It was nearly 1:30 A.M. by the time Nick reached home. Kathy had parked the station wagon right in the middle of the driveway, so he had to park in front of the house. She’d left a night-light on, more to discourage prowlers than to help him find his way in the dark. The house felt empty. He remembered that Peter wasn’t home but looked into his bedroom anyway. The sleepy old dog, Woof, head resting on the pillow, grunted softly without really waking up. The other dogs were flopped out around the house. They all knew his step; no one had to go out.
Nick shared his glass of milk with the oldest of the family cats, a gray part-Siamese with pea green eyes. She sipped carefully, then washed herself and disappeared. No one really knew where she slept. She was the mysterious one of the group.
Kathy wasn’t good at faking sleep. She breathed too regularly. He touched her foot lightly, shook it gently, and she didn’t respond. Nick took a hot shower, then looked in the mirror when he brushed his teeth. He wondered what Laura saw when she looked at him.
He remembered the first time he knew he loved Laura Santalvo. He was eight; at his father’s funeral. She and Richie listened when he told them he and his mother were moving in with his O’Hara uncle. Sure, he’d see them. He’d come back and visit.
Richie, heavyset with a wise-guy face even at nine, put his arm around Laura’s shoulder and gave a squeeze.
“Don’t worry about Laura, Nicky. I’ll take good care of her.”
Laura stepped down on Richie’s foot, so hard he doubled over in pain and shock.
“Like hell you will.”
Then, she took Nick’s face in both her hands and kissed him full on the lips. She was eight years old, but the kiss was a helluva lot older. Nick didn’t get kissed like that again for a very long time.
He turned out the light and started for Peter’s room for an automatic last check, then remembered. He felt his wife’s body tighten slightly when he got into bed beside her. When he touched her shoulder anyway, then the back of her neck, she pulled further away.
Nick rolled over on his side. The hell with it.
CHAPTER 8
PETER WATCHED WITH ADMIRATION as the muscular, sweating men carried the massive platform on which the statue of San Gennaro, patron saint of Naples, had been placed, amid flower arrangements and candles and an assortment of holy relics and items. They moved slowly through the crowd, not stopping, just slowing a bit, as people pushed forward to slip five-and ten-and even twenty-dollar bills into whatever crevice they could find. If a bill dropped underfoot, it was a given that it would not be pocketed, but picked up and placed with the saint.
Sonny had told him that San Gennaro had been a humble priest in Naples who doubted his ability to turn wine and bread into the blood and flesh of the Saviour during mass—until one day a miracle took place, and he never doubted again. Even though most of the people at the celebration weren’t Neapolitans, many not even of Italian heritage, the event had become a New York tradition of which few in attendance knew the origin.
Everything involved in the festival was traditional. Every single booth lining the way of the procession had been contracted for months ago. No one could sell so much as a hot dog without paying for the right to do so. All the food, in all the booths—the meats and pastas, breads, cakes, cheeses, wines—came from designated suppliers. Each supplier paid a fee for exclusive rights. The San Gennaro generated a great deal of money; a small amount went to the charity for which it was conducted. A great deal went into other hands that had nothing to do with charity. But what the hell. The wine was good. The food was excellent and the air was filled with marvelous fragrances and the noise of happy people.
Tourists ate too much, walked around a little, then ate some more. Their kids were splattered with sauce, their mouths rimmed in red, and though their bellies ached they pleaded for the original, incredible, tangy lemon ices sold nowhere else in the United States.
Peter was slurping his second lemon ice cup and was ready for a third. His cousin took him by the arm and led him away from the crowd.
“Look, kid, I gotta meet a guy over in Chinatown for a coupla minutes.”
“Chinatown? Where’s that?”
Sonny jerked his chin. “Not far, a coupla blocks away. You wanna pick a spot, I’ll be back here, ten, fifteen minutes tops, okay? Get yourself a cannoli, something, ya got money?”
“I’ve never been to Chinatown, Sonny. I’ll go with you, okay?”
The older boy narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. “Yeah, okay. But listen up. I gotta meet a coupla chinks, we got a little business to take care of. Now, here’s the thing, Petey boy. This is strictly between us, right? Can I trust you to keep quiet, this never happened? Like, we never left the Gennaro until we headed home, right?”
For a minute, Sonny thought his cousin was going to hold up his hand in the Boy Scout pledge. He ruffled his hair; he was a good kid, if a little dumb.
They hadn’t gone more than four or five blocks. The noise and music from the San Gennaro could still be heard, but it was as though they had entered another world. On all the stores and shops, signs and legends were written in Chinese. Peter was amazed that anyone could actually make sense of the beautiful symbols. It was like an ancient world. There were restaurants one next to the other; open food stalls; real estate offices; travel agencies; bail bondsmen; pool halls; meeting rooms. There were people of all ages, single and in groups, moving along the sidewalks, spilling into the gutter, stopping to look into a window, to handle merchandise. There were medicinal shops displaying charms and dried vegetables, roots, animal parts. There were modern bookstores and video shops.
Sonny suddenly brought him to a stop. Then he jerked his chin toward a narrow alley.
“You stay right here, outside. I gotta see these kids for a minute.”
Sonny entered the alley, then came back out. He looked tense, angry. “They want you to come with me. Lousy chink bastards, they don’t trust nobody. You keep your mouth shut, ya don’t see nothin’, hear nothin’, capice?”
Peter started to ask a question, but his cousin stopped him. “Hey, dummy up. We’ll be two minutes, then we are outta here. And it never happened, right?”
There were four rail-thin Chinese boys, in their teens. Everything about them was tense. Peter glanced at them, surprised by their hostility.
Sonny reached into his pocket and took out a few bills. He put his hand out and the tallest of the Chinese snapped his fingers. More. Much more.
Sonny smiled, a tight, unpleasant expression.
“Hey, you gimme what I’m buyin’, I pay for the whole thing, right? No games, you little weasels, ya not gonna screw around with me. You know who I am?”
The shortest, but obviously the leader of the Chinese, moved closer. “Fuck you and fuck who you are. You try to stiff me like you done with other guys, you don’t be around to talk about it to no one no more.”
Sonny put his money back in his pocket. He reached inside his jacket for a moment. The boy who had spoken pushed his hand against Sonny’s chest. In a single moment, guns appeared, and were fired at Sonny, who had instinctively pulled back. He was hit in the stomach.
Peter O’Hara, who hadn’t moved, was hit in the center of his forehead.
He was dead before he hit the ground.
CHAPTER 9
AT THE END OF the 8:00 to 4:00 p.m. tour Monday, Nick and Eddie planned to spend at least an hour catching up on the paperwork that had accumulated since they had been stuck on the surveillance assignment. They handled the papers mechanically and without interest. Four or five squad guys were checking out the roster, catching up with telephone messages or just shooting the breeze.
A uniformed patrolman, young guy with a shiny new look, stepped into the squad room as though he had no right to be there. Someone waved him in, and he asked for O’Hara.
Nick and Eddie looked at each other. Neither one of them knew the kid. “Yo, I’m O’Hara. Wadda ya got?”
“Detective O’Hara? You’re
wanted in the captain’s office. Right away, he said.”
Nick nodded to the young cop, who took off after a hungry look around the room.
Nick told Eddie not to worry. “Hey, if I did something, don’t forget, we’re partners, right? I’ll include you in for your share, good or bad.” Then an afterthought: “Wait for me, you’re my ride home tonight.”
Nick tapped on the captain’s door, and it was opened immediately. Captain Nelson touched him lightly on the shoulder, stepped back into his office with Nick, and closed the door behind him.
There stood Deputy Inspector Frank O’Hara. Just standing there, his face expressionless but his complexion noticeably pale. A flash went through Nick: Oh, Christ, he’s gonna ask me something about the party. Who was there? What did I hear? Oh, shit.
As he took a step toward his uncle, Nick remembered the last time he had seen Frank look like that. Drained of all color, even his lips pale. Eyes glazed and narrowed. He took a deep breath.
Someone was dead. That much Nick knew.
“Frank, what?” And then, “Frank, who?”
His uncle said one word.
“Peter.”
CHAPTER 10
THE HOURS FOLLOWING THE murder of his son became a videotape forever spooling through Nick’s brain. Some of it would come back in startling clarity: a segment-by-segment recollection of faces, voices, sounds, gestures; of locations, smells, light and darkness. Of sensations: panic, terror, anger, madness, sorrow, helplessness. But mostly, it was a feeling of unreality—this all happened to someone else.
He remembered inconsequential things: Frank leaning forward and touching the uniformed driver to slow down; no need to speed through traffic lights.
The thought flashed through his head as they entered the hospital: Good, St. Clare’s. That’s the cop’s choice; always insist they take you to. St. Clare’s, no matter what. He noted there were a lot of uniformed cops, milling around aimlessly. Glancing at him, then looking away quickly.
Then he was in a small consulting room, staring down at a doctor who seemed too young to shave.
Nick rubbed his hand roughly over his face as he listened to the words.
Head wound.
He knew about head wounds; they said instant death.
He understood that. What he couldn’t understand was what the fuck any of this had to do with his son, Peter.
His cousin Richie burst into the room. He looked like a crazy man. He was yelling, pounding his chest, the walls. There was blood on his knuckles. His wife, Theresa, came alongside him and watched as two of Richie’s men came, led him away. She looked over her shoulder at Nick, reached out, without touching him. “They’re gonna give Richie something to quiet him down. Nick, God, Nick, I’m so sorry. Sonny … he’s in surgery.”
She turned and followed her husband.
Then he was in some patient’s room; there was a bed over by the window. Frank roughly drew the curtain across the slide and ignored the woman’s weak voice: who? what?
Frank spoke quietly. “The kids walked over to Chinatown, Nick. After the San Gennaro. They walked right into a shootout between two street gangs. Sonny took two in the gut. Peter … in the forehead.”
There were so many questions, but he couldn’t seem to form the right words. Instead, he said, “Take me to my son.”
They walked down a corridor and Frank stepped back knowing there was no way to stop him, no point.
“He’s in there, Nick. Want me to go in with you?”
Nick didn’t answer. Frank waited outside.
When he opened the door, a nurse quietly left the room.
There on a long bed, covered from his waist down, his head resting on a small pillow, his arms resting alongside his body, was his son, Peter Nicholas O’Hara. Aged twelve, no longer going on thirteen.
His face was very smooth. The freckles on his cheeks and nose were very pale against his even paler skin. His lips were parted slightly and Nick could see a glint of teeth. Someone had combed his hair. It looked damp. They must have used water. But they got the part wrong. Nick reached up and tousled the heavy dark hair.
There was absolutely no expression on Peter’s face: the way he looked when he was sleeping and between dreams. Waiting for something, but not anxious. But there was, of course, a difference. His face seemed made of finely carved stone.
In the center of his forehead, near the hairline, was a small, nearly black circle. Some splatter of powder burns. He hadn’t been dead very long. There was no obvious swelling of the head yet.
That was a cop’s observation, not a father’s.
Christ, this is my son. Nick reached over and picked up one of Peter’s hands, so cold. Couldn’t they at least have given him a warm blanket? Even as he thought it, he knew it was irrational. He brought his son’s hand to his mouth, trying to warm the fingers; the way he did when they were out in the snow, when he was a little kid, didn’t want to go inside, lips turning blue, warm my hands, Daddy, blow on them.
He leaned over, tried to warm Peter’s face, with his hands, with his lips. His mouth tasted nothing of his son: just cold cold cold.
Frank O’Hara wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders and Nick didn’t have the strength to resist.
They sat alone in a small room somewhere. Waiting for Kathy. Suddenly, it occurred to Nick.
“Christ, Frank. She’ll think it was me.”
Frank shook his head. “Your aunt Mary went to her, with Father O’Rourke. I sent Eddie Manganaro up in a car. They’ll be here soon.”
And then, “Tell her it was me. Oh, God, let it be me and not the kid. Not our son.”
Nick had seen people in shock. They reacted in a hundred different ways. He’d once seen a guy who had been tossed through the windshield of his car in a head on, get out, blood streaming down his face, eyes staring, and start complaining in a whining voice about being late for his goddamn dentist appointment.
Kathy, in shock, was very calm and steady. Her voice was clear and she spoke carefully as she pulled back, not allowing his embrace.
“Well, are you satisfied now? Has he experienced enough of his heritage to suit you?”
His aunt Mary shook her head; don’t pay any attention. Later on, Kathy would swear she didn’t remember saying that, would be horrified that she had. If she said such a thing, God knows she didn’t mean it. But the words had come from the deepest part of her brain, and had pierced the deepest part of his.
When his grandfather arrived, Frank O’Hara left them alone together. The old man was straight as a board. He put both hands on Nick’s shoulders, and spoke from experience.
“It is a terrible thing to lose a son. A child. The worst thing that can happen to a man.” Papa knew.
Nick nodded and wondered, Was this it, then? Finally. The worst thing.
He didn’t remember his grandfather leaving; hardly remembered his being there. There were so many people, in and out of the small room; guys from the precinct, friends from their town, asking, What could they do? How could they help?
Nick heard a nurse ask if a cop had been shot, there were so many uniformed cops. Someone told her it was worse. A cop’s kid.
Finally he found the room where Richie had been checked into for observation, and asked they be left alone. Richie leaning sideways in the bed, half-dopey, pulled himself up.
“Jesus Christ, Nicky, Jesus Christ.”
Nick began a slow, methodical series of questions. He had to know the sequence of events.
Speaking slowly, his words slurring from time to time, Richie told him: the kid got tired of the fair; Sonny mentioned that Chinatown was only a coupla blocks away, so he took the kid to see it. Peter couldn’t believe the place; he was all over, looking at the windows, the people … Then there was a fight of some kind: then, pop, pop, pop, four kids shooting at each other. And then gone. That’s all. Peter on the ground; Sonny moving toward him, not knowing he’d been shot himself.
Richie started to cry again and Ni
ck waited him out. Witnesses? Jeez, Richie didn’t know—ask the cops. There were a couple of dicks outside—did Nick know them?
He found Frank, who directed him to two detectives from the Seventh Precinct Detective Squad. One of them was familiar; he ignored their condolences and got down to questions.
Witnesses? Gang affiliations? Were the kids wearing gang jackets, headbands? Weapons? Who was working the neighborhood? Did they have a good Chinese American investigator? Would they take him to the location—
It was Ed Manganaro who convinced Nick he had other priorities right now. He promised Nick he would keep right on top of the investigation. Everyone assured him. But it really didn’t seem to make any difference at all.
CHAPTER 11
IT WAS AMAZING HOW little Kathy needed him. She took over all the terrible details involved in the death. She selected the funeral director. She picked the coffin, telling the salesman she was not interested in the most expensive one. She knew all the bullshit involved in funerals and he’d better back off.
Nick stood by, nodded agreement for whatever she planned. She scarcely noticed. Peter was to be buried next to his O’Hara grandparents.
She arranged the funeral service. Peter was carried by six of his friends: young boys with strong shoulders and hurting eyes. The mass and service were simple.
Kathy chose just the right people to speak and she trusted them to say the right thing. Peter’s best friend—a goofy-looking, fast-talking boy named Patrick Riley—someone Nick never would have asked, spoke last. Kathy knew what she was doing. Patrick spoke so beautifully, in a voice so moderated and careful, that Nick cried for the kid’s strength in spite of his pain.
Nick could hardly get through the prayers; Kathy took his arm when he started to ramble and firmly brought him back on track.
After the funeral, everyone but his grandfather and Theresa went to Frank’s house for food and for talking. Nick heard laughing, the kids getting a little loud, nervous when they spotted Kathy. She approached them, touched a cheek, ruffled a carefully combed head of hair. She gave a quick squeeze, a hard hug. Not letting them feel alone, or that they weren’t acting properly. She told them that any way they felt was okay.
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