Sons and Princes (21 page)

Michele, Dolan’s revolver in her hand, walked over to stand beside Chris. Breathing heavily, they stared down at Dolan, who had slumped to his side on the floor, out cold.

“Who is he?” Michele asked.

“I’ll explain later. First, we have work to do.”

Then, noticing Chris’ arm for the first time, Michele said, “What happened? Did he burn you? I thought I smelled something burning.”

“He did,” Chris answered, “but we can’t talk now. Help me get him in the chair.”

Michele set the chair upright, then helped Chris pull and push the inert Dolan onto it.

“Put his hands behind his back, through the slats of the chair, then cuff them,” Chris said. “Give me the revolver.”

Michele handed him the .38 and set about her task. While she was doing this, Chris picked up his cell phone and the cattle prod from the table and went outside. In Dolan’s car he found the cattle prod’s leather cover, which he slipped over it, and, in the glove compartment, Dolan’s cell phone. He threw the prod into the oily pond and watched it sink. Then, using Dolan’s phone, he dialed Rocco Stabile’s number.

“Rocco,” he said when Stabile answered. “It’s me, Chris.”

“Hello.”

“It’s time for your two guys to make their bones.”

“Where are you?”

Chris gave him directions to the shack, then added, “I won’t be here.”

“What about the other guy?”

“They’ll find it easy to close the deal.”

“It’s not closed yet?”

“No, I saved the last part for them.”

“You still want them to bring this other shit.”

“Yes. They just have to spread it around.”

“They’re on their way.”

Chris put the phone back into the glove box after clicking it off, then went into the shack to check on Dolan, who was still out cold, his hands intertwined through the back of the chair and cuffed tightly together. Picking up the key, making sure he had both guns, Chris took a last look around the shack, then led Michele into the high reeds to wait.

Twenty minutes later, a black BMW pulled up and parked behind Dolan’s sedan. Labrutto and Rodriguez emerged from it with silencer-tipped guns drawn and, from opposite sides, slowly approached the open doorway. Labrutto peeked in, smiled and entered, motioning Rodriguez to follow. The sound of two muted shots could be heard, followed immediately by a thud and some indistinct conversation. As the porn/snuff film producer and the albino were returning, side-by-side, to their car, Chris stepped out from the reeds and shot them both with Dolan’s gun, aiming and firmly but calmly squeezing the trigger the way Joe Black had taught him almost thirty years ago.

Labrutto, shot in the head, was killed instantly. Mickey, hit in the arm, was reaching wildly for his gun when Chris approached him and shot him at close range in the chest. This was followed almost immediately by another shot from another gun, this one hitting Rodriguez in the stomach. Chris had told Michele to stay in the reeds, but, turning, he saw she was standing behind him to his right, breathing softly, with the Ruger still aimed straight at Rodriguez.

“You can put the gun down,” Chris said. “He’s dead.”

Only when Chris spoke did Michele tear her eyes away from the albino, whose lifeless body lay on its side, blood from all three wounds oozing onto the dusty hardpan.

“What now?” she asked.

“The bodies go in the shack.”

After this was accomplished, Chris unlocked Dolan’s handcuffs and threw him to the ground. He had been shot twice in the head. His brains were sticking to the back wall of the shack. The faux snuff films and numerous fifty and hundred dollar bills were scattered around the floor. Chris wiped his prints off of Dolan’s .38 with his shirt and placed the small gun into the prosecutor’s limp hand, pressing his fingers around the barrel and leaving it in plain sight on the floor next to the body. Using his shirttail, he delicately drew Labrutto’s and Mickey’s guns from their belts and placed them on the ground near their bodies.

Outside, he threw the handcuffs, the key and the Ruger into the pond, then yanked out some reeds and brushed away his and Michele’s footprints from the hardpan around the cabin and at the edge of the pond. They then entered the marsh and followed the road back to the Cherokee. Chris’ arm was on fire and getting to be useless. He might lose it, but Dolan was dead, and Nick Scarpa, Allison McRae and Heather Jansen had been avenged. Only Joseph’s score needed to be settled, but he could kill Anthony DiGiglio with his left arm, or no arms, if he had to.

9.

“That’s the next thing you have to quit,” John Farrell said to Michele, who was having her second pre-dinner cigarette. “Take it from me.”

“One thing at a time,” Michele answered. She was relaxed and happy – or as close to those two states as she felt she could get given the recent events of her life – and did not want to think about breaking another habit. She did not know that Farrell, a smoker for fifty years, was dying of lung cancer, although it had not escaped her that something was wrong. The white-haired cleric’s usually lively eyes seemed dull, his civilian clothes were hanging loose and there was a slight but noticeable effort that preceded his speech and movement. Her heart went out to this gentle old man who had been unstintingly helpful and kind to both her and Chris these past few weeks. It occurred to her to ask after him in a pointed way, but something stopped her, possibly her fear that the truth would be more than she could handle at the moment.

She and Chris were sitting on the couch, facing Farrell in the rattan chair. They were drinking scotch from a bottle of eighteen-year-old Glenlivet, a gift from Farrell, who had a glass of club soda in front of him. The noise in the kitchen stopped and they looked up to see Vinnie carrying in a bottle of chilled champagne and four fluted glasses. He popped the cork expertly and poured each of them a glassful, then raised his glass, and said,

“To Karen Pierce.”

“To Allison,” Michele said.

“To Nick,” Chris said. “And Joseph.”

“Here, here,” Farrell said.

They touched glasses all around and drank.

On their return to Suffolk Street from the Meadowlands, Chris had used the last of his throw-away cell phones to call the New Jersey State Police to report hearing shots while changing a tire at the back of the Vince Lombardi Service Area on the Turnpike. That night, the TV news was full of the bizarre triple slaying in the Meadowlands. The next morning, the Post’s front page headline, run over a black-and-white photograph of the blood-stained bodies surrounded by hundred dollar bills on the floor of the hut, said,
Shack Attack! G-Man, Two Others Dead.

Two days later, it was reported in all three of the city’s major dailies that a search of Assistant U.S. Attorney Ed Dolan’s Upper East Side apartment was said by a reliable government source to have turned up a real snuff film, as opposed to the pretend versions found strewn around the shack. The same source also told reporters that a year ago the shack in the Meadowlands had been used as a lookout by FBI agents responding to a tip that a mob murder was about to go down. The tip had never materialized, but Dolan’s team had been notified of the operation, and it was believed that the career prosecutor had visited the site.

The media frenzy that followed lasted several weeks and had Karen Pierce, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, recently transferred from Washington, on the defensive from her first day on the job. Articles recounting Dolan’s career were run, all of which mentioned the fact that he was said to be recently working on what he believed was a connection between the Scarpa/McRae murders and organized crime. One or two stories referred to the DiGiglio crime family as his target, although each noted that no evidence connecting the DiGiglios to the Palisades murders had ever been produced publicly.

The consensus was that the deaths of Guy Labrutto – a known maker of pornographic videos – and his associate, Mickey Rodriguez, had made proving such a connection extremely difficult, if not impossible. No mention was made of Chris Massi. Yesterday, Pierce had issued a press release, carried in this morning’s papers, announcing that the Scarpa/McRae investigation had been closed on the theory that the likely killers – Labrutto and Rodriguez – were dead,; that Ed Dolan’s task force had been dissolved and would be reorganized in Washington, and that Dolan’s personal and professional activities going back at least five years would be thoroughly scrutinized by her office.

When he finished drinking, Chris looked over at John Farrell, who was slumping in his chair but smiling. The temporary flush of excitement on his cheeks was a sad reminder of the old Brother Farrell, the one whose face was permanently pink, before cancer drew the shades on his eyes and turned his visage pallid and gray. The old man had made Chris promise not to tell anyone that he was dying, and Chris had thus far complied. He had held his breath while Vinnie was popping the champagne, hoping that his toast would not be to life or health, as it might logically have been, given that Michele had kicked her habit and Chris’ arm had healed well – and that they were both alive.

“I feel cheated, in a way,” Farrell said.

“Maybe you’ll get another chance,” Chris replied.

“What does that mean?” Vinnie said.

“I talked to Teresa this morning,” Chris said. “She says her father wants to talk to me.”

“Does he know where you are?”

“No, no one does.”

“Maybe that’s all he wants to do, talk.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I can connect him to the snuff film, and to Joseph’s death. What would you do?”

“You’re the father of his grandchildren,” Vinnie said. “You got Dolan off his back. He can’t be thinking of killing you.”

“I can’t take the chance.”

“What about Aldo and Frank? They’ll come after you.”

“Let’s not talk about it tonight,” Chris said. “Tonight, let’s just eat and drink and be happy that we’re alive.”

It had taken two weeks for Chris’ wounds to heal. Deep, but not to the bone, they had been cleansed and coated with silver nitrate solution on a regular basis. The silver nitrate, along with sterile dressings and anti-inflammatory medication, were spirited by John Farrell from the infirmary at LaSalle. Demerol for pain was provided by Vinnie, who also brought over and installed an air conditioner that provided Chris with much needed relief from the increasing summer heat.

Michele did the nursing. While she did, Chris told her about his connection to the Scarpa and McRae murders, the story of Joseph’s life and death and the latest version of his own life story, including his misbegotten relationship with Ed Dolan, his brief running career and the car accident that ended it. By the middle of the third week, Chris was able to move his arm with a minimum of pain and discomfort. Michele’s AIDS and hepatitis tests had come back negative. To celebrate their health, and the welcome announcement from Karen Pierce’s office, they invited Farrell and Vinnie for dinner.

“Yes, don Massi,” Vinnie said, with mock solemnity, raising his glass. “Tonight, the war stops for a few hours. Tonight, we celebrate your health and your victories.”

“To the first gay consigliere,” Chris said, smiling and raising his glass as well.

By ten o’clock, Farrell and Vinnie had gone, the dishes were done, and Chris and Michele were sitting in the living room sipping coffee. Michele was smoking. Her cigarettes, Marlboro reds, were on the coffee table between them. Chris, sitting Indian-style on the floor, facing Michele on the couch, picked up the pack, took one out and lit it.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Michele said.

“I have one every ten years or so.”

They smoked and listened to the sounds of the street below and the city beyond.

“Would you like some music?” Michele asked.

“Sure.”

Michele rose and went into the kitchen, where she turned on the transistor radio that was on the counter. It was already tuned to a jazz station that Chris liked. As she returned to the sofa, the husky sound of Ben Webster’s saxophone came drifting after her.

“There’s no danger now,” Chris said, when she was seated. “You can go back to your apartment whenever you’re ready.”

“What brings that up?”

“You’ve brought a lot of things over from your place. The radio, for instance.”

“I thought you’d like the music while you were laid up.”

“I did and everything else you did for me.”

“Do you want me go?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll stay. What are your plans?”

Chris took a hit from his cigarette and laid it in the ceramic ashtray they were sharing. He had started smoking in law school, eventually enjoying most the unfiltered Camel and a drink that were his reward at the end of a long day of work. When Tess, then six, questioned the smell of his apartment, he quit. That had been ten years ago. Through the smoke rising in lazy spirals from the ashtray, he saw images of Michele: flung on her back by the kick of Joe Black’s Ruger, standing over the dead and bleeding body of Mickey Rodriguez, the gun still pointed at his crotch, the hot sun pounding down on them and searing the tableau forever onto his brain.

“We might as well move to your apartment,” he replied. “I’m pretty sure I’m safe down here.”

“Safe from what?”

“From being bothered while I figure out what to do.”

“I don’t think your ex-father-in-law plans on killing you.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The way you described him. I think he’s a lot like you, and I don’t think it’s a killing you’d do.”

Chris was not surprised at this insight from Michele. Once her head had cleared, she had proven to be intelligent and remarkably adept at getting beneath the surface of things. He did not respond immediately. He was planning on killing Junior Boy, whether Michele’s analogy was correct or not. He would kill Aldo and Frank, too, if he could get them all together. They would all know at once then that it was Joseph’s life they were paying for with theirs.

“Look at it this way,” he said finally. “The don would avenge the death of a brother. Therefore, I would, too.”

“But not tonight.”

“No,” Chris answered, smiling. “Tonight, I’m staying right here.”

Michele’s hair was now about an inch long, and she had done something to it. Parted and styled, it looked like the edgy kind of hairdo any hip young downtown babe might have. The bruises on her face had healed completely, and she was wearing lipstick and strategically applied makeup that accentuated her classic features. The effect of her dual struggles – to stay clean and to cope with the unforgiving memory of what she had done to her children – had stamped these features with a dignity that only such suffering can impart. The courage she had shown in firing Joe Black’s Ruger at Ed Dolan’s back was, Chris knew, nothing compared to the courage it would take for her to stay on her new path. Love was a mystery to Chris, as it is to all of us, but respect was not. Respect he understood.

“Do you like me Chris?” Michele asked.

“Yes, you know I do.”

“I wish I could say I don’t remember my days on the street, but I do.”

“Crime and punishment,” Chris answered.

“What does that mean?”

“You thought you were punishing yourself for what you did to your son, but you weren’t. You were avoiding it. Now that you’re clean, and able to feel again, you can start paying whatever price it is you really have to pay.”

“Who decides that?”

“You do.”

Michele crushed out her cigarette and remained silent for a second. The shadow that was never far from her face crossed over it. Watching her in the lamplight, Chris admitted to himself that he had meddled in her life for reasons having to do with his own pain and frustration. He winced at the selfishness and the hubris of such behavior. Still, here she was, clean, healthy, alive to the sexy tips of her fingers and toes.

“Do you like me enough to kiss me?” Michele asked.

For his answer, Chris got up, went to the couch and sat next to Michele. Taking her face in his hands, he looked at her and saw that the shadow had passed from her eyes, in whose depths he could see the same mix of need and desire that were surely in his. He continued to hold her face as they kissed, and she kept her hands at her sides. Their lips touched gently at first, making it seem to Chris that they were suspended in space, that they could hang there, connected this way, forever. The pressure built, and then their tongues met, and with a gasp, Michele was in Chris’ arms, holding him tightly as her mouth found his neck and cheeks and eyes. Pulling apart for a second, they smiled dumbly at each other, having each had their first taste in a long time of life’s sweetest drug.

They got out of their clothes, stopping to touch and kiss along the way, in no hurry at first to end their high. Soon, however, the blood was pounding in Chris’ head as forcefully as it was in his erect, rock-hard penis, and, laying Michele on her back, he entered her with a stabbing pleasure that – stopping, motionless for a long second or two – he allowed to flood his brain. Beginning slowly, as she raised her hips to draw him in deeper, Chris let his senses take over until they found the rhythm that is as old as the universe yet somehow unique to each couple, and that with surprising swiftness brought them both to orgasm. Stunned, they lay facing each other on the couch, the air conditioner humming steadily in the background, while from the radio came the voice of a DJ pitching a jazz cruise around Manhattan. Toward the end, Chris had opened his eyes to see Michele looking up at him and smiling. This memory stayed with him as he rolled them so that they were lying side by side, facing each other, still joined at hip and crotch. It was a smile that humbled him, such was its pure joy at being loved.

“I’m having a smoke,” Michele said.

“Go for it.”

“Do you want one?”

“No, I’ll have my next one in 2013.”

Michele grabbed her cigarettes and went first into the bathroom, then the bedroom. When she came out, she was wearing one of Chris’ polo shirts, a white one with a blue collar. Chris had slipped on the khaki walking shorts he had been wearing, and was lying on the couch, his head propped on a pillow, listening to the radio. Michele lit a cigarette and sat at his feet, smoking, stroking his ankles with her free hand.

“It must have been hard for you,” she said, “when you realized you couldn’t run anymore.”

“It was a bad day.”

“Or two.”

“Or two.”

“I feel something right here.”

“There’s a plate in there with screws in it.”