by J. L. Abramo
“Sounds good so far.”
“A meningioma tumor is something like a capsule with a sac around it,” says Barnwell. “Once the tumor is removed, there are usually no residual tumor cells. But we do keep in mind the fact that even the removal of 99 percent of a tumor can leave a residual of one billion tumor cells.”
“As in one billion?”
“Yes.”
“Nice number.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. Please let me finish.”
“Sure.”
“The existence of residual tumor cells could lead to a reappearance of the tumor and a recurrence of the symptoms. If that is the case, then there are means at our disposal to attack these residual cells. You are probably familiar with procedures such as radiotherapy and chemotherapy, and we are achieving increased success with immunotherapy.”
“Don’t know that one.”
“The employment of a biological response modifier to help the body’s natural defense mechanisms to inhibit tumor growth.”
“Getting your own immune system to do the job?”
“Exactly. All of these methods have pros and cons and ultimately the decision would be yours as to which, if any of them, to initiate if the need arose. Of course, the most important factor in all of this is what we will find in the biopsy. If the tumor is found not to have been malignant, and with the success of the operation in removing virtually all of what was determined to be a low-grade primary brain growth, the prognosis is extremely good.”
“So we wait.”
“So we wait. We should have the pathology report by Monday afternoon.”
“Well, thanks for the facts, Doc. Will there be a midterm exam?” she says, trying on a smile for size.
“You’re welcome, there may be a pop quiz,” Barnwell says. “If you have any questions let me know.”
“That’s not the point.”
“That’s exactly the fucking point, Rey.”
“I don’t see it.”
“What’s the last thing he says before he dies?”
“Rosebud.”
“There it is. How can you not see it?” says Landis.
“Mendez, Landis, do you read me, over.”
“Mendez speaking. If anyone can hear me through this static.”
“I read you Rey. Static is a way of life with me. Your boy Stump just called—says Andre Harris is gunning for him and he wants you to bring him in.”
“Bring him in?”
“Yeah, he said, and I quote, I want to come in from the cold. Leave it to you to have a snitch who thinks he’s Richard Burton.”
“Kelly, maybe you could settle an argument for us.”
“Oswald acted alone.”
“What was the moral of Citizen Kane?”
“Citizen who?”
“Orson Welles.”
“No wine before it’s time?”
“Jesus, Kelly, you’re unbelievable.”
“You want to know where this guy Stump is or not?”
“Sure.”
“You going to bring him in from the cold or let him dangle?”
“You thinking he might be bait to snag Harris?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“Let us know where he is. We’ll play it by ear.”
“Don’t mess with guys in big houses.”
“What?”
“The moral. Never fuck with a guy who owns a mansion in California. San Simeon, Xanadu, Rockingham, whatever.”
“Kelly, you’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve heard. Stump is holed up at O’Brien’s on Kings Highway. Over and out.”
After meeting with IAB, Murphy goes back to his place to walk Ralph.
Vota calls to tell Murphy that he is going out to see how Lorraine’s operation went and then he would head over to Joe’s Bar and Grill to join Tommy for a few drinks.
Landis and Mendez thought that they would let Stump sweat a little. They had decided that they couldn’t in good conscience let him swing in the wind; that they would have to do something to protect him. But maybe if Stump had to wait a while, he would be that much more talkative when they got to him.
They walk into O’Brien’s just after six and find the bartender.
“We came for Stump,” says Mendez.
“Well, you got me stumped. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Look, pal, he called us, asked us to come rescue him. If you don’t believe me, go out back or wherever you’ve got him stashed and ask him. Tell him Rey is here.”
“Fuck it. What the fuck do I care? Go back there and tell him yourself. Through the door on the left.”
“Thanks,” says Mendez. “Say, anyone ever tell you look a lot like a guy works over at the White Owl. Name’s Red I think.”
“Yeah, our mother tells us all the time. You need an escort?”
“That’s alright,” says Landis as the two officers head for the back of the bar.
When they enter the back room, Stump nearly hits the ceiling.
“Jesus Christ, Rey, where you been? I called hours ago. This Harris is a lunatic; you gotta get me off the streets.”
“Okay, Stump. Calm down, the cavalry has arrived. Where’s Harris now?”
“How the fuck should I know? He could be outside this place. When you opened the door, I thought it was curtains.”
“Stump. Or is it Mr. Stump?” says Landis. “Ease off a little on the melodrama. This isn’t a Jimmy Cagney movie. What do you suggest we do with you?”
“I don’t know. Do what you do. Protective custody. Whatever. Just keep me out of this guy’s reach until you nail him.”
“How about Jefferson?”
“Junior went down to Baltimore to chill. Did you know it’s snowing down there? He doesn’t have to be back until his court date on that little wrestling match you had with him in a phone booth and I don’t expect you’ll see him until then. Just hide me somewhere.”
“Okay, you’re under arrest, come with us.”
“What, you’re not going to Mirandarize me?”
“Don’t get cute or I’ll tear off your good arm and beat you over the head with it,” says Landis. “Don’t forget that you got yourself into this mess and put our detectives in danger while you were at it. I’m not going to forget it and I’m going to keep reminding you if you have a memory lapse. Asshole.”
“Show some respect, I lost the hand in Kuwait fighting to keep your gas tank full. Is he always this warm, Rey?”
“Shut the fuck up, Stump, you’re pushing it,” Mendez says. “You couldn’t even spell Kuwait. If you had two hands, I’d cuff you. Now, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“Gee, I’m glad I called you guys. I feel really safe now.”
“Would you like us to leave without you?”
“Absolutely not. Lead the way.”
“Four-score and seven years ago,” recites Lorraine, “our forefathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men, and all women I would like to add, are created equal, shall I go on?”
“Very funny, Lorraine,” says her father.
“Did I pass the memory test?”
“You should have asked her to recite Shakespeare’s twenty-third sonnet,” says Vota.
“Piece of cake,” says Lorraine. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He—”
“Cut it out, Lorraine,” says Sal DiMarco, “you have made your point. You are just as smart as you were before the operation, and just as smart-mouthed.”
“Dad, I feel fantastic. Except for the drool on my chin. This is the first time in I can’t remember how long that I woke up without a headache. By the way, how’s my head look?”
“Like a smiley face without the eyes,” says Vota.
“I’m in stitches,” she says, and then she turns to her mother. “Mom, cheer up. I made it. I can remember my cup size.”
“Oh, Lorraine,” says her mother, reddening.
<
br /> “You’re worried about the biopsy findings?” Lorraine says, and when her mother doesn’t answer, “Try not to think about it. I’m not going to think about it. I’m going to enjoy the next few days thinking about how lucky I am and watching my hair grow.”
“I’ll do my best, Lorraine,” says her mother.
“How’s Tommy doing, Lou?” asks Lorraine, trying to move on to new business.
“I think he’s still in the I blame myself phase.”
“Catholic guilt,” says Lorraine and then, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t joke. He’ll get over it. He has good friends to keep reminding him that he’s innocent.”
“No one is innocent,” says Vota.
“Alright, St. Augustine, let’s move on to happier subjects. Where’s my ice cream?”
“The nurse said you only get ice cream if you have your tonsils removed.”
“Then do me a favor, Lou.”
“What’s that?”
“Tear my tonsils out of my throat and then go get me some cherry French vanilla,” says Lorraine.
“What do you think of the new weatherman on Channel Two?”
Landis is trying to make friendly conversation with Kelly while Mendez is finding accommodations for Stump.
“I don’t know. It’s too early to call. I’m just glad it’s not a woman. I’m so tired of weatherwomen. And now all the women sportscasters. I don’t get it. Why would they even want to do it?”
“For the money?”
“I don’t even like men sportscasters if they never played the game.”
“I thought this new guy was okay. He said it may snow tomorrow—what do you think?”
“Well, it’s snowing in Baltimore.”
Andre Harris realizes that Junior Jefferson is too far away to be of any help in tracking down Stump. And he’s already decided that he is going to take care of the cops who killed his brother without Jefferson’s help.
Harris also knows that the cops are looking for him; he will have to stay scarce.
Hunt for Stump, hunt for the pigs, and keep out of sight.
Tricky. But Andre Harris loves a challenge.
Agent Stone catches Samson at the 61st.
“Lieutenant, I’ve been going through Caine’s mail,” says Stone. “There was tons of it. I put in time at his place today and yesterday. I have separated out everything that may give us a clue, mostly personal mail. I was hoping it would be okay to take it back to my office. Agent Ripley should be able to get permission to examine the contents.”
“I have no problem with that,” says Samson.
Landis and Mendez are about to call it a night. Andre Harris hasn’t surfaced, and tomorrow is another day.
They pull into the Precinct parking lot to drop off their cruiser. Landis heads to his own car; Mendez drops the keys to the patrol car off with the desk sergeant and stops at the cellblock to check on Stump.
“This ain’t working out,” says Stump, pacing the cell. “I’m claustrophobic.”
“What did you expect, a suite at the Plaza?”
“No sight of Harris?”
“Not a glimpse.”
“He’s going to make a move soon,” says Stump.
“What’s that, a hunch?”
“No, it’s a fact,” answers the one-armed informer.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Conventional wisdom.”
Murphy and Vota sit at Joe’s Bar and Grill, drinks in hand.
“Here’s to Lorraine making it through the operation with flying colors,” says Murphy.
“Here’s to you surviving IAB,” says Vota.
The bar phone rings as they toast. Augie is delivering drinks to a far table.
“Would you grab that, Tommy?” Augie Sena calls.
“Joe’s,” says Murphy into the receiver.
“I need to place a food order for delivery.”
“Go ahead,” says Murphy, reaching for pad and pencil.
“A large order of fried calamari, with hot sauce on the side. An order of baked ziti with sausage. An order of shrimp scampi over linguini. And lots of garlic bread.”
“What’s the address?” asks Murphy.
“Is Augie working?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him it’s for Stevie T—he’ll know.”
“Who called?” asks Augie, returning to the bar.
“Food order, for Stevie T. Says you’ll know him.”
“Stevie Territo, lives right up here on West 5th Street between U and V. Watch the bar for a minute,” says Augie. “I’ll bring this order back to the cook.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” asks Vota.
“That’s an awful lot of grub for one guy. Maybe his cousin dropped over for dinner,” says Murphy.
“How do you deliver, Augie?” asks Vota.
“My dishwasher, Max.”
“Could you bring him out with you?”
“Sure,” says Augie, heading for the kitchen.
Augie returns, Max follows as far as the kitchen door.
Max is sporting a cotton chef’s tunic under a full apron, one or both of which may have been white at one time. Max stands there as if he’s afraid to come any closer to the two detectives.
“Jesus, Augie, what have you got him wearing?” says Murphy. “That outfit should be dry-cleaned and burned.”
“It’s been a busy night, and unlike some I could name, there are those who work hard for a living.”
“We need the shirt and apron,” says Vota. “We’re your new delivery men.”
Augie takes Max back into the kitchen and comes out with the clothing.
“Lou will be wearing it,” says Murphy.
“Are you insane,” says Vota. “That stuff looks like it was pulled out of someone’s throat. I’m afraid I’m going to have to pull rank, Tommy.”
“Lou, this kid Stevie has seen me before,” Murphy says. “It’s going to have to be you at the front door.”
“Fucking wonderful,” says Vota. “Hand me those nasty-looking things, Augie.”
Twenty minutes later, Vota is ringing the front doorbell. Murphy has gone around back.
“Let’s see, that’s the eggplant parmigiana and the fettuccini Alfredo,” says Vota when Stevie Territo opens the door. “Seventeen dollars and eighty-five cents.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? That’s not what I ordered.”
“That’s what it says right here on the ticket, sir,” says Vota. “Shit, I hope I didn’t grab the wrong bag.”
“You fucking imbecile,” Stevie yells. “I’ll have you fired.”
“What’s all the noise about?” says Tony Territo coming to the door.
Territo recognizes Vota immediately and runs for the back. Murphy grabs Territo as Tony bolts out of the rear door. Murphy has him handcuffed by the time Vota appears, pushing Stevie along in front of him.
“You’re under arrest for the murders of Sammy Leone, Sonny Colletti, Richard Colletti, and Dominic Colletti,” says Murphy. “Did I get them all in, Lou?”
“I think so. You’ll be taking a ride with us also,” says Vota, cuffing Stevie, “Harboring a fugitive.”
“Those fucking Collettis killed my daughter,” yells Tony Territo, struggling against his cuffs.
“Actually, they didn’t,” says Vota. “But we can get to all of that later. Right now, I want you to exercise your right to remain silent. Both of you. Very silent.”
“Can we take the food along with us at least?” Stevie Territo asks. “I’m fucking hungry enough to eat eggplant.”
Caine sits at a table in the back of Mitch’s, turning the pages of a two-day-old copy of the Tribune he picked up off the back alley. He comes across a piece on the murders of two Brooklyn boys. The article states that the boys were killed by the same man, and both were brutally disfigured. The short piece goes on to suggest that the killer is most likely someone who had been abused as a child and may have tortured and mutilated animals in the past. T
he police are urging parents to be diligent as to the whereabouts of all their children.
Gabriel decides that this reporter needs much better information. He searches the back rooms for a telephone book. He is somehow confident that Serena Huang will have a listed number.
Gabriel finds a Brooklyn phone directory on a cabinet shelf. And sitting beside the book, a handgun.
He carries the book and the weapon back to the table.
TWENTY EIGHT
Saturday morning. Murphy and Ralph run the track at Fort Hamilton High School. Murphy spots the unmarked car sitting directly across from the house where Gabriel Caine had prepared a bathtub for a baptism.
Samson has given Murphy time off. He has told Murphy not to come in until after the church service for his brother. Until after the burial.
Trouble is, Murphy has nothing at all to do. He has no idea what he is going to do with himself all morning.
“Looks like snow,” says Murphy. “What do you think?”
Ralph barks in agreement.
Lorraine DiMarco wakes up in her hospital bed. Without hair, sure. But without a headache.
She looks around the cold, gloomy hospital room and then up at the television mounted on the opposite wall. She uses the remote control to turn on the TV.
Lorraine finds an old Barbara Stanwyck film on the classic movie channel.
“Nice hair, Barb,” she says.
“This looks like a fine pancake batter,” says Ripley to the boys, who decided to make breakfast for Dad. “You weren’t going to cook them before I came down, I hope.”
“No, we were just getting it ready. We can’t use the stove without you to help us,” says Kyle.
“Whose idea was it to add the cocktail olives?” asks Ripley, stirring the contents of the large bowl and taking in the thick layer of pancake mix covering the counter and the floor below it.