The Edge of Lost (22 page)

37

T
he drive to Nick’s apartment felt like a trip back in time. Little about the streets had been altered. Even the Model T truck Shan was steering hadn’t changed. And yet, shaken by a fresh perspective, the life he’d spent here now appeared very different.

He parked in an open spot half a block from Nick’s building. Early evening sunlight speckled the street, filtered by intermittent trees. A woman strolled past with a baby buggy. Shan watched her disappear around the corner as he took an opportunity to assemble his thoughts.

The first time he had run away from the Capellos, he’d been so angry at Nick. In truth, he’d been hurt. Nick had seemed determined to deflate any hope of finding Shan’s American father. Finally Shan knew why: Nick didn’t want to risk losing another brother.

For years Shan had struggled to forget Nick’s eyes and voice at the hospital, an icy message that said Shan wasn’t good enough to be part of the family. Yet now Lina’s explanation implied just the opposite. The incident with Josie had simply been the last straw. Another perceived attempt to covet something Nick held dear.

Maybe it was too late to make things right. Shan had no idea where to begin. But as Josie had said, he could at least try.

Just then, Nick emerged from the entrance, carrying a duffel bag.

Needing to catch him before he departed, Shan reached for the door handle. He was about to step out of the truck when three other men exited the building. Pockmarked cheeks gave the tall one away. Mel … no, Sal was his name. The fellow beside him had a stocky physique that also struck Shan as familiar. No doubt he was the same thug who had held up Mr. Carducci’s store. The third guy was slim and wore a toothbrush mustache like Charlie Chaplin. Shan didn’t recognize him but could surmise they all answered to the same boss.

This knowledge, paired with the way they were looking around, casing the area from beneath the brims of their hats, caused Shan to sink into his seat. Their black trench coats seemed odd in this weather until the long barrel of a gun peeked out from Sal’s coat, draped like a cape. It was safe to assume he wasn’t the only one armed.

The mustached one threw down his cigarette, not bothering to grind it out. Then he led the way to a parked Packard, where he took the wheel as Nick climbed inside with the others. The engine awoke with a soft growl. Seconds later, they pulled out and headed down the street, soon to vanish like the baby buggy, with no clue of a path.

Shan knew he ought to stay put. Still, worry and dark curiosity swirled over the bag, the guns, the suspicious manner. The more he knew about Nick’s situation, the greater the chance he could help. With no time to debate, he eased the truck out and trailed at a distance.

Before long, they entered a tunnel that went on and on in an endless stretch. When Shan realized he was driving below the Hudson River, he felt the arched walls closing in around him. He gripped the steering wheel and tried not to imagine a leak of water bursting into a flood.

At the tunnel’s end, the sky was a welcome sight. He refocused on the direction of the Packard, three motorcars ahead. They had arrived in New Jersey and were still rumbling along. How far could the men be going? Shan considered turning around but persisted a little longer, and soon the Packard pulled over.

Continuing past them, Shan again dropped down in his seat. He hoped he hadn’t been spotted. At the next street, he turned left and cautiously circled the block. With the side of the Packard in clear view, he rolled to a stop behind a parked Chevy.

Shan peered through the windshield around the coupe. Nick’s driver remained at the wheel, but the passengers were gone.

The sign on the brick building read:
Jersey City Savings Bank
.

Nick wouldn’t. Would he?

There was no alarm ringing. Surely a teller would have tripped one by now, if there was trouble.

Maybe, on Max’s behalf, Nick was just making a large deposit. This would explain the duffel. A few companions with concealed weapons might be a standard precaution. That was assuming they were even inside. Shan hadn’t actually seen where they went. They could have entered another business, perhaps for a meeting of some sort.

Shan’s desire to believe the scenario stood at odds with his gut.

“Come on, Nick,” he whispered. “Get your ass out here.” He scanned the area, feeling like Barsetti would show up at any moment. This time, Shan almost wished the agent were here, to step in before things went too far.

Then came a popping sound. Three more followed in quick succession, confirmed by passersby, whose attention snapped toward the bank before they scattered for safety.

“Oh, God,” Shan said. His heart pounded. He gripped the door handle, vacillating. He stared at the doors, breath held, until they flung open.

Sal and the thug rushed out. They wore black handkerchiefs from the noses down, each wielding a Tommy gun. With Sal toting the bag, presumably filled with loot, they scrambled into the Packard.

They couldn’t leave without Nick.

Shan’s mind raced with possible reasons for the delay. Finally the alarm started to ring and the Packard shot away. They swerved around the block, leaving their fourth man behind. Cops would descend any minute.

“Goddamn it.” Shan jumped out of the truck and bolted across the street, barely missing a collision with a taxi. The cabbie honked, but Shan didn’t stop until he made it into the bank. About a dozen people lay facedown, hands covering their hats and heads. The few who dared to look up cowered when Shan shouted, “Nick!”

He continued farther in and balked at the discovery of a uniformed guard sprawled over white tiles. A red puddle spread around the revolver in his limp hand.

“Nick,” Shan yelled louder, panic mounting.

He spied an open door that led to the back side of the tellers’ cages, surely the bank safe too. Near the threshold, drops of blood created a trail. He followed them through the doorway and found Nick seated on the floor against a wall. Nick raised a pistol to take aim, and Shan threw his arms up.

“Stop, Nick! It’s me.”

Bewilderment swirled in Nick’s eyes as he lowered the pistol. “Tommy …” Above the black handkerchief pooled at his chin, the edges of his mouth slid up. “What are … how’d you …” His voice sounded weary, his strength draining.

Inside the trench coat, Nick’s left hand held the right side of his waist. Shan dropped to a knee and pulled back the coat. Blood covered the white fabric of Nick’s shirt, seeping red between his fingers.

Shan’s heart was beating like fists in his chest. He peeked around the corner. There were whispers and small movements among the would-be hostages. Their fear was fading, their confidence growing. A gentleman with the look of a bank manager was gesturing to a stout fellow in factory clothes.

In the distance a siren wailed.

Shan needed to stall just long enough to get Nick to safety. He nabbed the pistol and leapt to his feet, transforming into a man of far greater stature. “Stay down, all of you!” He waved the weapon in the direction of the people but pointed the barrel at the wall above them. Gasps arose as folks dropped back down.

A matronly woman in a pink hat clasped her hands in prayer. Beside her, a teenage boy squeezed his eyes shut, his body flat and stiffened as if to disappear into the floor.

Shan wished it were that easy.

He hastened over to Nick. “You hang on to me, all right?” He didn’t wait for a reply before grabbing Nick around the back and maneuvering him to stand. Nick groaned and his right arm tightened over Shan’s shoulder.

“Easy does it,” Shan said, and guided Nick in an awkward shuffle toward the door. “Just keep your hand on that wound.”

“Yeah … okay …” Nick spoke through labored breaths. “Guess I really … screwed things up. Didn’t I?”

“And you just figured that out?”

Nick started to laugh, cut short by a sharp inhale from the pain.

Shan knew this was hardly the time for jokes, but the alternative was to fully face the severity of the situation. They were halfway to the door when Nick stumbled. Shan fought to regain their balance.

The siren grew louder. The cops were almost here.

“C’mon, we’re nearly out,” Shan urged, resuming their steps.

“I’m sorry … about everything …”

“Keep moving, damn it! Don’t slow down.”

“’Bout Josie too … I was so stupid … letting her go.” The emotion in Nick’s tone impelled Shan to look over. In all of their years together, it was the first time he’d ever seen tears in Nick’s eyes.

Then a shot blasted from behind and those same eyes widened to a bulge. Nick grunted and collapsed, taking Shan to the floor with him. Shan barely comprehended what had happened before he twisted back to look. The factory man stood near the dead guard, pointing a blood-smeared revolver in Shan’s direction.

The world instantly slowed.

Shan watched the man’s thumb ease down on the hammer, a millimeter at a time. The cylinder gradually rotated, moving a bullet into place. The resulting click became the sole sound on earth. He curled a forefinger around the trigger, and Shan closed his eyes, bracing for impact. Another shot rang out.

But he felt nothing.

It occurred to him that this lack of pain was a benefit of death. Yet when he opened his eyes, the factory man lay on the ground, gripping his leg.

Shan’s gaze fell to the pistol in his own hand. He dropped the weapon, shocked by the realization of what he had done.

The thought was eclipsed by the startling view of Nick.

Facedown. Eyes closed.

No sign of breathing.

“Oh, Jesus, no …” Shan shook him once, twice, to rouse him. But Nick’s body had gone limp, turned heavy as stone. Shan scrambled to find a pulse, searching his neck, his wrists. Where was it, damn it?

“Don’t do this,” Shan ordered, wanting to shout, yet the emotion knotting his throat reduced the words to a rasp. A futile plea. For he already knew.

Nick was gone.

In that moment, everything that had divided them—the years and wrongs, the differences and confusions—all of it melted away. And they were simply two friends made brothers by fate or God, both of them granted a second chance. And they’d failed.

“This is the police!”

The announcement drew Shan back to his surroundings. A sea of policemen and their cars filled the view through the glass doors. One of them held a megaphone.

“Drop your weapons and come out with your hands high!”

Shan glanced around in a haze. The bank manager had come to the factory man’s aid. On one knee, he said to Shan, “Son, it’s over. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

The man was right. It was over—in more ways than Shan could possibly grasp at that moment.

Guided by a sense of floating outside his own body, he slowly rose, parting with Nick a final time, and raised his hands in surrender.

38

I
f there was a single element that carried Shan through the events after the robbery, it was his experience from performing. He was accustomed to the vulnerable nakedness of standing alone on a stage. From off nights in particular, when subjected to a cold crowd, he had gained a protective shell that kept reality at a distance.

For now, this included even the Capellos.

They did their best to support him through the trial, of course. Aside from helping him acquire a lawyer—the Italian son of old friends from their church—Lina and her parents sat vigilantly week after week in court. When escorted in, Shan would give a cursory nod in acknowledgment of their fretful greetings; he did the same after their encouraging words each time he was ushered out. All the same, he made a point of avoiding their faces, afraid his armor would shatter from the grief in their eyes. Or worse yet, gratitude for his attempt to help.

In a brief visit at the county jail where he was being held, Mr. Capello assured him that he and his wife had learned the truth from Lina, about rumors of a debt to Max, and that Shan wasn’t to blame.

Shan didn’t argue, despite knowing otherwise. The irony was, if he hadn’t interfered, Clive Smead—the factory man, now on his way to a full recovery—might not have seen a reason to play the hero, instead leaving that role for the cops. In such a feeble state, Nick likely wouldn’t have resisted.

If only Shan had ignored the telegram, stayed on the circuit, delayed his trip …

Worthless hypotheticals. There was no reversing the past.

He was put on trial for armed robbery of a bank, assault with a deadly weapon, and assault with the intent to kill. Although Shan wasn’t innocent in the case, neither did he feel guilty of all those crimes. Nevertheless, his lawyer recommended they accept a plea bargain. And he wasn’t the only one.

“Kid, you’re not the one they’re after,” Agent Barsetti said through the bars of Shan’s cell, prior to the first hearing. “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe you had anything to do with knocking off that bank. But my gut says you know who else was involved.”

On his bunk, Shan sat with gaze fixed on the stained concrete floor. Whether Max had ordered the robbery as a means of repayment or his guys had pulled the job on their own, all paths led to Max Trevino, and Shan wasn’t about to hand over a map.

Barsetti squatted to Shan’s level, hands clasped, elbows on his thighs. “Tommy, look. I’m gonna be square with you. I never gave a shit about Trevino’s booze. Hell, I was raised on more wine than milk myself.” He paused, took a breath. “Thing is, my sister’s son Vincent was a good kid. But he got mixed up with the wrong guys, like your brother. Wound up doing dirty work for Black Handers.”

Recalling the ruthless extortionists known for “protective services” and kidnapping ransoms, Shan raised his eyes. He turned toward Barsetti, who then continued.

“Years ago, my sister came to me, asking for help. See, Vincent wanted out. But Trevino beat me to it—apparently he didn’t like when competition invaded his turf. Vincent washed up in Newark Bay. We never found his missing pal, but I’d venture to guess he ain’t on vacation. Point being, I promised my sister I’d do everything in my power to take down the son of a bitch responsible.”

At last Shan understood Barsetti’s true drive. For him, it was a personal matter.

But then, the same could be said for Shan. “Agent, I wish I could help you … I just can’t.”

Barsetti came back gruffly: “They’re gonna put you away, kid. Use you as an example. You get that? We’re talkin’ hard time unless you give them what they want.” He shook his head and glanced away. Part of his frustration at least seemed rooted in genuine concern for Shan. “Just throw ’em a bone, for Christ’s sake. One name. Simple as that.”

But he was wrong. Nothing was that easy.

The day after the arrest, a guard stopped by Shan’s cell, said he wanted to make sure everything was comfortable. It felt oddly accommodating until the guard added that if Shan spotted any rats slinking around to feel free to give them a good stomp, that inmates tended to best handle those kinds of problems themselves.

The warning about snitches wasn’t lost on Shan. He could have guessed who’d sent it even before seeing Max seated in a back row at the trial. Not that Shan needed any more incentive.

A plea bargain might land him a lighter sentence. But as a verifiable rat, he’d be putting his life in jeopardy, along with those of the Capellos. He decided to take his chances with the jury.

Shan did question that choice, however, when Clive Smead was rolled to the stand in a wheelchair, causing a few jurors to gasp. The bulky cast on the man’s leg might have been standard for a wounded thigh, but the impression it made was not in Shan’s favor.

Nor was the sight of the pistol Shan had used, held up by the prosecutor’s gloved fingertips. While Shan was relieved to learn only one bullet had been fired from the handgun, absolving Nick of murder, the dried smear of Nick’s blood on the handle still churned Shan’s stomach.

That feeling continued when a mournful teller took the stand, describing the bank guard being murdered by the stocky thug. “His wife died years ago,” she added, “so he’d spend every weekend doing projects around the community, or feeding pigeons at Central Park.”

Again Shan clung to his armor. Without it, his want for justice surely would have broken him, causing him to spill it all.

Other witnesses from the bank testified, most recounting their ordeal with intense passion. They each pointed at Shan to identify the man who had threatened them all by waving a gun their way, ordering them to stay down, although none could assuredly place him among the three original robbers.

Except for the matron. In a different pink hat, she adamantly claimed Shan had departed in his mask before returning for his brother.

Shan’s first thought was that she’d been coerced. But her sincerity shone through; she truly believed her testimony. For this Shan couldn’t blame her. Memory, after all, was funny that way. A person could convince himself of just about anything if he wanted to believe enough, especially when seeking comfort and security. And that was what his conviction meant to her: a major step toward restoration of her prior world, where a bad guy was caught and punished for his crimes.

The opportunity finally came for the defense to make its case.

Each of the Capellos sought to testify on Shan’s behalf, but his lawyer urged them to refrain. As immediate family members of two accused bank robbers, he explained as delicately as possible, their tainted credibility would not benefit their cause. If anything, the fact that they’d permitted Shan to work at a questionable supper club at a young age might suggest that his parents had set the course for both sons’ demise.

Instead the defense called upon Mr. Bagley. No doubt, the man was irritated to be summoned from his tour, though to his credit he hid it well. His testimony was to refute the allegation that Shan’s plan of a mere daylong visit, after nine years away from his family, exhibited a premeditated effort to flee after the robbery. The prosecution had submitted Shan’s return train ticket, found in his pocket during the arrest, as Exhibit C.

“I reminded him he had a contract to fulfill, so he’d better be back soon,” Bagley affirmed, a mild paraphrasing of his stern legal threat. He went on to admit that Shan had cited a “family emergency” as his reason for the trip: a vague request with no specifics. Bagley was hardly the sort to care for anyone’s personal details, yet the prosecutor skipped past that point and jumped at the chance to establish Shan’s line of work, highlighting the immoral nature of burlesque as an apt reflection of his character. Photographs of the more industrious acts, including a hammock number starring Kitty Lovely—Shan’s “nightly hotel companion”—further increased the jurors’ looks of disdain.

By the time Bagley stepped down, Shan thought the only witness who could do more damage was Paddy O’Hooligan.

He was soon corrected.

Despite her bias as a longtime friend, Josie took the stand. She had a determination about her. The way she avoided Shan’s eyes, he sensed guilt at the core of her mission, a duty to contain the fallout of a single telegram.

In her testimony, she verified that the gap between Shan’s train arrival and visit with the Capellos wasn’t spent scheming with criminals, but catching up with her over a cup of coffee.

“Just ask our waiter at the Oyster Bar, if you don’t believe me.” She exuded confidence and took great care not to delve into their actual talk at the restaurant, let alone Max’s dealings. The girl was no dummy. She focused on Shan’s strength of character: stellar grades and a clean record, working devotedly for his father, trading goods for customers who had fallen on hard times.

A couple of jurors even gave smiles of approval, all of which dissolved when the assistant DA got his turn at a cross-examination. Digging around into Josie’s life had somehow uncovered her rocky past as a runaway, her tendency to “keep company with shady men”—a painful reference to the Jewish boy she had reportedly killed in an act of self-defense—and more recently her indiscretion with Shan.

“Well—yes, but we stopped right away,” Josie asserted. “Tommy and I, we knew it was a mistake.”

“Oh, certainly, Miss Penaro. I understand. And you were both sorry about it, I’m sure.”

“That’s right.”

“Probably felt real guilty about it too.”

“Yes. Of course we did.”

“So guilty, in fact, that his brother, Tommy here, might feel obligated one day to make it up to him. Wouldn’t you say?”

Shan’s lawyer raised an objection, insisting Miss Penaro couldn’t possibly be expected to testify what his client was or was not feeling. The judge sustained the motion and the prosecutor rested, but the damage was done. Shan could sense the collective conclusion solidifying among the jury: well intentioned or not, Tommy Capello had a motive.

And they found him guilty.

On all counts.

Before handing down the sentence, the judge asked if the defendant would care to speak. Shan managed to stand, fending off the pain of hearing Lina and her mother sniffling back tears. He apologized for wounding Mr. Smead. Never meaning to hurt anyone, he was only trying to help.

For this, he got twenty-five years.

More than two decades in a federal pen.