Second Skin (21 page)

Pop! Pop!
The joint made all kinds of interesting noises as Mick slashed the blade horizontally through tendons and ligaments.

Vinnie yelped as he jumped like a frog hit by a lightning bolt. Mick actually saw his pupils contract with the pain as he let him go and he slid down the wall.

‘Oh, Jesus and Mary,’ Vinnie cried, rocking himself, ‘look at my fuckin’ knee.’

‘Yeah, Vinnie Halfahead, now you ain’t standing anymore.’ Mick knelt beside him, ignoring the blood and the fragments of bone sticking up through the slit skin. ‘You killed my grandfather and I don’t give a fuck who you are, where you go to church, or who you work for.’ He put the muzzle of the .45 against Vinnie’s left temple. ‘I’m gonna fuckin’ blow your brains out.’

Vinnie Mezzatesta finally got it through his half a head that this was no mere kid, that he meant what he said and was not to be fooled with. The cheap hood’s bravado with which he had applied Gino Scalfa’s muscle in injudicious quantities evaporated like mist in the sun. What it left behind was what had always been there: a none-too-bright young man without any sense of himself.

‘I didn’t fuckin’ do it,’ he said, still rocking back and forth. ‘I only drove the fuckin’ Cougar. You’re right, there was someone else.’

‘Who, Vinnie?’

‘Jesus, kid, you know what you’re asking me t’do?’

Mick, calmly and deliberately, drove the blade of the paring knife into Vinnie’s kneecap so that he screamed and squirmed to get away. Mick slapped him hard across both cheeks with the barrel of the .45.

‘Who pulled the trigger?’ He already knew Vinnie was lying about only driving the car because he had seen two shadows, flames jumping from two guns. Vinnie and who else?

Vinnie put his head down and mumbled something at his bloody shoe.

‘What was that?’

Vinnie was beginning to shiver and shake as he went into shock. ‘Was Gino himself,’ he whispered. ‘Jesus, it hurts.’ His eyes were tearing. ‘Gino pulled the trigger on your grandfather. He fuckin’ had no respect for that Sicilian ginzo, comin’ inta turf Gino wanted, making deals wid Gino’s enemies. He hated that fuck from the moment he walked into Gino’s place of business. Know why? ’Cause he went to Black Paul Mattaccino first, didn’t give Gino the respect he deserved. But Gino was patient, he bided his time. He saw how your grandfather could organize the neighborhood for him. Now he’s gonna step in nice ’n’ easy and have everything set up for him.’

Perhaps it was a renewal of the ethnic hatred that gave Vinnie back his braggadocio. Or perhaps, as he was named, he only had half a brain. In any event, as he spoke, he lunged for Mick’s gun.

Mick, who was watching him with such intensity that he saw the intimation of movement in Vinnie’s bloodshot eyes, let him get his bloody hand on the gun. That was okay by him because while Vinnie was occupied, Mick drove the blade of the paring knife into his chest.

He must have hit a main artery because blood began to fountain out of the wound almost immediately, and he had to jump back in order not to get drenched. Vinnie’s eyes were wide with fear. His mouth flopped open and closed like a fish gasping in the bottom of a boat. He made a vain effort to cover the wound, then he fell over in a heap.

It was astonishing, really, how calm and clearheaded he was. He could feel the blood pumping in his veins and there was a feral smell in his nostrils. He had never killed before, had never even contemplated it. Shouldn’t this monumental act have changed him in some way? He had the blood of another human being quite literally on his hands. But his metamorphosis had already occurred. He was merely following through on this particular strand of what he now knew to be his destiny. It was right and proper – merely business.

Mick wiped the knife on Vinnie’s clothes, then put both weapons away. He found the keys to the Cougar. It was parked almost directly across from the alley. He went around, popped the trunk, went back into the alley, and making sure he was alone, hefted Vinnie’s corpse and dumped it in. He slammed down the trunk’s lid, then he drove off.

A light drizzle was falling across Sheepshead Bay as Mick pulled up. He sat in the Cougar and listened to the drone of jets from the airport. There was a soft, dank smell here that was unique. Probably, you didn’t want to know what was causing it. Maybe it was all those bodies Grandfather and Gino Scalfa had dumped into the bay.

Scalfa was already there, standing near the water, as Grandfather had said, gazing out over the bay. Mick beeped the horn several times until Scalfa turned slowly around.

‘Hey, Vinnie, whatta you doin’ here? I tried ta call ya before but there was no ansa.’

Mick got out of the car, came down to where the don stood, fat as a moon.

‘You ain’t Vinnie.’ He scowled, his puffer-fish face contorted in the effort to remember Mick’s face. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

‘Vinnie sent me,’ Mick said to allay Scalfa’s fears and give him just enough time. He had the .45 in his right hand and was now close enough to press its muzzle against the fat don’s heart.

‘The name is Leonforte,’ he said, pulling the trigger. ‘Mick Leonforte.’

The bullet tore clean through Scalfa, boring a good-sized hole in him and completely obliterating his heart. He dropped to his knees, but Mick saw there was no reason to shoot him again: the light was already out of his eyes.

Gulls rose, crying and circling, from either the gun’s report or the smell of blood. Mick’s hand ached from the .45’s heavy recoil. As Scalfa fell over, face first, Mick launched the gun far out in the bay. The gunshot had sounded like nothing more than a truck backfire, and in this isolated spot, no one was likely to notice. On the other hand, he had no intention of hanging around to find out. He dragged Scalfa’s fat form back to the Cougar, did some rearranging of limbs in the trunk, and got him in beside Vinnie Halfahead.

Mick looked around. Except for the voracious gulls, the spot was deserted. Overhead, a large jet was streaking silently across the sky. Suddenly, its sound rose like a bird from the bay, a deep rumble like a portent from heaven.

‘You did
what?’
Caesare shook his head. ‘Fuck’re you tellin’ me?’

Mick, in the somber foyer of the Mastimo Funeral Home, went through it all again, how he had been up on the rooftop when Grandfather had been murdered, how he had used his telescope to get the license plate number, how he had pumped Vinnie Mezzatesta, how he had gone to Sheepshead Bay.

‘Whatta you askin’ me t’ believe, that you, you little pissant, bidda-bing, bidda-bam, bidda-boom, whacked this Vinnie Whatsis and
Gino fuckin’ Scalfa?’
Caesare threw up his hands.
‘Marrone,
kid, you gotta some imagination, I’ll grant you that.’

‘Come downstairs. I’ve got the bodies in Vinnie’s Cougar. I didn’t want to leave them lying around for the cops to find and give them an excuse to come down even harder on us.’

Ten minutes later, a white-faced Caesare called for Richie and two of their buddies. As they gathered at the rear of the Cougar, he said, ‘Drive this crate around to the service entrance. There’s cargo in the trunk. Get ’em out and prepare ’em in the usual way. Then, get rid of the car. Incinerate it.’

‘Who’s in there?’ Richie asked.

Caesare leered at him. ‘You’ll find out soon enough. An’, take it from me, you won’t believe your fuckin’ eyes.’

As they drove off, Caesare stood in the street with Mick, with the last of the drizzle coming down. ‘You’re one crazy bastard, you know that, kid?’ He cuffed Mick roughly. ‘I should be pissed at you for not cuttin’ me in onna action.’ He grinned. ‘But Jesus
Christ,
you whacked these two real good. Just like a professional.’

That was as close as he could come to saying he was proud of his brother. Mick, who was only now realizing how long he had waited for this moment, felt somehow deflated. Instead of feeling proud, he found himself wondering what Jaqui would think of a world where recognition came from whacking people. Trouble was, he knew very well what she would think. She despised it with every fiber of her being.

‘Fuckin’ Gino Scalfa.’ Caesare was shaking his head. ‘I never would have figured. He was the old man’s best friend.’

‘Friendship is a strange and unruly animal,’ Mick said, recalling his grandfather’s words. ‘Like a lame dog you take off the street and nurse back to health who then bites you on the hand, you have to treat friendship with equal amounts of apprehension and skepticism.’

Caesare looked at him. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

‘It means,’ Mick said, ‘that in the biziness you
have
no friends, only enemies.’

There was a different tone in Caesare’s voice, a kind of respect he’d never showed before for his brother. ‘Where, allova sudden, you get to know so much about the biziness, kid?’

‘From serving espresso and anisette to Grandpa.’

They went back into the funeral home. Mick had never been to the rear where the bodies were prepared. In the four hours he was there he learned a great deal. Vinnie Mezzatesta and Gino Scalfa were cleaned up, embalmed, then placed in the bottom of cherrywood coffins paid for by legitimate customers.

That was because the rightful deceased were placed in these coffins, directly on top of the mobsters. In that way, the whacked men were disposed of without anyone knowing what had happened to them. And there was no possibility of their corpses appearing six months or a year later in the Pennsylvania and Fountain Avenues junkyards or washed up in the bay.

It was a foolproof way of making people disappear, and as Mick discovered that night, it was the innovative method by which Grandfather Caesare had turned a lackluster business into a booming franchise.

‘Kid, you did one fuckin’ job whacking the bastards who killed Grandpa,’ Caesare said. ‘He woulda been prouda you.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I gotta admit it, I miss the old bird.’

‘Me, too,’ Mick acknowledged.

‘Yeah, but the difference is you spent all this time with him. Looks like you were the smart one.’

They were upstairs in Grandfather’s old office. Mick was making espresso while Caesare sat at the round table around which so many men of power and respect had sat and drank and smoked and played cards and lied to one another. It would never be the same again in here or anywhere else in Ozone Park, both men knew that. Uncle Alphonse had no use for New York. He had come for the funeral and had gone back to California, where the younger Leonfortes’ mother would soon go. Caesare, as well, as it turned out.

Caesare wasted no time in telling Mick how it was going to be. The Leonfortes were pulling up stakes in New York. Times were changing. With Grandpa gone there was no reason to stay on. Besides, there was more opportunity on the West Coast.

‘I’m gonna go inta Uncle Alphonse’s biziness,’ Caesare said. ‘Won’t be long before I’m his right-hand man. He’s got no sona his own so...’ He stirred sugar into the espresso Mick had brought over. The two brothers sat in silence for some time, sipping their coffee and thinking their own thoughts. ‘You’re welcome ta come an’ help out.’

Mick, who had been around this table long enough to separate the lies from the truth, found the offer amusing. It was as phony as a three-dollar bill. Caesare could not possibly want a potential rival for Alphonse’s affection and respect, especially not his brother.

‘Be your gofer, you mean. No way. I have my own ideas. I’m going into the Army.’

‘What?’ Caesare’s cup clattered loudly into its saucer. ‘Are you mental, or what?’

‘I’ve got to get out of here.’

‘So, okay,’ Caesare said, digging into his hip pocket and coming out with a wad of bills. He began to peel off hundreds. ‘So how much do you need, kid? Say the figure an’ it’s yours. You sure earned it.’

‘No, no.’ Mick raised his hands. He caught his brother’s eyes. ‘Caesare, listen to me. What I did I did out of love and respect for Grandpa. I did it because I
had
to. I
didn’t
do it for money, understand?’

‘Hey, kid, don’t take offense. We’re not talking blood money here, if that’s your worry. The family owes you and I want to –’

‘Forget it. The family owes me zip.’ Mick rolled up the hundreds, put them into his brother’s hand. ‘See, it’s not just Ozone Park I want to get out of. It’s everything.’

Caesare cocked his head. ‘Everything? I don’t unnerstand.’

‘I’m sure not.’

Caesare scowled. ‘Kid, you’re starting to piss me off. First, you don’t accept my offer of money – made free an’ clear as one brother to another. Now, you’re starting to talk crazy. I don’t like any of it.’

‘It’s not for you to like or dislike,’ Mick said, getting up. ‘Good-bye, Caesare.’

Caesare pushed his chair back so roughly it toppled over. ‘Hey, not so fast, wise guy. What about Mom? You can’t just leave her like this. She’s expecting you to come with us to San Francisco. With Jaqui staying here and all, this’ll break her heart.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry?’ That weird manic light like a red star had come into Caesare’s eyes. ‘Is that all you can say, you ungrateful sonuvabitch?’ He took one step toward Mick. ‘I’ll fuckin’ break your neck for you, kid.’

‘That time’s past.’ Mick put up a warning hand, and astonishingly, Caesare halted in midstride. Mick could see it in his eyes, that uncertainty, that knowledge of what Mick had done to the two men in the cherrywood coffins.

‘Do what you fuckin’ want, then,’ Caesare said, his hands stuck in his pockets. ‘But don’t come ta me for help. I won’t know you.’

The Convent of the Sacred Heart of Santa Maria dominated a quiet, tree-shaded street in Astoria. Although it was by far the largest structure on the block, it was flanked by a bakery and a dry cleaner’s. On the opposite side of the street stretched a row of neat attached brick-faced houses, all with small aluminum awnings over the front doors.

The convent was actually quite a beautiful building. It was constructed of large blocks of white stone off which the sunshine sparked and cascaded like rippling water. There was a carved alabaster statue of Mary alone on one side of the gated entrance and another of Her and the baby Jesus on the other.