Murder Takes Time (4 page)

“What are you boys up to?” She shut off the upright vacuum and pulled a dust cloth from a pocket on her old plaid dress to wipe the end table.

“We’re helping Tony clean,” I said. A few steps later we were across the living room and into the dining room.

“Coffee is in the pot, Nicky. And taste my sauce. Tell me what you think.”

Mamma Rosa called it “sauce” like the Americans did. Many of the immigrants called it “gravy” or “ragu” and got insulted if you said sauce. It was one of the few American customs Mamma Rosa adopted early on, and
nothing
was more important to her than her sauce.

“I’ll taste it in a minute, Mamma.” Coffee was always brewing at Mamma Rosa’s house, and something was usually cooking. I thought it was the way
all
houses smelled—that wonderful aroma of coffee, and garlic, and red sauce. I poured a half cup of coffee and dipped my finger in the sauce. “
Perfetto,
Mamma.”

Mamma Rosa stopped cleaning to tend her spaghetti sauce. Every now and then, she wandered over to taste it, frowned, then added a pinch of garlic or a sprinkle of cheese. No matter how many times the recipe was tweaked, it seemed to need a pinch of something to make it
perfetto
.

“Nicky, taste this again.”

She hummed one of her favorite old Italian songs as she cooked. I never knew the names of them, doubted she did either, but they sounded good. I dipped my finger in and tasted the sauce. “
Perfetto,
” I said, and gave her a big hug.

Mamma Rosa treated me the same as her own kids. I remember her saying that raising me and Tony together was a blessing. To her, everything was either a blessing or a curse, and she embraced both with appropriate passion.

“It’s for your birthday. Not today, the other one.” She leaned against the stove and laughed. The way her belly shook made me smile. “Aren’t you glad I gave you two birthdays?”

“Sure am, Mamma Rosa. That’s one extra time I get your meatballs.”

Tony raced down the steps into the kitchen. “Ciao, Mamma. We’re done.”

“Where are you boys off to?”

“Try to find some work. Maybe stack boxes at the grocery store,” Tony called over his shoulder.

“Don’t spend all you earn.”

“We won’t,” Tony said.

We headed out the front door, down three worn concrete steps and across the yard, the smell of fresh-cut grass tickling my nose. Six more steps took us to the sidewalk.

Frankie acted nervous before we hit the next street. “I’m almost out of cigs.”

“Need to get some money,” Tony said.

I checked my pack. “I got two.”

“One,” said Frankie.

I gave both of them a hard glare. “I’m not stealing any.”

“Let’s go to Johnny’s and carry bags,” Tony said.

Frankie took a long drag on his last cigarette. “Nobody’s gonna pay us to carry bags.”

“Up those hills they will. Find us a couple of sweet old ladies, and
bam
—we got some bucks.”

We walked ten blocks to Johnny’s Meat Market, inconveniently situated halfway down one steep hill and at the bottom of another, ensuring that most everyone had to carry their groceries up a hill. For two hours we asked people if we could carry their grocery bags, hoping to earn tips. By mid-morning we earned enough for a pack of cigs, but only one.

“Screw this,” Frankie said. “Go get some, Nicky.”

The cigarettes were in racks above the checkout counters, too high for any of us to reach. “I’m not doing it.”

“I’ll do it,” Frankie said. “Get in position and make it something good.”

Tony and I went in and moved to the right while Frankie pretended to look at comic books. Tony bumped into a metal rack of canned beans. When the cashier came to help, Frankie jumped onto the counter and grabbed packs as fast as he could.

All of a sudden a customer yelled, “Hey, kid, get the hell off there.”

Frankie leapt off the counter and dodged a stack of magazines, but ran into the arms of Johnny, owner of the meat market. Frankie scrambled to get away, but Johnny had “butcher hands,” as we called them; there was no way Frankie was breaking his grip.

Frankie’s old man would kill him if he got caught, so instead of running, I rammed into Johnny’s side, breaking his hold on Frankie. We ran for the door but Johnny caught me, holding me like a vise.

I
SAT IN THE
chair at the cop station, scared shitless. Two cops had been grilling me for an hour. It was a hot, sticky day, and they had the windows closed, probably on purpose.

The tall cop, Moynihan, handed me a bottle of Coke. “Remember your name yet, kid?”

“I gotta pee.”

“Not until you tell us your name.”

“And who you were with,” the other cop said.

“Already told you. Wasn’t with anyone.”

The second cop, a young black guy, leaned down to look me in the eye. “Johnny said two other boys were with you, and one of them stole cigarettes. A customer said the same thing.” He smiled. “Nobody will get in trouble if you tell us what happened.”

“Two other dagos,” Moynihan said.

I looked up at his Irish-whiskey face and nose. “I know the kids you mean. I don’t know their names, but I think they were dirty micks.”

Moynihan reared back to smack me but his partner shook his head. He stepped in close and whispered, “Johnny said they were dark-haired and looked Italian. The one who stole the cigarettes had a birthmark on his neck.”

I stared at the black cop. “No offense to you, sir, but they must’ve been black Irish.” I turned to Moynihan after I said it. “I really gotta pee, bad.”

Moynihan sneered at me. “As soon as you tell us who you were with.” He laughed as he left the room.

I waited, then waited some more. I had to piss so bad it hurt. I stuck my hand down my pants and held my dick, squeezing it to stop from peeing. It helped at first, but soon got worse. I thought about telling them my name, but knew it would hurt Rosa. Besides, I couldn’t get Tony and Frankie in trouble.

Twenty minutes later they returned. Moynihan wore an are-you-ready-to-talk-kid smile. I gave him a screw-you smile in return. “Bring me any Coke?”

Moynihan looked around the room, checked under the table, then looked in the trash can where I’d pissed. “You little fuck.” He stretched across the table and slapped me, knocking me from the chair.

His partner grabbed him, but he shook it off. “Tommy, leave it alone.”

Moynihan yanked me up with one hand and slapped me again. “Little bastard.” He slammed me into the chair and shoved it into the table, squishing my gut. “You’ll tell us who you were with before you leave here, or I swear—”

By then I was crying, nose bleeding.

“That’s enough. I’m through with it,” the partner said.

The door to the interrogation room opened.

“Pops.” I pushed the chair back and ran, jumping into his arms.

My pops was a short, muscular man with a hooked nose and dark complexion. When he was angry he got a terrible, scary look in his eyes. He hugged me then set me down. He cleaned the trickle of blood from my lip, wiped my nose with a handkerchief from his back pocket then folded it and put it away. Moynihan turned his head when Pops glared at him. It was that day I realized how frightening Pops’ eyes were.

“Who are
you?
” the partner asked Pops.

Pops picked me up and headed for the door. As we were leaving I heard Moynihan whisper, “You know who that was?”

“No idea.”

“Dante Fusco.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t know why that scared them, and I didn’t care. I was glad to be going home.

CHAPTER 6

CONFESSION

Wilmington—25 Years Ago

I
t was the summer before second grade, and we were worried about something that wouldn’t happen until springtime—confession. It loomed larger than the shadows and noises that followed us when we took shortcuts through the woods at night. None of us said we’d tell the truth, but nobody was brave enough to say they’d lie to a priest either. In the absence of a solution, we didn’t talk about it.

During the last week of August, we made lots of trips to the smoke shop. This was where the important people in the neighborhood went. The guys who dressed nice, drove Caddies, and laughed as if the world were a great ball of fun. The smoke shop was full of colorful characters: Mikey the Face, Patsy the Whale, Tommy Tucks, Charlie Knuckles, Nicky the Nose, Paulie Shoes, and a host of others. It was run by Doggs Caputo, a tough little bastard who never smiled and always sported a five-o’clock beard. Doggs also had a thing about nicknames—everybody had to have one. If he gave you one, it normally stuck.

On Thursday, the week before school started, Tony and I went to buy cigarettes. While we waited, Doggs came out. He shoved the frames of Coke-bottle glasses through wiry hair that should have been cut a month ago. Should have been combed, too. “What are you kids doing here?”

“Just hanging out,” Tony said.

“What’s your name?”

“Tony—”

I kicked him before he got out the rest.

He finished the sentence with, “Nothin’.”

I stared at Doggs. “What difference does it make?”

Doggs swaggered over, flipped his cigarette at my head. I ducked, glared at him.

“So, we got Tony fuckin’ Nothin’ and Mr. fuckin’ Nobody, huh?”

At times it seemed as if every word out of Doggs’ mouth was an “f.” And he was clever in how he used the word; he used it as a verb, a noun, an adjective, even tacked on some letters and managed to use it as an adverb. When he got really pissed, he strung them together in the same sentence. He stared at Tony and me, lit another cigarette, then laughed. It was such an unusual occurrence that the Whale rushed outside.

“What’s goin’ on?” Patsy’s voice rolled down the street, rumbling like a bowling ball down a lane. Whenever he talked I expected to hear pins shatter at the end of the sentence.

“Go back inside,” Doggs said. “I’m having a conversation with my new friends.” He tousled the hair on both our heads and started to walk away, then turned back, staring at me, then Tony. “What the fuck, you two brothers?”

“Just friends, why?”

“You look like brothers.”

“Yeah, we hear that all the time,” Tony said.

Doggs squinted as he looked at me. “You the kid Moynihan couldn’t bust at the station?” He bent down, looked closer. “Look at me, kid.” When he stood again, his head was bobbing. “Yeah, I thought so. You’re Dante’s boy all right. Got those same fuckin’ eyes.” He opened the door to the shop. “Patsy, get a couple packs of Winstons. One for Tony Nothin’ and one for Nicky the Rat.” He turned back to look at me. “It is Nicky, isn’t it?”

“I ain’t no rat.”

“That’s right, boy. And that’s why you’re getting the name. Not many kids your age keep their mouth shut. Got good blood, though. Guess I’m not surprised.” He grabbed the cigarettes from Patsy, tossed a pack to each of us. “See me next summer. Maybe I’ll put you to work.”

“We can do it now,” I said.

“You’ll do it when I say, Rat. Now get out of here before I take back those cigarettes.”

“Thanks, Doggs,” Tony said.

“Yeah, thanks,” I said.

As we walked home, I wondered what Doggs meant by “good blood,” but Tony distracted me.

“The Rat,” Tony said.

“Sounds like a goddamn squealer.”

“Bullshit. Everybody’s gonna know. Christ’s sake, you got the name from
Doggs
.” We walked about half a block before Tony spoke again. “Besides, it’s like Johnny Viola, you know how they call him Johnny Handsome.”

“Yeah, guess so,” I said, and whistled. “He sure is an ugly fucker.”

“Ugly as a goddamn peach seed.”

We both laughed as we walked the rest of the way home. “Johnny Handsome,” I said, and smiled.

S
EPTEMBER CAME FAR TOO
fast, and with it the first day of school at St. Elizabeth’s. We walked the corridors along with hundreds of other kids, looking for our classes and wondering who our teacher would be. There were only two options: Sister Mary Leona or Sister Mary Thomas.

Sister Leona was ancient—jowls like a bloodhound and eyes so squinty it was hard to tell if they were open or closed. Frankie said she taught his grandfather. Judging by what we saw, I didn’t doubt it. Of course, an old teacher had its benefits: worse hearing, worse eyesight, couldn’t hit you as hard.

On the other hand, Sister Mary Thomas was the meanest, nastiest, most horrible person God ever put on this earth. She was also the nicest, kindest, sweetest, and most caring person God ever put on this earth. Which side you got depended on who you talked to and on what day, or even what time of day. She stood a few inches above five feet, but when she walked the corridors with her fiberglass yardstick or her pointer, she was a giant. Some kids said the yardstick twitched as she walked, looking for someone to hit. And she was as quick as a cobra when she struck. If you found her singling you out, you’d better hope your ass was padded because there was a good chance you were getting whacked. One kid, Jimmy Borelli, got hit so often he brought a pillow to school so he had something soft to sit on.