Sons and Princes (7 page)

“Do you have a gun?” Joe asked.

Logan nodded.

“Put it on the floor, slowly.”

Logan did as he was told, his limited imagination never having offered up a scene such as the one he had just witnessed. Joe picked up the gun, a cheap, .22 caliber revolver – a throwaway – and checked the cylinder, which was full. He then shot Logan once in the stomach with it. Joe wiped his Magnum clean with his sweater, then bent over and placed it firmly in Logan’s right hand, placing his free hand gently, almost, it seemed, respectfully, on Logan’s chest as he did, to prevent him from toppling over. Placing his hand over Logan’s hand, his trigger finger over Logan’s, he fired the gun into the opposite wall, ensuring a positive paraffin test, if the police were inclined to do one. He let the Magnum fall to the floor. Dolan was lying on his side, the blood from his chest wound soaking into his flannel shirt and thick wool sweater.

Joe wiped Logan’s revolver clean, and, kneeling beside Dolan, placed it firmly into a grip he formed with the former longshoreman’s right thumb and fingers and fired it past Logan’s left shoulder. Hoping that both Dolan and young Logan were in fact right-handed, Joe rose and surveyed the carnage. Logan was still sitting in his chair, blood oozing through his fingers where he clutched his stomach, his face drained of its color, his eyes fast losing their connection to the world. He was still breathing. Ed Dolan was not. As Joe was putting on his coat, the door creaked open about twelve inches and Andy O’Brien first looked, then sidled into the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Is anybody out there?” Joe asked.

“No.”

“Call the police,” Joe said, quietly, looking around the room one last time. “Leave everything as it is. I wasn’t here.”

O’Brien was staring at the two bodies, his eyes grimly accepting the heavy price of Richie The Boot’s protective services.

“Did you hear me?” said Joe. “I wasn’t here.”

“Yes. I heard you.”

“The kid’s still alive. Give me a minute, then call. He might get lucky.”

There were fifty thousand longshoremen on the New York and New Jersey waterfronts in 1950, and fifteen thousand in 1970. By the end of the century, there would be only a few thousand. Containerization, not corruption, killed the union – and the trade – that Ed Dolan had, as a strapping and courageous young man newly arrived from County Armagh, fought so hard and so long to save. This he might have been able to accept, since it applied across the board, but the post-Ryan, governmentrun daily shape-ups, where work was not necessarily or automatically based on seniority, were a bitter blow. The very fairness he fought to impose on the system operated to exclude him from the steady work he needed to maintain his dignity and feed his family.

By the early seventies, he was working one or two days a week, at most, unloading ships. The rest of the time, he was mostly idle, unable to find work in a city whose economy was in a free fall, and where almost any job he could do was controlled by unions who would be loathe to admit a middle-aged newcomer even in good times. When his young cousin, Johnny Logan, called, in late 1976, to offer him a piece of his business at the Two Bridges Houses, in return for Dolan’s “muscle” as Logan had absurdly put it, Ed, angry and disillusioned, decided to give it a try. He was afraid of no man, and anything, he felt, would be better than hanging out in saloons or watching his son go off to school while he stayed home with nothing to do.

Dolan’s wife Margaret was off on a five-day tour of Jersey City’s saloons when he was killed. The police had no choice but to take Ed Jr. out of school and bring him up to Bellevue to identify his father’s body. When he returned, Johnny Logan’s girlfriend Moira, a darkly beautiful young woman in pointy boots, a red leather jacket and a striped scarf, was waiting for him in front of his apartment building on Washington Street in the West Village. Johnny was alive. She had been allowed in to see him for a second before his surgery.
Joe Black Massi killed his dad, then gut shot Johnny, then made it look like a shootout between the two cousins. It was no shootout. Don’t believe anything else. Andy O’Brien worked for Richie Velardo. He’ll lie to save his own life. It was Joe Black. He’s the murderer.

Moira, tears, makeup and strands of wet brown hair streaking her face, hugged Ed Jr. and cried on his shoulder as they stood in the small tiled foyer of his tenement. There was a vulnerability, a nakedness, in Moira’s eyes that had caught at Ed’s stomach. Now, breathing in her perfume, he felt an intense stab of desire, and was immediately shamed by it. Then he watched the building’s tired old wooden door swing quickly open and shut as she left to return to Beth Israel Hospital. He had not cried. That would have to wait. He had to figure out how to find his mom. But before that, there was something else. He had to find Chris Massi. Chris had to know how much he hated him. He had to know.

7.

The day after his drink with Joseph at the Peninsula, Chris borrowed Joseph’s car, a Saab convertible leased for him by Marsha, and drove to Joe Black and Rose’s house in Jersey. Earlier in the week, he had rented a small truck and moved the things that had sentimental value to a storage facility he rented just off the Garden State Parkway in Clifton. These included photo albums, a leather-bound set of the Harvard Classics, a few pieces of solid old world furniture and a collection of curio-sized dragons – in ceramic, blown-glass, bronze and various semi-precious stones, that had surrounded Rose on Carmine Street and then in the small house in Bloomfield. The rest of his parents’ things, including all of their clothes and the remaining furniture, he gave to the Salvation Army. On Friday, he went to clean the place up in anticipation of the closing that was to be held the following week. The evening before, he had called Teresa to see if the kids were willing to help, but Tess had promised to tutor a friend for a math exam, and Matt had been invited to help inaugurate a new pool on the grounds of a mini-mansion owned by one of his friend’s parents. It seemed, incredibly, that his bat-wielding son had escaped all punishment for his conduct on the prior weekend, an outcome that Chris chose not to discuss with his ex-wife on the phone but that nevertheless brought his blood to a boil. The mindless work at his parents’ house was a welcome diversion.

Primarily in the living room, but also scattered in the rooms throughout the now empty house, there were groups of cardboard boxes containing things that Chris was too busy to make decisions about prior to the Salvation Army truck’s arrival earlier in the week. His work today was to go through these boxes, sort out the few things of value, and put the rest at the curb. There was a garage that needed to be looked at, but he saved that for last. In two hours, he had about twenty boxes of various sizes neatly stacked out front. The few things worth saving, including his parents’ immigration and citizenship papers, their marriage license, Rose’s recipe books and a bundle of aging greeting cards tied in a faded red ribbon, he put in a small box, which he placed in the back seat of the Saab.

The house needed to be swept clean, but he decided to first attend to the garage. There he found a neatly organized workbench and much more in the way of tools, including the typical power tools found in men’s workshops all over America, than he expected. On Carmine Street, there was a hammer, a couple of screwdrivers and a pliers in a kitchen drawer, and that was it. Joe Black had apparently needed something to do in his retirement. Chris took a hammer from a hook on a peg board. The weight of it in his hand pulled at his heart.

After the gunning down of Ed Dolan, Sr., Chris put the professional Joe Black outside the pale, and, thereafter, never fully admitted the father Joe Black into his life. He survived by suppressing both his love and his hatred for the man whose blood flowed in his veins. The hammer reminded him of the father he never knew. He decided to box up and keep all the tools, and while doing this, he came across an old cake tin with something heavy in it. Inside, he found a 44. Ruger in an oiled pouch, a box of full clips, and an envelope with fifty-five hundred dollars in cash in it.

Joe Black did not speak about what he did for a living. He had dinner with his family most nights, took them occasionally to Coney Island or Jones Beach, and even went to Chris’ track meets. On the days he killed people, he acted no different than on the days he didn’t. Hefting the Lugar, Chris thought of Jimmy Barsonetti, a man who, if there ever was one, deserved to die. He knew in his bones not only that he deserved to die, but that the truest justice comes at the hand of the victim, or his family. Had this been Joe Black’s code? On the one chance he had had to ask that question, Chris had been too young, and too paralyzed by the weight of Joe Black’s persona to speak up. He “followed orders” his father had said, but what happened when the orders he received were evil? What did Joe Black do then? That was the question Chris had never asked, afraid of what the answer would be. He had never given his father the benefit of the doubt, and now he wished he had. He might be looking for that benefit himself soon from his own children. He replaced the gun and carried the tin out to the Saab, where he put it under the front seat. As he was doing this, he heard a car pull up. Turning, he saw Teresa in the driver’s seat of her Mercedes SUV, which she had double-parked next to the Saab. Tess was in the passenger seat next to her.

“Hi,” Chris said, looking into the car through the passenger window, acknowledging first his daughter and then his ex-wife. “What’s up?”

“She wanted to help you,” Teresa answered.

Tess got out, approached Chris and kissed him on the cheek, then turned to say goodbye to her mom.

“What about dinner?” Teresa asked.

“We’ll go out someplace after we finish here,” Chris replied.

“Not too late. It’s a school night.”

Chris and Tess watched as Teresa pulled into the driveway, then backed out and drove off.

“What happened to your tutoring?” Chris asked when she was gone.

“I cut it short.”

“Who was it with?”

“Rory Peterson.”

“Was that a good idea?”

“All she wanted to do was talk about boys anyway.”

“I guess there’s no chance she’ll be tested on that subject.”

“At my high school, you never know.”

They worked for the next two hours, Tess sweeping down the entire house and cleaning the kitchen and both bathrooms, while Chris finished in the garage, and then cleaned out the basement. He was finished before Tess, and decided to go out for pizza, stopping on the way back to pick up a bottle of red wine. The tiny Cape Cod-style house had a wide and handsome front porch – its best feature – and there they sat cross-legged to eat their dinner, drinking the wine out of paper cups.

Tess had tied her long hair back to work and scrubbed down in the kitchen sink while Chris went out for the food. She rarely wore makeup, and now, her face glowing from the hard work, she looked lovely as she sat facing Chris in the slanting late afternoon sunlight. Watching her eat and sip her wine, Chris saw both the child and the woman in her, and felt the mix of loss and pride that is familiar to all parents who watch their children become young adults before their eyes. He knew that he was the star of his daughter’s life, and had thanked God many times that he had remained so despite all of his troubles.

“Speaking of boys,” he said, “what’s going on with you and Phil Martell?”

“We broke up.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“The summer’s coming. He’s going to California to see his dad.”

“That didn’t last long.”

“No, a few months.”

“But you liked him.”

“I thought he was really cool at first.”

“Any residuals?”

“You mean am I heartbroken?”

“Yes.”

“No. He was pretty happy when I ended it, which was annoying, but I’m fine.” Tess smiled as she said this and now there was more woman in her face than girl.

“Speaking of relationships,” she said, “what’s going on with you and mom?”

“Why?” Chris asked. “Did she say something?”

“No, but she’s acting weird. Is it Matt?”

“It must be. I’ve told her I want him to live with me in New York.”

“Oh. Well...”

“I know. She’ll never agree to it.”

“Never in a million years. Matt’s replaced you in a way.”

This statement took Chris by surprise. There was too much insight in it, too poignant a reminder that his own mother had replaced her husband with her youngest son, and the havoc that had wrought. He had seen the parallel between Joseph and Matt, but not until now the one between him and Tess. He did not respond.

“Tell me about Grampa Joe,” Tess said. “You never talk about him.”

“Joseph talks about him enough for both of us.”

“He makes him sound like a cartoon character. I want to hear it from you.”

“Why?”

“Did you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Matt says he was a hit man.”

Chris stared hard at his sixteen-year-old daughter, but she did not flinch or look away. At the same time, he was thinking about the rapid yes he had given in response to her last question.

“I hated him, too,” he said.

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you what. We’re finished here. Let’s go down to that Applegate Farm place and get some ice cream. I have lots of memories of your grandfather, good and bad. I’ll tell you a story or two, but I can’t promise more than that.”

“Are you worried I won’t be able to handle it?” Tess said. She had, Chris realized, seen the introspection in his eyes. “Because I can.”

“No,” he replied. “I believe you can. I wouldn’t be telling you otherwise.”
It’s not you I’m worried about
, he thought, and then, rising, he held out his hand and helped her to her feet and they headed to the car.