Murder Takes Time (3 page)

When he came out, clad in shorts and a T-shirt, he poured a glass of wine and sat at his desk. Writing opened his mind and let him think differently. He thought about the day and the crime scene.
Rat shit and a dead rat.
The rat held special significance. To any other detective it would have been nothing, but to Frankie it said a lot. If someone from the old neighborhood was involved it reduced his suspect list from millions to a handful. At the top of that handful were two people—Tony Sannullo, crew boss for the Martelli crime family; and Niccolo Fusco, otherwise known as “Nicky the Rat.”

He clicked the top of his rollerball pen, took a narrow-lined notebook from the drawer and started. Frankie used computers for almost everything, but he preferred to write the old-fashioned way, with a pen on paper. The pen felt comfortable in his hand. Even the nuns back in grade school told him he’d be a writer someday.

Anyone with penmanship like yours will learn to write
. That’s what Sister Mary Thomas told him. Maybe her inspiration kept him going when he wanted to quit. Frankie sipped the wine, put ink to paper and wrote:

‘This story started about thirty years ago, down by Philly. But that’s a long way off and a lot of years past. Even so, my memory is clear on this—how you ask—it’s easy for me. Tony, Nicky, and I were best friends. So how did Frankie Donovan, a Brooklyn Detective, and Tony Sannullo, a mob boss, and Nicky “The Rat” Fusco, come to be best friends?’

Frankie set the pen down and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t feel right telling this story. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t get started. People say that the past holds the key to the future. Frankie didn’t know how much of that was true, but he knew someone from the old neighborhood was involved with these crimes. If he hoped to solve them he’d have to figure out where things went wrong. Frankie put his hands behind his head and kicked his feet up.
If this is about the old neighborhood, then it’s really Nicky’s story. Maybe he should tell it.

CHAPTER 4

WITH LIFE COMES DEATH

Wilmington, Delaware. Summer—32 Years Ago

M
y mother’s name was Maria Fusco. They say she struggled with her pregnancy, and that the first eight months felt more like eighteen. Morning sickness lasted four months, then headaches, back pain, stomach cramps—all the things she didn’t want, especially with her first child. Rosa Sannullo, her neighbor and best friend, said it was a sign, and not a good one. Trouble in the first few months meant the baby might get toothaches or gas pains. The second few months meant a troubled youth. But problems throughout the pregnancy usually meant a bad child, the sign of the devil at work. Rosa always blessed herself when she said this, and she always carried a
cornicello
—an amulet to ward off evil—to clamp onto the child the moment it was born.

Rosa stayed with my mother the whole day, dabbing her head with a cool cloth when the fever came, spooning
pastine
in her mouth when it waned. “Eat, Maria.”

“Not hungry,” she mumbled. “Where’s Dante?”

“Dante’s still working. But listen to me. I’ve had four babies, tended to eight or ten more, and I’m about to have another. You need to eat for the baby. He needs strength.”

Maria’s laugh was weak and forced. “You keep saying
he
. How do you know it’s not a girl?”

Rosa scoffed. “A girl would never cause so much trouble. Girls wait until they are grown—
then
they cause trouble.” She raised her head toward heaven and sighed. “
Dio santo.
You don’t want to know the trouble they cause then.”

Rosa scrubbed the pot she cooked the
pastine
soup in, then set it aside to dry while she finished the dishes. “Besides, you need to have a boy so he can play with my Antonio.” She rubbed her swollen belly and laughed.

Maria shifted to her side, holding her stomach. “Maybe I should go in.”

Rosa bent down, put her hand to Maria’s stomach. “Water hasn’t broken, but he
is
kicking hard. That’s a good sign.” She stood, thinking. “But if you have pain, maybe we should go in. I’ll get Dominic.”

R
OSA TALKED ALL THE
way to the hospital, and all the time holding Maria’s hand. “Betty McNulty asked about you. And that Snyder woman down on Chestnut Street.”

Maria nodded. “She’s nice. How is her little girl doing? Didn’t she have trouble at birth?” Maria’s hands flew to her stomach. Her knees raised. “Rosa.” Her teeth ground together, forehead wrinkled. “Oh, God. It hurts.”

Rosa patted Maria’s head while she squeezed her hand. “It will be all right. Hold on.” She leaned toward Dominic and whispered. “
Sbrigati.
”

“I
am
hurrying, Rosa.” Dominic stepped on the gas, but every block Rosa yelled more. Half a mile later his tires screeched as he pulled into the hospital entrance. He jumped out, flung open the back door and pulled Maria out, carrying her in his arms.

Rosa held the door open and shouted. “Get a doctor. This woman is having a baby. And she’s bleeding.”

An attendant met them in the hall with a wheelchair. He helped Maria out of Dominic’s arms, then rushed her toward the operating room. Rosa grabbed hold of a doctor talking to a nurse. “
Dottore
, get in there with Maria. That woman is having a baby.
Sanguina.
She’s bleeding.”

They waited five or ten minutes before Rosa remembered no one had told Dante, Maria’s husband of ten years. It was difficult to tell at times which one loved the other more. He doted on her and she waited on him as if it were her only job in life. “God help me, Dominic, we didn’t tell Dante.”

“Calm down, Rosa. Do you know where he is working?”

“Some job…” She scratched her head. “By the waterfront. Down on Front Street.”

Dominic nodded. “I know the one.”

Within half an hour, Dominic returned with Dante, his face etched with worry. He rushed over and hugged Rosa.

“How is she?”

“She was in a lot of pain.”

For more than an hour they sat, and paced, and worried. As Rosa prayed on her rosary beads, Dante got up for the third time. Paced more. Wrung dry hands. “What could be wrong?” His brow was a wrinkled mess.

“Please sit,” Rosa said. “Worry wears the heart raw.”

Dante came back to the sofa and sat. “We cannot lose that baby. It’s all Maria has lived for.”

Rosa looked into his eyes and held his face. Dante Fusco was a stonemason, a strong man. But even more, he was a respected man. She hugged him again then waved to her husband to leave them alone. “It will be all right, Dante. Try not to worry.”

Minutes later a doctor came through the double doors of the waiting room. He looked around as he took the green mask off his face. “Mr. Fusco?”

Dante jumped up and ran to him. “I am Dante Fusco. How is Maria?”

The silence seemed to last a year. As the doctor reached for Dante’s hands, Rosa was up and running to him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fusco,” the doctor said. “We couldn’t save her.”

Dante heard the words and knew their meaning, but he could not accept them. Something twisted inside of him. Snapped. Broke. He stared at the doctor. No tears. “And the baby?”

“You have a healthy boy.”

Dante nodded, then turned and walked away. Walked past Rosa, waiting to console him. Then past Dominic, returning with coffee. He walked out the door and all the way home, never stopping for anything, thinking about nothing but Maria. About the life they would never have together.

T
HREE DAYS LATER
R
OSA
went with Dante to get the baby. Dominic drove.

“Dante, a baby cannot go unnamed for so long. If it does it will lose its soul.”

“Once I get him home I will find a name.”

“I always liked Gianni,” Rosa said. “Or Vittorio.”

“I will think on it, Rosa.”

Rosa blessed herself. “Think all you need to—just give him a name before Satan does.”

As they neared home, Rosa reached over and blessed the baby. She had already put the
cornicello
around his neck. “He should be breastfed. Two blocks over, the Snyder woman’s neighbor just had a baby. She could feed him. And that Irish girl on Maryland Avenue—Camille, I think her name is—her baby is only three months old. She should have plenty of milk. Those Irish always have good milk.”

Rosa leaned back, rubbing her own enlarged stomach. “This little one is kicking. I think he wants to come out and play.”

“How do you know it is a boy?”

“Because she’s a witch,” Dominic said, from the driver’s seat.

Rosa brushed her hands in the air. “Because I already have four boys, and I have the same feeling I had with them. I must have done something very wrong for God to punish me like this.” She blessed herself when she said it. “
Dio Santo.
He kicked again. We might not need that Irish girl. It looks as if Antonio will here before the doctor thinks.”

Dante patted her arm. “You’re a good woman, Rosa. Thank you for your help.” He leaned forward then said, “And thank you, Dominic. I appreciate all that you and Rosa have done.”

“Don’t forget what I said about breastfeeding. He already looks skinny.”

Dante sighed. “Rosa, I know how you feel, but babies do fine with formula.” He kept a firm, yet soft, grip on the baby, wrapped in a blanket Rosa knitted. He looked at its twisted features, pinkish face, curled feet.
Not a good trade for Maria. Not a good trade at all.

M
Y FATHER DIDN’T GIVE
me a name until I was five days old. Rosa warned him not to wait, said Satan might claim me.

Niccolo Conte Fusco—that’s the name he gave me. I guess it’s questionable whether he did it in time. Some, like Rosa, swear he did; others…well, others might say he waited too long. Far too long.

CHAPTER 5

COPPERS

Wilmington—26 Years Ago

I
woke up happy on my sixth birthday. August first was the day I was born, but Mamma Rosa made me celebrate two birthdays—the day I was born, and the day Pops named me, just in case the saints mixed them up.

School was more than a month away so we had plenty of time to do things. Plenty of time to get into trouble, my father said. He was mostly right. Tony, Frankie, and I ran that neighborhood, at least in our minds. We were six, going on eight, and wishing we were ten.

Smoking cigarettes was old hat by now. It was one of the things we lived for. Anytime we were far enough away from home or the prying eyes of a neighbor, there were smokes dangling from the left side of our mouths. Had to be the left side too. I don’t know where that came from, but somebody we saw and admired must have done it that way.

I was still lying lazily in bed when the front door opened. I heard feet pounding up the stairs.

“Get your butt up, Nicky.” Tony came in, followed by Frankie.

Frankie’s real name was Mario, named after his mother’s father, but he didn’t like the way
Mario
sounded with
Donovan
so he went by his middle name. If we wanted to piss him off, we called him
Francis
. Worked every time.

“Christ’s sake, half the day’s gone,” Tony said. “Let’s go.”

I jumped out of bed, started dressing. “What’s the rush?”

“You guys are gonna help with cleaning.”

“You prick.” Frankie said, and wrestled him to the bed.

We all laughed, then ran up the hill toward Tony’s house. The hill we lived on was steep, not San Francisco steep, but the kind of hill that was great for stick-boat races in the gutters after a summer rain, or for catching rides on the bumpers of cars when it snowed. Anyway, we were kids and running up hills was fun.

“This better not take too long,” Frankie said.

“We’ll be done in no time.” When Tony opened the front door, the sweet smell of garlic hit me. I was hungry before the storm door banged shut.

“Good morning, Mamma Rosa.”