“Lieutenant, that man and his crew hear of things we can only dream of. If he gets a lead, I’ll take it.”
“All I need is a reporter getting wind of this.”
“Don’t worry,” Mazzetti said.
“All right, I gotta go. Remember to write that report.”
“I’ll drop it off, or send it back with Carol.”
Kate came back a few minutes later. She looked sick, and she looked as if she’d been crying. Alex had seen those red, puffy eyes before.
Lou jumped up and rushed over. He held up his hand for Alex to stay put, but he got up and followed anyway.
“What’s new?” Mazzetti asked.
“Nothing. He’s still in surgery. It shouldn’t be taking this long. It must be real bad.”
Nothing again. Alex held back tears, but at least now he knew what to do. He slipped away, out the door and down the hall to the outside entrance. He found a quiet spot, pulled out FD’s cell, and looked up the number. It rang six times before someone answered.
“What’s up, Bugs? How are things in New York?”
“Is this Mr. Fusco?”
“Who’s this?”
“My name is Alex.”
“Alex…You live with Frankie, right?”
“Now I do. FD told me that if anything ever happened I was supposed to call you.”
“Is something wrong with Bugs?”
Alex tried stopping his tears, but couldn’t. He cried. Hard. “He got stabbed. Some dude stabbed him and…I don’t know if he’s gonna make it.”
“Where is he?” There was panic in Nicky’s voice.
“They took him to the hospital.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the hospital now. I came outside to call you.” He started sobbing again. “He’s still in surgery. He’s been in there for hours. Kate said it isn’t good.”
“Can you tell me which hospital?”
“I don’t know the name, but it’s close to our house.”
“Okay, Ace, I know which one.”
“You know my name?”
“Bugs always talks about you.”
“Yeah, he talks a lot about you, too. Calls you ‘The Rat.’”
Nicky laughed. “That’s me, ‘The Rat.’” There was a pause, then Nicky said, “Did they catch the guy who did it?”
“They didn’t catch anybody. They don’t have a clue who did it or even why.”
“How do you know this?”
“I hear the cops talking. They all keep coming to the hospital and talking to FD’s partner. And all they keep saying is that they ain’t got nothing.”
“When did this happen?”
“A couple of hours ago.”
“I was talking to him as he was getting home. This happen at home?”
“I don’t want that guy coming back, Rat.”
“What guy?”
“The one who stabbed FD.”
“You saw him?”
“I was in the apartment when it happened, but he didn’t see me. I was under the bed.”
“Okay, listen up. You’ll probably be at the hospital for a while yet. And don’t worry, the bad guy won’t come there. Besides, Kate will keep you safe.”
“Reason I called you was because FD always said you got things done, and nobody up here seems to be gettin’ anything done.”
“I try.”
“So you comin’ up, Rat?”
“I’m comin’ up. Won’t take me long.”
“You gonna get the guy who did this?”
“Ace, you are going to have to worry about a lot of things in life. Catching the guy who did this to Bugs is not one of them. Whoever did this will pay.”
“Thanks, Rat. I knew I could count on you.”
“You hang in there. I’ll see you soon.”
“Okay.”
“Alex?”
“Yeah.”
“One more thing. Don’t tell anyone I’m coming.”
“I know how to keep my mouth shut. Don’t worry about that.”
CHAPTER 31
Bad News
I grabbed my gym bag and went to the basement, to the back, behind the oil tank. There was a small block wall around the tank to hide it, and help with the noise. The blocks were twelve inches wide, and hollow. One of them wasn’t cemented in. I moved the one aside, reached down the hole and got my gun—a Beretta, 9mm—and put it in the bag along with a few extra clips. I didn’t know what I’d find in New York, but I didn’t like being unprepared.
As I crossed the dining room on my way upstairs, Angie came in the front door carrying Dante. She had been visiting neighbors.
“What’s the gym bag for?”
“Bad news, babe. Bugs is in the hospital, in bad shape. Somebody stabbed him.”
“Are you going up there?”
Her voice had a worried sound to it, the kind of sound a mother makes when she knows her kid is about to do something wrong.
I set the bag down and hugged her, though it was tough while she was holding Dante. “I have to. For God’s sake, he might die.”
“It’s that bad?” Concern replaced the worry in her voice.
“Alex said he’s been in surgery for hours.”
“Alex is the one who called?”
“Yeah, he had Bugs’ phone. Christ, Angie, he was in the apartment when it happened.”
“The guy stabbed Frankie in his own apartment?”
“That’s what Alex said.” I grabbed my bag. “Hey, babe, I have got to get going,” I said, and headed upstairs.
I grabbed some pants from the closet, a belt, pair of shoes, and tossed them all on the bed. I shoved a disposable razor and some Q-Tips into the toiletries bag, along with toothpaste and floss. It landed next to the shoes. Next I climbed up, reached through the door to the attic and pulled down a bag. I kept my “special” hat in there, the one rigged to hold a derringer. I put that at the bottom of the gym bag. As I washed my hair, Angie came in.
“What are these binoculars for? Are you going bird watching?”
“Nothing, Angie.”
“And what’s this for?”
I heard her, but I couldn’t see what she was talking about. “What?”
She tossed a towel to me. “I said, what is this for?”
Her tone had grown demanding. I dried my hair and looked. She was holding my gun.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You’re going to New York to visit a friend in the hospital and you need a gun?”
I walked past her to the dresser, pulled three pairs of underwear out of the drawer, grabbed a few pairs of socks and a few shirts. “Don’t worry.”
“‘Don’t worry.’ That’s all you can say?” She grabbed my arm and pulled me to face her. “For thirteen years I waited for you. I didn’t mind the ten years in prison. It was the three years after you got out that bothered me. And you tell me not to worry…” She started to turn away, then, “It’s not just Rosa who hears the tales about you, Nicky. Why do you think my friends don’t come by? I pray every day that people will forget it all by the time Dante is old enough for friends. But now…” Tears formed.
I hugged her. “Angie, I’m serious. Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything.”
“You can show me that by leaving the gun here.”
I tried to come up with something to say, but nothing sensible came to mind. “I have to take it.”
“I don’t understand. If you’re not going to use it, and I have nothing to worry about, then why do you need it?”
“I just do.”
“I just do isn’t an answer. Would you take that answer from Rosa?”
She was trying to drag me into a fight I couldn’t win, and she was doing a damn good job of it. “This has nothing to do with Rosa.”
“You’re going to hunt this guy down, aren’t you? Why don’t you let the police do their job? Frankie’s a cop. They’ll put all of their resources into finding the man who did this.” She let loose the tears
and grabbed hold of me. “Nicky, I cannot lose you again.”
I squeezed her. “That’s not going to happen. I promise.”
“What if you get killed? What will Rosa and I do? Who’s going to raise her, walk her down the aisle?”
“Angie…”
“What if the cops find that gun on you? I know it’s not licensed.”
“Listen, I—”
“And what about your job? You can’t just leave without notice. What’s Joe going to say? Who will do the estimating while you’re gone?”
“The same people who would do it if I got sick. Things like this happen. People get sick. People have emergencies.”
“I know what you’re going to do. You’ll go to New York and hunt this man down. And then you’ll kill him.”
I pushed her away from me. “There is no way I’m going to kill anyone. I’m going to visit Bugs. I’ll probably be sitting with him in the hospital room most of the day. What I’m not going to do is kill anybody.”
“Then leave the gun. Or don’t go.” She had her this is final voice going strong.
I grabbed her by the shoulders. “Angie, I love you more than anything in the world, but Bugs is in trouble. I have to go.”
“If you go to New York with that gun, then pack a big bag. And don’t come back.”
CHAPTER 32
Cantaloupe Girl
The killer took great pains to calm himself. He thought about the day and what had happened. It had not been a particularly busy day, though he had plotted, arranged, and put everything in motion to do away with a cop. The killer corrected himself—to do away with a detective first grade. A significant difference, though to the cops who worked at police headquarters there wasn’t. They all bled blue.
The killer thought about what the cops would be doing: Combing every square inch of Donovan’s apartment, searching for clues; tracking down leads from junkies and whores; and following up on every clue from anyone who would talk to them and whisper a possible lead in their ears. The killer had nothing to worry about. Even if they did find his DNA, he was safe. Now he was free, though he had thought of doing something to attract their attention. Maybe he should do Cantaloupe Girl tonight. Hmm. Must give that some thought.
As he ate a piece of fruit, he decided. Yes, now is the time to do it.
After dinner he put on his blue jogging suit, and tucked the gun into his pocket. He hadn’t yet decided on how to do Cantaloupe Girl, but he’d certainly be taking his time with her. No rush job.
The killer jogged most of the way to her apartment, casting a sideways glance toward her window as he passed. The shades were open and the lights were on. She was home. Maybe she’d forget to close them and give him a peek of something sweet. And sour. Twice more he went around the block, each time checking to see if she made an appearance. On his third pass he saw her on the street, walking toward the café with another woman. She smiled at two guys walking down the street. They looked gay. Still…she had no business smiling at them.
It made him want to take her now, do things to her that would make the Marquis de Sade blush. The killer breathed deeply, held it for thirty seconds, then exhaled in a slow, controlled fashion. Then he opened his eyes, quickly searching for her. Where…ah, there she was. At the first break in traffic he crossed the street, coming up behind her. Catching up required a slight increase to his leisurely pace, but nothing to worry about. He had plenty left. Enough to satisfy her, that was for sure. His thoughts again turned to what he would do to her when he got her alone. He decided he might take a ride on the Hershey Highway. She would probably like that.
Cantaloupe Girl and her friend sat outside near the sidewalk, close enough so the killer could smell her perfume as he passed by. He made sure the hoodie covered his head so she didn’t recognize him. He breathed the scent in—peach blossoms. It suited her well. He liked peaches and chocolate.
A grocery mart across the street provided a good place to watch from. He parked himself outside the door and waited. They were preparing to close, but she shouldn’t be long. A TV was playing inside. He heard something about Donovan. He grabbed a bottled water and set it on the counter.
“Was that about a cop?” he asked.
“Some friggin’ lunatic stabbed a cop today. The guy who’s been working those murders. What the fuck is wrong with people?”
The killer shook his head. “It’s not safe out there; I know that much.”
“Tell me about it. Last summer my niece got raped on her way home from school. Fifteen years old!”
She was probably begging for it. “Fifteen?”
The guy nodded. “Never caught him either.”
The killer couldn’t wait any longer. “The cop that was stabbed, did he die?”
“Not yet. They said he’s in critical condition.”
A lump built in the killer’s throat. He had to wait a moment for it to clear before he could speak. “I hope he’s all right. We can’t afford to lose a good cop nowadays.”
“I’m with you, buddy.” He looked at the water bottle. “That it?”
“Yes.”
“$3.82.”
The killer handed him a five and waited on the change. “I imagine they’ll be searching everywhere for the guy who did this.”
“Bet your ass on that.”
“See you around,” the killer said, and walked out.
Cantaloupe Girl was gone. But that was all right. He had other things on his mind now. What was he going to do about Donovan? He looked at his watch. It was getting late. Cantaloupe Girl could wait till another night.
CHAPTER 33
Back To New York
I hated leaving this way. I couldn’t take it when Angie was upset. Made my stomach churn and my head hurt. I felt tense all over and I lost all my patience—what little I had. But in this case I had no choice. As much as I loved Angie, I had to be there for Bugs. We had been friends since we were little kids, before school. Even before cigarettes, and that was a long time ago.
I hopped on I-95 and headed south toward the Delaware Memorial Bridge, opting to take that route through Jersey; it would have less traffic. The bridge had a lot of history to it, but the only thing I remembered was that it opened up a quick route to Wildwood, the best beach and boardwalk in all of Jersey. Hell, all the world for a teenager. Summer nights on the boardwalk were like heaven. If only we could go back.
I shook the daydreams off and focused on what I had to do. New York wasn’t far and the Jersey Turnpike made it an easy drive, but I couldn’t afford to speed. If I got caught and some wise-ass cop decided he needed to check my car, my ass would be back in prison. No way was that happening.
After crossing the bridge I headed north. Two hours and I’d be there, barring traffic. It would have been nice to detour through the backwoods of the Pine Barrens, but I had no time for that. Besides, they held memories for the old days, and the old days were gone. The Pine Barrens was where you buried people, where you disposed of guns and anything else that needed to disappear. And it was a popular spot, open to any of the guys from Philly, Jersey, or New York. Between the three it amounted to a lot of bodies.
As I thought about the Pine Barrens, I thought of my first gang fight, the one in the woods. Our woods weren’t all pines, but for a city kid it was all the same. Only when we got older did we notice the differences in the oaks, maples, hickories, sycamores… When we were kids they were just trees with leaves. During the fall we could identify the oaks because they dropped acorns and we used those for acorn fights. Their sharp points on the end hurt like hell when pelted on bare skin.
I thought of all the fun we had as kids. Bugs, Tony, Mick…all of us. If I was going to be honest, it hadn’t been all fun; in fact, it hadn’t been much fun. Mostly trouble, fear, and hard times, but we made the most of it. The most of it! What a joke. Mick and Tony dead, and Chinski. And Paulie off in hiding. Now Bugs stabbed.
“Fuck me twice.”
Stabbed. I thought about knives and
the kind of people who used them. It brought back memories of the old days, back when we thought gang fights were cool. Of course that was before we’d actually been in a gang fight and before any of us had gotten hurt. Before Mick was killed.
I still remember the first one. We were fighting Hedgeville, a bunch of Polacks who’d done something to piss us off. I don’t even remember what. Back then it didn’t have to be much, anything could spark a fight, and once a fight got going, it usually escalated into a gang fight even if it started with only two kids.
As we headed toward the fight that night my gut began to ache. My stomach churned as if something alive was inside it clawing to get out. The closer we got the worse it got. I swung my chain, picked up my step.
“Gonna kick some ass tonight,” I yelled, afraid my fear was showing.
A chorus joined me, to a man, but I knew they were as scared as I was. Maybe more. I never liked knives. I preferred the butt end of a cue stick or a chain. Give me either one against a guy with a knife any day. The truth was, knives weren’t all they were cracked up to be in gang fights. They looked scary and could be intimidating, but if someone had a knife and was up against a chain or a club of any kind, they were in trouble—unless they were an expert at throwing knives and making them stick. But most people took a 50/50 shot if they threw a blade, probably less. And if that knife didn’t stick in just the right place they were in deep shit. Even in close situations, a coat or shirt wrapped around the left arm served as good protection against a knife. They were mostly for robbing people who weren’t armed. Worst of all, carrying the wrong kind, which was the only good kind to use in a fight, could get you arrested. That’s why we always carried chains and cue sticks—neither one was illegal.
My phone rang. “Hello.”
“Nicky, it’s Joe.”
“Hey, boss. I tried getting you earlier.”
“What’s up? You need something?”
“I’ve got an emergency. I have to go to New York, but I shouldn’t be long. Maybe two days. Three tops.”
The pause felt strained. “Have we got anything urgent that needs attention?”
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