Parallax

by Jon F. Merz

  The pain in his head lingered, but diminished quickly.

  In the rearview mirror, he could still see the blonde screaming for help. Vespucio's body filled a large portion of the mirror, but it kept getting smaller. Like the pain.

  Bobby took a corner and the image vanished.

  What the hell happened to me back there?

  *** *** ***

  Stahl's vision cleared. He was back in the alley. The rapist lay dead at his feet, a long trail of red blood scarred the white entryway. The bullets had exited the rear of the man's skull, jetting bits of gray matter about. Odd that the .22 rounds had exited the skull. They usually stayed inside and danced around the cavity. No matter, the rapist was dead.

  He heard the car come up.

  Stahl turned and slid into the front seat. The pain in his head subsided. He nodded at the older man. "Let's go."

  "He's dead?"

  "He won't be raping any more children in this lifetime," said Stahl.

  He glanced at the doorway one last time.

  That pain. Those images. That roar.

  What had just happened to him?

  Chapter Two

  Don Patrisi welcomed him with a bear hug. "Nice piece of work, Frankie."

  He smiled and gave the old man a kiss on each cheek. "You know you're the only person I let call me that, don't you?"

  The Don pulled back and spread his arms. "Sure I do. Why ya think I call you that?" The old man laughed and sipped his red wine from the imported crystal glass in front of him. Years of drinking the imported Sicilian wine he adored had left his liver in rough shape. Frank could count the skin blotches creeping up from the collar of the old man's hand-tailored silk shirts. Patrisi's face always seemed a dull shade of yellow. Dark deep circles underscored his bright blue eyes. But the cirrhosis hadn't robbed Patrisi of his ability to mete out harsh punishment to those he saw fit to receive it.

  "That piece of shit Vespucio. Thought he could steal from me? And get away with it?" He coughed and a sputter of phlegm dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. "About time we did that worthless fuck."

  Frank said nothing. He didn't much care for the justification speech that happened anytime he whacked someone for the old man. Frank did his job and that was that. But he let the old man talk. He could tell Patrisi missed being out with the action. The most excitement he got these days was wondering if the Feds would ever gather enough evidence on him to force the racketeering charges to stick.

  "Bobby says you gave him a hard time about him smoking his butts."

  "He wants to smoke Ôem, that's fine with me." Frank shrugged. "But not when we're doing a job. Kid needed a little lesson in not sticking out. Vespucio would have seen a cigarette in the dark. He would have ran. I would have had to chase him." He smiled. "And I hate running."

  Don Patrisi nodded. "Moe." He said the name with a lot of respect. Frank appreciated that. "That guy, he taught you right, didn't he?"

  "Yes sir."

  Patrisi took another sip of wine. "How many people you killed for me, Frank?"

  "I don't keep count, Mr. Patrisi. I just do my job."

  "And you do it damned well." He reached into his suit coat and removed a letter-sized envelope. "This is for you. It's your usualÉplus a small bonus."

  Frank took the envelope without looking into it. He knew Don Patrisi wouldn't stiff him. Over the years, other families had tried to lure Frank away through intermediaries. Frank stayed loyal to Patrisi. In Frank's mind, not enough people stayed loyal to anything or anyone nowadays.

  He slid the envelope into his jacket. "Thank you."

  The Don regarded him. "Everything go all right, tonight?"

  "What do you mean?"

  Patrisi shrugged. "You know, it's just the kid there, he says you did Vespucio and then sorta stood there not looking like yourself for a second."

  "Kid really talked your ear off, huh?"

  "I talked to him while you were in the can. No big."

  "I had a headache is all," said Frank. "Damned migraine, you know? Been kicking my ass all night. It's nothing a couple of Excedrins can't whip."

  "Probably right." He stifled a yawn with one hand. "Bobby says you also let Vespucio's bitch walk."

  "She wasn't part of the equation. You know my standards."

  "Yeah, I know Ôem. No innocents. No extra hit. Just the assigned target. That's it."

  "I'm not a rolling slaughterhouse, Don. I do the job you ask and I go home. It ain't much, but it's me."

  Patrisi snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared out of nowhere and refilled the Don's glass. "I never known a hitter like you, Frankie, you know that?"

  "You knew Moe."

  "Yeah. Good ol' Moe." He smiled and sipped some more wine. "We had some times that guy and me. Couldn't have asked for a better teacher, huh kid?"

  Frank smiled. "Moe was the best."

  "Yeah, well, you're the best now. Moe made sure of that."

  Frank inclined his head. "You mind if I get going now? Kinda anxious to pop some meds for this headache."

  The smile disappeared. Frank watched the stress of leading an organized crime syndicate creep back into the old man's face. "I got something for you, Frankie."

  "Yeah?"

  "I got another one for you."

  Frank paused. "Busy week."

  "These fucking things come outa the woodwork, I ain't lying to you. First one, then another. Then the whole blessed place is overrun with Ôem."

  "Who's the target?"

  Don Patrisi finished his wine in two gulps and set the glass back down on the table. "Before I tell you, I gotta have your word that you won't flip out."

  "Why should I flip out? A job's a job."

  "Yeah." Don Patrisi slid a photograph over to Frank. "I figured you'd say that."

  Frank looked down and felt his stomach lurch. He looked up. "Are you kidding me?"

  "No." He glanced around for the waiter. "I want her dead, Frank."

  "What for?"

  "What for - what the hell do you mean?"

  "I mean what's she done that she needs to be whacked for?"

  "That really any of your concern? Do you really need to know why? It's a job, Frank. Like you just said. Am I right?"

  Frank could argue it. He had the clout. But he chose not to. "You know we got a history, her and me."

  "Yeah, I heard that. I heard she used to yell at you like you were some kind of little puppy dog she could shit all over, too."

  "It wasn't like that."

  "Whatever it was," said the Don, "it's in the past. The past, Frank. What we need to talk about is her future. Or rather, the lack thereof."

  "She's your niece, for crying out loud."

  "She's my long-lost niece, Frank. Cripes, I never even knew she existed until she showed up two years ago." He took a long drag on the glass. "How soon can you do the job?"

  Frank looked at him and saw no indecision in the old man's face. Inside, he grimaced. Moe had warned him this day would come. The day when you got a hit that you knew. But Moe hadn't said anything about getting a hit that you used to love.

  Used to love. He almost smiled. Frank wasn't fooling anyone, least of all himself. He still loved her as much as he ever had. Even with all the shit she'd heaped on him. Even with all the grief.

  Gia.

  He looked right into the Don's eyes. Moe had always insisted on eye contact.

  "Gimme a week."

  *** *** ***

  Frank climbed five flights to his apartment overlooking Prince Street. He checked the top of his doorjamb for the single hair he always slid in as his cheap burglar alarm. The hair was still in place. Right where it should have been.

  Good. The last thing Frank wanted was to have to shoot someone else tonight. He slid his key in and heard the door behind him open. He sighed. Not now. For the love of God, not now.

  "Hi, Frank."

  He turned around and forced a smile. "Hello, Mrs. Morello."

  The squat older woman
with gray hair tied back in a bun smiled. She held a covered pink casserole dish in her hands. "I baked you a nice lasagna, dear. You take it. It's late, you must be starved."

  "Thanks." Frank held the casserole dish and waited. He'd been through this enough times to know what was coming next.

  "My niece is still available, you know that? You should really give her a call. You two would be good together."

  Frank shook his head. "Mrs. Morello, you know I don't have time for a girlfriend."

  His neighbor scowled. "What? No time? What man doesn't have time for a nice girl who knows how to cook and clean and treat her man with some respect? I should fall down dead if you don't have time for a nice young woman in your life."

  Frank grinned. "That kind of talk will get you into all sorts of trouble with the feminists, Mrs. Morello."

  "Bah, feminism. What is that? An excuse to not shave your legs and your pits and walk around like you got a set of big ones between your legs? I'd rather have it the way we did back when." She stood back. "Now take my niece, for example. She knows how to treat a man."

  Unfortunately she looks like a baboon, thought Frank. "Mrs. Morello, I appreciate your concern, but I'm not looking for a girlfriend just now."

  "Well, how about a one-night stand then?"

  "Mrs. Morello." Frank almost fell over laughing.

  "What? Not for her. For me." She winked at Frank. "I could make your eyes spin around like a slot machine, you know."

  "I don't doubt it. But I'm afraid the answer's still no."

  Mrs. Morello sighed. "Can't blame an old gal for trying."

  Frank hefted the plate. "Thanks for the lasagna. I'll give you the dish back tomorrow, okay?"

  "Whenever you finish, dear." She disappeared back into her apartment. Frank walked into his.

  Gumshoe came running. Frank stooped and patted her coat of brown and white fur. His hand came away with a large tuft of hair entwined in his fingers. He rubbed them together and the hair fluttered to the ground. Gumshoe pounced on it and started eating it.

  Frank shook his head. "No wonder you get hairballs."

  He walked to the kitchen and placed Mrs. Morello's lasagna down on the counter.Frank whistled. Gumshoe came running into the kitchen, the tuft of cat hair still sticking out of her mouth.

  "Gimme that." Frank grabbed it. Then he opened a can of cat food and set it in the bowl. Gumshoe tore into it.

  Frank peeled back the foil and sniffed the lasagna. Mrs. Morello had made sure to pile on the cheese. He shrugged. May as well not waste such a fine meal. He got a serving spoon and heaped a slice onto a plate, then took it into the living room.

  He switched on the television. It was too early yet for the eleven o'clock news. Frank could eat, maybe catch the last part of the Bruins game and then make sure he hadn't left any loose threads on the hit.

  He fished a bottle of Sam Adams Winter Lager out of his fridge. He loved the beer. Every year he swore he'd stock up enough cases of the seasonal brew to see him through the months when it wasn't available.

  Every year he forgot.

  He poured the bottle into a tall glass and sat down just as the Bruins scored their first goal. He bit into the lasagna and felt the stress of the hit melt into the floor. Something else filled the hole left behind.

  Gia.

  He chewed, swallowed, and sipped his beer. Christ, he wished he could just forget about her once and for all. She was too much emotional baggage. She was too much of a pain in the ass. She was too much of a bitch.

  But damn he loved her.

  And now the Don wanted her dead.

  Figures.

  He finished his first bottle of Sam Adams and went back for a second.

  How many times, he thought, how many times has it happened this way? Go out, take care of some business and then come back to the apartment, have dinner, a few brews and spend the night decompressing.

  A good life.

  Wasn't it?

  He pushed his plate away but kept the Sam Adams in his left hand. Gumshoe materialized at his feet and reached up, stretching her paws to his lap. She jumped without a sound and snuggled into him. Frank stroked her fur while he nursed the beer and watched the Mapleleafs attempt a comeback.

  Back when he was ten, Frank would have killed for this kind of life. Well, he smirked, he had killed.

  Growing up in the North End meant one of two things: you either hooked up with a gang or you moved out. Rumbles with the kids across the bridge, the Townies of Charlestown, meant Frank learned early on how to hold his own in a fight.

  But even he couldn't have predicted what happened that day.

  Everyone knew Tony Giani was Don Giani's son. That was back before the Patrisi family had taken over. Nobody messed with Tony, but he didn't abuse the power. He earned the respect of the neighborhood kids - family notwithstanding. Frank liked him from the start and they became close friends.

  That fateful night just after the St. Anthony's festival they were walking down by the ice rink, close to the bridge that separated the neighborhoods. Just before they turned back onto Commercial Street, a gang of Townies jumped them.

  Six on two wasn't considered fair, but that didn't matter. The Queensbury Rules had been chucked out years before. When you fought then, it was tougher. Clubs, chains, and knives weren't uncommon.

  Frank took a shot in his jaw. He felt his back molar break and he spat blood and white tooth. But two sacked Tony at the same time. The Townies knew him. Nothing would have made them happier than busting the Don's son into a million pieces.

  Frank put his attackers down by stomping a shinbone into dust and breaking another boy's arm. He turned to see Tony elbow another kid in the face, drawing a fountain of blood that gushed down the kid's shirt.

  Then the fourth kid pulled a knife.

  Frank would later try to figure out why exactly he'd jumped in front of Tony at that instant. Maybe it was because Tony was the Don's son. Maybe it was because Frank didn't value his own life all that much - not with a mother addicted to heroin and a father who'd left when Frank was still wearing diapers.

  Or maybe it was because Tony was his friend.

  Whatever the reason, Frank took a slash across the back of his forearm.

  Even now he could remember how it felt when the steel bit into his arm, when it tore through flesh and muscle, and when the blood flowed.

  But something happened then.

  The pain shut off.

  And Frank felt a tidal surge of anger well up inside of him pushing at the dam he'd built to contain all the pain his young life had forced him to endure.

  It burst.

  Without thinking, he ripped the knife away from the Townie, reversed the blade and jammed it into the boy's larynx, sawing from side to side. When the blood pouring over them both made the knife too slippery to hold, Frank jerked it out, wiped the handle on his jeans and tossed it into the nearby harbor.

  The Townie slumped to the ground. Dead.

  The other thugs ran.

  Tony grabbed him and they hightailed it home. Ducking into an empty courtyard, they considered their options. Tony dragged Frank down to the back door of his father's bar and knocked three times.

  In those days, Big Sal always manned the back door. When he opened it and saw the two boys, the cigar he always chomped froze in mid-greeting.

  "Jesus fucking Christ. You two get your asses in here."

  Big Sal got Tony's father. Mr. Giani took one look at the boys and ordered three shots of whiskey. He gave one to Tony, one to Frank, and one for himself. They downed them.

  "What the hell happened?"

  Tony did the talking. Tony always did the talking. Throughout, Frank could smell the drying blood on his shirt. His wound hurt when Big Sal wrapped it with a big towel from the kitchen.

  But Frank wasn't thinking about his wound. He thought about what it felt like to plunge the knife into the Townie's throat. He saw it all in slow motion. He remembered when the Townie's eyes roll
ed white as Death came for him.

  While Tony talked, the Don kept shooting glances at Frank. Finally Tony finished. Mr. Giani laid a hand on Frank's shoulder.

  "You saved my son's life tonight. I can't ever thank you enough."

  Frank shrugged. What could he say?

  But Tony's father took care of everything from there. First they got some new clothes. And Frank knew Mr. Giani sent men down to dispose of the kid's body. There might have been hell to pay, but Mr. Giani called in a marker and the Winter Hill Gang that ran Charlestown never collected on the revenge card.

  When Tony died a few years later in a car crash, Frank felt like half of his life had died with him.

  Frank stood, displacing Gumshoe. He walked to the window. Down on Hanover Street, the evening crowd lingered. Tourists mostly. They came to the North End for a taste of Italian Boston. And they got it. Frank could circulate in their midst and they'd never guess what he really did. Frank stayed low.

  And he stayed alive.

  The night's events ran through his mind again. He'd fired his gun and the whole scene had changed. He was someplace else, looking at someone else. And he had no clue what had happened. Or even why it had happened.

  And that pain - so much pain in his head - had absolutely frozen him.

  Was the stress getting to him? Frank frowned. Bullshit. He did what he did and he was good at it. Stress was something created by degree-packing academics to justify their existence and over-the-top hourly fees.

  Frank rubbed his head. Damn that headache.

  But was it really even a headache at all? He'd said it back at Patrisi's club because he knew the Don would accept the answer. Moe had told him a long time ago that if you ever showed weakness, you stopped being an asset and you became a liability.

  Deception at all costs.

  The only way to survive.

  But something else had happened tonight. Something other than taking Vespucio out. Something more than learning that he had to kill his ex-girlfriend.

  Something else entirely.

  And Frank didn't have a clue what it was.

  Chapter Three

  Germany

  Stahl woke at the same time he did every day.