The Strangler

by William Landay

  “So Capobianco ordered the hit on my old man? Why? What did he ever do?”

  “Look around you, you d—dumb fuck.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Gargano sniffed. He turned his head slowly. “You’re standing in money. These people are making fucking millions. Fortunes. Fortunes.”

  “What’s that got to do with Capobianco?”

  “It’s his money.”

  And finally, by degrees, Michael saw it. He saw it. Gangsters not just working construction but doing the strong-arm work to clear the neighborhood for demolition, roughing up the holdouts, rolling up the lame and the halt and the stubborn—work that could take months, even years if it was left to the government. Delinquenti, Mrs. Cavalcante had called them. They say, “You gotta go, Mrs. C, you gotta go. It’s not safe for you here no more.” Capobianco had deployed his troops to evacuate the West End. That some of the soldiers happened also to be policemen was an incidental fact. Cops had acted like gangsters because they were gangsters—they were on Capobianco’s pad, paid to protect his interests. It all made sense only if Capobianco had an investment in the West End, because Charlie Capobianco didn’t do anything, didn’t even cross the street, except for money. He worshiped money as only a truly poor kid would. He wanted this project built, by any means necessary, and for reasons that had nothing to do with some fatuous fantasy of a New Boston. Charlie Capobianco did not give a Chinaman’s fart about Boston, new or old.

  “How much does Capobianco have invested in all this?” Michael asked.

  But Gargano was weakening. He lay flat on his stomach and his torso moiled about in the mud. His jaw chewed the air a moment until words came out: “I—I can’t breathe. I need a hospital.”

  “You’re not going to any hospital.”

  Gargano looked up at him with an expression of spite which softened, second by second, into spiteful submission.

  “How big a piece of this did Capobianco take?”

  “The fuck should I know?”

  “What did it have to do with my father?”

  “Conroy said—Conroy said he was gonna blow it up.”

  “Blow it up how? My father wasn’t the type. He never squawked about cops on the sleeve before.”

  “He wanted out. Said he didn’t work for Capobianco, didn’t want the money. They asked him to do some things; he said no. Didn’t want to go any further. All of a sudden he don’t want to go any further? Shh! After all those years he took Mr. Capobianco’s money? Now he’s gonna blow it all up, this chiacchierone? Nobody was gonna let that happen. If Daley had went and ratted about cops on the pad in the West End, or Mr. Capobianco having his fingers in the West End, he would have took down this whole thing. What politician is gonna stand up for a buildin’ owned by Charlie Capobianco? And everybody wants these buildin’s to go up. Everybody. The city, the feds, the developers. Too much money to stop it. Too much fuckin’ money. Your old man was like you: wasn’t smart enough to keep his fuckin’ mouth shut.”

  “And Amy?”

  “What Amy?”

  “Amy Ryan. The reporter.”

  “Oh. Whatever. She was gonna write it. Loved crooked-cop stories, this fuckin’ bitch, that’s what Conroy says. Course Conroy didn’t give a shit about nothing except himself anyways; he just didn’t want her writing his name in the papers. That piece of shit wouldn’t last a week in Concord without his badge. So he comes back and says we got to clip her, too. Otherwise she’s gonna spill the whole thing in the newspapers, and, y’know, prob’ly the whole project gets stopped. So we did. We hit her too. No choice.”

  “Who…killed her? All the things they did to her?”

  “That was Conroy’s idea. Dress it up like the Strangler, he said. He gave us all the details, all this shit we were supposed to do, tie a bow around her neck, whatever. He knew the newspapers’d go crazy for it.”

  “And the broom handle? Conroy did not give you that; the Strangler never did it. Whose idea was that?”

  “Mine.”

  Michael nodded, accepting this boast. The sadistic indifference of it.

  He hefted the sledgehammer again, patiently. The hammerhead was cast iron, barrel-shaped. Its weight pulled Michael’s arms into a rigid V. Together with the dangling hammer they formed a Y, and the Y rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. A nerveless energy began to build, fed by the rocking and the vision of Amy crucified on her bed.

  “And Joe, my brother? What’d he do? He told me he was helping you. Why kill him? He was already on your side, you already had him.”

  “You can’t have a cop know that much about your business, see it from the inside. Longer it goes, the bigger the risk. Whole thing was crazy. Someday he’d have burned us. End of the day, a cop is a cop. He woulda woke up, someday. He walked away with too much of Mr. Capobianco’s money anyways. He was lucky he stuck around as long as he did. Dumb shit.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I even know Joe’s really dead?”

  “Bullet in the forehead,” Gargano said. “Check it out, you’ll see. Third eye—keep the other two shut.”

  “And the gun?”

  “You just threw it over there somewhere.”

  Michael surveyed the massive pit. The chilly gloom. The forest of piles rising overhead. This place was not part of the city, he felt. It was not part of the earth.

  Gargano tortoised forward on his elbows a few inches before laying his head back down, exhausted. “My throat. I think you…”

  “Why in the hell,” Michael said, “would Capobianco put his money in this? Since when is he in construction? What does he know about it?”

  “Nothing,” Gargano said. “But he runs a cash business, and he can only put so much on the street. He’s got to put it somewhere. He needed a legit investment, a big one. You know how much cash he pulls in? More than you can imagine. Your dad was a cop? Pff, believe me, you can’t imagine.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s so much fuckin’ money, the state’s gonna start up its own lottery. You believe that? All these years the government tries to get Capobianco, then they turn right around and go into the numbers business. That’s how much money is in it.”

  “And Sonnenshein, how much does he know?”

  “Sonnenshein doesn’t know shit. The money’s invested without Capobianco’s name on it, through a trust or whatever. Capobianco always owns things through trusts so the feds can’t take it.”

  “So why’s Capobianco interfering? He’s already invested. Why not just watch the project go forward?”

  “With that much money riding on it? You don’t know Mr. Capobianco. He don’t take those kind of chances. He’s gonna protect his investment. These buildin’s are goin’ up.” Gargano faltered. He coughed, then spat in an intricate way. “Mr. Capobianco don’t bet. That’s the secret. The book never loses, only the suckers.”

  Another fit of racking coughs tossed Gargano’s body. When it was done he lowered a thread of drool from his mouth until it adhered to the ground, like a spider launching a filament out of itself.

  Michael laid the hammerhead on the back of Gargano’s head.

  Gargano shook it away and dragged himself a few inches.

  Michael rested the hammer on Gargano’s head again.

  Gargano began to snort in angry dumb protest.

  Michael tamped twice, lightly, as if setting a nail in a board before driving it in.

  Out front a cruiser and an unmarked car, a detective’s car, were double-parked.

  A uniform cop stood guard at the front door, one of the bulls from the nearby stationhouse. He looked Michael up and down.

  “This is my mother’s house,” Michael offered.

  “Go on in.”

  Michael was no stranger to police uniforms, of course. Monkey suits, Joe Senior had called them. Still, in the presence of this uniform Michael hesitated.

  “You okay, sir?”

  “Yeah.”

  The cop o
pened the screen door for him.

  And so it would go, Michael thought. There would be no reckoning for what had happened in that pit. No one would ever know. Because Michael was wearing a uniform too: clean khakis, a clean button-down shirt. (He had stopped at his apartment to wash up and change clothes.) To all appearances he was a grieving brother and a dutiful son. Not a murderer at all. What had he expected this cop to see?

  Inside he found Margaret and Kat in the living room and he bent to kiss them. Kat’s eyes were red rimmed, her complexion splotchy. Little Joe sat stone-faced, absently turning a penknife in his hand. Michael bent to kiss him, too, though the teenager did not move to offer his cheek so Michael lightly kissed the crown of his head, with its brush of short soft hair.

  “Where’s Ricky?” he asked quietly.

  “In the kitchen,” Margaret said.

  “Is he okay?”

  “Why don’t you go ask him?”

  Michael nodded. They didn’t know what he meant; that was his answer. Ricky had not been hurt. Even Ricky had no idea what had gone on in the pit. Michael alone knew everything. How close Michael had come, how close.

  He drifted into the kitchen, where Ricky leaned against the counter, arms folded, speaking in murmurs with Tom Hart.

  Hart, seeing Michael’s blank expression and apparently misperceiving the shock of a victim there, came across the room to lay a consoling hand on Michael’s shoulder.

  Michael flinched at the contact. “Sorry, Tom. Hurt my shoulder the other day. Still a little sore, I guess.”

  Ricky’s eyes narrowed.

  Hart spluttered awhile about how sorry he was, he didn’t have all the right words, Joe was a heckuva guy, just a heckuva guy, and he didn’t deserve a goddamn thing like this, and of course it wouldn’t bring Joe back but they were going to find the guy who did this thing if it took the rest of Hart’s goddamn life.

  Michael thanked him. There was a silent moment during which Michael wondered again whether the detective could sense something was wrong.

  “I know it’s a terrible time,” Hart said tentatively. “I hate like hell to do this, you know. But you know how these things go, Mike. The first few hours, you know.”

  Margaret drifted into the kitchen, then Kat. They knew what was coming, they’d been through it already. Margaret crossed one arm across her belly, and with the opposite hand she covered her mouth, as if she knew, as if she already knew, what Michael was going to say.

  “You know how I feel about the lot of you,” Hart was saying. “You too, Mike. But I’m on the job, you know.”

  “It’s okay, Tom. Ask what you got to ask.”

  “Okay. Okay, then. You know the question, Mike: Is there anything you can tell me about what happened to your brother tonight?”

  Michael felt a little grip in the muscles of his jaw.

  “Anything at all?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure, Michael? Sometimes the smallest thing—”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “What about the thing we talked about, Amy Ryan and—?”

  “Alright then, Tom,” Margaret broke in, “you got your answer. You don’t need to give him the third degree.”

  Hart hesitated. A policeman’s wife would not be surprised by the questions. He glanced back at Margaret then at Michael.

  But Margaret insisted. “It’s been a hard enough night for everyone. Just let us alone now, Tom. This is a family time. I’m sure you’ve got a long night ahead o’ yuz, too.”

  Hart held Michael’s eyes in his own for a long moment. Then: “Yeah. Okay, I’ll leave you folks alone. I’m sorry, you know, I’m real sorry for your loss. I guess you’ve had your share.”

  “Thank you, Tom,” Margaret said. “You go on now and do your job.”

  “We’ll keep a cop out front, Margaret, just in case. All night, if you want.”

  “Go.”

  From the kitchen door Margaret watched the Homicide detective let himself out. When the Daleys were safely alone, she went to the sink to wet a dishrag. She came to Michael’s side, draped the towel over her index finger, and wiped Michael’s neck below the right ear. Inspecting the towel, she frowned, then showed Michael a red-brown smear. “Is this what I think it is, Michael?”

  He nodded.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “It’s not mine.”

  Next morning.

  The ground trembled under Michael’s feet. Vibrations entered the soles of his shoes and shivered his legs, his trousers, his testicles.

  “Hey!” a construction worker shouted to make himself heard through the concussed air. “Hahd hats only!” He pointed at his yellow helmet then jiggled one upturned thumb: Get lost.

  Michael gave him a friendly little uncomprehending wave. Just a dumb-ass lawyer with his coat flipped over his shoulder, shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows. Just some dumb-ass enjoying the spring morning and the sunshine and the spectacle of a pile driver.

  That gorgeous pile driver! The clocklike regularity of its movements. The slow ascent of the dropweight, a little hitch, then the weight released to ride down a chute and crash into the I-beam. Each blow rammed the massive pile a few inches farther into the ground. Each clang rattled in Michael’s ears and sent those tuning-fork shivers up his legs. All night, he had worried the corpse would erupt out of the ground the moment the pile driver began its work. He had envisioned the construction stopped, the site teeming with cops. But here it was. Not a cop in sight, nothing out of place. Workers shuffled about, came and went—with no idea what they were really doing. Which was this: they were ramrodding the body of Vinnie “The Animal” Gargano down into the earth forever.

  Michael fantasized the dead man under the bottom of the pile, speared, pinned to bedrock. The truth, no doubt, was not so picturesque. Boston does not sit on bedrock like New York; the subsoil in Boston is mostly muck. The body would roll with the soil’s turbulence or grind along the side of the I-beam. But those were technicalities, mere facts. Who cared? In Michael’s mind, the building would foot down square on Vinnie Gargano for a hundred years.

  Yet for all that, on the morning after, Michael still did not feel much of anything about Gargano. Certainly not remorse. Gargano was dead—murdered, alright; call it what you want—but he wouldn’t be missed or even remembered. Someday, no doubt, Michael would forget, too. He would forget the jet of blood that splashed him like warm bathwater, he would forget the way the corpse rolled willingly headfirst into that deep hole. Someday, Michael would gaze up at Farley Sonnenshein’s completed white tower, silent as a pyramid, and it would not seem strange that a man lay underneath it. We are promiscuous forgetters.

  At Margaret’s house, they would be waiting for him. Another family meeting, another wake and another funeral to plan. Well, let them wait a while more. Joe would have understood: You do not bury your dead until the battle is over.

  Before leaving, Michael took a deep contented breath. When had daylight ever looked so clear, or the sun felt so fine as it reached through the morning chill to warm his forehead? When had this grubby old city ever looked so rare? The priests, of course, would inform the Daleys that Joe had gone on to a better place. But a morning like this, Michael thought, gave the lie to the sanctimony of priests. Lay out a priest on his deathbed, let him feel the danger approach, its wings beating close, and watch how he fights.

  Charlie Capobianco glared. “You believe this guy? Are you threatening me?”

  Michael shook his head.

  “Hey, you speak American, you fuck? I asked you a question. Are you threatening me?”

  “No. Sir.”

  “You come in here, to my place of business, and give me some story about I got money in this thing, and I did this and that in the West End, and to top it all off I had your brother and your father killed—and you’re not threatening me?”

  “No.”

  “Then what in the fuck do you want?”

  “I’m asking you to let us out. My b
rother Ricky and me, the both of us—just let us walk away. That’s all we want.”

  They were in Capobianco’s shabby Thatcher Street office. Michael sat in a vinyl chair. Charlie Capobianco stood nearby, glowering, chin tipped up. Charlie’s brother Niccolo listened from a couch nearby. Consigliere Nick was keeping his distance, in both senses.

  “What are you shakin’ for?” Charlie said.

  “I’m not shakin’.”

  “You are. I see you. You get all this from Gargano?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why would he tell you anything?”

  “He was hurt. Maybe he thought he was dying.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “He was hurt pretty bad.”

  “Who hurt him?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Ah, fuck Gargano. He can take care of himself. But you can’t fuck me, hear me, Paddy? Your brother owes me money. He took those stones. He’s gonna pay me my fuckin’ money.”

  “He says he didn’t take them.”

  “He can say he’s a fuckin’ elephant—doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  “He says he didn’t take them.”

  Capobianco sat down next to Michael and leaned in close. His breath had an eggy stink. “Why would I do this for you, some Paddy off the street? I don’t know you.”

  “You let us out, you keep your money. I’ll take the whole story to my grave.”

  “I could make that happen sooner than you think.”

  “I’ve made arrangements. A reporter has the story, someone I know, in case I go to my grave any too soon. If that story comes out, you’ll lose all your money one way or another. A grand jury’ll find it. It doesn’t matter how you invested it, how you kept your name off it. They’ll open up those trusts and find you. The pols’ll probably stop construction, too. Either way, the money’s lost. It’s more than me and Ricky are worth. All you got to do is just let us out. Sir. Just let us out.”

  From behind Michael, Nick interjected, “Okay. You’re out.”

  But Charlie Capobianco, the boss, was not quite finished. “What kind of guy are you, Paddy? You come in here and tell me I killed your brother, your father, but still you’re willing to make deals.”