Wet Work: The Definitive Edition

by Philip Nutman

  Inhale.

  Right arm sweeping up in a smooth motion, the hand as straight as a razor; left arm raising simultaneously, the forearm positioned horizontally.

  Right foot forward. Right hand into a fist. Strike as the left arm chopped down.

  Exhale.

  Flow as the wind…

  He continued to move, following the pattern of Sennin kata.

  His mind clear of distractions, he stretched muscle, sinew. Punch, kick, turn, sidestep…

  He completed the kata in five minutes, then started afresh, repeating the form six times until he was satisfied his right leg was strengthening.

  Afterwards, he showered, taking his time under the hot needle points of water, washing away not just sweat but also trying to get rid of the negativity he’d been carrying with him since his meeting with Del Valle.

  He wanted answers to questions that didn’t make sense, but most of all he wanted to be finished with Covert Ops. He’d invested enough money to be able to live comfortably for the rest of his life, and the thought of learning to paint with oils, reading, and pursuing his other interests was appealing. He was on the wrong side of forty and a lifetime of killing had become a heavy burden.

  He stepped out of the shower and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wiping away the condensation. The face that stared back at him seemed to have aged ten years in the last week. Although he was in far better shape than most men his age, the strain was beginning to show.

  There was another retirement option though, one he didn’t relish because it would mean he’d spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder. He could fake his own suicide, adopt a new identity and disappear. It wasn’t that difficult if you knew how, but Del Valle would never believe he’d taken his own life, especially in light of his admission. Neither would Hershman—and he would want Corvino found. Knowing him, Hershman would issue a sanction and have him executed as a security risk. A fake suicide would be perceived as indication of guilt.

  Toweling himself dry, he headed for the bedroom where he slipped into a black silk robe. The cool fabric caressed his warm skin, gently resting against him like a lover’s tender embrace.

  Mitra…

  He sat on the futon bed, legs crossed.

  Panama had been a set-up, he was sure But by whom? His gut feeling was that Skolomowski and Lang were involved. Had they taken out the targets before he and Harris had arrived? It was more logical than the rival Colombians theory. He didn’t believe in coincidences, and if the men connected with the Escobar clan had hit the Cali contingent, they couldn’t have got in without Lang seeing them. This meant the Englishman had lied one way or another. But what was their motive—to steal the two million dollars? Then what, disappear? Or were they going to kill him and Harris and make it look like the dead men had stolen the money and had gone on the run? That was possible. And the Pole had probably killed Mitra for the hell of it.

  Skolomowski was dead. Maybe there was a God after all.

  But even if he accepted that theory, there were still other factors which didn’t make sense. If Skolomowski and Lang had killed the Colombians, they would’ve done a thorough job. So who was the man who shot the Pole and where had he come from? And then there was the man who had attacked him—a man reason dictated should’ve been dead. The whole situation was a giant Chinese puzzle box that threatened to drive him crazy.

  Mentally exhausted, Corvino lay down. Within minutes he was asleep.

  ALEXANDRIA.

  10:05 P.M.

  Nick eased the Bronco into the driveway, shut off the engine, and cut Bob Seger’s voice in mid-wail as he and The Silver Bullet Band sang about going to Kathmandu. He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. He wanted a cigarette. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t smoked for nearly three years; there were times when the desire just rolled back in and he would automatically reach for a pack of Winstons that wasn’t there. Once an oral compulsive, always an oral compulsive, Sandy had said at times like these, and he would laugh. Then she’d kiss him and add, isn’t that nicer than a stinking butt? She’d accent the last two words so she sounded like Larry Storch playing a Mexican bandito in some B-Movie western. He would laugh again and hold her.

  Sandy.

  That was what he wanted to do right now. Hold her. Hold her and feel her soft kisses on his brow as she wrapped him in her arms.

  He looked at the darkened red brick house. It was as empty as he felt. He wanted her. Wanted the lights to be on and his wife to be sitting in front of the TV. He would enter and she would get up off the couch and switch off the TV set. She’d cross the room, open her arms and hug him, kissing him longingly.

  The gunman hits the sidewalk as his gun bucks in his hands.

  He didn’t want to go inside. Coming home to a vacant house late at night always felt strange. You could call a house a home, but it was never a real home unless people lived there. How did people who lived alone feel when they walked in the door? Maybe they were content, relieved at having a space all to themselves. Isn’t that why people lived alone, because they wanted space? Somehow he doubted it. People talked about living alone a lot, at least the few single guys he knew. But beneath the claims they were happy doing their own thing, that they had no desire to marry, the jokes about so many women and so little time, his instincts told him it was a crock. No one really wanted to live alone. Everyone wanted somebody. Everybody wanted someplace to call home. Marriage, or at least a good relationship, made a house a home. No, that wasn’t true. His parents’ marriage hadn’t made a home. His mother had made the two-story house on Van Buren Avenue a home though, and when she’d died, he’d felt displaced until he’d moved in with Sandy and her family. Now, as he sat staring at his own house, he realized Sandy was his home; it didn’t matter where they lived. It wasn’t the house; it was her. And he resented the fact she wasn’t there.

  The old woman’s breasts look about ready to fall off.

  Uncomfortable feelings clashed inside him: an awareness of the extent of his dependency on her, resentment of the power she held over him, self-disgust at his own weakness, guilt at feeling badly towards the woman he loved.

  “You self-pitying asshole,” he muttered.

  How could he be so selfish? Her Mother was dying, for Christ’s sake, and he was bummed out because he’d shot some scumbag drug addict. No, it was more than that. He’d never come face-to-face with violent death before, never felt so helpless, so frail, so goddamn worthless, so sickened by what people could do to each other.

  Remember, you can’t save the world. If you think that way this job’ll kill you. Santos’ words echoed in his head like Obi Wan Kenobi in the Star Wars movies.

  It’s just a job, Nick. A job. When the day’s over you have to switch it off. Leave it outside the door, don’t take it inside. Or you’re gonna end up a divorced cop. You can’t share this shit with your wife. You have to deal with it—so deal with it.

  Santos was right. He had to face it alone. And the detective had been right about what he was going through.

  You’re gonna feel more tired than you’ve ever been. You’re gonna think how shitty it all is, be angry—and feel weak. It’s okay, we’ve all had to deal with it.

  Sandy had her own problems, but at least she didn’t have to face them alone. Her sister Liz was like their mother, a rock, a strong, compassionate woman who never seemed to crumble in the face of adversity. She could provide Sandy with the support she needed right now, with a strength that Nick lacked. He knew he wouldn’t be much use even if he was in New York. Holding her hand wasn’t enough. Still, he should call her.

  The dash clock was showing 10:15 P.M. when he finally opened the car door and walked up the steps. She should be at Liz’s, and the thought of her voice eased his loneliness.

  He opened the door and felt the darkness swallow him up before he flicked on the lights. Despite the familiarity of the surroundings—the black leather convertible couch they’d made love on so many times, the lamb
s’ wool throw rug they curled up on in post-coital bliss—the emptiness felt uncomfortably thick. He felt as if he was entering a tomb, as if the feelings they’d shared in that room were as dead and gone as an Egyptian Pharaoh.

  Nick picked up the phone and dialed, seating himself on the floor beside the bookshelves. On the lowest shelf lay an opened copy of Living With Alcoholism. He hadn’t seen it before. Knowing Sandy, she’d deliberately left it out for him to find; another of her little tricks.

  The phone at the other end rang for the fourth time.

  And the fifth.

  The sixth.

  He hung up on the seventh and went to the kitchen to get a beer from the refrigerator.

  Maybe she was still at the hospital. If she was, it wasn’t a good sign. Mary, the sweet, plump woman who had become his second mother, was probably just hours away from death. He wished he could have made the trip just to see her one last time before she died, but he didn’t like hospitals. And he was uncomfortable with the thought of looking at her wasted body. Cancer of the colon was a terrible way to die, and Sandy had been decimated by her Mother’s condition the last time she’d seen her, the previous month. “Mom looks like another person,” she’d told him on her return, “like twenty years of her life just evaporated, and she’s now seventy-six. There’s nothing left of her.”

  Nothing left.

  He noticed the bottle of Amstel Light was empty though he didn’t remember drinking it.

  He took another bottle from the fridge—Beck’s Dark this time—opened it and took a long pull.

  Nothing left of her.

  He imagined Mary hooked up to an IV, an electrocardiogram, a colostomy bag, her once-rotund figure as emaciated as that of the shotgunned grandmother who’d died in the tenement stairwell.

  He went over to the phone and dialed again.

  No answer. He hung up on the twelfth ring. Where was she? If her mother was fading fast she’d be at the hospital with Liz, which meant Roger, her husband, should be at home with their son Jared. Jared, at seven, already promised to be a fine quarterback. Yeah, that kid could certainly handle a ball all right, but since Roger had nearly made it onto the Atlanta Falcons, it was no real surprise that his son was already as big as a ten year-old. Maybe Roger was at the hospital, too. If Mary was that close to passing away, then he’d probably want to be there as well. Jared was probably spending the night at a friend’s house.

  Nick picked up the book on alcoholism and skimmed it, reading a few paragraphs from the chapter titled “The Cancer of Denial” before tossing it back on the shelf. It wasn’t what he needed right now. The sound of the book hitting the shelf was magnified by the silence.

  “Misery loves company,” he said aloud to assert his presence over the stillness.

  He’d go to Billy’s Rib Shack. Beer, broads, beaver and rock ‘n’ roll. It was no substitute for Sandy, but at least he wouldn’t have to sit at home alone and face himself.

  He placed the half-drunk Becks on the coffee table, switched off the lights and headed for the door, the ghosts of a dead family grasping out to him from the darkness.

  NEW YORK CITY.

  10:22 P.M.

  The light turned green and Liz Weldon turned right off First Avenue onto 34th Street, guiding the silver-gray Toyota Camry towards the Midtown Tunnel entrance ramp.

  Being Monday, night traffic was light, one of the times driving in Manhattan was a pleasure rather than a constant battle with kamikaze cabbies, bullish busses and jerks from New Jersey. After twelve hours at Beth Israel, she didn’t need to deal with traffic congestion as they headed towards Greenpoint and home.

  Sandy was silent beside her, glancing through that day’s Post with its banner headline: 1,000 DEAD. FLOODS IN INDIA CONTINUE.

  Tell me some good news, Sandy thought.

  Death was everywhere. Its perfume lurked behind the disinfected corridors of Beth Israel Medical Center, and permeated your skin like newsprint. There was no escape. You could run, hide, stick your head in the ground, but it was out there, waiting to tap you on the shoulder when you least expected it. Just like her Mom.

  Six months ago, despite being twenty pounds overweight—thanks to a persistent sweet tooth, especially a passion for Haagen Dazs—Mom had been in good health. She neither drank nor smoked, and the last time she’d visited Doctor Ferante, he’d pronounced her a fine example of middle-aged womanhood. The crippling pains had started suddenly in late November, two days after Thanksgiving, and Mom was rushed into the hospital, as helpless as a newborn kitten. The prognosis wasn’t good; cancerous cells in her upper bowel had swept like a flash flood to attack the stomach lining. There was no way to save the organ; it had to be removed. A lengthy operation culminated in Mom being hooked up to a life support machine, fed intravenously and imprisoned in a network of tubes that denied her any measure of dignity during her final weeks. Seeing her reduced to such a state made it impossible for Sandy to believe in a compassionate God.

  “We should start thinking about funeral arrangements,” Liz said.

  She shifted down into a lower gear and reached over to take her sister’s hand in hers, giving it a squeeze.

  “It’ll be over soon.”

  A deep sob escaped Sandy’s throat.

  “I’ll take care of it if you don’t feel up to it.”

  “I can deal with it,” Sandy said, her voice tearful. “I’ll call Elliot when we get in and tell him he needs to get here soon.”

  Liz and Elliot weren’t speaking because Liz had blown up at him, maddened by their older brother’s refusal to deal with the situation, and Sandy, as usual, had stepped into the position of family mediator. But she, too, was hurt and dismayed by his excuses as to why he couldn’t take time off from his organic farm in Maryland to visit Mom.

  “Well, he better get his butt in gear if he wants to see her before she goes,” Liz said, her tone cold.

  Glancing at her sister, seeing tears rolling silently down Sandy’s cheeks, Liz reached into the glove compartment, producing a Kleenex.

  Sandy took it and wiped her eyes.

  The Toyota emerged from the tunnel, Liz braking gently as they neared the toll booth. She was close to tears herself but crying wouldn’t solve anything. She reached for Sandy’s hand again. Words were meaningless at a time like this. All she could do was concentrate on getting them home. Nothing could alter the fact their mother was less than a week away from blessed release. Until then Liz needed to keep it together. Then she would let the tears fall, washing away the pain in a flood of relief.

  She signaled left, taking the exit ramp at a steady pace, the lights of the Manhattan skyline reflected in the rearview mirror like toy buildings set against a black velvet backdrop that threatened to fall, erasing all signs of life.

  THE EAST VILLAGE.

  NEW YORK CITY.

  10:53 P.M.

  Denny Stefano sniveled despite the heat oozing from the dirt-encrusted sidewalks of St. Mark’s Place. Summer-like humidity hung thick on the East Village, but he couldn’t feel it. His veins felt full of ice water, and he fought to control the spasms in his legs.

  He needed a fix real bad.

  Luke Gregorie flashed him a mean white toothed-smile as he sipped his Dos Equis at one of the outside tables of Dojo Restaurant. A pale debutante-type chick sat opposite, feigning boredom as she toyed with her Virginia Slim. Luke had a thing for white girls like Denny had a habit for smack. He rubbed his arms. Although it was 78 degrees he wore a stained, long-sleeved Mets sweatshirt. The girl threw him a look loaded with disdain.

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Denny. This is Fern.” Luke replied. To the girl: “We used to work together. A long time ago.”

  “Hi,” Denny sniffed.

  Fern ignored him, concentrating on her frozen Margarita.

  Luke leaned over the railing, speaking low.

  “No, dude, I haven’t seen him,” he said, trying hard but failing to hide his dismay and disgust at his old frie
nd’s state. “Man, you’re a fucking wreck.”

  Denny glanced guiltily down at his worn Reeboks. He looked like he belonged down on The Bowery. His shirt was splashed with Pepsi stains, and a large hole gaped over the M in Mets. His jeans hadn’t seen the inside of a Laundromat in weeks, and he knew he reeked like a racehorse dipped in dog shit. It was sixteen hours since his last fix, and he’d had the sweats something bad, not to mention the air conditioner at the two-room apartment he shared with Rico being broken, turning last night’s heavy heat into a stagnant cesspool of body odor.

  “Come on, you must’ve seen him. He’s always around this time of day.”

  “Do I hang with dealers? Gimme a break.”

  Fern coughed. Luke smiled at her.

  “Excuse me. Going to use the restroom.” she smiled coldly in return.

  “Sure.” Luke watched her weave through the tables before turning sharply to Denny. “Thanks man. Do us both a favor and get lost.”

  “I…you sure you ain’t seen him?”

  “I told you. And I told you that time I bailed your ass out at The Tunnel, you’re no friend of mine while you do that shit.” Luke raised his sunglasses, his ebony face softening for a beat. “You gotta get straight, Den. I seen too many homeboys blow themselves out of orbit on shit, an’ I don’t wanna see you do the same. Go to rehab, go turkey, do somethin’ with your life. Don’t piss it away.”

  Denny stared down the street towards Second Avenue. Where was Fly Boy? No one had seen him all evening.

  “You listenin’ to me?”

  Denny rubbed his arms.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry if I ruined—”

  “Just take a hike. Take a shower for chrissake.” Luke picked up his beer. A waiter was eyeing Denny, anticipating trouble. Dojo was a popular hangout, but if you sat out on the porch you ran the risk of being hassled by the lost souls who prowled the street. Denny walked away.