Pipes were beginning to sing with the gradually mounting pressure. Valves purred as the first wisps of alcoholic steam passed through. Anthony’s and Rita’s eyes were focused on the gauges, their hands poised to flip switches and adjust turn-screws. With their backs to the distillery’s main door, it took them a moment to realize that Carlo Costanza had just burst through it, his thin-soled shoes now scratching softly against the cement floor.
Looking back across his shoulder, Anthony said, “Carlo, what the hell you doing here?”
The older man seemed a bit nonplussed to see two people standing there in boots and aprons. “Sorry, I thought you’d be working alone this hour of the evening.”
“I have a helper. This is Rita.”
“Yes, I remember. Nice to see you again.” He flashed her that half-second ambush of a smile but then turned back at once to the distiller. “Anthony, I’d like you to go someplace with me.”
“What?”
“Go someplace. You and me.”
“Now?”
“Now. Rocco’s with the car. He’s waiting.”
“But I can’t. Not now. I’m right in the middle of—”
“Doesn’t matter. This is more important.”
“But—”
“Way more important.”
“Christ, Carlo, you could’ve given me some notice.”
“No, actually I couldn’t. ‘Cause if I gave you notice, you would’ve asked all kinds of questions that I didn’t feel like answering. Better we just do this.”
“But the rum…” He made an imploring, palms-up gesture that his benefactor frowned at but otherwise ignored.
“I’ll make the rum,” said Rita.
She said it quietly, and it seemed to take the men a heartbeat to remember she’d been standing right there in front of them the whole time they were talking. Carlo briefly glanced at her then looked back to Anthony. Anthony blinked at Carlo then just stared at her. He said nothing but his Adam’s apple shuttled up and down.
“I can do it,” she went on. “I know how.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
The distiller pressed his lips together, cocked his head, shrugged mainly with his eyebrows. He took off his brown apron and hung it on a peg, stepped out of his boots and lined them up neatly underneath. He cast a final look back at the machinery and his apprentice, then followed Carlo out the door and closed it softly behind him. Rita stood alone, looking up at the enormous copper still.
32
T here were no cars in the Wreckers parking lot when Max pulled in some minutes later, just a funky old bicycle, probably abandoned or forgotten, chained to a sickly palm tree. The lights were on in the main part of the building. This struck Max as slightly odd, but he didn’t make much of it. Maybe they were always on. Maybe someone just forgot to turn them off. He snuck around to a corner of the building and flattened himself against the ground so he could squint up through the louvers of an exhaust fan. He saw the gorgeous copper stills, the neat arrangement of boots and aprons. He saw no people. He went back to his car to gather up the tools.
Looking like a misplaced lumberjack, he walked without stealth to the front door of the distillery. From one hand dangled a cluster of sledgehammers, maybe fifty pounds of weight in all; the oak handles seemed to burden him no more than if they’d been the stems of roses. The crowbars bristled in his other hand like the ravaged ghost of a bouquet.
Once he’d reached the shadow of the doorframe, he laid aside everything except the sixteen-pound mauler and got set to smash the door in. Spreading his feet like a home-run hitter, he measured the distance to his target and pinpointed the height of the lock. He took a deep breath, let it out again, waggled his wrists and settled his fingers against the curve of the handle and began a well-paced backswing, loading the rippled sinews of his obliques and abs for the explosive forward rip and mighty follow-through. Pushing off his back foot, he swiveled his hips and swayed with his shoulders, and the head of the sledge began tracing out its accelerating and dreadful arc.
Then, just before impact, he thought, Why not try the doorknob first?
To his surprise, it turned easily in his hand. Puzzled, he put down his weapon, opened the door a crack, and peeked inside. A low hum issued from the percolating stills but there seemed to be no one there. He called out softly; there was no reply. He rubbed his pitted face and thought things over. Then he retrieved his tools and carried them across the threshold.
If he’d looked up, he might have noticed that, just above the top of the middle copper still, a grate had been removed from one of the ventilation ducts that snaked along beneath the ceiling. If not for the low hum of the machinery and muted clatter of the tools he carried, he might have heard a sporadic, rodent-like scratching from within the duct. Rita was inside it, inching along, half-crawling, half-slithering like a worm, at each moment less sure of the braininess of the decision that had brought her there.
It had been a wholehearted decision, generous and pure, but that didn’t necessarily make it smart. She’d arrived at it within minutes of Anthony’s departure: She was going to break into the no doubt unoccupied lab, getting around the locked door by way of the duct system. She’d find the fabulous flavorings that were going to waste because of some stupid male bickering and head-butting; and would use them to spike the last batch of rum, which would prove, in turn, a great commercial success, thereby saving the company, Anthony’s career, and maybe even her own future together with this quietly passionate distiller she could not resist.
The plan was straightforward, and so exciting that, for a while at least, she forgot about her unease with heights and outright fear of tight spaces. She placed a ladder against the still, climbed to the top, and used her short, strong fingernails to pry the grating off the duct. One determined spring off the top rung was enough to propel her head and shoulders into the squared-off metal tube; it took some kicking and squirming to get the rest of her inside.
That’s when she first started to wonder if the whole thing was really such a great idea. The duct had some sort of nasty grit in it. It was dark except for faint stripes of light that came through other grates at intervals; at first the stripes were comforting, goals to strive toward, but then their angles became jarring and obsessive and somehow malevolent. She could move her hands but not her shoulders, her feet but not her hips. Her body moved in segments, fingers dragging her along, torso stretching, feet straining to catch up. Her forehead itched and she couldn’t move her arms enough to scratch it. She began to be tweaked by images of being trapped inside the duct, blocked both ahead and behind, and realized she was sweating a cold and clammy sweat. At moments she forgot to breathe, grew faint, then panted in the gritty air. She came to a curve in the duct and realized too late that once she slithered past it, it would be impossible to back up. Her fingers clawed; her toes pushed. The evil bands of light raked over her as she labored slowly along.
Mikel Shintar was not addicted to his brand-new drug.
He’d proved that to himself by going a long time—though he couldn’t have said exactly how long—without reaching for another hit. He’d wanted more; that much he acknowledged; but he’d resisted. He’d shown strength. He’d won. So, since he clearly wasn’t the weak, addictive type, he saw no harm in helping himself to another dose. A bigger one this time. In the name of science.
He half-filled the pipette from the beaker and released a squirt of amber liquid underneath his tongue. Within seconds, his thirsty capillaries started carrying the triple intoxicant to his brain.
Adrenaline spurted. His loins twitched and his eyeballs throbbed. He visualized the nerve paths in his arms and legs, imagined he could picture them as they branched like lightning and crackled with electricity. He could feel the power of his teeth and the stretch of his sprouting hair. He was in his body and outside his body. He looked down at himself from the ceiling and up at h
imself from the floor. He was everywhere, imperial. His usual arrogance metastasized into a madman’s sense of invincibility and he began striding through the lab like a visiting god, smashing glass things now and then for the pleasure of hearing the tinkling sound they made as they shattered. He laughed to hear himself laughing. Then, over the course of a few giddy minutes or maybe only seconds, a new feeling began intruding on his happy mania. Paranoia. Suspicion was nibbling at the edges of his bliss until it bit through to the very heart of it. Somebody was watching him. People wanted what he had. Of course they did. Who wouldn’t? The jealous bastards! They wanted what he had, his lab, his drug, his genius. Everybody wanted it and they were plotting to get it. Everyone was plotting. Probably even now. Probably even at that moment.
Feeling suddenly choked, ears ringing, he lurched around the lab, flip-flops crunching over shards of glass, and fairly dove into the alcove that held the reeking mattress he’d taken from the trailer. Trembling fingers found the pistol he’d stashed beneath his pillow. The weight of the gun was reassuring in his hand, and he was almost serene again as he sat on the bed and settled his back against a wall, eyes panning like a beacon to take in every corner of the room.
33
O kay, so we’re sitting there, the three of us. Master and Albin are sipping their cocktails, but they still seem pretty nervous. They keep picking nuts out of the nut bowl, but not because they’re hungry. It’s just nervous eating. I’ve noticed it a lot in humans. Pretzels, candy, cheese and crackers—the higher the tension, the faster they go down the hatch. Me, I’m sort of the opposite. I tend to lose my appetite when I’m nervous. When I’m really nervous, I throw up. But okay, enough about me.
Anyway, we’re sitting there and Albin keeps asking Master what time it is. “Nine,” says Master. Then, a little later, “Nine oh five.” Then “Ten after.” After each exchange, they eat another nut.
Albin says, “He’s changed his mind. He isn’t coming. All this worry was for nothing.”
Master says, “He didn’t change his mind. He gave his word. He’ll be here.”
Two almonds and a filbert later, we finally hear tires crunching over the gravel of the compound driveway. I bark. It’s the expected thing and, like I’ve said before, just do what’s expected of you and you will generally prosper. We hear car doors opening and closing, then two people talking. There’s some foliage and a wooden gate between the car and us; the voices come through a little muffled but plenty clear to understand. A voice I don’t recognize says, “I still don’t understand why you had to pull me away from work like that.”
Carlo Costanza’s voice says, “Anthony, it’s important, trust me. You’ll thank me for it. At least I think you will.”
Albin seems confused by this snippet of conversation. He says very softly, “Anthony? Who’s Anthony?” He’s sitting on the edge of his settee, but seems too puzzled and nervous to get up, so Master and me go to open the gate.
Costanza and this Anthony guy are standing there. Anthony is younger, taller, and everything about him—facial expression, posture, smell—is telling me he doesn’t want to be there. Still, Costanza manages introductions and handshakes all around, all very proper and low-key. I’m still barking and dancing around an inch or two from people’s shoes, trying in my way to join the party. No one seems to care. Well, that’s life. Sometimes you get petted and sometimes you don’t. Master leads the new arrivals to the cottage.
Then comes a moment I will never forget.
Costanza pauses to smooth his shirt front and gather himself, then steps across the threshold. Albin is standing up by now in front of the settee. Their eyes meet. At first there’s uncertainty, maybe even mistrust, in their gazes; heartbeat by heartbeat it melts away. The clench goes out of their jaws. They don’t exactly smile but there are twitches at the corners of their mouths. Costanza whispers, “Hello, Alvino.” Albin whispers, “Hello, Carlo.” Then they step toward each other, except neither of them seems to notice that he’s stepping, it’s more like a float than a walk, and they fall into one another’s arms. Their cheeks are against each other’s necks. Their hair blends together on the side that’s touching. Their fingers spread across each other’s backs, squeezing, rubbing, and their shoulders are quaking a little bit. Neither seems to want to break the clinch, and even when they finally do, they keeping holding each other by the elbows, each trusting the other’s grip, so they can lean back and look at one another. Albin says, “Been a long time, Carlo.”
“Way too long. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
Their eyes are locked and misty and for a long moment it’s like there’s nobody else in the room. Then Carlo gradually lets his gaze slip sideways and widen out to include the tall young man. “Anthony,” he says gently, “this is why I brought you here. I wanted you to meet my brother. Call him Albin. I still say Alvino, force a habit, but Albin’s really his name.”
So Albin and Anthony shake hands. There’s some warmth in the gesture, I guess, but mainly it’s a little stiff, a little formal.
Costanza goes on, “And he happens to be your father.”
“What? My father was killed—”
“No he wasn’t, Anthony. That was just a cover, a well-intentioned lie. Alvino, I think it’s time you got to know your son.”
“Son?”
So everyone’s standing there sort of dazed and with their emotions turned completely inside out, as raw as if they had no skin, and Albin and Anthony are looking utterly bewildered and shocked, but the funny part is that, from my low angle on the floor, it suddenly becomes perfectly clear that they’re related. It’s the eyebrows. The two of them, their brows arc up at the exact same angle to register surprise. Their foreheads crinkle up exactly the same. Their eyes have matching yellow flecks.
A moment goes by, and Albin, like he’s in a trance, says, “Marjorie?”
“That’s my Mom.” The kid’s also choking up by now. Who wouldn’t? You’re almost forty and you suddenly learn you have a Dad? “But what I was always told—”
He doesn’t get to go over what he was always told, because just then his and Carlo’s phones start beeping and buzzing and whining like crazy. Even I can tell these are no mere annoying ringtones. These are emergency sounds, sounds meant to make your hair stand up. The young man grabs his phone from a pocket and stares at the screen. “The distillery’s been broken into!” he announces.
Costanza doesn’t seem to care that much. After all this time, family’s more important to him, I guess. “Some dirtbag looking for booze,” he says. “Let ‘im have it. Place is a lost cause anyway.”
Anthony’s not listening. He’s pushing buttons on his phone. “It’s the lab door. The interior alarm.”
The young guy’s voice is urgent but Costanza sounds completely unimpressed. “Just Shintar tinkering around. Fucking crazy chemist.”
“Rita’s there,” says Anthony, already leaning toward the cottage door. Without another word he bolts.
All of this is happening so fast, no one has much time to think. We’re all going by reflex. Or instinct, if you prefer. So Costanza goes lumbering after Anthony. Albin follows close behind his brother and his newly discovered son. Master strains at every sinew to keep up, and I’m jumping and yelping, urging him along. We all go streaming out into the night and sort of bunch up at the compound gate, then we pile into a big black car where a man with a squashed nose is waiting at the wheel.
34
I n no great hurry and in a mood of alert but unruffled calm, Max had lugged his tools through the distillery and down the long dim hallway past the barrel room and the now-vacant accountant’s office. Standing in front of the thick steel door that shielded Shintar’s lab from the intrusions of the outside world, he’d quietly laid his crowbars and his sledges on the floor. He rubbed his hands together as he prepared to do the demolition work, but first he tried the doorknob. Why not? It worked the first time. This time it didn’t and Max was oddly relieved.
He didn’t want the break-in to be too easy. He was doing it for Rocco, for their future together, and just strolling through another unlocked door would have somehow diminished the gesture.
So he once again picked up the monster sledge, reacquainted his hands and wrists with the heft and balance of it. He spread his feet and measured the distance to the seam of door and jamb. He knew that the very first blow would probably set off an alarm—but so what? This was Stock Island. Alarms went off all the time. The cops responded languidly or not at all. And if they did show up, what would be the problem? Max would say he was authorized to be there and to open up the lab any way he could; if they didn’t believe him, they could call the owner, Mr. Carlo Costanza, who of course would be nothing but thrilled with Max’s pilfering of Shintar’s precious formulas. Max would be well rewarded for his initiative. The reward would be freedom from this gritty life and the capital to start a better one filled with irises and ornamental greens. He had it all thought out.
He took his backswing, pivoting his hips. His big shoulders loaded, his massive arms tightened into braids of muscle, and then the fat blunt head of the sledge swept into its crushing, blurring forward arc. When it hit the door, the building shook, but the stout lock yielded only a fraction of an inch, just enough to set off the alarm. Most of the force bounced back to Max’s body through the handle of the sledge, and he vibrated like a thwarted cat in an old cartoon.
Inside the lab, sitting cross-legged and twitchy on his stinking mattress, Shintar heard a hellish clang like a pyramid of garbage cans collapsing. He watched test tubes sway in their racks and he saw the amber liquid of his amazing drug suddenly ripple in its beaker as if affected by a tide. So this was it: they were coming for him. As he somehow knew they would. Well, fine, let them come. He was ready. He fingered the pistol that was balanced on his knee, and he smiled.
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