A Perfect Shot

by Robin Yocum

  She flashed him a look of disdain. “You look terrible,” she said. “Where have you been?”

  Duke leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, astonished. “You, on the other hand, look terrific. Where are you going? Got a hot date?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m going out to dinner. You don’t expect me to sit around this house and rot while you go on with your life, do you?”

  “I’m sorry, but who are you and what did you do with Nina?” She flashed another look of contempt, curling a corner of her upper lip. “Who are you going out to eat with?” he asked.

  “My brother, if you must know. He’s taking us all out to dinner to some steak house he likes up in Green Tree. You’re welcome to come, if you like. He extended the invitation to all of us.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “He wants to be with his family. Zeus died.”

  Duke frowned, hoping to feign the look of bewilderment. “Zeus? The dog?”

  “Of course, the dog. Do you know any people named Zeus?”

  “I used to know a stripper named Athena.”

  She gave him a sarcastic smile. “Well, that certainly comes as no big surprise.”

  “So, essentially, he’s having a wake for his dog.”

  “Tony loved Zeus. Some people are very fond of animals, unlike you.”

  “Well, that’s just great. This is the best you’ve looked in years, and it’s for a doggie funeral. How’d it die?”

  “He doesn’t know. Heart attack, he suspects. He came home and found the poor thing dead on the kitchen floor.”

  “Yeah. The poor thing.”

  She pulled a compact from her purse and checked her lipstick. “Are you coming?”

  “No, but pass along my condolences to the bereaved.”

  Duke started toward the living room and the stairs, at the top of which awaited his bed. “You didn’t answer my question,” she said. “Where have you been for the last two days?”

  “Fishing.”

  “Liar.”

  He didn’t break stride. “Enjoy your dinner, Nina.”

  She muttered the word bastard as the door skidded open, and the glass inside the loose pane rattled as it slammed shut.

  From the bedroom window he watched Nina until she had gotten into the car, made a U-turn in front of their house, and started up the hill toward her brother’s manse. Duke walked down the hall to the bathroom and drained his bladder. Back in the bedroom, he locked the door and braced it with the chair from the desk. He took the revolver out of his waist and set it on the nightstand, just inches from his head. He needed a few hours of sleep before going down to visit Angel at the restaurant.

  It was eleven o’clock when he awoke. The streetlight outside the bedroom window shone down like a beacon on Nina’s car. For a long moment, Duke was disoriented after six hard hours of sleep. He sat on the side of the bed to get his bearings. The revolver was still on the nightstand, the chair still propped against the door. Grabbing the gun, Duke crept to the door and slid the chair to one side, then slowly pulled the door open. The house was quiet except for the droning of the television. Nina had returned, then, following her normal routine, had gone to sleep on the couch.

  The steamy shower felt good, but Duke couldn’t enjoy it for more than a few minutes. He dressed in the bedroom, stuffing an army duffel bag with some clothes before he left. Nothing remained in the room that he valued. He left the top of his dresser and his toiletries in the bathroom cabinet untouched. There were no outward signs that he was leaving. When he walked out the door in a few minutes, the room would look as though he were stepping away for a day, instead of a lifetime. He crept past the sleeping Nina, gently opened the back door, and quietly left.

  As he eased his father’s Buick Invicta out of the garage, he saluted the Jeep and hoped that he would never again lay his eyes upon it. He pointed the Buick east and drove down St. Clair Avenue, the familiar path he had walked daily to the mill, over Route 7, past his beloved Mingo High School, and on to Commercial Street. A few overhead lights burned at Carmine’s as the poker games were just hitting their zenith. Headlights pierced a mixture of fog and gritty fly ash along Commercial Street. The damp air was acrid with the smell of sulfur. The under-the-counter lights were on at Isaly’s; the VFW was doing a brisk business. The lights burned bright inside Duke’s Place.

  Duke passed the Hungarian-American club and pulled into the alley behind Dr. D’Amico’s office, backing into the cubbyhole space between the office and the garbage dumpster of the IGA. He went to the pay phone on the far end of the IGA, turning his head to the wall after dialing the number.

  “Duke’s Place.”

  “Angel, it’s me.”

  “Glad to see you’re not dead.”

  “Yeah, well, the night is young.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing. Is anyone listening to you talk to me?”

  “No. I’m in the kitchen.”

  “Good. Has Tony DeMarco been in tonight?”

  “No. I haven’t seen him in a couple of days. Why? Are you in some kind of hot water?”

  “No, nothing like that. Look, I’m coming down. Unlock the back door for me.”

  He left the car parked behind the doctor’s office and walked down the alley and into the kitchen. The grill cook was gone for the night. He cut through the back of the kitchen, through a door that led to the back hallway, and into his office, unnoticed. Angel came back five minutes later after seeing the faint light escaping from under the office door.

  As he entered, Duke was just hanging up the phone.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Angel asked. “What did you do? And don’t say nothing.”

  “Sit down,” Duke said, moving an old Mingo High Indians gym bag from the couch. He took a deep breath and said, “It’s best if you don’t know. I’d like to tell you, Angel; you’ve been a friend for a long time, but if I don’t tell you, then you won’t have to lie.”

  “Lie to who?”

  “To anybody who wants to know.”

  Angel slowly nodded. “Of course, you realize you’re not making a nickel’s worth of sense.”

  “I know.”

  “Why’s Tony after you?”

  “I don’t know that he is.”

  “But, you asked . . .”

  Duke held up his right palm. “Angel, I promise you that you’ll find out what’s going on very soon. You’ve got to trust me on that, and trust me that things are going to work out. Am I involved in something I shouldn’t be? Maybe. But that’s all I’m going to tell you. Have you been making the deposits?”

  “Sure. I’ve filled the beer orders, but I need you to sign some checks for the bills.”

  “How much is in the checking account?”

  Angel shrugged. “About twenty-six grand.”

  “Okay.” Duke looked off for a minute. “What was the special today?”

  Angel frowned. “Meatloaf. Why?”

  “How about going to the kitchen and wrapping some up in foil for me—enough for three or four people. Throw some mashed potatoes and rolls in, too.”

  Angel shook his head as he left the office. He did as he was asked and returned inside of five minutes with two foil packages inside a paper bag.

  “Great. Thanks. Appreciate it. I’ve got to run an errand.”

  Angel glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s midnight. You’re going to run an errand at midnight?”

  “Yeah, well, it’s hard to get everything done in an eight-hour day.” He winked at his old friend. “I’ll see you later.”

  Angel’s brown eyes bore into him. “Will you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, I notice that your MVP trophy and your state championship medal are gone. Dean Martin’s photo and your All-Ohio certificate have left the wall, and I assume they’re all in the gym bag. If you were coming back, they’d still be on display. Duke, tell me, please, what the hell is going on? I promi
se I won’t say a word to anyone.”

  Duke stood and grabbed hold of the gym bag. “I’ll be in touch.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  After sex, Ricky always wanted to nuzzle up to the carpet of black hair that stretched across Tony DeMarco’s stomach and chest. As long as Tony continued to enjoy the effects of a cocaine high, it didn’t bother him to have his lover so close in the afterglow of sex. But when he came down, Tony would reel in disgust of himself and Ricky. The slightly built and naked man, barely twenty-two, served as a tangible reminder of what Tony really was and not what he pretended to be.

  About the time Angel and Duke were having their conversation in the office at Duke’s Place, Tony awakened in the bed, chilled from the down-shifting of passion and his cocaine high. Ricky was asleep, his arm draped over Tony’s waist, his moppish hair a tangled mass on his shoulder. Tony looked over to the nightstand at the vial of cocaine that was left. He had enough blow left for another high, and a good one; Tony decided that he would snort the coke, then mount the little bitch while he slept, which would require no intimacy for Ricky, but satisfaction for Tony.

  First, he’d piss and get himself an orange juice. Sex always made him crave orange juice. He pushed away Ricky’s hand and walked naked to the bathroom, relieved himself, then pulled on his blue, satiny robe as he made his way down the stairs.

  The light from the refrigerator exploded into the dark room, forcing Tony to squint as he fumbled for the half-gallon carton of juice. He swirled the container and flipped on the can lights over the sink and oven. He opened the cupboard for a glass, then dismissed the idea, choosing instead to drink from the paper carton. A thin rivulet of juice ran from the corner of his mouth as he took three hard swallows. He wiped at his mouth with a backhand as he slipped into a chair at the end of the table, his feet splayed in front of him. A nearly full moon bathed the kitchen in soft light; it was eerily quiet. This was when The Great Zeus would be lying at his side, head wedged between his paws, patiently waiting to be rubbed between the ears and receive a handful of treats that Tony kept in the crockery bean pot on the counter. The bean pot caught his eye, and he thought of how much he missed The Great Zeus. A dog so loyal would be hard to replace, but Tony would do it, and soon. Maybe he would get a Doberman this time. Whatever his choice, it would be a dog of strength and power and one he could train as an ally.

  He enjoyed the silence, broken only by the distant sounds of the mill and the orange juice slapping the inside of the carton. The time was about right, he thought. He was tiring of playing up to Joey Antonelli. For years now, he had purposely pandered to him, calling him “boss” and “Mr. A,” and grudgingly giving him undue respect. It made him smile to think his plan was working. Antonelli no longer viewed Tony as a challenger to the throne, but simply a loyal and beaten subject who had finally accepted his role as a mere contributor, not a leader. He had taken Tony into his complete confidence. It would be a fatal mistake. Soon, the wolf would be standing at the door of Joseph Antonelli, an evil grin on his face. He would assemble his men; Rhino and Emilio were already in the fold. He had several others in mind. When that was complete, he would reveal the tapes. When Joey Antonelli stopped crying and puking, Tony would produce a map and draw a line at the spot where the panhandle of West Virginia met Pennsylvania and Ohio. All of West Virginia and everything in Ohio south of the point would be under the command of Anthony DeMarco. All the drug and gambling profits would go directly to Tony. He would no longer answer to Antonelli or anyone else. It was to be his domain. Sorry for your luck, Joey. I’m in; you’re out. Fuck with me, and the tapes are going to the FBI. Kill me, and someone else will send them to the FBI. You can have control of Western Pennsylvania, Joey, but don’t let me hear about you poaching on my territory.

  He would change his name, too. He would henceforth be known as Anthony “Big Tony” DeMarco, and he would be the head of the new DeMarco crime family. He liked the sound of that—the DeMarco crime family. He would be the don. And like his mentor, Il Tigre, his power would be absolute. Anyone who questioned his authority would be dealt with harshly. For appearances, he would marry and father a son or two. Someday, they would take over and run the business with the ruthlessness of their father. They would write books and make movies about his life—the penniless son of a beyond-the-tracks railroader who rose to power in the world of organized crime. His name would be uttered in the same breath as Capone and Dillinger and Gotti. Strength and intimidation were the only way to get ahead in this life, and he had proved that to be true.

  He felt a little jump in the loins, a sign that it was time to go back upstairs and finish his evening. He closed the carton and started to rise when he noticed the moonlight reflecting off a shiny spot on the floor under the table. He bent down and ran an index finger through the spot; it was greasy and had a faint, rancid odor. Near the grease spot, on the outside of the nearest table leg, was a clump of ground meat that had grazed the varnish and gone unnoticed by The Great Zeus. Tony reached under the dried, brown clump and raised his hand upward, breaking it cleanly from the wooden leg. Embedded in the beef and clearly visible, like a gem in a gold setting, was the chip of a white pill. Tony scraped the pill with his fingernail, flaking off pieces of the powder.

  “Son of a . . . ,” his words trailed off. Immediately, his eyes lifted to the basement door. He made a frenetic dash down the basement steps. He was flustered and it took him three tries to successfully open the safe. His chest heaved, but he exhaled in relief at first glance. It didn’t appear to have been opened. Piles of money still filled the safe. Perhaps some cash was missing.

  “No, it’s all there, Tony,” he said aloud. “Relax. You’re letting your mind play tricks on you.” Why, he reasoned, would anyone take only a few stacks of money if they had access to hundreds of thousands?

  And then the reason came to him.

  They hadn’t been after the money.

  A fire that began in his balls soared to his heart and on to his face. He put a hand on each side of the safe and stood for a moment, his insides aching as he tried to catch his breath. He prayed that it wasn’t true. Tony DeMarco, with the blood of a dozen men on his hands, was standing half-naked with cocaine dust on his lips when he began asking Jesus Christ for a favor. He dropped slowly to his knees and looked through the dim light for the cassette holders.

  They were there, and so were the cassettes.

  The tightness rushed from his chest as he exhaled. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you.”

  He pulled out the first cassette. It was probably his imagination, but he still sensed something was wrong. The pain in his chest began to creep back. The cassette was white and unmarked, but it didn’t look like his tape. Certainly it was just his imagination in overdrive. He grabbed the other tapes, ran up the steps, and slipped the first cassette into his stereo. Instead of his recordings with Antonelli, the mellow voice of Duke Ducheski’s favorite singer filled the room—“You’re Nobody ’Til Somebody Loves You.”

  “Dean fuckin’ Martin,” he growled.

  He put in the second tape. More of the same—“Ain’t That a Kick in the Head?”

  And the third, though it was simply more punishment for Tony. “That’s Amore . . .”

  He pulled the tape player off of the shelf and smashed it against the far wall. “Son of a fuckin’ bitch,” he screamed.

  Ricky appeared on the stairs. “Tony, what’s wrong?”

  “Get the fuck outta here, you little cocksucker.” He grabbed an empty cassette case and threw it at Ricky, who was already running for the bedroom. “Get out!”

  Tony slumped to the floor and laughed. “You are so fuckin’ dead, Ducheski. Goddamn, I can’t wait to kill you. I can’t fuckin’ wait. I’ll give you credit, though, that took more balls than I thought you had.” His bathrobe was open, his limp member lying across his thigh. Sweat—a sour, fearful sweat—matted the thicket of hair to his chest and stomach. “So, you think you’re going to blackmail the blackmaile
r, huh? Well, we’ll see.”

  In five minutes he was dressed and heading out the door.

  Tony DeMarco’s face was a façade of calm when he entered Duke’s Place. It was 12:45 in the morning. A few mill rats were trying to postpone the inevitable fight with their wives and nursing their last-call beers, watching the clock. “The fight can’t start ’til you get home,” they liked to say.

  The barmaid had been sent home, and the kitchen was dark. Angel was filling the cooler beneath the bar, the last chore before locking the door and counting the money. He was not surprised to see Tony walk through the door, though he tried his best to act that way. He continued to stock the cooler until Tony got to the bar. “Beer?” Angel asked.

  “Where’s Duke?”

  Angel shrugged. “He’s not here.”

  Tony rolled his lower lip between his teeth. “Come here,” Tony said, moving toward the hallway that led to the office and the restrooms. Angel tentatively followed. In a whispered tone, Tony said, “I didn’t ask you if he was fuckin’ here. I asked you where he was. So, just so we’re clear, I’ll ask you again, ‘Where’s Duke?’”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tony took a breath. “Listen to me, you weaselly little fuck, you better start talkin’ or . . .”

  “I don’t know where he is, Tony,” Angel interrupted, scared by the deadened look in Tony’s eyes. “He was here earlier. He did some work in his office and left. I didn’t ask where he was going, and he didn’t say. I assumed he was going home to bed.”

  “Where’d—”

  “I swear to God, I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. All he said was he’d be in touch, then he left. That’s all I know.”

  Tony slowly reached out with his right hand and brushed some imaginary lint off Angel’s shirt. “If I find out you’re lying to me, you know what’s going to happen, right?”