The Immortal Game (8 page)

Whitey remembered the last time he had spoken to his brother, face to face.

“Sooner or later,” Whitey said, “Angelo will make his move.
”

“So let’s make ours.”

Whitey shook his head. They were in Red’s office, what used to be their father’s office. Whitey liked that his brother was here, that his family was here. He needed to protect them. “Our move is, I turn state’s evidence.”

“Go G?”

Whitey nodded.

“Doesn’t really seem like your style.”

“Maybe it’s time to change my style. I’m not getting any younger.”

Red looked at the chessboard between them and smiled a toothless smile. Lately, his brother’s game had gotten more conservative. They both knew this was the best plan, but neither wanted to do it. For one simple reason. They would miss each other. They knew how rare it was to have someone who knew you so completely. That’s not what wives were for.

“And Kat?”

“Nobody can know.”

“You’ve already talked to the Feds.”

It wasn’t a question. Whitey said nothing.

“Things used to be a lot simpler, didn’t they?” Red said.

Whitey shrugged. “We knew less. That didn’t make things simple.”

“Yes, it did.”

Yes it did, Whitey thought. He sat on a bench inside a small, gated playground across from Joe’s American Bar and Grille. The
playscape
and swings were crowded with kids, like ants on a dead animal. Nannies with strollers chatted while they supervised the mayhem. Whitey was filled with the typical envy adults have watching kids play. Whitey tried to imagine them grown up, picked out the bullies, the cowards, the sluts, the princesses.

A man in a dark suit opened the gate, alone, no children. His brother. Red sat on the same bench as Whitey.

“I’m sorry about Kat.”

“Christopher is okay.”

Red closed his eyes, Whitey knew, to force back the tears.

“Where?”

“With Lonagan.”

Red nodded. “I thought maybe…. I remember Christopher loved this park.”

“It’s not safe,” Whitey said.

“Denatale?”

Whitey nodded. “Who knew, Richard? About me?”

“I knew. But I didn’t know everything, did I?”

Whitey had to look away from his brother, back at the children. He tried to pick out the future adulterers. “You knew everything you needed to know.”

Red nodded. “You were protecting me. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The lie died on his tongue. The hair on the back of Whitey’s neck tingled. He scanned the crowds for the well-dressed Vincent. Braced himself for the sound and feel of a bullet. Sweat beaded on his face.

“I should have sent Kat up to kill you.”

“You didn’t?”

“Are you dead?”

“So who knew?”

“The Feds.”

“Anyone else?”

Red smiled. A smile that had nothing to do with happiness.

“Who?”

“My wife.”

Whitey sighed. “Things used to be a lot simpler.”

Linda Scarlotti, the only addiction Whitey ever had. She was like China White heroin. He was hooked after the first taste. Like any junky, he couldn’t get enough, would take silly chances just for an hour alone with her. With Kat, everything was rough and hard. With Linda, it was soft and easy. Linda was the yin to Kat’s yang. Just thinking about her could make him shudder with withdrawal as he pictured her long, lean, freckled body, the beautiful, quivering paleness of her.

“Do you ever wish it was you?”

He had to concentrate to hear what she said when she was naked. “What?”

She dragged her index finger down his chest. “Running things. Do you ever wish it was you?”

“Never.”

It was the last question she ever asked him. She had left in a hurry, her lips like sharp icicles as she kissed him goodbye.

After she was gone, he was afraid. Afraid of what she might make him do, what he might be willing to do if she withheld herself from him.

That was when he came up with his plan. He needed to go away, forever.

19

Vilma
lived near Northeastern, in the Fens off Huntington Avenue. She was a professor of Latin America studies. Lonny had never been to her home before, but she had described it enough times to make it easy for him to find.

In a daze Christopher followed as Lonny knocked on her door.

The sound of her footsteps inside. “Hold on,” her voice called. More footsteps and the door opened.

“Dylan?” She sounded more curious than surprised.
Vilma
had been through enough not to let an unexpected visit from a friend distress her. “Come by for a game?”

“I wish.”

“Who is this?” Christopher said from behind Lonny.

She squinted at the boy. “
Ah, y
que
es
esto
? Como
te
llamas,
chico
?”

“Christopher, this is
Vilma
.
Vilma
, Christopher. Christopher Scarlotti.”

The last name caused her eyes to widen. She appeared to be doing some calculations in her head. “How long?”

Lonny sighed. “A day? Give or take.”

“Please come in, you two.”

“I need to use the bathroom,” Christopher said.

“At the end of the hall my little amigo.”

When the bathroom door shut,
Vilma
said, “The boy is in danger?”

“Yes.”

“You are in danger?”

“Yes.”

“How exciting.”

“I’m sorry to put you in this position,
Vilma
.”

She smiled, then she looked concerned. “How was your fall?”

“Come again?”

“Off the wagon?”

Lonny looked away from her. “Hard.”

She nodded. “
Esta
bien
, amigo
. Not today and not tomorrow. Okay?”

He swallowed. “Okay.”

The toilet flushed.

“And
Vilma
?”

“Si?”

“The boy has been through some awful things today.”

She grimaced. “I understand. You be careful.”

Christopher came out of the bathroom. His eye caught the wooden chess set on the kitchen table. The pieces reminded Lonny of the Easter Island statues or totem pole faces.

“Do you play, Christopher?”
Vilma
asked.

The boy touched one of the pawns and nodded.

“Then we will get along just fine.”

“Christopher,” Lonny said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Christopher looked nervously at Lonny. “Does she have a gun?”

She chuckled. “
Vilma
does not need guns to scare people off.”

Christopher looked skeptical.

20

Kelly thought about calling him all day. What would she say? She wasn’t sure how she felt about what had happened last night. Hadn’t realized how hungry she was for human contact, for intimacy.

It had stirred up memories, good and bad.

Still, wasn’t that better than the numbness her life had become? A daily avoidance of feeling. Wasn’t that what Dylan’s drinking was about, numbness? We all chased our demons away, however we could.

She opened the door to her apartment building, stopped at the mailbox, while an inner debate raged over whether to call him. A list of the things she missed did battle with the list of the things she didn’t. Dylan Thomas Lonagan was a coin and you never knew which side he would land on, Jekyll or Hyde.

In her apartment, she set the mail on the dining room table, flipped on the light, and froze.

A man was sitting in her leather chair.

She screamed.

He held a silver handgun in his right hand, and casually pointed it at her. He put a finger to his lips. “
Shh
.”

She recognized him. The blond man from the night before, with Dylan. He looked a bit like the new James Bond actor. In this light his eyes appeared colorless, his expression blank, cruel, comfortably numb.

She was having trouble breathing. “What? What do you want?”

He blinked and said, “I want you to call Dylan Lonagan.”

An accent. German?

Lonny was in the Boston Commons, near the swan boats, when his cell buzzed. He recognized her number.

“I was kind of hoping you’d call,” he said.

“Dylan, I don’t know what’s happening.”

The panic in her voice was like fingers around his heart.

“What is it?” He knew, but hoped he was wrong.

At first, he thought he lost the connection. No, she was crying, or trying very hard not to. “There’s a man. With a gun.”

Lonny stopped walking. “Where are you?”

“Ah, Herr Lonagan,” a new voice said. The German. The ice in his voice made Lonny shiver. “Never mind about where we are.”

“What do you want?”

“The boy.”

“A trade?”

“A fair trade, no?”

“Where?”

“Quincy Market. The north steps.”

“When?”

“One hour.”

“What if—”

“Enough. You know the answers to these questions. Bring the boy to the north steps. Leave him. The woman will be at the south steps. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Keep your phone close. You will receive instructions.”

*

The German put her phone in his pocket and sighed. He did not enjoy involving civilians in his work. Too unpredictable. He stood.

“You heard?”

The woman nodded. Beneath the fatigue and the fear she was quite beautiful.

“Do what you are told and everything will be fine for you and Dylan.”

“Who is the boy?”

The German punched her, hard, in the stomach. She crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath.

“The boy does not concern you. You will ask no questions. You will do as you are told. Understand?”

The woman nodded and wept.

So beautiful. Such a waste.

“Sit, please.”

She did it quickly, like a well-trained dog, eager to please.

The German nodded in approval. He lifted a case and opened it. His long-range rifle. A DSR-50. He had never missed with it. He quickly checked all the parts, made sure he had his .50 caliber bullets. Then he closed and latched the case. As always, he felt comforted by the sight of the well-oiled machine.

The boy would not be there. The German understood this. A clean shot at Lonagan was all he wanted. Perhaps the Italian would be there as well. Then this woman, unfortunate, but necessary. No loose ends.

Then the German could locate the boy. With no interference.

*

Whitey answered on the first ring.

“Trouble?” he said.

“The German,” Lonny said. “He has my wife.”

Whitey absorbed this, then said, “And he wants to trade.”

“Yes. For the boy.”

“He can’t have the boy.”

“I know that.”

“Good. Where’s the meet?”

“Quincy Market. The north steps.” Lonny rubbed his face, tried to control the panic buzzing at the back of his brain.

“Where does she live?”

“Beacon Hill.”

“Okay. We’ve got time.”

“For what?”

“Where are you?”

“Northeastern.”

Whitey’s heart surged as he explained how to proceed. The life of a hero, he thought. Someone needed saving and Lonagan had called Whitey.

The German and Kelly walked from her apartment. It was a frigid day. The wind bit at the tears in her eyes.

There was no talking. They both knew the way.

The German kept his hands in his pockets. His right hand held a small firearm. Smaller than anything Dylan had owned. But in the bag over his shoulder was the biggest rifle she’d ever seen.

“You will wait at the steps. If you leave—” the German shrugged apologetically— “I must kill the boy. And your Dylan.”

My Dylan, she thought and sighed.

They passed a policeman.

Kelly tensed as if she might not be able to control herself.

The German smiled, as if amused by her thoughts.

They walked. Past the old capitol building with its gold dome shining. To their right, in the Boston Commons, Kelly could see a skating rink, could hear the sounds of children on the ice. Cruel noises to her ears.

They took a left through Suffolk University. College kids rushed to class, their breath steaming from their mouths.

None of them knew, not a soul, how much trouble she was in, how dangerous the blond man next to her was.

How could they?

Lonny spotted them, walking past Government Center.

He dialed Whitey. Herd ringing in his earpiece.

“Go,” Whitey said.

“I’ve got them. Coming down the steps next to Government Center.”

As Lonny watched, a crowd of business folk crossed in front of them. The German was gone. Kelly kept walking down the steps.

“Dammit, I just lost him.”

“I’ve got him. Go get Kelly out of here.”

Lonny stepped out of the coffee shop, scanning the crowd for either the German or Whitey. Both were ghosts. Instead, he spotted Vincent, Red’s well-dressed lieutenant.

Kelly was halfway down the steps.

Vincent was moving away, back turned to Lonny. He moved like he dressed. Smooth, elegant, gliding through the thickening crowd like a dancer. He did nothing to call attention to himself.

Over Vincent’s shoulder, Lonny spotted Whitey, who was as engaged as Vincent on his prey. Eyes locked on his target.

It was almost comical, this chain of armed men, and the unsuspecting commuters surrounding them, walking home half asleep, on auto pilot. They were in for a rude awakening
.

Lonny had his gun in his hand and was considered firing into the air when Vincent aimed his pistol at Whitey. No more thinking, just action. Lonny’s bullet found the center of Vincent’s back. He crumpled.

The commuter zombies woke up, turned into a panicked mob, running, screaming.

Whitey had Lonny in his sights, then lowered his weapon. He briefly looked at Vincent, then back at Lonny.

Lonny was frozen. His joints had locked and his eyes did not blink, could not stop staring at the first man he had ever killed.

The serene evening commute turned into a riot. One woman looked down at the blood that had spilled from Vincent onto her pretty, blue overcoat, howling as if she had been shot.

Lonny’s eyes took it all in.

Vincent’s trembling hands.

His body twisting, head angling to see his executioner.

His eyes found Lonny’s, a recognition, before they turned into hazel marbles.

Whitey’s hand on Lonny’s shoulder. His voice, calm, clear, in Lonny’s ear.

“We need to get Kelly.”

She heard the gunshot. She had never heard a gun shot in real life before, but the report was unmistakable. Who was dead?

The boy?

Dylan?

Or had Dylan turned the tables on the German?

Should she go back? Should she still go to the steps? Frightened people ran past her, shoved, tripped. She held onto the railing of the stairs, leaned on it as more tears welled in her eyes.

She fought with herself, but after a moment she turned and rushed, against the current, back up the stairs.

Her skin tingled. She imagined the German watching her through the scope on his rifle, thought about his finger on the trigger. She shivered.

At the top of the steps, she saw Dylan rushing toward her.

And she heard screaming. A woman was screaming. A beautiful woman with red hair was screaming, it seemed, right at Kelly.

The German was long gone. But Linda Scarlotti was watching Kelly with her finger on a trigger.

This was not how it was supposed to go. Nothing had happened the way it was supposed to.

Whitey was supposed to be dead. A gift for the Denatales. A show of good faith.

And Vincent was supposed to be the one to find the boy. Her husband’s trusted general. But no, Red had to go outside the family and find this drunk shamus, like a dog with a bone, who just wouldn’t stop sniffing. Kat had called an audible up in Vermont. At least she’d got what she deserved.

Mrs. Scarlotti pictured the tangled web she had constructed, now torn apart.

The only one caught in it was her.

And now her Vincent, her man, was dead.

All because of that goddamned Lonagan.

That’s what she was shouting, “Lonagan!” As she pulled her dainty .22 out of her pocket and pointed it (like it’s your finger, Vincent told her) at
Lonagan’s
ex-wife.

“Lonagan!”

She was close enough to smell the bitch’s scent. Estee Lauder and fear.