Butch Cardinal’s chest.

“Stay back,” he told Jake. Marco walked toward Cardinal, extending his hand for the treasure hanging from the man’s throat. It was a beacon guiding him to peace. It was salvation.

Butch tensed as Impelliteri prowled forward. Snow melted beneath his shins, soaking his pants and affixing to his legs like frozen steel plates. Instinct insisted he lunge at the son of a bitch before Impelliteri wrapped his fat hand around the Rose. A mental picture show played in which Butch found his footing and drove his shoulder into Impelliteri’s gut, taking the filthy punk down, and then grasping his head and snapping the gangster’s neck with a satisfying crack, the way he’d done to that mad dog, Rabin. But Butch resisted any such dramatic display. A gun pointed at his head, and more could be drawn in seconds. He stood no more chance of outmaneuvering bullets than he did of sprouting wings and flapping his way into the snowy night.

How many seconds left before he died? How many thoughts? Would any of them be worth spit on a griddle? Where was the epiphany, the moral? His entire life had been one long rigged bout. He couldn’t beat it. No one could. You were either in on the rig or you got taken by it.

The crooked cop kept his hand on the butt of his gun. He wanted to draw the weapon, Butch could see the eagerness in his eyes, like a kid eyeing a plate of his mama’s chicken. Each of Impelliteri’s steps cracked like applause from a distant crowd. His eyes sparked pure longing for the bauble dangling from Butch’s throat. As he planted his feet in front of Butch’s kneeling form he peered down and released a smirk of scalding disdain.
Bum,
that face said.
Just another speck of human shit needing to be wiped from the earth.

Where is Hayes?
Butch wondered. Had the old man escaped? Had he collected the copper staff and the Alchemi’s other precious articles and limped off into the night? Or had a different squad of Impelliteri’s men broken through the door of the study, chased him across a side yard or through the house, only to shoot the injured man down like a lame horse? He’d liked Hayes. He hoped the man found his way far from this place and managed to leave the infected city.

Impelliteri yanked off a glove and reached for the Galenus Rose. His warm hand brushed over the cold-pimpled flesh on Butch’s chest. Grasping the pendant tightly in his fist, Impelliteri yanked it away from Butch and lifted his hand close to his face to better inspect his prize. He turned in the snow and set off toward the cop’s side. The thug named Jake sidled up to his boss and leaned in close to get a better look at the Rose, and like a child who refuses to share the joys of a special toy, Impelliteri shoved the man away. Jake stumbled in the snow.

With the two men distracted, Butch knew his only opportunity had been presented. He rolled the thorn Hayes had given him on his tongue and pushed it out over his lips. Turning himself for a better angle, he spit the thorn at Luke, who had turned his head to grin like an idiot at his stumbling counterpart. The thing struck the distracted gunman in the cheek, and his expression of amusement froze. His body stiffened and he teetered for a moment before crashing back into the snow, like a statue that had been pushed from its pedestal.

Butch reached for Keane’s knife, which had been lashed to the side of his ankle with a strip of shirt. His fingers grazed the hilt, and then a sudden punch at his shoulder knocked his hand away. Warmth ran over his skin, emanated from a place beneath his collarbone that pulsed with ache.

He lifted his head and saw the crooked cop, Lennon, aiming down the barrel of his revolver. Smoke rose from the gun’s muzzle. Steam lifted from the barrel. Light flashed. The second bullet punched into Butch’s chest just above his left nipple. Another shot. Another punch. More warmth. The pain erupted across his body. His chest constricted as if pinched between two train cars. He struggled to breathe.

This is how it was always going to end.

A final shot.

Butch experienced no flood of emotion, no parade of memories from a life that had proved misspent. He saw no welcoming light, nor felt the overwhelming caress of peace he’d often heard men experienced in their last moments.

His thoughts emptied and his senses closed down. All but for sight.

Before him stood a static tableau, like a photograph that filled his vision with motionless figures. Fire raged through the Impelliteri house, but the guttering dance of flames had stopped as if frozen by the unforgiving cold. The smoke was similarly captured, no longer drifting skyward, but rather casting an unmoving haze over the decimated home. In front of these was the tree decorated for Christmas, and each ornament, each shining piece of cheap metal, was vivid and etched with the finest detail. To the left of the tree, Detective Lennon, wearing a rigid, inscrutable face, pointed his gun. And there was Jake staring dumbly with the barrel of his tommy gun planted in the snow. Two other men were frozen in mid step as they ran around the side of Impelliteri’s house, machine guns at the ready. And there in front of him, Marco Impelliteri threw a glance over his shoulder at Butch. He wore an expression of surprise that had been captured in the moment it was transitioning to amusement. From his hand, barely visible beneath the cuff of his expensive overcoat was a chain, and at the end of the chain, an ugly wad of metal dangled like the pendulum of a melted clock.

On the third day of 1933, Detective Roger Lennon stood on stage next to Police Commissioner Allman. Before him his colleagues, wearing dress blues and faces of sedate admiration, listened to a tale of Lennon’ bravery in his apprehension of wanted killer William “Butch” Cardinal. If they knew the commissioner’s words were nothing more than fabrication, as Lennon did, the knowledge was absent from their expressions.