Peril

by Thomas H. Cook

  “You hired a guy, and I want to know what you hired him to do.”

  Labriola glared at Caruso. “You tell him I hired a guy?”

  Caruso shook his head.

  Labriola’s eyes caught fire. “Don’t you fucking lie to me, Vinnie!” he screamed.

  Caruso felt as if he’d been hit by a shotgun blast. “Just that I hired a guy to find her,” he sputtered. “Nothing else.”

  Labriola shifted his gaze back to Tony. “So, a guy’s looking for her. So fucking what?”

  “I want you to call him off.”

  Labriola laughed. “Call him off your fucking self.”

  “Call him off, Dad.”

  Labriola looked at Tony sneeringly. “And if I don’t?”

  Caruso’s eyes shot over to Tony. Now was the moment, he knew. He’d faced it before himself. Now was the moment you either touched gloves or backed out of the ring.

  “And if I don’t?” Labriola repeated.

  Tony said nothing.

  Labriola leaned forward, grabbed a can of beer from the table in front of the sofa, and took a long, slow swig. “I got an idea,” he said. “Why don’t we settle this thing like men?” He rose massively and lifted his fists. “Come on, you fucking pussy, fight me.”

  “Sit down, Dad,” Tony said. But he stepped back.

  Labriola shifted his weight from one foot to the other, dancing like a boxer and throwing punches in the air. “Fight me, Tony,” he repeated vehemently. “Fight me, goddammit!” He stepped forward and threw a wide punch.

  Tony leaped away. “I’m not going to fight you, Dad.”

  Labriola stopped and stared at Tony brokenly. “Then fuck you,” he said with a curious sense of defeat. “Fuck everything.” He stepped back and slumped down on the sofa. For a moment he seemed to retire into his own dark cavern. Then abruptly, he threw his head back and a vicious laugh broke from him, so loud and hellish, it seemed to rattle the teardrop crystals of the overhanging chandelier.

  “Mr. Labriola?” Caruso asked.

  Labriola’s voice broke from him like a smoking belch. “You find her yet?”

  “What?” Caruso asked.

  “You heard me,” Labriola screamed. “You find her or not?”

  Caruso felt a line of sweat form on his upper lip. “Well . . . I mean . . . uh . . .”

  Labriola’s eyes were leaping flames. “Yes or no!” he bellowed.

  “Yes,” Caruso blurted.

  Tony looked at Caruso, astonished. “You know where Sara is?”

  Caruso glanced helplessly at the Old Man. “You want me to . . .”

  Labriola laughed madly. “Vinnie found her,” he cried, his gaze now on Tony. “Well, hell, let’s go pay her a little visit.” He snatched a wrinkled blue shirt from the floor and began to put it on. “You’re gonna get your little wife back, Tony.”

  Tony’s eyes shot over to Caruso. “Where is she?”

  Caruso glanced at Labriola, found no direction there, then returned his gaze to Tony. “The city.”

  Labriola suddenly slapped his hands together. “The city,” he shrieked. “The little woman has gone back to the city.” His eyes bore into Caruso. “Where in the city, Vinnie?”

  Caruso stared at Labriola and all but shivered. “The Village,” he answered softly. “I got a tip she’s working at some bar there.”

  Labriola’s eyes blazed with delight. “Back in the Village, ain’t that nice.” He snatched a sport jacket from the sofa and plowed like a warship toward the door.

  Tony didn’t move.

  Labriola stopped, turned to face him, and laughed tauntingly. “What’s the matter, Tony? Now’s your chance to get her back.” His eyes shifted over to Caruso. “Ain’t that right, Vinnie?”

  Caruso felt the pistol stir lethally, like a creature awakening. “Right,” he said.

  Labriola nodded toward the door. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, motioning Tony forward and out the door, then holding back so that Caruso stepped up to his side, the two of them walking together toward the door just as Tony went through it and out onto the porch.

  “You bring your piece?” Labriola whispered.

  Caruso nodded.

  Labriola draped his huge arm over Caruso’s shoulder and tugged him violently to his side. “Good boy,” he said.

  ABE/SARA

  They left the restaurant and headed back toward the bar, the focus of their conversation now on the songs she’d prepared. He went over the lead-ins, which would be brief, and how they had to be attuned to each other, singer and accompanist, to speed up if the other one got ahead, slow down if the other one fell behind, allow as much as possible for each other’s inevitable missteps, and above all, cut each other enough slack for a little improvisation.

  “What time would be good for you?” he asked as they turned onto Twelfth Street.

  “The sooner the better, I guess,” she answered.

  At the bar, Abe introduced her to Jake, Susanne, and Jorge. After that, they took a table near the back, talked briefly, then, as if on a signal, Abe glanced at the clock. “So, ready?” he asked Sara.

  “I guess I have to be,” she replied.

  Abe walked to the piano, and standing beside it, introduced Sara as Samantha Damonte.

  Then she sang, and as she sang Abe could feel it happening, how the people grew silent as they listened, grew silent and wrapped their hands around their glasses and hoped that just for a time, just for the few minutes during which her voice poured over them, the old devouring monster would leave them be.

  MORTIMER

  Stark sat in the living room, stern and upright in the leather chair, his eyes on Mortimer as the two men faced each other silently.

  Finally, Stark said, “What was the arrangement? The one you made with Labriola?”

  “Just that you would find this woman,” Mortimer said. “His daughter-in-law. She run out on his kid. He wants to talk to her.” He shrugged. “He offered thirty grand.” He dropped his head slightly. “I was gonna give you fifteen, keep the rest. But things got screwed up. This other guy you had. Complicated, you know? So the thing is, I figure I’ll just tell Labriola that the deal’s off. That you’re out of it. Maybe you got sick, something like that. Dying. Anyway, you can’t do the job.”

  Stark studied Mortimer’s face a moment, then rose, walked to a small wooden cabinet, took two glasses, and poured a splash of scotch in each of them. “The whole thing reminded me of Marisol,” he said as he handed one of the glasses to Mortimer.

  Mortimer took a quick sip. “Yeah, I figured you thought it was maybe like that.”

  Stark returned to his seat, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his legs. “Is it?”

  Mortimer took another sip from the glass.

  “You know where she is, don’t you?” Stark asked.

  Mortimer looked up from the glass.

  “I want to see her,” Stark said sternly.

  Mortimer stared at Stark silently, helpless against the fierce nature of his purpose, the odd nobility he added to every word he said.

  “Where is she?” Stark asked.

  Mortimer put down his glass. “She’s working at a bar in the Village.”

  “Who else knows this?”

  “The guy, the one who works for Labriola.”

  “How does he know?”

  “I told him.”

  “Why?”

  “To get you out of the deal,” Mortimer said. “He wouldn’t do it otherwise. But he won’t tell Labriola where she is.”

  “What makes you think he won’t tell Labriola?”

  “He won’t,” Mortimer said. Suddenly he heard Caruso’s voice, the tone of finality within it, the sense that something had changed. “I mean, he told me he wouldn’t let Labriola . . . hurt her.”

  Stark’s gaze would not be turned aside. “Hurt her?” He leaned forward. “Mortimer, is this woman in danger?”

  Mortimer saw Sara as she made her way down the block, toward the florist shop on the corner,
so utterly exposed. He knew how it would go down, that Caruso would watch her in the rearview mirror of his car, wait until she reached a predetermined distance, then fall in behind her, steadily increasing his pace, reaching for his pistol as he did so, finally pressing the barrel so close to the back of Sara’s head that a wisp of her hair actually touched it.

  “Mortimer, is this woman in danger?” Stark’s eyes bore into him.

  Mortimer shuddered with the vision of what happened after that, Sara Labriola stumbling forward, a geyser of blood shooting from the back of her skull.

  “Is this woman in danger?” Stark repeated.

  Mortimer could scarcely imagine how badly things had gone or how out of control they’d now become. He took a moment to retrace the steps that had gotten him to this place. A death sentence from a doctor, a need to leave Dottie a few bucks, then a ridiculous bullshit scheme to cheat Stark, all of it finally leading to the terrifying truth that Sara Labriola, his best friend’s woman, was in dire peril.

  “Yes,” Mortimer answered softly.

  Stark grabbed the telephone and thrust it toward Mortimer. “Call Labriola, or whoever this guy is who works for him,” he said. “Tell him I want to have a meeting with the two of them.”

  “I ain’t got a piece,” Mortimer said weakly.

  Stark looked at him darkly. “I do,” he said.

  CARUSO

  Caruso glanced back to where Labriola sat sprawled in the backseat of the car. “Batman wants to have a meeting,” Caruso said, the cell phone held a couple of inches from his right ear. “Wants us to come over to his place.”

  Labriola laughed. “You hear that, Tony? The guy I hired to find your wife, he wants to have a meeting. Ain’t that interesting?”

  Tony said nothing, but merely sat, tense and agitated, like someone who’d set upon a course he now doubted.

  Labriola chuckled. “What’s the matter, Tony? You don’t look all that sociable.”

  “I just want to talk to Sara,” Tony answered weakly.

  “Sure you do.” Labriola laughed. “But first I want to see the guy I forked all that cash over to.” He turned to Caruso. “Tell him okay. Tell him we’re on our way.”

  Minutes later they were rumbling over the Brooklyn Bridge, the skyline of Manhattan a glittering wall before them.

  Labriola drew in a long breath. “I hate Brooklyn,” he said quietly. He leaned forward and squeezed Caruso’s shoulders. “I hate Brooklyn, Vinnie.”

  “Yes, sir,” Caruso told him.

  Labriola dropped back in the seat, his gaze curiously lost and bleary. “Tremont was nice,” he added.

  Ten minutes later, Caruso guided the Lincoln over to the curb on West 19 Street.

  Labriola rolled down the window, thrust his huge head out into the night, and glared at the building, his anger returning suddenly, burning off the oddly meditative mood that had briefly settled over him. “I ain’t walking up five fucking flights to meet this asshole,” he snarled.

  “He lives on the first floor,” Caruso told him quietly.

  Tony jerked open the back door. “Come on, let’s get this over with. I just want to talk to Sara.”

  “Talk to her,” Labriola laughed, his great bulk still slouched in the backseat. “You need to fuck her is what you need.”

  Tony whirled around. “Why do you talk like that?” he asked fiercely. “Why do you say things like that to me?”

  Labriola’s eyes caught fire. “What a worthless piece of shit you are, Tony,” he sneered.

  Tony’s face stiffened, and for a moment the two men stared silently at each other. Then Tony turned around and headed up the stairs.

  Labriola watched him briefly, then turned to Caruso, grasped his shoulder and gave it a painful squeeze. “Don’t fuck up.”

  “I won’t,” Caruso promised.

  Labriola jerked open the door and surged out into the night, his heavy bulk lumbering up the stairs.

  Caruso sucked in a troubled breath, pulled himself from behind the wheel, and headed up the stairs behind Labriola. The buzzer was already ringing by the time he joined him on the landing.

  The door opened and a tall man in a dark suit appeared, his blue eyes ghostly in their icy glint.

  “You Batman?” Labriola laughed.

  “What?”

  Caruso released a nervous little chuckle. “That’s what I called you,” he explained. “Mr. Labriola don’t know you by no other name.”

  The man’s eyes shifted over to Labriola. “Leo Labriola,” he said.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Labriola said gruffly. “And this is my son, Tony. It’s his wife that’s missing.”

  The man in the dark suit nodded. “Stark,” he said.

  “So,” Labriola said, slapping his hands together. “We gonna stand in the fucking street all night, or what?”

  Stark smiled quietly. “Please come in,” he said.

  Caruso trailed along, following Labriola and Tony into the shadowy interior of Stark’s apartment, where Mortimer stood silently in a far corner of the room.

  “Would anyone like a drink?” Stark asked.

  “We ain’t here to socialize,” Labriola said. He stepped forward, leaving a space between Caruso and Tony. “I paid you a lot of money, but you didn’t find my son’s wife.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Stark replied evenly. He nodded toward Mortimer. “But my assistant, Mr. Dodge, did.”

  “Mr. Dodge,” Labriola bellowed. “You trust your . . . assistant?”

  “Yes.”

  “You trust him like I trust Vinnie?”

  “I would trust him with my life,” Stark said.

  Labriola laughed. “Okay, so this fucking guy . . . Mr. Dodge . . . he wouldn’t short you, would he?”

  Stark smiled. “I said I’d trust him with my life. Not my money.”

  Labriola’s eyes seemed to leap with canine joy. “So you already know about this fucking guy? How he was gonna short you?”

  “I know that he found the woman you’re looking for,” Stark said. “And I know that you’re going to forget that he found her.”

  Labriola seemed unable to process Stark’s response. He glanced back and forth between Caruso and his son, then leveled his eyes on Stark. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about a woman,” Stark said coolly. “Her name is Sara, I believe. And she no longer exists for any of you.”

  Tony stepped forward slightly. “I’m not looking for her,” he said. “You see her, you can tell her I’m not looking.” He turned to Labriola. “Let’s go, Dad.”

  Labriola didn’t move. His eyes remained on Stark. “Who the fuck you think you’re talking to, asshole?” he sneered.

  Stark’s voice turned steely. “Here’s what’s you do,” he said. “You. Leave. Sara. Labriola. Alone.”

  Labriola squinted hard, as if trying to bring something very small into focus. Then he glanced unbelievingly at Caruso. “You hear this fucking guy?” he bellowed. “You hear how he talks to me?” He laughed, but edgily, as his gaze shot from Caruso to Tony, then back to Stark. “You a fag?”

  Stark faced him silently.

  “I asked you a question,” Labriola said. “Are you a fag?”

  Stark gave no answer.

  “ ’Cause you must be a fag if you think you’re gonna fuck with me.”

  Stark stared at Labriola without expression.

  “Or maybe you think I’m a fag,” Labriola sneered. He stepped forward and with surprising speed yanked a thirty-eight snub-nosed pistol from his jacket pocket and aimed it at Stark. “You ready to die, fuckhead?”

  Stark said nothing, but Caruso saw a dark gleam come into his eyes, as if something important had suddenly occurred to him.

  “I asked you a question,” Labriola said.

  Stark faced him silently.

  Tony eased forward and stretched his hand toward Labriola. “Give me that, Dad,” he said.

  Labriola jerked the gun from his son’s reach. “S
hut the fuck up, Tony,” he barked, his eyes still on Stark. “You look a little fucked up, Batman,” he said. His eyes slid over to Caruso. “This guy look a little fucked up to you, Vinnie?”

  Caruso nodded.

  Labriola thrust his hand forward, snapped back the pistol’s metal cock, then stepped forward and pressed it against Stark’s forehead. “Check this asshole out, Vinnie.”

  “Stop it, Dad,” Tony said.

  Labriola paid no attention. “Do it, Vinnie!”

  Caruso came around behind Stark and began patting him down, then suddenly stopped cold and drew a nine-millimeter automatic from beneath Stark’s arm.

  “Gimme it,” Labriola snapped.

  Caruso placed the pistol in Labriola’s outstretched hand.

  Labriola stepped back and smiled at Stark. “Nobody fucks with Leo Labriola.”

  “What now?” Stark asked coolly.

  Labriola laughed. “What now?” he asked mockingly. “Now we go for a little ride.”

  ABE

  He waited until the lights went on in Samantha’s apartment. Then he turned and made his way back to the bar. As he walked, he replayed the events of the last few days, how she’d shown up out of the blue, the way she made him feel. He didn’t know whether anything would come of it, but who ever knew if anything would come of anything, or if what came would last, or even be all that good? But what the hell, he thought as he turned onto Twelfth Street, all life really gave you was a chance not to fuck it up.

  At the bar Jake was counting the receipts and Susanne was clearing the last of the tables.

  “She done good,” Jake said. “The crowd really seemed to like her.”

  Abe nodded, then glanced over at the now-empty tables, recalling how conversations had trailed off during her first song, fallen silent for the last two. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, they did.”

  Jake and Susanne left a few minutes later, and Abe returned to the piano and played Samantha’s closing number, remembering the way she’d sung it, how she’d made the lyrics seem like the sum total of what a person could learn.

  He’d just played the final chord when he heard the door open at the front, realized that he hadn’t locked it after he’d let Jake and Susanne out.

  CARUSO

  He stood obediently behind Stark and Tony, guarding them from the back, while Mortimer and Labriola stepped inside the bar. Over their shoulders he could see the barkeep moving toward them.