Peril (22 page)

Della scurried to the other side of the car and whisked Nicky out of the car seat. By the time she'd turned back toward the house, her mother had already disappeared inside.

“I got to talk to you, Della,” Mrs. DaRocca said once Della came into the house.

“Okay, so, talk,” Della said. Nicky squirmed madly in her arms. “It's past his nap time.”

Mrs. DaRocca waved Della into the living room. “In here.”

Della followed her mother into the living room and slumped down on the old blue sofa by the window. “You okay, Ma?”

“I'm fine,” Mrs. DaRocca said. “It's you I'm worried about.”

“Me?”

“Because of that neighbor of yours,” Mrs. DaRocca said. “The one who took off. She didn't turn up yet, did she?”

“No,” Della said. “What's going on, Ma?”

Rather than answer directly, Mrs. DaRocca said, “Stay out of it, Della. 'Cause it's not safe, getting involved in it.”

Della studied the worried look on her mother's face. “What happened, Ma? And don't say nothing happened, because I know something did.”

Mrs. DaRocca shrugged. “I talked to him.”

“Him?”

“Labriola.”

“Tony?” Della shrieked. “Why?”

“Not Tony,” Mrs. DaRocca said. “The father.”

Della's eyes widened in astonishment. “You what?”

“I went to his house,” Mrs. DaRocca continued. “I spoke to Leonardo.”

“Leonardo? You call him Leonardo? What, you know him somehow?”

“A little,” Mrs. DaRocca said without emphasis. “From the old days.”

“What old days?”

“In school. We was in school together. Our Lady of Fatima. We was—how you call it?—chummy.”

Della sat back, drained by astonishment. “Chummy? You and Leo Labriola?”

“He was a nice boy in them days,” Mrs. DaRocca said. Then her face turned grave. “But not no more. Which is why I'm telling you to stay out of this thing with the neighbor.”

She felt her mother's dread wash toward her like a wave of blood across the floor. “What happened, Ma? What happened when you talked to . . . Leonardo?”

“Nothing happened,” Mrs. DaRocca answered. “But you get a feeling when you talk to a person, and the feeling I got was you should stay out of his business. It's got nothing to do with you, that woman.”

“Except that she's my friend.”

Mrs. DaRocca looked at Della with all the authority of an old-world mother. “Della, stay out of this.”

Her mother's words were heavy with warning, and because of it, she knew.

“He's going to hurt her,” she said. “Labriola's going to hurt Sara.”

“He didn't say that,” Mrs. DaRocca said quickly. “He didn't say nothing like that, Della.”

“But you saw it, didn't you? You saw it in his eyes.”

Mrs. DaRocca didn't answer, but the truth was in the grim look on her face, the stiff posture. The old fear of Sicily lay upon her shoulders as thick and visible as the black scarves of women she'd seen in pictures from the island.

“Would he kill her?” she asked.

“Della, he didn't—”

“Ma, listen to me. You spoke to him face-to-face. Would he kill her?”

Her mother didn't speak, but the slow crawl of her hand to her throat provided the only answer Della needed to glimpse her best friend floating facedown in the river.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

The old woman placed her hand on Della's. “Listen to me,” she said. “It ain't your business. She left her husband. That ain't your business. Even what Leo does about it, Della, even that ain't your business.”

Della thought of Sara, then of Labriola. She had not been able to imagine why Sara had left Tony, nor why Labriola was so determined to find her. Now she could.

“It ain't your business,” her mother repeated.

Della rose to her feet. “Yes, it is,” she said.

MORTIMER

Mortimer waited glumly for Caruso to arrive, his eyes surveying the Port Authority crowd, people who had normal lives, didn't have to sit in crummy little diners, and whose ordinary, everyday troubles Mortimer suddenly envied, because they seemed like such small potatoes compared to his own.

As for Caruso, he'd sounded weird on the phone, so whatever he had on his mind, whatever had made him insist on this stupid meeting, no way was it good.

Mortimer was still considering all the ways it could be bad, when Caruso swept into the seat opposite him.

“I had a talk with the husband,” Caruso said quickly. “And we got a problem.” His voice was tense, like his body, everything wired. “A serious problem.” He reached for a napkin and twisted it violently. “Have you talked to Batman lately?”

“Yeah,” Mortimer answered.

“So, what did he tell you?”

“He needs more information,” Mortimer answered. Perhaps that was the key, he thought. If there were no more information, then Stark could get out of the deal, simply do what he'd already threatened and pull out of the whole lousy scheme. “If he don't get more information, then he's gonna—”

“No, not that,” Caruso interrupted. “I mean, did he say anything about some guy?”

“Some guy?”

“Some guy he maybe spotted.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Some guy he maybe caught following him.”

Mortimer felt a keen pain in his side, the slash of a knife. “What makes you think somebody was following him?”

Caruso crushed the napkin in his fist. “Somebody
was
following him, Morty. I know that for a fact.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I set it up,” Caruso answered. “Mr. Labriola wasn't satisfied when he had that meeting with you. He still wanted to know who Batman was. So I put this guy on his trail.”

Mortimer stared at him, baffled. “Whose trail?”

“Batman's.”

“How do you know who Batman is?”

Caruso sucked in a frantic breath. “I didn't have no choice, Morty,” he said hurriedly. “Mr. Labriola, he don't make suggestions. He gives orders, and if you don't do what he says, bad stuff can happen.”

“That don't answer my question how you know who Batman is.”

“Okay, all right, I know 'cause that day you met Mr. Labriola up on Columbus Circle, when you got out of the car, I tailed you down to the Village. To this bar. I figured maybe the barkeep was Batman.”

“Barkeep?”

“The guy owns that fucking bar on Twelfth Street.”

“Abe? He ain't got nothing to do with this.”

“Okay, so now I know it was the other one.”

“What other one?”

“Chelsea. White-haired guy. Silver. Hi-yo Silver, you know? Him.”

“Jesus,” Mortimer breathed. “Jesus Christ.”

“To tell you the truth,” Caruso said, “I always figured it was the white-haired guy, you know? And Mr. Labriola, he's all lathered up about this thing, and so I ask myself, how the fuck can I do my business and keep an eye on this guy, and maybe the other one too. You see what I mean, Morty? No fucking way. So that's when I decided to farm it out.”

“Farm it out?”

“Subcontract it, you might say. So, the thing is, I give this guy a choice and he picked Hi-yo Silver. Which, it looks like, turns out to be Batman.”

“That was stupid, Vinnie,” Mortimer said.

“I know, but the thing is, what would he do to this guy, Batman? If he noticed he was being followed?”

“What makes you think he'd do anything to him?”

“Because he's missing, this guy,” Caruso said.

“Missing?” Mortimer worked to get his mind around this new wrinkle. “He just vanished?”

“Yeah.” Caruso leaned forward and lowered his voice slightly. “So the thing is, I figure Batman maybe did something to him?”

“Like what?”

“Like whatever it is that's caused him to come up missing. I mean, you know, like whacking him.”

Mortimer snorted. “You're fucking nuts.”

“I'm serious,” Caruso insisted. “The guy is missing is what I'm telling you.”

“So what?” Mortimer demanded. “Jesus, Vinnie, this guy comes up missing and you automatic gotta lay it on me.”

“Not you.”

“Same as me, Vinnie. Adds up to me.”

“I'm asking, is all,” Caruso said soothingly. “Just asking.”

Mortimer was not soothed. “And I'm telling you that there's no reason my guy would do something to some fucking bastard that was just poking around,” he said adamantly.

“You're sure about that?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

“Okay, but could you check it out for me anyway?”

“Check it out? What are you talking about?”

“Check with Batman, make sure he ain't done nothing.”

“I'm telling you, he ain't. That's what I'm telling you.”

“Just the same, check it out.”

“How? You think I can just ask him straight out? It ain't like that with him. If he did something to this guy, he ain't gonna tell me about it.”

“But you could get a hint, right?”

“He don't give hints,” Mortimer said. “If he's done something to this fucking guy, he ain't gonna tell me about it.”

“Shit.”

Mortimer noticed that Caruso's face fell slightly. “This missing guy, you know him?”

Caruso nodded. “From the old days. He done me a favor. I figured I was doing him one by putting him on to Batman. But it didn't turn out that way, looks like.” His tone darkened. “I got a feeling, Morty. I got a feeling something bad happened to this guy. And he was a good guy, the one I put on Batman. He wouldn't hurt a fly.” He released a weary sigh. “Just check it out, that's all I'm asking.”

Another blade of pain sliced across Mortimer's abdomen. “Fuck,” he said.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Mortimer said.

“So, can you check it out for me?”

“Okay, okay,” Mortimer said. He pressed his open palm against his stomach. “But this is the last favor, Vinnie. You get what I'm saying? This whole deal is getting more and more fucked up.”

“I know,” Caruso said. “And Labriola is getting more and more steamed.”

“How do you know that?”

“He calls me, says I got to report every fucking day.”

“Report what?”

“Whatever's going on. He's got a real bug up his ass about this fucking bitch.”

Mortimer sucked in a labored breath and thought how fucked up things got if you didn't keep your eye on the ball every goddamn second. He'd begun with a simple plan to get a few bucks for Dottie, now a guy was missing, Old Man Labriola was fuming, and God only knew what else was going on that he didn't even fucking know about. “Things are getting out of control, Vinnie.”

“Yeah.”

Mortimer sat back and tried to sort out the jumble in his mind. Finally, he said, “What do you think, Vinnie, can we get out of this deal? I mean, suppose I just told Labriola it's over. Deal's off. Give back the money. All the money. Every penny.”

Caruso shook his head. “That wouldn't do no good. He wants that fucking woman is what he wants. He don't give a shit about nothing else. He's all lathered up, like I said.”

“What's his beef with her?” Mortimer asked. “I don't get it. It ain't like she left
him
.”

Caruso shrugged. “All I know is, he's gonna find her, Morty. And there ain't nobody can stop him.”

STARK

He opened the door and the light swept over the crumpled parka, the dusty jeans, the wrinkled, grease-stained shirt, and up the bare naked feet that now trembled slightly against the white plastic bands that held them in place against the metal legs of the chair.

“Who sent you?” Stark asked.

No answer came, but Stark could hear the man's rhythmic breathing. He lit a cigarette and blew a column of smoke into the blackness. He'd held the man all night, simply left him tied in a chair, sitting in the darkness, in his underwear, barefoot, vulnerable.

“I need a name,” Stark said.

The feet moved, but there was no other response.

“Who sent you?”

Stark waited for a reply, though he knew it would be incoherent, at most a grunt. The tape would make any more articulate response impossible.

“Are you the woman's husband?”

The man strained against the bands that held him to the chair.

“Or do you just work for him?”

The man's head trembled, and beneath the tape his lips fluttered briefly then grew still.

Stark stepped over and raked a single finger down the man's jaw. “Who do you work for?”

The man made no effort to speak but only glared silently, his jaw now set and rigid, like a fighter readying for the blow.

“Did you really think you could do it?”

The man shifted his eyes to the right and stared at the room's blank wall.

“Did you think I would lead you to a woman and then let you hurt her?”

The man drew his gaze back to Stark, staring at him intently, as if trying to see into the working of his brain. Then he closed his eyes.

EDDIE

In the darkness Eddie tried to imagine the man who stared at him from just beyond the closed lids of his eyes. He couldn't see him, but he knew he was there, towering over him. He could hear his steady breathing. Slowly, the man himself swam out of the darkness, vaguely translucent, an afterimage in Eddie's mind. He was tall with silver hair, and his eyes were blue, and he wore clothes that Eddie had only seen in movies and on brief trips to midtown Manhattan. He was one of
those
people, the ones who controlled things, and beside whom everyone else felt small.

And he was smart too. Eddie knew that much. He'd turned the tables on him, accused him of following him so he'd be there when Tony's wife was found, be there because he was going to hurt Tony's wife.
I know this game.
That's what the man had said.
I fell for it once, but never again.
But none of that was true. Eddie knew that much. None of it was true because the man with the silver hair was working for Tony's father, one of his thugs, a guy he'd hired to track Sara down.