Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy (46 page)

Clay was at the shop talking with customers
when Gladys interrupted him to say he had an urgent personal call
from a lady named Anna. Upon learning Tony, Joey, Mickey and
several others had been shot, his mind recoiled and went back in
time to another mass shooting. Surely Tony had not been attacked by
another gang.

It was close to three thirty when Clay
arrived at Saint Mary’s Hospital and made his way to the emergency
room. He found Anna surrounded by a small group of Tony’s men in
the waiting room. As he approached, she saw him and broke away from
the others. Her eyes were red and her head shook from side to side
as she held her arms out to him. “He’s dead Clay, he’s dead. Tony
didn’t make it Clay, he’s dead.” Clay couldn’t believe it; not
Tony, not the Bull. He couldn’t be dead, there had to be a mistake.
His best friend, his mentor, his pal who was like a father to him
couldn’t be dead.

Clay guided Anna over to the cloth covered
metal chairs and made her sit with him. “Do you know what
happened?”

“No, I just finished talking to the Doctor on
duty. Tony was dead when he got here, Mickey is dead and Joey is in
surgery.”

Clay turned to the group of men standing off
to the side talking among themselves. “Were any of you at the bar
when the shooting happened?”

Two men nodded and said they knew what
happened. Don Balzack started first, “There was this little guy who
come in around lunch time and sat over in a booth all by himself
for a couple of hours, drinking drafts. Then he moved over to stand
behind the card table where Tony and the others was sitting. I was
in a chair against the wall watching the game and talking to George
Waller, when all of a sudden I hear shots. I see this guy with a
gun in each hand calmly taking aim and shooting the guys at the
table.”

Emil Coulter cut in, “He was firing both guns
at the same time he was, and hitting what he aimed at. Then I heard
another canon go off and plaster flew off the wall; but then I seen
the little guy kind of jump, like somebody hit him in the gut with
a fist. He raised one of the guns and fired at Mickey and I seen
Mickey drop. Then I dived to the floor and put my arms over my head
hoping to hell he didn’t shoot me too.”

Don continued, “The guy fired a couple of
more times and then he limps out the back door, calm as could
be.”

“So Mickey must have hit him?” Clay
asked.

“Yeah, he was hit, in the leg, the right leg
I’m sure; nobody else even had time to pull a piece.”

“Does anybody know who he is?”

All of the men had gathered around to listen
to the details of the shootings and all shook their heads
negatively or said no.

“What did he look like? Describe him.”

Several men started talking at once. From
them he learned the man was about five feet nine inches tall,
slender, with dark hair cut short and in his early fifties.

Clay got up to go to the bathroom and headed
down the hall, following directions from a floor nurse. Inside the
bathroom standing at the urinal he saw one of the men from the
waiting room enter and take the urinal next to him. The man looked
around before speaking. “I don’t know the guy’s name, but I’m sure
I saw him about three months back at a hardware store over at
Seventy Second Street and Jurguson. Mortons is the name, it’s just
around the corner. He’s a clerk there, I was buying some plumbing
parts for my mom’s house and he waited on me.”

Clay thanked the man they called “Shiner” and
told him, “When the police come around keep the information to
yourself. I’ll make sure it gets to the right people.”

Back at the emergency room nurses station
Clay learned Joey was out of surgery and had been moved to the post
surgery recovery room. No visitors were being admitted. Clay
located a nurse in the hall outside the recovery area and stopped
her. “Miss, I’m Joey Tadono’s brother, Donnie. I’m a Presbyterian
minister and would like to be with my brother to pray for him.” The
nurse smiled and nodded and said, “Of course Reverend. Follow
me.”

When the nurse had left them Clay raised his
head and stopped praying, so he could shake Joey out of his drug
induced slumber.

“Joey, wake up, it’s Clay. Tony’s been shot
and killed. Joey, can you hear me? Wake up damn it, wake up. Joey’s
eyes blinked as he slowly fought his way out of the grasp of a
heavy fog to focus on what was being said.

“Tony’s shot?”

“Yes, the man who shot you killed Tony and
Mickey.”

“Who was it?”

“I was hoping to hell you could tell me.”

Joey was drifting from consciousness into
sleep and Clay shook him again. “Joey, who would have done this and
why?”

“I don’t know. Everything has been quiet and
running good, no problems; no problems. You sure Tony’s dead?”

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s dead.”

“Ole Tony; he was something wasn’t he, just
knocked up some young gal half his age and paid her a couple G’s to
get an abortion. Ain’t it just like him, always after that young
pussy.”

Joey was still grinning when he faded out
again. Clay tried again to wake him, but this time to no avail.

When Clay got back to Anna she had regained
her composure and was talking to a hospital administrator about
arrangements to transfer Tony’s body to a funeral home. Some of the
men had left and Anna had kept Donnie Palmotto with her. Clay felt
she had accepted Tony’s death and was now taking command of the
situation. The real Anna had emerged. Clay said the required “If
there’s any thing I can do,” and left to deal with his own
emotions.

First Jimmy and now Tony, both of the closest
friends he had ever made were dead. He knew from experience there
was no choice but to learn to live with it, but damn it hurt. The
friendship he had developed with Jimmy was of boys and young men
still searching for their identity. His friendship with Tony was
more, much more. It was based on ties between two mature men who
had found individual success and were comfortable with themselves
and their own achievements. They could meet on even ground and just
be friends. But inside, Clay knew there was even more to it. There
was a special bond holding them together; it made them want to be
in each others company, caused them to want to share stories and
important events in their lives. Their friendship was the stuff
legends were built on, stories of relationships where men’s lives
depended on one another; and where each could trust the other
completely. Well, almost completely. He had screwed Anna when Tony
was in the hospital. He grinned a grin Tony would understand. Hell,
if he were married and Tony screwed his wife he would probably
blame the wife for being a slut and forgive Tony. And he was sure
if Tony had known about his one night with Anna he would maybe
throw a punch and then help Clay get up off the floor and shake his
hand. Their friendship was that strong.

He turned at the corner of Seventy Second
Street and Jurguson and watched for Morton's Hardware. It was the
third storefront from the corner, with a closed sign on the
door.

The following morning, after a frightful
night and half a bottle of bourbon, Clay walked into Morton's to
the plumbing section. A clerk approached the man wearing a utility
company uniform and asked, “Can I help you?”

“I was in two weeks ago and spoke to a
different clerk, I’d like to have him help me if he’s here today.
He’s short to medium height, thin and has dark hair.”

“Oh, you're looking for Dick.”

“Yes, Dick ummm Collier I think.” Clay went
fishing for a last name.

“No, it would be Dick Horstman.”

“Yes. Yes. Dick Horstman. Is he in
today?”

“No, I’m afraid Dick quit yesterday morning.
He came in an hour late, said “’I’m sorry, but I have to quit.”
Then he just turned and walked back out the door. I hated to lose
him after twenty two years and I haven’t seen him since.

Clay dug deeper, “Sure hate to hear he's
gone, he seemed like a decent type.”

“Dick? I’ll say, he’s as good a man as they
come. Who else could put up with having his wife run off a couple
of years ago and having a less than upstanding grown daughter
living at home.”

“How old is the daughter?” Clay lowered his
glasses to peer over them at the gasket selection, arranged in
small wooden bins.

“I’d guess she’s about twenty four or five
now. Pretty thing, but wild; runs after men all the time. Dick
tried to get her back into the church and to settle down, but it
didn’t seem to help. I probably shouldn’t repeat this, but rumor is
she went and got herself knocked up; some older guy twice her
age.”

Clay had learned enough and didn’t want to
push his luck. “Sorry to hear about his troubles. I need a gasket,
the one right here for nineteen cents.”

Outside the store Clay tossed his purchase in
a trash can, and walked to a phone booth he had seen down the
street near where he had parked. In the phone book he found the
listing for Richard Horstman at 12652 Logan Street. Another dime
went into the parking meter and he sat in his stolen pick up
locating Logan street on a city map. Logan was only half a mile
from where he was sitting. In five minutes he had found the house
and was driving down the alley behind it. The place was neat and
well cared for, every thing put away, nothing out of place. A block
and a half away he found a shuttered gas station and parked beside
a junk car left near the garage end of the building. He was wearing
a Commonwealth Edison uniform and coat, and had the matching cap
on, with the flaps down over his ears. From the passenger side
floor he removed a small tool box with electrical meters, wrenches
and other hand tools, and set off for Horstman’s house. He chose
the alley and back door rather than go to the front door on Logan.
The gate in the chain link fence opened after enough force was
applied to push four inches of snow behind it. There had not been
any fresh tracks made from the house to the alley, but foot prints
were captured in the snow from the single car garage to the back
door.

Clay removed his glove long enough to knock
loudly on the glass storm door. After waiting a minute he opened
the storm door and pounded on the wood door as loud as his knuckles
would allow and yelled, “This is Com Ed. There’s a problem with
your electrical system and I need to check it out. Please open the
door.” Again he knocked loudly. He heard movement from inside.

“Go away; you’ll have to come back
tomorrow.”

“I can’t leave. We’ve located a short in the
system and have it traced to this block. I’m pretty sure it’s in
this house. Please open the door so I can work on it.”

“No, go away, I’m busy.”

“I can’t leave and the rest of my crew will
be here shortly. If you don’t open up I’ll have to call the police
and get them down here. It’s a safety issue Mr. If your house
catches fire the rest of the neighborhood could go up in flames
too. Now, please open the door for me to inspect.”

“All right, give me a minute,” Dick Horstman
finally relented.

Shortly, Clay saw the curtain part as a man
peered out at him. Then he heard the skeleton key being turned
inside the lock and the door opened a few inches while the man got
a better look.

Dick Horstman hadn’t shaved for the last two
days, and didn’t appear to have slept either. Apparently satisfied
by the worn utility company uniform and scratched and dented tool
box he finally opened the door for Clay to enter.

All of the lights were turned off in the
kitchen and other connected rooms were dark as well.

“Where’s the fuse box located?” Clay
asked.

Dick replied while pointing at a door in a
corner of the room, “On the basement landing behind the door.”

Clay had been assessing the man and the room.
Dick Horstman was limping and there was a wet spot on his dark
pants on the outside of the left thigh. So much for eye witness
accounts. The room was messy and cluttered; dirty dishes,
newspapers, the waste can full to running over. But it was just on
the surface; recent trash. Beneath the sloppiness the room was as
clean as his mother’s house. There was no sign of dirt in the
corners or along the baseboard quarter round, and the windows were
clean. What ever had occurred to change Horstman had come about
suddenly and without warning.

Clay stepped through the basement door and
closed it behind him. After noisily setting the tool box on the
floor and flipping the switch on the dim ceiling light, he opened
the door of the sixty amp. fuse box. From the tool box he removed
an Ohm meter and a screw driver and made some noise as he opened
the inner cover on the box. After two minutes he put the tools down
and opened the door enough to pass through the space. Horstman was
sitting at the table looking at the floor, oblivious to Clay’s
presence. Walking backward to the sink he leaned against it and
slipped his right hand into his jacket to withdraw the silenced
semi automatic.

Horstman raised his head and looked up at him
without expression. A .38 revolver was in his right hand, moving up
from beside his leg where it had been held out of sight.

“I came here to kill you,” Clay said softly
as he looked down the barrel of the revolver.

“Yeah, I know; I’ve been waiting for
you.”

“You’ve what?”

“I’ve been waiting here for someone to find
me; I thought the police would get here first.”

Amazed by the man’s statement Clay asked him,
“Why did you kill Tony Giliano and the others at the bar.”

“Because he was a no good S.O.B.”

“And it had something to do with your
daughter?”

“He corrupted a young woman and made a cheap
whore out of her. He changed my Irene. Tony Giliano made her
pregnant and then threw money at her to kill her baby because he
was done with her. And why did it happen yesterday? Because Irene
came home early in the morning, bleeding after somebody butchered
her insides. She bled to death in her room. I found her when I got
up. Found a note she wrote to me too. She was ashamed to face me
and had packed her clothes to leave, but she didn’t make it out of
her room. She died right in there in her bed in a puddle of
blood.”