Revolver (25 page)

Jim wakes up around 4 a.m. with a full-blown panic attack. He can't do this. He
knows
he can't do this. Might as well put the gun in his own mouth and pull the trigger. He barely makes it to the bathroom before he vomits up his mostly liquid dinner. He tries hard not to choke or cry out—doesn't want to wake Claire or the kids. But he hears the voices in his head—

Am I really about to let a killer go free?

Objection, Your Honor, the detective presumes to prejudge my client?

Objection sustained, Sonya. Your first cousin should rephrase.

Thank you, Your Honor.

Mr. Walczak, let me remind you that in this city, killers go free all the time.

The mayor is reelected in a landslide. Sonya Kaminski, along with union boss “Sonny Jim” Kaminski, shares the stage with him at the Bellevue during the postelection party, streamers and confetti and balloons everywhere. Part of the team that's going to lead Philadelphia into the twenty-first century. Not too long ago workers would flee downtown before night fell, and muggers and rapists and scumbags would control the city streets. But the mayor turned things around. Locked everything down tight. Reclaimed Center City, which comprised the original Philadelphia city limits back during the Revolutionary War. This had been a battle, too. They were only getting started.

Sonya Kaminski tells a reporter she'll help with the transition into the new term but plans on returning to work with her father.

However, her son, John DeHaven, Sonya tells the reporter, is someone to watch. He's already done so much at such a young age.

Jim drives along Erie Avenue. He doesn't even have to think about the address. Before he knows it he's pulling up outside the halfway house and climbing out of the car and staggering a little because he's had more than a few drinks and reaches for his gun and is relieved that it's still there.

Inside, he flashes his badge at the landlord, asks to be taken to Terrill Lee Stanton. The landlord sighs and says he hasn't seen Stanton in days—didn't his parole office tell him? What is he talking about—Stanton's missing? Yeah, the landlord tells him. Looks like he did a runner. Been gone since Sunday night, according to the PO.

Jim asks for the key to Stanton's room. Landlord gives it to him, no questions asked. He walks the four floors up to Stanton's room—4B. Tumbles the lock, opens the door, steps inside. Once he sees the sad bed with the paper-thin mattress and lumpy pillow, the banged-up dresser, the threadbare carpet that may have started out as brown but has faded to a sickly gray…he remembers.

Late Saturday night.

Nobody knows he's here.

Just Jim…

…and his father's killer.

“Don't do this, son. You're making a big mistake.”

“I'm not your fucking son!”

Jim Walczak has his father's killer at gunpoint. To complete the circle he should force the man to strip and kneel down on the dirty threadbare carpet. He should tap the barrel of his revolver against the man's skull, let him think about the last few seconds of his life. Then pull the trigger.

But shooting him would be a mistake. Ballistics too easily traced. He's murder police. He knows how detectives will read this scene. It's important to present an airtight narrative.

Jim tosses Stanton a small leather bag. The man catches it by reflex. Looks down at it. He knows a works bag when he sees one. And he knows what Jim wants him to do.

“This ain't gonna give you peace.”

“Shut the fuck up and take the needle out of the bag.”

“I knew your father. He was a good man. He wouldn't want you doing this.”

At first Stanton pretended not to know his father. But then he sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and admitted the truth. Yeah, he knew Jim's father. Yeah, he was their snitch a couple of times. But he didn't kill them! Why would he do such a thing? He needed them, and when they got killed, Stanton said, he knew he needed to lam out of North Philly for a while. The big bad wolves had come for them.

Wolves? Jim had no idea what he was talking about, wolves.

“There are things you don't understand, my son,” he said. “The wolves have taken over. They
won
.”

Now Jim looks down at Terrill Lee Stanton's lifeless body, needle hanging out of his arm. The stink has stayed confined to this room. Another day or two and his hall mates would have started complaining.

Did Jim force this man to stick the needle in his vein at gunpoint? Did Jim really kill this man?

No.

The “parole officer.”

If Jim had killed him Saturday night, the PO would have found his body the next night—when he told the landlord Stanton had pulled a runner. A real PO would have called the cops, the EMT. But a fake PO would have looked at the body, wiped down fingerprints, and left the way he came, telling the landlord that Stanton was missing, not dead. Probably told him to leave the room alone for a while, too. A PO who was not a PO. But in the employ of the Kaminski family.

Jim didn't do this. He was drunk and stupid Saturday night but he was not a killer.

Killers—they were on the other side of his family.

Audrey takes the El back toward Unruh Avenue in a kind of daze. So much to process and none of it even remotely what she expected. It's all just so goddamned Cain and Abel.

The only thing that's clear is that she needs to speak with her father. Like, right away. But he hasn't been answering his cell. Which leaves her no choice but to take the El and the 66 home to Mayfair and wait for him there. Maybe pour him a double vodka on the rocks, because he's going to need it.

Your secret uncle killed your father. Or ordered him killed. Or at least ordered his partner killed, and Grandpop Stan put himself in the way.

The El speeds down the tracks. There are no seats, since it's rush hour, so Audrey stands and holds the slightly slimy pole to keep her balance. She feels eyes on her. She turns to look. Nobody. Paranoia's a funny thing, isn't it? Doesn't take much, really, to tip your whole world on its axis. She remembers the day Claire sat down and explained that she was adopted. They wanted to wait until she was old enough to understand, but before that happened Claire and her father had split up. She was six years old and probably not ready to hear this kind of news. She'd look at all the parents picking up their kids in the schoolyard thinking—wow, all those moms and dads actually wanted their kids. Not mine. They gave me away for someone else to deal with. It fucked her mind up for a very long time.

Audrey snaps out of her reverie and turns. Whoa whoa whoa. Someone is
definitely
looking at her. She can feel the
eyes
on her, she swears. She believes in extrasensory perception because how many times have you just thought someone was looking at you and you turn and boom—someone's looking at you?

The Bridge Street terminal—last stop on the El—can't come fast enough. She blends into the crowd and walks with them down the long concrete stairs toward the terminal proper, which is fairly busy for the middle of the morning. She's a cop's daughter; she knows what to do. Stay with a crowd. She pulls her crappy cell from her bag and tries her father one more time. Maybe he can pick her up.

It rings six times, then nothing. No Dad. Where the hell are you?

She's thinking about trying again when someone punches her
hard
on the shoulder.

She spins, drops the cell, which cracks on the ground. The entire terminal is echoing with this giant boom.

People around her begin to scatter. She wants to reach for her phone—she can't leave it here in the Bridge Street Terminal, for Christ's sake—

And then—

BOOM.

Another punch.

Audrey's on the ground before she even realizes she's fallen. She feels cold all over. There's someone in a hoodie looking down at her, and it's only when she sees the gun in his hand does she realize, holy fuck, I've been shot.

We're basically bags of water,
a professor once said.

And someone just shot her bag at least twice.

She's a living—for now—chunk of ballistic gelatin.

The guy in the hoodie is aiming the gun, a revolver, at her face now, and she's pretty much toast and too weak to do anything about it.

Audrey thinks about that old song about how you can't get to heaven on the Frankford El.

Au contraire, mon frère.

But then something spooks him—the rush of footsteps and the loud cries of grown men. The man in the hoodie disappears. She tries to be a good policeman's daughter and remember the details of that face for a sketch artist later. Later. How optimistic of you. You, of all people, should know what a bullet can do to a human body. You watched all those shows. You studied it in class. All to prepare you for this moment, when you're shot and bleeding out below the Frankford El.

She reaches out her hand.
Daddy, pick me up. Please.
Her body is so damn cold—she doesn't even feel the pain of the bullet wounds. Her hand is the only thing warm. That's because someone's holding it. Squeezing it.

It's a man's hand—rough skin, strong, somehow familiar.

The same man tells her to
hold on, hold on, hold on.

It's a nice thought, but at this point the decision is kind of out of her hands.

Stanisław Walczak stays alive for a surprisingly long time, considering a portion of his brain has been obliterated. Must be the stubborn Polack in him.

He reaches out toward his partner across the tiled floor but George looks like he's already moved on. Mouth open, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. Face splattered in blood.

Your quarter's run out on that jukebox, George. Why don't you go play us another three songs. Surprise me.

George says nothing. There might be a hint of a smile on his face, though.

This was not part of the Plan, was it, George?

Heh heh heh.

Someone's screaming. There are sirens. Stan tries to focus on his breathing. If you're still breathing your heart is still pumping. Heart still pumps, you're still alive. Fuck you, Sonny Jim. I'm going to live. I've got to take my boy to a ball game. With that thought, Stan passes out for a moment.

When he wakes up there is someone touching his hand. Squeezing it. A female hand.

Telling him to
hold on, hold on, hold on…

Funny thing is, now that he's awake again, he thinks maybe it's the other way around. That he's holding some pretty girl's hand and telling her it'll be okay. She is everything. She is salvation. She is the future. He opens his eyes and he's the one crouching down, and she's the one on the floor. Dark hair, full lips, bright eyes. She looks just like Rosie did when they first met.

And then it hits him with the bright wattage of a thousand stadium lights who she is, what she's doing.

Stanisław Walczak has never seen anyone so beautiful in all his life.

Jim drives home to Unruh Avenue. Audrey runs up to him and squeezes him tight. Wife Claire is in the kitchen, preparing supper. She'll be pleased to know that he's home for a family meal for once. Too bad he can't eat. His stomach is a black pit.

He's made the anonymous phone call, tipping them off to room 4B on Erie Avenue. The rest is up to God. He pours himself a vodka rocks, eases himself into his recliner, and waits to see if someone will show up to arrest him.

He feels the first chest pains several hours later. He stumbles out of bed, still drunk, thinking he's having a heart attack. As he's standing in front of the bathroom mirror, his vision goes blurry and his fingers feel numb and there's a choking sensation around his neck. He slams a fist into his chest as if he can shock his heart back into a regular rhythm.
Please God,
he says,
don't let me die like this. Not at this sorry point in my life.

The next day a cardiologist at Pennsylvania Hospital says the EKG shows nothing—most likely an anxiety attack. Which is not surprising, considering his line of work.

But his life and career slip out of their groove. Any joy he once found in the job is gone, robbed by the knowledge that he's betrayed his badge. Where he used to fantasize about killing Terrill Lee Stanton, now he thinks about working up the courage to arrest John DeHaven, consequences be damned.

But he doesn't have that luxury. The consequences wouldn't just fall on him. An organization willing to kill a man and frame a cop wouldn't hesitate to go after that cop's family.

The good news: she's not dead.

The bad news: she's pretty fucked up.

Claire repeatedly tells her: don't worry, your father is on his way. She wishes she could talk but she can't, not with this tube down her throat. She can't move her arms. She could blink Morse code—but of course that would require her knowing Morse code.

Captain, I solved it, you'll never guess who did it!

No, seriously, you'd better sit down.

She's had plenty of time to fit the rest of the pieces together. Oh, the independent study in her head is the most brilliant thing ever. Not that she'll ever live to write it.

She tries to tell Claire with her eyes: Mom, I really need to see Dad. Where the hell is he? Why hasn't he been around to visit me?

More good news: doctors say her “extra padding” probably saved her. Which is better than saying that being fat saved her life.

Three cheers for postnatal weight gain.

More bad news: she really needs a kidney. Two, actually, but one is needed immediately, otherwise it's renal failure city. This is a problem when you're adopted. Usually, a kidney is something you hit up a sibling for. Claire is in the room when the doctors tell her the news.

“So I'm boned,” Audrey says. Her throat still burns like hell even with the tube out of it.

“No, you're not
boned,
daughter,” Claire says. “Your brother is going to give you one of his.”

“Cary? The same Cary who cries when he cuts his finger?”

“Your brother loves you.”

“How do they even know he's a match? Don't they have to do tests and stuff?”

Claire is looking at her funny. Like she's ready to burst out into tears or laughter or maybe both.

“He's a match,” Claire says, “because he's your brother.”

After Claire explains the full story, Audrey wants the doctor to come back into her room to request a brain transplant, too, because her mind has just been blown.

James Walczak and his wife, Claire, married young. Had two sons in short order, the way young married couples do. They had no clue what they were getting into. Their life was chaotic.

By 1989, roughly the fourteen-year mark of their union, Jim and Claire grew apart. Both strayed, made stupid decisions. Acted on impulses without thinking through the ramifications. Fortunately, they came to their senses in time to save the marriage, realizing that their will to be together was far stronger than the little weaknesses that conspired to drive them apart. Claire was able to break off her affair cleanly.

Jim, not so much.

The woman he was seeing was pregnant. She was single, lonely, and broke and saw Jim as her financial lifeline. She lied about her pills. When Jim broke it off, she threatened to tell Claire about the baby. Instead, Jim told Claire about the baby. Claire was gutted but held her ground. She was not going to surrender her marriage to some money-chasing whore from South Philly.

The mother then told Jim she was going to abort the child so she could move on with her life. This hit Jim hard. He was all for women's rights, but he was also raised Catholic. That was half his child in there, he believed. He begged her to reconsider. She toyed with him for weeks before finally agreeing to have the child and surrender custody to Jim and Claire…
if
they paid her medical and other living expenses. The number she had in mind went far beyond any rational medical and/or living expenses, but Jim was making good money as a homicide cop in those days. They were flush and saving up to buy a home in the near burbs outright, cash on the barrelhead.

Instead they brought Jim's baby girl home, explaining to the boys that they had decided to adopt. Claire named her after her favorite actress: Audrey Hepburn.

Audrey wishes her father would show up. There's so much she wants to tell him. But mostly, she just wants to feel his arms around her again. Her
real
daddy. Something she never thought she'd have.

But now the anesthesiologist is here, and they've wrapped her in a warm blanket, and they're giving the shot, and they're telling her to count backward from a hundred…