Cruel Mercy

by David Mark

  McAvoy looks at the old man with the hearing aids and the spectacles and wonders how much blood is on his hands. He looks as though he is floating in a wine vat full of it.

  “You want me to know you’re dangerous?” asks McAvoy. “I already know that. What I want to know is what’s between you and Father Whelan.”

  “He’s my friend. An old friend.”

  “And I bet he knows all your secrets,” says McAvoy.

  “I can think of no safer place for them,” says Pugliesca, and he drops his head back to the task at hand.

  “That’s your lot, Ronnie,” says Savoca, nodding in the direction of the stairs.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” says Alto, and it isn’t clear whom he’s speaking to.

  McAvoy stands. His whole body is rigid and his hands are clenched. Alto has to tug at his sleeve before he starts to move. He crosses the restaurant, stamping toward the stairs. Before he leaves, he glances back over his shoulder and catches a last glimpse of Savoca. He’s staring into space, one eye closed in concentration.

  “You’re fucking dangerous,” whispers Alto as they climb the stairs and begin to accelerate. “Fuck, we don’t talk to them that way.”

  “I was polite,” says McAvoy. And then, with a tiny smile: “You should meet my boss.”

  “She’s tougher than you?”

  “She’s tougher than Pugliesca.” He stops halfway up the stairs. “You believe that, about the catapult?”

  “Sure. It’s one of the stories people tell about him. Why? You don’t believe him?”

  “How do you believe a liar about anything?” asks McAvoy.

  “I’d love to visit your planet,” says Alto, shaking his head. “Are they all like you?”

  McAvoy smiles and breathes out, releasing a breath he feels like he’s been holding for half an hour. “No,” he says. “Not a soul.”

  “That’s a relief.” Alto smiles. “Anyways, how was all that for you? Feel like you’ve had a genuine New York moment?”

  McAvoy says nothing for a moment, chewing on his thoughts. He cocks his head at Alto. “You’re very cozy with them,” he says flatly. “And he offered to reward me. Was that what you promised him? Is that what you think I am?”

  They emerge onto the street and Alto leans back against the wall of the restaurant. His breath gathers on the gray air. “No,” he says. “Not for one second. But it makes him feel like a somebody to make those kind of offers, and if playing to his ego gets us some of his time, I’m willing to use that. I’ve never taken a cent from him. For all of his talk about our friendship, who do you think it was that leaned on the suits to get me sent back to the Seventh? The second I got close to anything useful, it didn’t matter how respectful I’d been.”

  McAvoy rubs his jaw with a noise like a match being struck. “Did we actually learn anything?” he asks quietly.

  “Savoca knows nothing,” says Alto, puffing out his cheeks and sighing. “He’s all muscle. All anger. If Pugliesca sent Luca up there to kill your Irish boys, he might have done so without telling his father. The question is why. And why use the son of your closest ally? He might be playing a game we can’t even fathom.”

  “But Molony. Father Whelan.” McAvoy looks so frustrated, he seems about to stamp his foot like a giant in a nursery rhyme. “I’m more confused than before I went in.”

  Alto gives a tired laugh and pushes off from the wall, deliberately walking in front of a Korean couple who are taking photographs of the building’s front, immortalizing its glass and neon, all vibrant green and red.

  “Welcome to my world,” says Alto, disappearing onto Broome Street with the air of a man who does not know which burden will break him first.

  McAvoy stands still for a moment. He doesn’t really know what to do next. Doesn’t know which of his fears to concentrate on.

  He follows after Alto like a man with nowhere else to go.

  TWENTY

  Since meeting Trish Pharaoh, McAvoy has got good at standing behind smaller people and looking menacing. He finds it easiest to simply clear his mind and look a little confused, and somehow this translates itself into an intimidating posture and daunting expression. He does it now, staring at the small Latin-American woman behind the counter of the deli and feeling like a hundred different types of shit for doing so.

  “I don’t want to cause you trouble,” says Alto, looking as reasonable as he can. He’s leaning on the counter, hands squashing the candies and cookies in front of the cash register. “You’re the last person whose day we want to spoil. You’re good people. You’re the sort we need more of. Hell, we’re all immigrants originally, right? But there are people who’ll make all kinds of fuss and I want to spare you that, I really do. And all you have to do to avoid that is give me the keys.”

  “I can’t,” says the lady fiercely. “He’s an angry man. He shout at me before.”

  McAvoy senses that there are people behind him, watching the exchange from between the towering shelves of produce. His skin is prickling.

  “This man here,” says Alto, gesturing at McAvoy. “He’s come a long way. He’s looking for somebody important in his country. There may even be a reward.”

  McAvoy can see the old lady weighing it up. She’s plump, with pleasant skin and large brown eyes. He imagines she has a nice smile, though he has yet to see it. She doesn’t deserve this. The deli she runs with her husband is the gateway to a squat brown apartment building that can only be accessed through the store’s delivery bay or the locked door tucked discreetly beside the tattoo parlor next door.

  “I’m very sorry to do this to you,” says McAvoy, breaking character and gently moving Alto out of the way. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Perhaps if you left the keys on the counter and then when you looked again they were gone . . .”

  McAvoy can feel bile rising in his mouth. He hates breaking the rules. Feels like his nose is going to bleed every time he goes against regulations.

  The lady closes her eyes and a moment later she leans over. “One, two, five, nine. That’s on the keypad.” She looks at Alto. “You got lucky, understand.”

  McAvoy gives her a look of genuine thanks and Alto winks at her as they leave the deli and emerge back onto Avenue B. They are within spitting distance of St. Colman’s, not far from where Brishen and Shay were seen with Molony. They are about to let themselves into Molony’s home.

  “You sure you want to do this?” asks Alto, ducking into the alcove that houses the doorway to Molony’s apartment building.

  McAvoy’s mouth drops open in surprise. “You’re asking? It was you who suggested it!”

  Alto grins. He seems to be coming to life.

  McAvoy leans his back on the door, taking a deep breath. Above, the sun is losing its battle with the mounting gray clouds and the first soft flurries of snow are beginning to fall in large, fat flakes. They evaporate upon touching the ground, but it will not be long before an inch or two of fresh snow ornaments the gutters and sidewalks and further buries the cars that have been stuck in pack ice since last week’s blizzard.

  “One, two, five, nine,” says McAvoy, as if in prayer. He presses the buttons on the small keypad and there is a click as the mechanism gives. McAvoy pulls the door open and steps into the soft yellow light of the corridor.

  McAvoy was sitting in the passenger seat of Alto’s police-issue Honda when Alto’s friend Redding called him back to confirm that nothing had changed about Molony’s domestic arrangements since he had last looked into his life and been transferred for his pains. Molony still lives in an apartment building off Avenue B. He owns the whole thing and lets out three of the four apartments. He lives in the penthouse, which is also registered as a work space and the administration address for four different charities with Catholic affiliations. The other apartments are also registered as charitable organizations, administering fu
nds for the needy in far-flung places like El Salvador, Belize, and Namibia. McAvoy had expected to find a gleaming apartment building, bustling with well-meaning types in cardigans and sensible shoes, instead of a dilapidated building without a single nameplate by the door. Nobody answered when he and Alto rang the buzzers. Alto had tried the deli next door on a hunch, confident that Molony would have given his neighbors a key in case of emergencies.

  “This look like a charity HQ to you?” asks Alto, indicating a plain white door.

  McAvoy looks back and realizes he has left muddy boot prints on the hardwood floor. Something tells him he would be wise to wipe his feet. He turns and walks back to the front door and scrubs the soles of his boots on the rough rectangle of carpet. It moves as he does so and underneath, he finds a small ring of keys hanging on a key ring bearing the legend ST. ANTHONY SAVED ME and a tiny sketch of an old church.

  “You’ve got the luck of the Irish,” says Alto, grinning, as McAvoy holds them up.

  “That’s been said before. Let’s hope it lasts.”

  McAvoy selects a key at random and slips it into the lock of the first door. When it fails to turn, he tries again and the second key is a perfect fit. McAvoy opens the door to an empty apartment containing nothing more than gray air. An old-style telephone and answering machine sit on the dark cord carpet, the machine’s red light twinkling.

  Alto looks at his notes. “Looks like Saint Francis’s Blessed Relief of Nepalese Orphans is going through a quiet spell,” he says, shaking his head.

  McAvoy closes and locks the door behind them. They climb to the second floor and find the same setup in two further apartments. McAvoy is growing increasingly uneasy. He half entertained the hope that in one of these rooms he would find answers. Without being able to explain the thought as anything other than wishful thinking, he had even imagined finding Valentine—tied up and bruised but alive, grateful, and ready to go home. Instead, McAvoy senses he and Alto have stumbled onto something else entirely.

  “This is the one,” says Alto needlessly, indicating the door at the end of the corridor on the third floor. The door is more opulent than the others, a lavish creation of old wood painted a deep red. As he peers at it, McAvoy notices the subtle crucifix motif that has been artfully incorporated into the twisted wood. This is a work of art.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” says McAvoy, and picks a solid brass key from the ring. It slips into the lock and turns without effort.

  “NYPD. We heard shots. We’re coming in!” says Alto quietly, and when McAvoy looks at him quizzically, he shrugs. “It pays to be able to say that you said it.”

  McAvoy opens the door and has to force himself not to make a sound. He steps onto a solid marble floor that glitters as if carpeted with crushed diamonds. A Moroccan rug covers the expensive stone, perfectly matching the North African batiks that hang on the wall. The apartment is a colossal, open-plan space, and no expense has been spared in making it look fit for a photo shoot in a style magazine. The lounge area is a splendid concoction of oxblood Chesterfield sofas, chairs, and footstools, all set around a wood-burning stove framed by a mantelpiece that matches the old timbers of the door. A wicker basket full of pinecones stands on the tiled surround. Above, twisted chocolate-colored railroad ties give the ceiling the air of a mock Tudor mansion. A grandfather clock stands by the mahogany writing desk at the rear of the room, the colors clashing slightly with the patterned mauve rug that covers the floor. A large architectural blueprint of an old church hangs in a gold rococo frame. The living room leads into a kitchen that puts McAvoy in mind of a stately home, all wrought-iron hooks, hanging brass pans, and a huge black stove against red tiles. The place is spotless.

  “No TV,” says Alto, looking around for something to criticize. “And his books are all different shapes.”

  McAvoy follows Alto’s nod and looks in awe at the full wall of hardback books. They are the only things that have not been arranged obsessively. They are a pleasing jumble, piled higgledy-piggledy onto units that carry the same subtle crucifix motif as the door.

  “Eclectic mix,” says McAvoy, examining the spines of the books. “The Oxford Dictionary of Saints. Wicked Plants. The Complete Herbalist. Breverton’s Phantasmagoria. Harrap’s Illustrated Dictionary of Art and Artists. One Thousand Home Remedies. Stargazing for Beginners. Practical Homicide Investigation.”

  McAvoy picks this last, weighty tome from the shelf. The cover shows yellow letters on a black background, partially obscuring a headless corpse wrapped in crime scene tape. The book falls open to a picture of a Filipino man who has suffered a self-inflicted shotgun wound and whose features look the way a watermelon would if it had been driven over. McAvoy puts it back and pulls a face.

  “Interesting character,” says Alto, trying the drawers in the writing desk. “Writes with pen and ink. I reckon with a few candles he could see himself as a monk.”

  McAvoy crosses to the window. The venetian blinds are closed and he peers between the slats. The snow has started coming down in earnest, billowing in off the river like a plague of butterflies. The city looks as though it has been ripped into fragments and then scattered on the wind.

  “You can see Saint Colman’s from here,” says Alto, joining him.

  “And he’s been here how long?”

  “Bought the building in ’eighty-seven. Been here ever since.”

  “He came into some serious money, then.”

  “Or discovered a way to make it.”

  McAvoy nods, looking around again. Something troubles him. He stands in the center of the room and moves his head slowly from side to side, as if running his finger across a smooth surface and trying to find the crack.

  “Migraine?” asks Alto, playing with his phone. “I know a great girl for massages.” He stops talking and scowls at his surroundings. “Damn, if they’d just let me push. This guy is crooked as they come. Look at this place. What you think? You think I was right? Aector, you think I was right?”

  “Just a second, please.”

  McAvoy holds up a hand to ask, as politely as he can, for silence. He sucks on his lower lip, reading the room. Everything about the environment is tasteful, all perfectly matched. The entire space is organized to complement and flow. He crosses back to the hallway and squats down, looking at the mauve rug. Then he slides to the floor and looks at it from a fresh angle.

  “Listening for a train?” asks Alto.

  “Look,” says McAvoy. “The pattern isn’t symmetrical. And it’s fluffier here. It’s been scrubbed.”

  Alto lies down next to McAvoy. He lifts his amber glasses and looks closely at the floor.

  “That spray,” says McAvoy. He reaches out and rolls back the rug, looking at the reverse of the area that has caught his attention. “Blood,” he says.

  Both men stand, and without exchanging a word, they begin to consider scenarios. McAvoy pulls out his cell phone and begins taking pictures. In moments, he thinks he understands. He walks back to the doorway and lifts the Moroccan rug. It, too, shows discoloration to the rear.

  “He was bleeding when he came in. Dripping, but not spraying. And here,” says McAvoy, standing by the armchair. “Around here, they were struck.”

  McAvoy paces around the living room, wishing there were more. Concentrating, he is unaware that he is pulling his hair hard enough to hurt. He follows the path, looking for the final patch of discoloration on the rear of the rug.

  “There,” says Alto, and he indicates the basket of pinecones. McAvoy nods and begins to carefully lift them out one by one, examining each in turn.

  “You’re fucking joking,” says Alto, marveling, as something catches the light toward the bottom of the basket.

  McAvoy feels a cold weight settling in his gut. He takes the latex gloves offered by Alto and slips them on. He reaches into the basket and closes his finger and thumb around the nugget o
f gold.

  “Fuck,” says Alto, and this seems to cover his feelings on the subject.

  “Valentine,” says McAvoy, looking at the tooth that should be glinting in the upper row of his brother-in-law’s mouth.

  “You sure?”

  “I saw his dad knock the real one out,” says McAvoy without thinking. “He wasn’t even out of his teens.”

  “Fuck,” says Alto again.

  “I’m putting it back,” says McAvoy, and sweat begins to seep into his hairline and soak his back and shoulders. He is trying not to shiver. “You’ve got to do this right now, Ronnie. Come back with a proper warrant. Question him. Find out what happened—why Valentine was here and what he came for. Most importantly, where he is now . . .”

  Alto is nodding, his face coloring with the sudden burst of adrenaline. He pushes his fair hair back from his face.

  “This is bigger than I ever imagined. I don’t want any part of this. I’m just going to mess it up for you. But if you do it right . . .”

  McAvoy stops talking. He is staring hard at Alto’s slicked-back fringe. It is waving, as if on a breeze.

  “Do you have a lighter?” he asks.

  “Sorry?”

  “A lighter.”

  Alto nods and pulls out a Zippo emblazoned with a Jack Daniel’s logo. He hands it to McAvoy, who spins the wheel. The flame stands erect for a moment, and then drifts lazily to the right, like Alto’s errant strands of hair.

  McAvoy raises the lighter and begins to pace the room, looking at the flame as if it contains answers. Slowly, he moves closer to the bookcase.

  Alto watches, fascinated. He pulls a face as McAvoy begins pushing at shelves and pulling books from the wall.