See How They Run

by Bethany Campbell

  O’Malley was in his late forties and carried himself with an air of tough cynicism. He had the hard eyes of one who’s seen much and believes little. But he did not question Hepfinger’s authority, only looked at him and Santander uneasily.

  Hepfinger said, “We’re investigating two anonymous calls made from your pay phone last night. At eight sixteen and eight twenty-one. Do you recall anyone using the phone at that time?”

  “I wasn’t on duty last night,” O’Malley said, and shifted his weight from one foot to another.

  “Who was?” Hepfinger demanded. “Did he mention anything about a caller?”

  O’Malley hesitated. Hepfinger sensed the man had tangled with the law more than once, and he was nervous, unwilling to cooperate, yet afraid not to.

  “Billy was on duty. The only person I know what used the phone was Doc DeMario. He dropped some change. Billy picked it up. He put it in a envelope for him. It’s by the cash register.”

  Hepfinger prickled with a thrill that was almost sexual. “Who’s this Billy?” he asked in his most daunting tone. “How do I reach him?”

  “Billy Frazetti. I don’t know how to reach ’im. He’s gone to Yonkers or someplace. For a wedding. Or something.”

  “Frazetti,” Hepfinger said, writing this name down neatly in a small black notebook. “And your full name is …?”

  “Dennis. Dennis O’Malley. What’s this about?”

  Hepfinger ignored the question and instead asked one of his own. “This DeMario, he’s a regular customer?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said O’Malley.

  “From around here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “For how long?”

  “Years.”

  Hepfinger kept his expression sternly aloof. “Did this Billy say if DeMario made more than one call?”

  Again O’Malley hesitated, resisting.

  Hepfinger made his voice sharp-edged and insinuating. “Will we have to take you down to headquarters, Mr. O’Malley? I asked you—how many calls did DeMario make?”

  O’Malley’s eyes flashed, his nostrils pinched. “I don’t know. I wasn’t here. DeMario’s old. He’s harmless. Maybe his phone’s broke or something.”

  “Exactly how much change did he drop?”

  “How do I know? I didn’t open the envelope.”

  “We’d like to see that envelope.”

  O’Malley’s expression grew even more rebellious. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Do as you’re asked,” ordered Hepfinger. “And this visit is confidential. Don’t speak of it. Not to anyone. Or you’ll be guilty of obstructing justice.”

  “What?” O’Malley asked, clearly alarmed and offended. “What the hell is this?”

  “Do as you’re asked,” Hepfinger repeated.

  O’Malley grumbled beneath his breath, but he turned and led Hepfinger and Santander into the station’s cluttered interior. It was a small, overheated space and smelled pungently of gasoline. Its yellowed walls needed repainting, and the linoleum floor was tracked with slush and dirt.

  Hepfinger watched hungrily as O’Malley stalked to the cash register. O’Malley picked up a white envelope gingerly, as if it contained dead cockroaches.

  He handed it to Hepfinger, leaving dark fingerprints on the paper. The envelope had a Mobil logo on its upper left-hand corner, and it was not sealed.

  Hepfinger opened it delicately, not wishing to soil his hands. He poured the change into his palm: seven quarters, four dimes, two nickels—two dollars and twenty-five cents.

  Hepfinger stroked his thumb over the money almost lovingly. “We’ll keep this,” he said. He poured the money back into the envelope, folded the envelope, and put it into his pocket.

  Warily O’Malley watched him. Hepfinger said, “I’ll tell you again. This visit was confidential. Mention it to no one.”

  O’Malley’s face looked even gaunter under the yellowish lights. He pressed his thin lips together and looked from Hepfinger to Santander, then back again. Clearly he didn’t trust them; just as clearly he wanted no trouble.

  Hepfinger gave O’Malley a nod that was both a warning and a farewell. He and Santander left the office and got into Hepfinger’s car.

  “We go see the old doctor?” Santander asked in his dour way as he scratched his face.

  Hepfinger nodded.

  Afternoon was lengthening. Marco DeMario still felt hollow and spent from last night’s exertions. He was plagued by guilt as well. Mick had told him not to get cute, but he’d gotten cute anyway, an old man spiting the advice of a younger.

  All day long he had feared the authorities would track him down, question him. He’d sat in his silent house, taking frequent nips from the Chianti bottle to steady his nerves. Now when he held out his hand, it barely shook.

  Just as he raised the glass to his mouth again, the quiet was abruptly broken. Someone knocked loudly at his front door. The sound seemed to rattle the very air.

  Marco gave a start. They’ve come for me; he thought in guilty panic.

  He rose on unsteady legs, made his way to the front window, and drew aside the curtain ever so slightly. A dark car was parked at the curb. Its polished surface reflected the light of the waning day.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he thought sickly. What have I done? Could they trace my calls from the pay phone?

  “You’re a paranoid old fool,” he told himself harshly. He realized that he was slightly drunk, and he had no idea who his callers really were or what they wanted.

  If it really was the police he would brazen it out. He had lied to them once, and he would lie to them again.

  He swung the door open and saw two men. One was round and fair and slightly rumpled. The other was lean and dark and had a serious case of cystic acne. They wore conservative suits and topcoats and equally conservative expressions.

  Both men flashed badges, and the plump blond one said they were from the DEA, that they were running a backup check on all the sources the FBI had questioned. Just routine.

  “May we come in, Dr. DeMario?” asked the fair man.

  Marco nodded, fearing it would seem suspicious to refuse. But once they were inside, he regretted his choice.

  He didn’t like their looks, these two. There was something about them that was different from the FBI men, something that filled him with misgivings.

  The men entered silently. The blond one kept his eyes on Marco; the other looked about the dim and dusty room. Marco gestured for them to seat themselves on his threadbare couch, but they remained standing, so he did, too.

  “We only want to ask a few questions,” said the blond man, studying Marco carefully.

  “Ask away,” Marco said, making sure he sounded bored, crotchety, and above all else, feeble.

  The blond man smiled at him, a strange, boyish smile that made deep dimples appear in his cheeks. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. It bore a Mobil logo in the upper right-hand corner.

  Marco’s vision dimmed for a moment as if the blood rushed from his head. His heart raced; he felt it shaking his ribs, slamming against his breastbone.

  “You lost something last night,” the blond man said in a voice that was disconcertingly cheerful. “Remember?”

  Marco said nothing. He reached out and clutched the back of the sofa to steady himself.

  The blond man opened the envelope and spilled a clinking stream of coins into his palm. “You were making phone calls,” he said. “You dropped these. You didn’t bother to pick them up. Why? Were you frightened? Of what?”

  Marco was shaken, but anger sparked within him, driving back the fear. “I didn’t notice I’d dropped anything,” he lied. “It was cold. I was in a hurry.”

  The blond man stepped closer to him, too close. The dark man moved closer, too, so that he was caught between the two of them.

  “Why did you call the police? The FBI?” the blond man asked.

  Marco didn’t allow his gaze to waver. “I didn’
t.”

  The blond man smiled again. “The calls were logged. We know from which phone they were made and when. We know you used that phone. You called about Montana. Why? What do you know about him? Did he bring the black man here?”

  Marco’s chin jerked up defiantly. “I made some calls from Ernie’s because my phone wasn’t working. That’s all.”

  The blond man stepped to the telephone and picked up the receiver. He dialed “O” for operator, listened a moment, then hung up.

  “The phone works fine,” he said without emotion.

  Marco clutched the back of the couch more tightly. “It didn’t last night.”

  The blond man gave Marco a pitying look and shook his head. “You know more than you’re saying, Dr. DeMario. I’m afraid we’ll have to make you cooperate.”

  He sighed and gave the dark man a significant nod. Before Marco realized what was happening, the dark man seized him, pinioning his arms painfully behind his back.

  His shoulders felt wrested out of joint; he thought his fragile bones would snap. His pulses beat so furiously they rattled his body, and he wondered if he would have a stroke.

  “Careful, Santander,” the blond man cautioned. “He’s old. Don’t hurt him—yet.”

  These men aren’t police, Marco thought dizzily. These men are outside the law.

  Torturing an old man was a subtle art, Hepfinger thought.

  You didn’t want to kill him before he talked. Nor did you want him passing out or going into a coma. Such things were counterproductive.

  So, for a while, Hepfinger used only psychological methods. He simply let DeMario sweat it out, let him wonder what was going to happen.

  Hepfinger could tell that the old man knew plenty; he could see from his reaction to the Mobil envelope.

  Hepfinger told Santander to restrain Marco, to keep him quiet while Hepfinger made a brisk search of the house. In his search, he found four things of great interest.

  In the old man’s bedroom were twin beds. One was rumpled and looked recently slept in, the other was neatly made.

  When Hepfinger drew back the sheets of the made bed, he saw a large bloodstain on the mattress, its color still darkly fresh. He smiled, knowing the blood was probably Jefferson’s. He remade the bed, more tidily than before.

  On the glassed-in back porch, he found more bloodstains, a trail on the floor between the outside door and the door into the kitchen. The blood had seeped into the unpainted wood too deeply to be scrubbed away.

  Upstairs he found a room that must have belonged to the old man’s grandson. Hepfinger knew from his sources that Montana had been boyhood friends with this youth, Michael Kominski.

  The room was like a dark, musty shrine, as if the old man had tried to stop time here. It looked as if he’d kept the boy’s every possession, no matter how trivial.

  And finally, under a dust ruffle of a bed in what seemed to be the guest room, Hepfinger found a child’s toy. It was a small plastic lizard of bright yellow. He knew the twins had such toys. He smiled and slipped it into his pocket.

  He needed no more proof. They had been here, and the old man had helped them. He went back downstairs to confront him.

  “Bring him into the kitchen,” Hepfinger told Santander, and Santander half pushed, half dragged the old man to the kitchen.

  Hepfinger said, “Bring him to the sink. Put his hand on the cutting board. Palm up.”

  Marco struggled, but he was no match for Santander, who was tall, strong, and fifty years younger. Santander forced the old man’s hand onto the cutting board.

  Hepfinger opened drawers until he found the one that held the cutlery. He drew out the thinnest, sharpest knife.

  He put the point of the knife at the edge of Marco’s eye, and the old man went still, or as still as he could, for he was trembling.

  “The children were here,” Hepfinger said. “The black man was here. Montana and the woman, too. Yes?”

  “No,” Marco gasped.

  Hepfinger picked up a glass salt shaker from the counter, and he held it before Marco’s eyes. “The average house is full of implements of pain. Would you like me to cut off your eyelids? Pour salt in your eyes?”

  A tremor ran through the old man’s body, but he swallowed and said, in a shaking voice, “Fuck you.”

  Hepfinger laughed and shook his head. “Fool, they were here. I know it.”

  “They weren’t,” Marco said, almost panting. Hepfinger gave Santander a resigned look. Santander had Marco’s right arm twisted behind his back, his left hand held down by the wrist on the cutting board.

  Marco had made a fist, but he had little bodily strength, and Hepfinger could pry his fingers open as easily as if they belonged to a child. He crushed the fingers against the board, leaving the palm naked, exposed.

  “If the black man wasn’t here,” Hepfinger asked. “Why is the mattress of the bed downstairs stained with blood?”

  Marco’s fingers twitched beneath Hepfinger’s. “I had a nosebleed. In the night. The air’s dry in winter and I—”

  Hepfinger raised the knife and brought it down, driving it through Marco’s palm, pinning the hand to the board. He kept the knife there and he twisted carefully, first to the left, then to the right.

  “The black man was here,” Hepfinger said. “I know it. There’s blood on the back porch, too.”

  Marco’s face had gone white and his knees sagged. Santander kept him standing upright.

  Marco looked dazedly over the tops of his glasses at Hepfinger, and the expression in his eyes should have been supplicating. It was not. “Another nosebleed. I get them.”

  “The truth,” Hepfinger challenged. “I want the truth. The children were here, too, weren’t they?”

  “What children?” Marco asked.

  Hepfinger drew out the knife and set it neatly aside. He put his hand in his pocket, drawing out the plastic lizard. He took the lizard and forced it, headfirst, into the wound the knife had made.

  Marco started to cry out, but clamped his mouth shut, strangling the sound in his throat. He stared at his impaled hand, the red blood welling around the yellow lizard.

  “If they weren’t here, what’s this?” Hepfinger asked, twisting the lizard. “Look, old man, you’re crucified on a child’s toy. Now the truth. Where did they go? Is the black man with them?”

  “I don’t know,” Marco said, his voice breaking. “The toy—it’s my great-nephew’s.”

  Hepfinger seized him by the jaw, squeezing hard. “I’ll peel your cock and balls, old man. I’ll pour salt on them. Tell the truth.”

  Marco kept his gaze fastened on Hepfinger’s. “The black man died,” he said. “That’s the truth.”

  Hepfinger slapped his face. “That’s a lie. The black man didn’t die. Where is he?”

  “They were taking him to somebody’s home. Upstate. To leave him there.”

  “Where?” Hepfinger squeezed his jaw again.

  “I don’t know,” Marco gasped. “They didn’t tell me.”

  “Where did he take the woman and children?”

  “They didn’t tell me that, either.”

  “Money. What were they doing for money?”

  “I d-d-don’t know,” Marco stammered. “They took all I had.”

  “How much?”

  “F-f-five hundred dollars. Five hundred and twelve. It was all I h-had.”

  Hepfinger said, “What were they driving?”

  “I—I don’t know. I don’t know cars. It was black.”

  “Where’d he get it?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. I was a prisoner in my own house. I did what they said, that was all.”

  “Hepfinger,” Santander said, “he’s bleeding a lot. He’s bleeding on your shoes.”

  Hepfinger swore softly and stepped aside. Marco’s wound seemed to be bleeding exorbitantly. Hepfinger picked up a dishtowel and thrust it at Marco. “See to yourself,” he said. “Stop the bleeding. Santander, get more towels. I don
’t want to leave tracks.”

  Santander let go of Marco and backed out of the kitchen. Marco sagged against the sink, holding his hand over the drain, the blood coursing through the dishtowel. His mouth was twisted, his nose was running, and his glasses were askew.

  He managed to turn on the water, but the flow from the tap didn’t slow the bleeding, only turned the water a dark orangish-pink. It swirled, gurgling, down the pipe.

  Marco gave him a strangely cold sideways look. Hepfinger didn’t trust that look. He would have stepped to the old man, slapped him again, but he didn’t want to dirty his shoes.

  “You better not be lying, old man,” he said. “I can skin your fingertips, your cock, your balls, cut off your eyelids.”

  Marco gave him another cold look. “Horseshit,” he said. “I’d die of shock.” He turned back to watching his blood flow down the drain. He shook, yet seemed suddenly to be eerily calm.

  “What?” Hepfinger demanded. “Stop the bleeding, you old fool. You’ll bleed to death.”

  Marco drew back the towel and stared at the blood coursing from his wound. “You’re finally catching on, aren’t you, Einstein? I’m taking Coumadin, an anticoagulant. This blood won’t clot. Nossir.”

  A rage seized Hepfinger so intensely that it momentarily dizzied him. “You’re taking an anticoagulant? Then why do you drink, you ass? Did you want to kill yourself?”

  Marco shuddered and kept watching the pink-orange water sluice away. “It wasn’t a big concern.” With the fingers of his good hand, he parted the wound so it bled even more profusely. He barely winced as he did so.

  Hepfinger couldn’t help himself. He stepped into the blood, seized Marco by the shirt, spun him around, and backhanded him across the face.

  Marco’s glasses flew off, his lower denture was knocked from his mouth, and he fell back against the counter. He also began to bleed from the corner of his mouth, not a trickle, but a steady, bright flow.

  “Imagine” Marco said thickly, giving Hepfinger a crazy, bloody smile. “You were going to teach me about pain. Do you think pain scares me? My God. My God. You don’t know anything about it. Amateur.”