The Price

by Joseph Garraty

  I sat in my customary seat by the bar, ordered a Coke. I’d taken about two sips when Lazzaro came in. The guys waved again, this time with more enthusiasm. I understood that. I’d gotten made by doing something horrible, unnatural, and it made the guys uncomfortable. Lazzaro, though, he just did what they’d all been doing for years. He was one of them now.

  “Long time, Frankie,” one of the guys said.

  “Been busy. You know how it is.”

  “I wish. Then Joey’d stop bustin’ my balls.”

  Laughter all around. The guys went back to their card game, and Lazzaro wandered over to the bar.

  “Jimmy,” he said. “Ain’t seen you around much.”

  “I’m here every day. Where have you been?” The words just fell out of my face—I wasn’t actually sure I wanted to know.

  He flashed a grin at me. “Busy. I told you to call me, didn’t I?”

  I didn’t remember. Maybe he had.

  “Tomorrow night,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at your place, say eight. Trust me, you’re gonna want in on this.” He paused and leaned forward, and an ugly look passed over his face. “Unless you got other plans. Somebody else you gotta see, maybe?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was implying something or just being a wiseguy, but I didn’t like the sound of that. “Cool,” I said. “Tomorrow night.”

  * * *

  I cut out early that afternoon, blowing off any new jobs, any new opportunities to scare the pants off some schmuck and shake him down for his lunch money. Benedict had rattled me. I’d never seen him like that, and it was far too easy to identify with his accelerating downward spiral. Lazzaro had rattled me even further. If he knew I’d mentally checked out already, if he even suspected I was thinking about talking to the police, he’d shoot me in the head, or worse.

  I let myself into my apartment, locked the door and, in an excess of caution, warded it. My stomach squirmed as I finished the warding, but I felt a little better afterward. I emptied my pockets on the table and sat. A wad of money, my old phone, and my new phone sat on the table in front of me.

  A sudden sinking feeling intensified my nausea. I grabbed my phone charger and plugged in the old phone. I flipped it open, tapping the buttons until I found the call log.

  Kit’s number was there, right at the top of the list. One call, right around the time I got hospitalized. Before that, just Lazzaro and the guys from my Kelsen-wrecking crew—and another call to Kit, the one I’d made just before our last unpleasant meeting at that shitty sports bar.

  Oh, fuck.

  I hadn’t called Kit the day I got caught, or at all in the ten days before that.

  My breath came faster. Benedict must have been following up on my calls. This was not good. Maybe he understood where I was coming from—his comment from earlier suggested that—but then again, maybe not. It was a hell of a risk to assume everything was fine, and a hell of a risk for him to hide something like that from the Slob.

  I tried to calm down. So Benedict knew I’d been talking to a cop. He couldn’t know why. For all he knew, she was dirty.

  Yeah. Right.

  I couldn’t quite fit the story together. If Benedict knew, he’d have said something, right? And he probably wouldn’t have nursed me back to health like he did. I’d have checked into Haverty’s hospital of horrors and never checked out. What the hell was going on?

  It didn’t matter, I told myself. It was way too risky to stick around now. There were no more options left—it was get out now, or get fucked. So much for planning and caution.

  I dialed Kit’s number.

  She picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”

  I froze. What the hell was I supposed to say?

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “Wait! Kit, it’s me. It’s Jimmy.”

  A pause. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “No. Trust me, nothing here is funny.”

  “Jimmy Pecatti? It’s really you?”

  “What’s left of me, yeah.”

  Another pause, and a silence loaded with unknowable meanings. Then: “Where have you been? I thought you were dead.” Her voice sounded strained, like she was holding back some great sadness or anger.

  “I was close enough to dead. I don’t really want to discuss it.”

  “That’s great, Jimmy.” Ah. It was anger. “You screwed me over and then disappeared for months, but you don’t really want to discuss it. Great.”

  “I can explain, but—”

  “But you need something now, and you’re in a hurry.” In my mind, I saw her expression, just as clearly as if she’d been sitting across the table, frowning her disapproval at me.

  “What do you want?” she said, recovering her usual iron-clad control.

  “They’re gonna kill me. I need police protection.”

  “You’re going to have to come by the station. I’m on duty in ten minutes.”

  “No. No way.” I wasn’t sure who all knew about me yet, but showing up at the police station without handcuffs on would be as good as an advertisement to any thugs, hoods, or gangsters who happened to see me there. Bad idea.

  “Then I’ll come by your place.”

  I almost said okay, and then I remembered. If she was on duty, her partner would be with her. Eddie Donnelly, the Slob’s tame cop. Might as well just shoot me in the fucking forehead.

  “No. How about tomorrow? Lunchtime?”

  “This is not something you want to screw around with.”

  “I’m not screwing around. Lunch tomorrow?”

  She sighed. “Yeah.”

  I gave her a location, another place my friends and coworkers weren’t likely to show their faces, and I hung up.

  Then I settled in for another long night.

  * * *

  Lunch couldn’t come soon enough. I’d spent the night starting at every little noise, straining my ears to hear footsteps on the landing, certain that Benedict was going to tip off the Slob and a number of angry, armed men would come tromping in and execute me. I knew it didn’t work that way—they’d call me, or I’d be on a job with somebody or at a one-on-one meeting, and bang—but that didn’t help me sleep any.

  By the time the sun came up, my head felt like somebody had it in a vise, and it hurt to even roll my eyes around in their sockets. I drank a pot of criminally strong coffee for breakfast, and waited some more.

  Then it was time to go.

  I’d told Kit to meet me at a steakhouse in Boston proper, the kind of expensive dinner place that shouldn’t even be open at lunch, but it is anyway for some mysterious reason. The inside was dark, other than the glare of white tablecloths against dark wood paneling, and there was almost nobody inside, so it suited me just fine.

  I asked the hostess to seat me in the corner, and I waited.

  Kit showed up right on time, as expected. If she was tired from working all night, she didn’t show it. She found out where I was sitting and walked right past the hostess toward me like a pissed-off avenging angel.

  “Let’s have the story. Now.”

  It was weirdly good to see her. Some trace of normalcy, of my long-gone, less complicated life before. I managed a smile. “You wanna sit down first? You’re drawing attention.”

  She glanced around the room. There were two tables on the other side that had people sitting at them, and nobody was paying us any mind whatsoever. Kit gave me a really, Jimmy? look, but she sat down anyway.

  “I need protection,” I said, keeping my voice low. The emptiness of the restaurant had a downside—no noise to mask my words—and I felt suddenly self-conscious.

  She wrinkled her nose, disgusted by my gall. “We’ve been through this. You ditched me, and now your friends are out on the street doing who-knows-what.”

  “Funny you mention my friends,” I said, “seeing as how they’re the ones who are going to kill me.”

  Either Kit teared up a little at that thought, or the gleam in her eye was that of satisfaction at poetic just
ice about to be served. “Sounds rough.”

  “Pretty soon, the whole f—the whole mob is going to be gunning for me. If they’re not already.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Does that matter right now? Can’t you get the story later? The sooner we get the ball rolling on this witness protection thing started, the better.”

  “You don’t need me. Go on down to the station, and I’m sure they’ll be happy to stick you in a cell. Call it protective custody.”

  “You’re the only one I know I can trust,” I pleaded, struggling to keep my voice at a whisper. “I mean, fuck, the Slob owns your partner, for fuck’s sake. How am I going to know who’s gonna screw me?”

  Kit gave me a look that could have frosted the windows, killed insects, and withered flowers all at once. “My partner. You know this for a fact?”

  “Yeah. I know this for a fact.”

  Her jaw worked. “You have to testify.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “That’s how it works. We can get the feds involved and maybe keep you from getting stabbed in your sleep, but you have to give us something. Testimony.”

  “I thought you people had some kind of oath or something. ‘To serve and protect’ ring a bell?”

  That particular attack bounced harmlessly off her cop face. “When’s the last time you paid taxes, Jimmy?”

  “This isn’t a friggin’ transaction, this is my life.” I tried to whisper, but I didn’t do a very good job.

  “So why don’t you treat it like it’s worth something, for a change?”

  I scrabbled for a retort, but it was like grabbing a fistful of water.

  The waiter rescued me. It had taken him long enough—maybe he’d seen that we were having a rather tense discussion and decided to give us some time, or maybe he’d been on smoke break—but now he cut in and took our orders. The thought of food was nauseating. I ordered a milkshake and nothing else and got the dirtiest look I’d ever received from a server. A new milestone.

  He left us in peace after that. I pulled together the remaining scraps of my courage. “Okay. How’s it work? Can I get my family in the program, too?”

  “You gotta talk to the feds, Jimmy. This is not something I can do.”

  I took a long, slow breath. Were the feds really any worse than anything I’d experienced so far? Ha. Put in that context, the idea was laughable. I still wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but I nodded. “Can you set up a meeting?”

  “How soon?”

  “How about yesterday?”

  She frowned. “I’ll see what I can do, Jimmy, but my credibility isn’t what it used to be. The last time I tried this—”

  “Yeah. I got it.”

  She pushed back from the table. “I’ve got a few calls to make. Enjoy your lunch.”

  * * *

  I drove around the neighborhood for the next few hours. It seemed safer to keep moving. I knew that was ridiculous—anything Benedict knew, he’d known for a while, unless I’d just pushed him over the edge during our latest conversation—but it made me feel better anyway. The houses and buildings, the red brick storefronts that looked like they could have come out of a movie from the thirties, the stink of the dock—all familiar, all comforting.

  It occurred to me after a while to wonder whether I was looking for comfort, or giving myself one last tour of the neighborhood. If I went into witness protection, there was no telling where I’d end up. The thought was surprisingly disconcerting. I’d only known one place my whole life. I knew the neighbors, the slang, the whole way of life. Wherever I ended up, it would be nothing like this place, not in the ways that mattered.

  Tough luck, Jimmy. You made this bed.

  I thought of Ma and Dad. I didn’t know if I could get out or get them out with me, but I needed to talk to them about it. Besides, home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in. Some wiseguy said that, right?

  * * *

  It took a little while to track my folks down. The old shop was a construction site now, and I wondered whether the insurance had paid out or they’d sold the lot. The block looked weird without Dad’s butcher shop, and the skeletal frame of the new building let sunlight down to the pavement in a way that, paradoxically, seemed to cast a shadow over the whole street. I thought about checking the building permit to see if there was a name listed for the owner, but I felt a reluctance to approach so severe that it was akin to dread. Surely there wouldn’t be traces of the burning left by now, I told myself, but I couldn’t even make myself cross the street.

  I didn’t have to. Everybody down here knew my folks. I stopped into the bakery across from the construction site, pretty sure that if Mr. Hundreiser was around, he’d give me the lowdown. He was a sweet old guy.

  He wasn’t around, but his wife stood behind the corner, directing a couple of teenaged girls in the fine art of customer service. I waited while they worked their way through the short line, and then stepped up to the counter.

  Mrs. Hundreiser, bless her, took a step back and actually pressed her hand to her chest when she saw me.

  “My God. Jimmy Pecatti, is that you?”

  “Yes ma’am.” I wasn’t sure these days how a regular smile worked, so I tried on a thin, closed-mouth smile. She didn’t run screaming, so that was something.

  “You’re alive,” she said. I heard tones of both wonder and accusation in the words.

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  She squeezed her lips into a tight line of disapproval. So much for levity. “What happened to you? Your parents thought—we all thought . . .”

  “I haven’t been well,” I said.

  “I can see that. Are you hungry?”

  That coaxed something like a real smile out of me. Even her righteous anger at my disappearance could only hold on for so long before the German grandmother part of her broke through and she started looking for food to stuff in my face. A pang of homesickness or nostalgia or some deeper, nameless emotion shot through me, and I felt my eyes tear up even as my smile widened.

  “No,” I said. “No, thank you. I just . . . I just want to find my parents.” Was this what the regular world was like? Simple acts of kindness, performed for no reason other than to be kind?

  “Of course,” she said. She wrote an address on a lined sheet of green paper used to take orders over the phone, but she didn’t hand it to me yet. Instead, she put enough bread to feed a marching army into a paper sack, stapled the address to the sack, and handed the whole mess to me over the counter.

  “Tell your parents I said hello,” she said. “And eat something. You look like death warmed over.”

  * * *

  And that’s how I came to be standing in front of a red apartment door two streets over, a bottle of wine in one hand, my other arm cradling a bag that overflowed with four different kinds of bread.

  I stared at the painted numbers on the door. This wasn’t a new apartment building, or a very nice one, but it was clean and seemed reasonably safe. Nobody’d pissed in the downstairs lobby, anyway. My folks were doing okay, probably. Did they really need me fucking up their lives more?

  That’s bullshit, Jimmy, and you know it. I exhaled heavily. Truth was, I was looking for any excuse I could find not to knock on that door. Not to face the damage to my father’s body, or the look on my mother’s face.

  Behind me, a bunch of faithless thugs. Before me, my family, who I’d hurt in a thousand ways before disappearing and hurting them some more. I felt squashed, my heart and my guts pulped and leaking out through cracks in my skin.

  There was no easy way out.

  I knocked on the door.

  At the first sound of the deadbolt turning, the hall got small and tilted, and I thought I was going to pass out. Then Ma’s face was in front of me, thinner than I remembered, with deeper lines, and I summoned the strength to stand.

  Long seconds crumbled in slow pieces, like rocks eroding over geologic ages, and I waited,
dizzy and nauseous, for an explosion or a shout or any kind of acknowledgment whatsoever.

  Then a tear slipped down Ma’s cheek, and she rushed forward, wrapping me in her arms.

  “Oh, Jimmy. Is it really you?” She rushed to embrace me. I wished I’d left the gun at home for once, but it was crammed in the back of my waistband. Thankfully, she didn’t find it.

  Ma cried against my shoulder, and I cried right back. I don’t know where I found the tears, but I did. So many tears.

  I blinked them away, and my old man was standing a few steps back. He was scarred, but the doctors had done all right. His hair had come back thin, and he kept it really short now, and you could see the faint puffy lines on his neck and face where the skin grafts had gone in, but none of that mattered. He was alive, he was walking, and he seemed healthy.

  His mouth hung open, and his cheeks were wet, too. He stepped forward—long, regular strides—and joined us in a sappy group hug in the hall.

  Sappy was fine by me.

  * * *

  We made dinner. Talk about your surreal experiences. Ma wouldn’t let me say a word about what had happened or where I’d been, not until we’d eaten, so we cut tomatoes and chopped onions and browned meat and, well, just made dinner. I watched Dad carefully out of the corner of my eye, trying not to be too obvious about it. The last two fingers on his right hand were curled up and didn’t move right at all, but he managed the knife okay, if not with quite the sure skill he’d had before. Each time I saw the knife slip in his hand, my eyes stung. I resolved to blame it on the onions if anyone noticed.

  We cooked, and we ate. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d tasted anything so good, couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten a meal with other people that didn’t involve talk of anything illegal. By the time I pushed back from the table, I was worried that someone would have to roll me down the stairs at the end of the night. We cleared the table and sat in the small kitchen afterward, me with a glass of water, my folks each with a little wine.