A Black Sail

by Rich Zahradnik

Lucco brought him out of it. He was screaming, “Let’s go. Now!” He trained his piece on Taylor. He held the Eagles 8-track.

  “They’re all shooting.”

  “At each other. We’re going along the side yard to the back. Go around the back of the car.”

  Taylor obeyed and ran crouched to a fence alongside Lucco’s front lawn. For the first time in his life, he prayed for the bad guys—that they would continue to draw fire while he and Lucco made their break.

  They got to the cover of the house’s side and kept running. The fence, a little over waist high, ran through to the backyard. Two seconds. That’s all Taylor had to decide how not to end up inside Lucco’s house. And dead.

  He hit the brakes.

  Lucco ran right into him. “What the fuck?”

  “Somebody moved in front of us.”

  Lucco scanned the area with eyes and gun.

  That bought Taylor the two additional seconds he needed to grab the tape and dive over the fence. He was up fast and running to put trees in the neighboring backyard between him and Lucco. The mobster’s gun snapped after him. A leaf dropped off a bush. A small limb flew from a tree.

  That urged him on. He rounded a garden shed and threw himself to the ground.

  “You’re still dead!”

  Despite the threat, Lucco disappeared into the backdoor of the house. Didn’t matter. He could send others out.

  Taylor knew one thing. He’d end up dead no matter what if he continued to run around a neighborhood with a small war going on. The gunfire rose in volume, presumably as the three cars from the chase joined the battle.

  He pocketed the tape and circled to the far side of the neighbor’s house.

  He came up the side yard and called out to the three FBI cars. “Civilian. Don’t shoot.”

  Please don’t shoot.

  “Hands behind your head. Run to the back of this car. Now!”

  He did and was yanked behind the back bumper by an agent he didn’t know. Hands spun him and he faced Special Agent Gilly, also hunched out of the line of fire.

  “What in fuck’s name are you doing here?”

  “Lucco grabbed me near Collucci’s house.”

  Inside is near. Near as you can get.

  “We’ll deal with you later.” He pulled Taylor away from the bumper by his jacket lapels. “Stay low and go behind the NYPD line. Try and not get shot.”

  “But this is my story.”

  Gilly pushed him flat onto the street. “The fuck it is. It’s my case. Get. Back. There.”

  Taylor knew there wouldn’t be any more discussion. He scrambled toward an NYPD Emergency Service Squad truck and a pair of patrol cars, already questioning his decision to leave the backyard, where at least he could see some of what was going on. This was not the time to miss the action, not when the FBI had someone leaking info to Lucco.

  A burly sergeant in the NYPD’s elite ESS escorted him behind the truck. Taylor showed his press card. The sergeant wanted news.

  “The FBI has three cars—no, four—in front of the house,” Taylor said. “It’s a mobster named Nick Lucco. He’s got men inside. They’re shooting at each other, as you can hear. They’re shooting at each other a lot.”

  “Fucking feds. Didn’t tell us they were gonna blow up one of our neighborhoods until after the shooting started.”

  “Probably won’t make you feel any better. They had a car staking out the house.”

  “Shitheads.” He shook his head in what seemed grim understanding instead of dismay. “Won’t let us advance. It was almost impossible to clear the houses it happened so fast.”

  “Our nation’s mob busters.”

  A dark laugh. “Yeah, I watched The Untouchables too. That Gilly screamed at me when I tried to ask about my squad flanking the house. My guys are good. Not sure about his. Thanks for the intel. You need to head back to the main roadblock.”

  This sergeant was the kind of cop Taylor could talk to, the kind he could get a story from—already had a piece of one now. For that reason, and because he couldn’t see anything from behind the ESS line anyway, he walked farther up Polo Avenue.

  A regular NYPD lieutenant, angry in an officious way, made Taylor tell his story again. He got a lecture about interfering in police business.

  “Police business? The FBI didn’t tell you they were going in.”

  “Want me to throw you in the back of a car because I’ve got nothing better to do?”

  Taylor was again sent walking—toward the next intersection at Stadium Avenue.

  Like a magnet, the sound of gunfire pulled at him. The FBI leak was a huge loose end, and Gilly’s raid was an important part of Taylor’s story. He needed to see it to write it. Gilly’s decision to keep the NYPD out of the assault could end up being an important angle. Taylor knew who killed the Colluccis. It all led to this. His gut said there was something more here. He had to get the facts to back up his gut.

  More police cars sat at the intersection where Stadium crossed Country Club Road. This segment of Stadium Avenue, the top of a long rectangular block with Lucco’s house now at the lower right corner, was a no-man’s land between roadblocks. Taylor stopped in front of a two-story cedar shingled house with a Falcon wagon in the driveway. An aluminum-sided ranch twice the width sat next to it. Between them, through the backyards of the houses lining Polo Place and Country Club Road, Taylor could make his way back to the scene.

  Walk away from a story? Wasn’t going to happen.

  A cop at the barrier waved at him to keep coming. He yelled something.

  Instead, Taylor ran up the driveway of the ranch. As he did, two cops left their posts at the roadblock and sprinted toward him.

  He charged past a swing set and met the first fence, this a barrier of tall, pointed pine slats. He had a feeling there were going to more fences. Gripping the cross plank on the other side, scrambling with his feet, he got over, his crotch barely clearing one of those nasty points. He landed, splinters stinging his palms. He took precious seconds to unsnap the ankle holster, pull out the .32 and drop it in his jacket pocket.

  More swings. A clothesline. A far easier chain link fence … and he hit the ground light and ready for the next yard, which was clear of obstacles and fenced in more wonderful chain link.

  Growling.

  A dog.

  Of course, there had to be dogs. A massive German shepherd stood rumbling with a car tire at its feet. This thing played with an actual car tire. Taylor took off. The dog left its toy and chased him to the fence, snapping and snarling the whole way. Taylor vaulted and fell, rolling awkwardly in the kind of tumbler’s roll you’d do if you’d never tried the move before.

  On his feet, Taylor panted, his hands on his knees. By his rough count, he still had seven or eight backyards to go.

  The next fence—low, wood, and red—made Taylor wonder what a fence said about you and your neighbors here in Country Club. Something from a poem? If so, he’d blanked it out because of his father.

  Quiet in the direction of Stadium Avenue. Maybe the cops had decided not to run the obstacle course. He jogged through the next yard, which had a birdbath with a bubbling fountain in the middle.

  A shick-click noise. A particularly gun-like shick-click. “What are you doing in my yard, young man?”

  Taylor slowly turned from the fence to find a fat man in a T-shirt and plaid Bermuda shorts. He sat on his back porch. He had a six-pack at his feet and a shotgun in his hands.

  “I’m a reporter.” Taylor raised his hands. “I can show you my press pass.”

  “What’s a reporter doing in my backyard?”

  “Trying to get to the story.”

  “You’re an idiot, young man.”

  “You’re still here.”

  “Lived in this neighborhood forty years. Right next to these goombahs. Cops want to take them down. Fine. I’m not leaving my home. Don’t care much for the press either. If you wanna get your ass shot off, fine. Just get the hell out of my yard.”


  Taylor carefully climbed the man’s fence, another beyond, and jogged to a redwood job with an easy ledge on top. Right as he was as high and visible as he would get, Taylor turned to see the two uniformed cops climbing a fence three behind him.

  “Police! Stop now!”

  He leapt off the redwood ledge and tumbled onto his back.

  A high-pitched growl.

  Of course, there had to be more dogs.

  Three feet from his head, upside down, stood a cocker spaniel a quarter the size of the German shepherd. Taylor rolled onto his hands and knees and stood. The growling stopped.

  The dog jumped, latched onto Taylor’s pant leg and shook with real ferocity. The growl restarted, climbing to a high horror-show whine, like the dog was losing control.

  Taylor shook it off his pants and made for the next fence.

  The spaniel closed the distance fast, this time sinking its teeth into Taylor’s left calf. He yelled in pain.

  “Stop, or we will shoot.” Both cops we’re coming over the fence into the yard Taylor was trying to get out of.

  Whether it was because it had already drawn blood or it saw there were two others invading its territory, the spaniel released Taylor, ran in one manic circle—this dog was insane—and went straight for the cops.

  Taylor half scrambled, half crawled over the fence and slumped to the ground. He’d never make it past the next barrier in time, even though it was chain link. Or outrun the cops should he get beyond it. His calf screamed from the bite. If the cops got him now, it meant arrest, interviews, and he’d be out of action for hours, longer if they got nasty and stuck him in holding or put a charge on him.

  Where to hide? This yard offered a picnic table, clothesline, and an aboveground pool. He limped fast as he could to the far side of the pool and hid his gun and Bridget’s tape under a bush.

  Can’t believe this is my best plan.

  A cop yelled in pain from the spaniel’s side of the fence.

  Taylor boosted his rear onto the edge of the pool—and teetered toward the water. The splash would end his night. White-knuckle gripping the edge and pulling, he steadied himself, swung his good leg around and in. Then he brought the injured one up, and slowly, quietly slid into the water, which was warm from the hot summer days. He lowered himself until his chin touched the surface.

  A yelp from the other side of the fence.

  “Shit, Kapinski, know what happens if we hurt a dog? Worse than shooting a civilian. The dog people are crazy.”

  “Don’t care. This one is fucking crazy. Kicked him to get him off. See? He’s up and okay. Let’s go before he attacks again.”

  The first blue uniform cap approached the fence.

  Taylor took in one deep breath, a second, and ducked slowly underwater. Down around his ankle, red leaked into the water, becoming a pink cloud and dissipating. The red kept coming and kept disappearing. Maybe the chlorine will kill any bacteria. Yeah, right. He’d need more treatment than a pool. All because of psycho spaniel. The pressure from his lungs as they became impatient for air. Taylor figured—prayed—the cops would decide he was still going. He pictured them crossing the backyard—a real pang for air—and climbing the fence. Problem was it was chain link. They’d see him immediately if he surfaced. He needed to wait for them to cross two backyards. The pressure became pain, a demand he open his mouth and gasp. Even if he sucked in water.

  Cops must be halfway across the next yard.

  Need to surface.

  Now at the fence.

  Hold on.

  Climbing it.

  Can’t wait.

  Count. One. Two. Three.

  Despite the desire to explode upward, he slowly stood and sucked in air through mouth and nose with as little noise as possible.

  The cops were gone. Out of the pool, his wet clothes stuck to him. The breeze off the sound set his teeth chattering. He shoes squished. His calf burned. If anyone saw him now, they’d definitely think he was guilty of something. Or crazy as the spaniel. He must be. He was going through all this to get close to a gunfight, and he wasn’t on anybody’s side. More importantly, no one was on his.

  He put the revolver back in his pocket, hoping the jacket wasn’t too wet to cause a problem. He pushed the 8-track tape farther under the bush. He’d come back for it.

  The cap-guns-that-can-kill odor of the gunfight caught at the back of his throat. The crackle of fire rippled along the yards. The FBI still hadn’t taken the house.

  One thing in his favor: the cops were in front of him now, chasing him when he was chasing them. Actually, avoiding them. He needed to take it slow and easy, stay alert and focused. Yeah. That, and avoid insane dogs, gun-wielding homeowners, cops, feds, and mobsters. The dangerous parts of the Bronx down south were called the Wild West. The cops worked at a precinct named Fort Apache. Not tonight. One of the few remaining nice neighborhoods had gone combat zone.

  So far, he’d used the backyards of the houses facing Polo Place. To be extra safe about the police, he went over a low back fence to travel behind the homes on Country Club Road. The route blessed him with no dogs. However, landing off a high fence sent an invisible knife into the wound, which throbbed with his heartbeat. Folks on this side had cleared out fast. Bikes and toys in the middle of a driveway. A basket of laundry on its side. Two chair-side cocktails untouched. It was like an end-of-civilization movie he’d seen on Creature Feature. Couldn’t remember the title. All the people gone. Their stuff left where they’d dropped it. Except today lacked a monster in a rubber suit. The monsters here looked like everyone else.

  He edged around another aboveground pool and came up on the rear of Lucco’s house. He jog-limped to a tree and peered at the slice of the street he could see between the two houses. There was a lull in the gunfire, and after several quiet minutes, the FBI agents burst from behind the cars, firing as they ran at the house.

  The back door swung open and Lucco ran out. He crossed Country Club Road and went straight down a driveway.

  Same trick I used.

  Taylor rose from a crouch, trying to decide if the story was running away or inside the home.

  Wonderful. More fences. More dogs.

  Taylor went after Lucco.

  Chapter 25

  Taylor didn’t face the gauntlet he expected. The block Lucco cut through was a small square, rather than the long rectangle he’d tackled. All the houses backed onto each other and the path went straight through the middle, requiring one climb over the intersection of four fences. Once through, Lucco dashed across Country Club Road, ran alongside the small campus of some private school, and turned left out of sight. Taylor followed, coming out on Eastchester Bay with City Island across the water. He couldn’t lose Lucco. Not now. Adrenaline pushed him on, helping with the burning pain. Either that, or he was running through the pain because he had no other choice. Whichever, he’d pay later. From a couple of quick glances back, he knew no one was following yet.

  Lucco ran ponderously along the narrow bit of land between the school and the water. Eastchester Bay, flat and quiet in the light of the setting sun, contained a collection of small boats—a lot of pleasure craft, some for fishing. Their running lights, already on, stretched from the bay to where the East River met Long Island Sound.

  The tink, tink metal-on-metal noise of boats tied up.

  Taylor pushed on. A stitch sewed itself into his side. He puffed hard and fast, ribs aching, already winded and desperate for a break. Half running was harder than running. Moving right along the water, Taylor passed three large houses facing the sound. Seaside living in the Bronx. He strained to hear the rippling pops of the guns behind him. Nothing. Too far away? Or had the house been taken?

  Lucco continued into a small inlet, mud-like sand on its narrow beach. Perhaps the biggest houses in the neighborhood faced it. Saltwater and pungent seaweed, a day-at-the-beach fragrance—nice if Taylor weren’t chasing a murderer. The sand was exhausting to run on—more like through—and
when it caused his left ankle to twist even a little, the dog bite caught fire. His squishing wet shoes made the going even tougher.

  Lucco got to the bottom of the little inlet and turned to check his rear. The sight of Taylor sent him into a prone position, aiming the handgun.

  Taylor dove into the sand so fast he ended up with grit in his teeth. He pressed himself into the beach, tried hard to become a part of the sand itself. Two shots from Lucco. Both misses. He snatched a quick glance across the beach. He didn’t want to find the mobster’s big feet pounding toward him so he could do a better job at close range.

  Instead, Lucco ran from the inlet between two houses and up onto another street and turned right out of sight again. Where the hell is he going?

  Taylor groaned as he got to his feet, sand stuck all over his wet clothes. He ran as best he could to the gap between the houses, his .32 now drawn. He peered low around the corner of the house on his right, gun up. No one.

  He was limping by the time he made the end of the driveway. To the right, where Lucco had gone, he expected more open water. No. Instead, a sign, docks, buildings. All sorts of boats tied up. Lucco had disappeared somewhere in there. Taylor forced himself to jog, and grimacing, came under the sign. Spever’s Seaplane Base and Marina.

  Perfect. Two ways to escape.

  Streets he could navigate. Subways he could navigate. Waterways were to be driven over or under. Docks to be avoided at all costs. That wasn’t his lot this evening.

  The sun behind him glinted off the water. The marina wasn’t small. There could be a hundred or more craft at slips, ranging from small sailboats to powerboats and cabin cruisers. A few looked like dinghies; he couldn’t imagine going out more than 100 feet in one of those. Check that, he didn’t want to go out in anything tied up here.

  Two seaplanes sat at the tops of ramps on the land designed to let them roll into the water. Two more floated on their pontoons, looking awkward in the way skiers did when they weren’t going down the mountain.

  The sea breeze across his wet clothes brought back the shivering, which had stopped while he ran. There wasn’t any point in trying to brush off the sand.