Murder Takes Time (8 page)

I bit the outside of the meatball. “Pretty good.”

“
Pretty
good?” Angela stared, her hands planted on an apron covered with sauce. She looked like a young Mamma Rosa.

“Could use some more cheese in the sauce.”

She splashed water on me from the sink, then went after me with the spoon again. I ducked into the basement, laughing. I went down a few steps then crept back up and watched through the door. Angie dipped her spoon into the pot and tasted one. “He’s right. It needs cheese.” She whispered it, almost to herself, but I heard.

Rosa sat at the table, silent. She watched as Angela added Parmigiano to the sauce. “Pay no attention to that boy.”

“I think he’s right. It needs cheese.”

Rosa smiled ear to ear. “Whatever you think, dear.”

After that, I found more reasons to be at Tony’s house, particularly when Angela was there. I was thirteen and in love, and my dick ached every time I saw her. I couldn’t help it. She wasn’t gorgeous like Sandy Miller, but there was something special about Angie. The way she smiled. The way she laughed. I particularly liked the way she twirled her hair around her index finger whenever she was thinking or nervous. And the way she gave me shit right back when I teased her. Come to think of it, I liked everything about her. Soon, I worked up the nerve to ask her out, which meant hanging out at the park or on the corner with the guys. It was nothing formal, but to Angie that was fine. She said a trip to Delmonico’s in New York couldn’t have been better.

After that day the word was out. Angie was under my protection.

CHAPTER 12

A STACKED DECK

Wilmington—19 Years Ago

W
e were thirteen, and Doggs hired us to work a big game at the smoke shop. I put on my black pants, black socks, and pointed black shoes. I grabbed a pale green shirt from the closet and tucked it in, then tightened the belt till my gut damn near burst. I wore green more since meeting Angie. The guys teased me about it, but I defended my choice. I checked the mirror a few times more than necessary, combed my hair for the third time, then ran downstairs.

“Where you going, Nicky?” Pops was in his chair reading.

“Doggs is having a game. Wants us to work it.”

“Who’s ‘us’?”

“All of us—me, Tony, Frankie. Paulie Perlano, too.”

“Who?”

“You know Paulie. We call him The Suit.”

Pops never looked up from his book. “You boys stay together. And remember your manners. It will earn you more.”

I was halfway up the hill to Tony’s house when Suit called. Paulie’s parents were poor, so poor he only had one white shirt to wear with his school uniform. No matter what time of day you went to Paulie’s house his mom was washing or ironing clothes. She had five boys and six girls, and their uniforms had to be washed every night. They might have been poor but there was no way Mrs. Perlano was going to send her boys to school in a dirty shirt. Paulie swore that when he got older he’d have a closet full of suits. That’s how the name got started.

“Hey, Nicky. Check this out.”

I looked at him and whistled. Suit had a new shirt. “Where’d you steal that?”

“My brother got a raise. Bought three of us new shirts.”

I ran my hand over the material, gave a soft whistle. “Nice shit.”

Suit smacked my hand away. “Let’s get Tony.”

We picked Tony up then walked to the corner to get Frankie.

“What’s up, Frankie? Why so glum?”

“Same old shit. Always one parent that’s a prick.”

“At least you got two parents.”

Frankie looked at me with a sad face, one I’d always remember. “Sometimes two parents aren’t so good.”

“Hey guys, let’s forget the depressing shit. We got a game to work.” Tony tried lighting a match while he walked but it wasn’t working. “Gonna be a big game.”

“Lot of tips,” Suit chimed in. “
Lot
of tips.”

I scoffed. “
If
you’re lucky enough to get a winner. Get a loser, and they’ll be borrowing from
you
.”

“You’re just pissed ’cause you always get losers,” Frankie said.

The other guys laughed and I was forced to agree. “Can’t catch a break on that.”

“Who’s playing?” Frankie asked. His mood seemed to be brightening.

“Everybody. Charlie Knuckles, Mikey the Face, The Whale, Jimmy the Gem, Paulie Shoes. Probably more.”

“Who
ain’t
playing?” Suit asked.

We set a fast pace to the smoke shop, where Nicky the Nose was standing duty for Patsy. He let us into the back room, checking the street first to make sure no one was watching. As soon as we entered, we heard Patsy “The Whale” Moresco’s laughter rolling through the room. If you judged happiness by laughter, Patsy was the happiest man alive. Tony used to say that if you wanted to find Patsy, follow the laughter, and he’d be at the end of it, his big fat palm banging on a bar or a table—something.

“Frankie, get your ass over here.” Patsy sat at the bar, on a stool that looked too frail to support him, his meaty hand clasped around a drink.

Frankie ran over, eager to get an early start on the night. Serving drinks earned good tips, but it was usually a bad omen. The guys who drank typically lost in the game, and that’s where the big tips came in.

Pretty soon, everyone had shown up, and Doggs assigned the players. Tony got Paulie Shoes and Charlie Knuckles, and he couldn’t have been happier. Knuckles almost always won, and he was the best tipper. People would think with a name like “Knuckles” it was because he had big knuckles. It was the opposite. Charlie blamed it on the nuns beating him with rulers, and though it didn’t make sense, it earned the nickname. Paulie Shoes was another story—he loved shoes. When he was a kid, he spent all his money on them. He had ripped pants and shirts with frayed collars, but his shoes were always new. Paulie Shoes was a 50/50 shot, but if he won big Tony would be in business.

Suit got Tommy Tucks and Patsy. Frankie got The Nose and Pockets. And I ended up with The Face and Doggs. I was hoping for Jimmy the Gem, but he didn’t show; still, I wasn’t unhappy with the pick. Face could do good if he caught cards, but Doggs was too tight. Only way he’d win big was if the other guys got drunk or went on tilt.

Before we started, Doggs brought out a coffee can with a lid. “I just caught eight goddamn cockroaches in the back room,” he said. “I’m gonna let the fuckers go. The one who kills the most bugs wins ten bucks.” Doggs knelt on the floor, turned the can upside down then opened the lid. Eight roaches ran like hell as soon as they hit the floor.

Frankie’s eyes lit up. “That ten bucks is mine.”

Tony and Suit laughed like hell. This job was tailor-made for Frankie.

The Donovans had the misfortune of living next to the DiNardos, who reigned over an empire of cockroaches, water bugs, flies, and an assortment of other pests. That would’ve been okay if the bugs had respected property lines. But those German roaches must have inherited more than an ancestral name, because they always tried grabbing new territory. No matter how much concrete sealant or stucco Mr. Donovan put on his basement walls, those bugs found a way to breach the barrier. During hot summer nights, when everyone had their windows open, the screams of the Donovan girls echoed for blocks whenever a roach ran across the floor or, God forbid, across the bed.

Frankie was invisible to his father. The only praise he earned was for killing bugs, so he got good at it. Got to be so he could out-think a roach, knowing which way it would turn before it moved. He could stomp a roach and catch a fly at the same time. Doggs didn’t know it, but he had entered a fixed race.

Frankie went into action, stomping, whacking and even using the broom handle to kill the bugs. Within a few seconds, Frankie killed every roach before anyone else got one.

Mikey the Face laughed so hard he choked. “What the hell was that? Did you see that shit? Frankie killed them fuckin’ roaches like he had a machine gun.”

“Frankie, hell,” Doggs said as he peeled two fives off his wad of bills. “Gentlemen, meet Bugs Donovan.”

While Doggs congratulated him for a good show, Face peeled a five from his stack and tossed it to Frankie. “Here you go, Bugs. One helluva job.” Everyone laughed, but this time the laughter held a note of respect. Killing was killing. It didn’t matter if it was roaches or people; killing took finesse, and these guys respected it.

Frankie finally had a name. We tried forcing names on him before, but they didn’t take. Names weren’t like that. You couldn’t force them. Had to come on their own. ‘You gotta earn a name’ Paulie Shoes always said.

Doggs checked to make sure the doors were locked then took his usual seat, back to the wall so he faced the main entrance. “You hear about Moynihan getting whacked?”

I plopped a drink on the table in front of Knuckles. “Not sorry to hear that. He always busted my balls.”

“Guess that’ll teach him to pick on Little Nicky,” Doggs said. Everyone laughed, as if they knew a joke we didn’t.

I looked over at Tony and Frankie, but they shrugged. Guess they didn’t know either.

The game kicked off at eight. Before long they were heavy into play. By ten, Knuckles was up a grand. He tossed Tony a ten-spot and a leash. “Take Pisser for a walk. And make sure he does it all.”

Tony stuffed the ten in his pocket. “What kind of fuckin’ name is Pisser?”

“Watch your mouth, you piece of shit.”

“Where you want him walked?”

Knuckles grunted. “That’s more like it. Take him to the park. And be patient. That dog will piss on everything he sees.”

“Jesus Christ, Knuckles I don’t have all night.”

Knuckles laid his cards on the table and turned to stare at Tony. “You got ten dollars, you shit. If I tell you to walk that fuckin’ dog to Philly and get him a cheesesteak, that’s what you’ll do.”

Tony headed toward the door, his hand waving in the air. “Okay. Okay. Fuck.”

“Watch your
fuckin
’ mouth. I already told you.” Knuckles turned to Doggs. “I don’t want that kid no more. Next time give me The Rat or Bugs.” He shook his head as he picked up his cards, mumbling. “Can’t stand ungratefulness in a boy.”

Shoes crushed his cigar out in the ashtray. “Hope he doesn’t run into Chinski’s dog. That son-of-a-bitch is nasty, and it can run.”

“Should be in a race,” Face said, then looked around the room. “You know, that ain’t a bad idea. We should get all the dogs in the neighborhood and have a race. Bet on them.”

I smiled, but I wanted to laugh at him.
How the hell is he gonna have a dog race in the neighborhood?
I’m stuck with two losers, and now Face was thinking about dog races instead of cards.
Just win a pot,
I wanted to tell him.

Suddenly an idea hit me. When Face said we should have a race, it reminded me of the way those roaches ran when Doggs dumped them on the floor. Face was right; the neighborhood needed races, but not with dogs—with roaches.

CHAPTER 13

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Brooklyn—Current Day

F
rankie drove home with the heater cranked up to 75. He circled the block looking for a parking spot, then saw Keisha and Alex playing step ball. He picked up energy drinks and beef jerky, which Keisha loved, then came around again. On this pass, Alex flagged him down. Frankie lowered the window. “What’s up?”

Alex pointed to construction cones blocking part of the street next to the curb. “Saved you one, FD. Figured that might be worth something on a day like this, knowing how you hate the cold and all.”

Frankie laughed as Alex cleared his spot. The kids called him
FD
. He didn’t know if it stood for his initials or “fuckin’ dick” but he didn’t care; they said it with respect.

“Who’s got five for old FD?” Frankie said as he got out of the car.

“Sure as shit ain’t me,” Alex said, and held his hand out to bump fists. “You know we don’t do that slap-five shit no more. How old are you?”

“Too damn old, I guess.” Frankie tossed a pack of jerky and handed them the drinks. “How’s my best girl?” Keisha was an adorable kid, twelve years old, with smooth chocolate skin and long hair she wore in pigtails.