The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller

by Derik Cavignano

  The bigger of the two mobsters—a roided-out twenty-something with a fake-and-bake tan and more veins than brain cells—muscled up to Ray and pressed the Glock’s muzzle against his forehead. “You just made a big mistake coming in here.”

  Ray lifted an eyebrow. “How about I buy a cannoli and you validate my parking?”

  A few of the made men in the back of the room started snickering, and Mikey Quick Trigger Maroni slapped a hand against the table, sending a splash of cappuccino onto the crisp, white tablecloth. Across from him, Jimmy the Weasel howled with laughter, his facing turning a shade darker than Giabatti’s house marinara.

  The door to the kitchen swung open and Sal Giabatti sauntered into the room. For a diminutive man in his early seventies, Sal possessed a surprising amount of style. He wore retro-cool glasses and an expensive suit, his white hair meticulously arranged into a perfect state of disarray. At first glance, he could’ve passed as an elder movie star or someone’s ultracool grandad, but one look at the intensity in his dark eyes and you knew you were dealing with a dangerous man.

  Sal turned his palms up in a gesture of disbelief. “No wonder we never get any customers.” He signaled to the goon holding Ray at gunpoint. “Ease up, Tony. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Tony lowered the gun, confusion clouding his Neanderthal face.

  Ray pocketed the dollar bill and suppressed a grin. “New recruit?”

  Sal shrugged. “He’s a little overeager.”

  “You think?”

  Tony slunk toward the back of the room, his shoulders slouched in defeat.

  Sal winked at Ray. “You’ve got some stone coglioni. Better be careful it don’t get you killed one day.”

  “Is that a threat?” Ray asked. He meant it as a joke, but Sal’s expression turned icy, and Ray imagined it was the same look Sal’s enemies saw right before their skulls opened up to let in some fresh air.

  “Don’t try my patience, Ray. Just consider it sound advice.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “So let’s talk. But how about something to eat? Today’s special is linguine al vongole.”

  “Sounds tempting, but I’ll pass.”

  “You know some cultures consider it a slap in the face to refuse a meal. Is that what you want to do, Ray? Slap me in the face?”

  Ray donned what he hoped was a disarming smile. “I can’t eat a big meal this early in the day, especially not with those extra ingredients Vinny mixes in just for cops.”

  Sal’s lips peeled back into a grin—the predatory smirk of a great white. “Someone had to teach your partner about respect. I see you didn’t bring him.”

  “I figured we could have a chat with just us gentlemen.”

  Sal motioned to an ornate mahogany bar that looked custom-made and insanely expensive. “Have a seat.”

  Ray settled onto a leather barstool and swiveled to face Sal. “What do you know about Danny the Mule?”

  “I hear he went for a little swim.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I understand he got some interesting cosmetic work done.”

  “How’d you know that? It’s not exactly public knowledge.”

  “I hear things.”

  “Your boys have anything to do with that?”

  “I got no beef with Danny.”

  “You mean not since you and Flaherty arrived at your business understanding a few years ago?”

  “That’s right.”

  Jack Flaherty ran the Irish mob in South Boston, and after years of bloody territorial disputes with the Italian mafia, Flaherty and Giabatti agreed to specialize in different businesses. Giabatti concentrated on gambling, loan sharking, and prescription drugs, while Flaherty concentrated on heroin, cocaine, robberies, and sex trafficking.

  It was a win-win for everyone. No one stepped on anyone else’s toes, which meant less violence between organizations and less innocent people killed in the crossfire. The mayor attributed the declining violence to his tough stance on crime and the establishment of an interdepartmental Organized Crime Task Force. What he didn’t want his constituents to know was that he’d brokered the peace deal himself. After all, he’d spent years distancing himself from his estranged brother, the notorious Jack Flaherty, whom he claimed he hadn’t spoken with in twenty years.

  It was a story everyone in Boston knew well—two kids from a broken home growing up in the blue-collar Irish neighborhood of South Boston. There was Tom Flaherty: altar boy, Eagle Scout, war hero, city councilman, and now, mayor. And then there was his older brother, Jack: neighborhood hooligan, high school dropout, alleged rapist, drug dealer, and murderer. Mayor Flaherty wanted nothing to do with his notorious brother, but only a fool believed their paths didn’t sometimes cross.

  Ray studied Giabatti’s face, but his expression was unreadable. The guy must be one hell of a poker player. “You sure Danny didn’t cross some line, break some unwritten rule, do something to disrespect one of your guys?”

  “If something like that happened, I’d know about it. And I don’t know nothing about nothing.”

  Ray decided not to press him on the double negative.

  Giabatti stood up. “We done here?”

  Ray nodded. “Yeah, we’re done.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “What the hell do you mean you already talked to him?” Billy said.

  Ray sipped his coffee. “You realize your eyebrows scrunch together like two caterpillars humping when you make that face?”

  Garrison nearly choked on his latte in the middle of the crowded Dunkin’ Donuts. He held up a hand and turned away, taking a moment to swallow around his laughter.

  “You’re lucky I don’t slap that mocha latte right out of your hands,” Billy said. “What the hell kind of grown man orders a drink like that anyway?”

  Garrison dabbed his lips with a napkin. “Don’t hate on us younger cops for having a more sophisticated palate than you old-timers.”

  “Old-timers?” Billy barked. “Forty-five is not old.”

  “It is to us thirty-two-year-olds,” Ray said. He pointed to Billy’s rockabilly hair, which had receded well north of his temples. “I swear you’re going grayer by the hour.”

  “You would too if you were married to my ex.”

  “You gotta let go of the negativity,” Garrison said, “and stop being such a grumpy ass old man all the time. That shit will eat you up.”

  Billy pitched his cup into the trash and wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand while flipping Garrison off with the other. “I’m serious, Ray. Why’d you go without us?”

  Ray glanced over his shoulder to make sure none of the other customers were within earshot. “You really need an explanation?”

  “You ditched me, Ray. You don’t ditch your partner. Ever.”

  “I needed Giabatti to talk. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to do that with you around.”

  A year ago, Billy had made a big spectacle of arresting Giabatti outside of church on charges he knew wouldn’t stick and Giabatti had never forgiven him for it.

  “He gave you jack shit, didn’t he?” Billy asked.

  “I’m building a rapport. It takes time and finesse.”

  Billy held up a fist. “This is the only finesse I need.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  Ray followed Garrison out of the Dunkin’ Donuts and looked across the road at the Broadway T Station, where an early wave of businesspeople returning from the financial district spilled off the buses and emerged from the Red Line subway tunnels. To the left of the station was A Street and the chrome-colored walls of Mul’s Diner, which was a local favorite for breakfast. Flaherty’s hangout loomed a couple doors down from Mul’s in a two-story brick building with no windows and a battered steel door painted emerald green.

  Flaherty’s bar was officially listed with the city as the Golden Shamrock, but the building lacked even a single exterior sign. Most locals knew it simply as The Rock, and it was a place few dared ente
r. Those who did risked forfeiting their souls to Southie’s resident devil, Jack Flaherty.

  Flaherty had a reputation as a ruthless thug with a violent temper, which was why this visit required nothing short of a team effort. As they approached the building, Ray eyed the security camera perched above the front door. He laid a hand on the knob and looked at Billy and Garrison, who had taken up position behind him. “You boys ready?”

  Billy grunted.

  Garrison grinned.

  It’s go time, Ray thought, and shoved open the door.

  ***

  Flaherty and his gang were seated around a hexagonal poker table, their hands folded neatly on the green felt top. No cash, drugs, or weapons in sight thanks to the security camera’s early warning.

  Flaherty flashed them a grin. “Afternoon, officers.” His silvery-blond hair was cropped close to the scalp, his eyes ice blue and calculating. His rugged good looks had served him well over his fifty-one years, and legend had it he could charm a snake out of its skin.

  “We’re here about Danny,” Ray said. “You got anything for us?”

  Flaherty leaned back in his seat, the room so quiet that the squeak of the chair leg sounded like a scream. “No, detective, I don’t got anything for you, though I might suggest a basic course in grammar.”

  Billy chuckled. “Strong words from an eighth-grade dropout.”

  “When you realize you’re smarter than your teachers,” Flaherty said, “who needs school?”

  “Your mama must’ve been real proud,” Garrison said.

  Flaherty’s lips drew into a sneer. “You’d better watch your mouth, boy.”

  Billy seemed like he was about to say something threatening, but Ray quieted him with a stern look. “We didn’t come here to insult you,” Ray said.

  “How very civilized of you.”

  “But a man is dead,” Ray continued, “and we’ve got procedures to follow. So I got to ask, do you know who killed Danny? Or why someone would want him dead?”

  Flaherty leaned forward. “I don’t need your services, detective. Those greaseballs killed my cousin. Plain and simple. And if it’s a war Giabatti wants, I’ll give him a war.”

  “I talked to Giabatti,” Ray said. “I don’t think he was involved.”

  “Then you’re dumber than you look.”

  “You’d better think this through,” Ray said. “If you start a war, you’ll draw more heat than you can handle. Every cop in this city will be on your case. So be my guest and do something stupid, because it just might trigger your own demise. And in the meantime, I’ll be watching you.”

  Flaherty shot to his feet and thrust a finger into Ray’s face. “Don’t tell me what to do, detective. You want to watch my every move? Go ahead. Because I’ll be watching you right back. You and that pretty family of yours.”

  Ray seized Flaherty by the shirt and drew him so close he could smell the hot stink of his breath. “If you come near my family, I will end you. Do you understand?”

  Flaherty’s lips spread into a grin. “Every man has his weakness, detective, and it looks like I just found yours.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ray mounted the stairs to his three-bedroom townhouse in Charlestown and fumbled in his pocket for the keys. Behind the sapphire blue colonial door, he could hear the stomping of footsteps and the slow-building chant that had turned into a ritual these last couple of months.

  When the door swung open, Jason, Allie, and Petey stood in the foyer pumping their fists, jumping up and down, and chanting: Dad-dy. Dad-dy. Dad-dy.

  Ray tossed his keys onto the foyer table and caught a glimpse of Michelle in the kitchen. She brushed a wavy blond lock behind her left ear and smiled that dazzling smile of hers. He couldn’t ask for anything more than this—coming home to a gorgeous wife and three adorable kids who still thought he was the greatest dad in the world. Even without the benefit of hindsight, he knew these were the moments he’d treasure long after the kids grew up and had families of their own, moments he’d reminisce about as an old man.

  He crouched down and wiggled his fingers, giving the kids the signal to begin their running leaps. They lined up in order of age, another part of the ritual. First came Jason, his potty-mouthed, Hot Wheels-loving six-year-old. In one fluid motion, he caught Jason midair, spun him around, and set him back down. Next came Allie, his fearless, five-year-old animal stalker. And then came Petey, his diaper-wrecking, two-and-a-half-year-old slobber machine.

  As soon as he set Petey down, their Boston Terrier, Sparky, bounded into the room, claws scrabbling against the hardwood, a tennis ball lodged in his jaws. Sparky dropped the ball at Ray’s feet, hindquarters twitching with excitement, but as Ray reached for the ball Sparky snatched it back up again.

  “When will this dog learn how to play fetch?” Ray asked.

  “As soon as he learns not to poop in my shoes,” Michelle said.

  “You sure that’s not Petey?” Ray said, heading into the bedroom.

  “I haven’t ruled him out.”

  “Is Mr. Snuggles also a suspect?”

  Michelle grinned. “As a matter of fact, he is.”

  Mr. Snuggles was the fluffy white Persian that Allie had begged him to buy from the pet store. You’re not exactly acing Parenting 101, Michelle had said. Rewarding the kid for her relentless badgering? Next thing you know she’ll be asking us six million times for a pony.

  It was a fair point, but Allie had always had a knack for manipulating him. A skill she’d no doubt inherited from her mother. Understanding men is not exactly rocket science, Michelle had told him once. Ninety percent of the time men are thinking about sex, food, or sports, and the other ten percent of the time they’re just scratching themselves.

  He could have argued with her, but she’d pretty much nailed it. And, lucky for him, most criminals were men. It was much easier to deduce a man’s motives than to crack the code of the female psyche, especially since the female brain was obviously encrypted with an advanced form of alien technology.

  Once inside the bedroom, Ray peeled off his work clothes—what Allie called his costume—and tossed them onto the bed: sports jacket, tie, holster, dress shirt, Kevlar vest, and undershirt. He’d never understood why detectives had to wear a jacket and tie in the first place. Was the superior fashion supposed to intimidate criminals into submission? Scare them straight with a paisley tie?

  He drew his weapons from their holsters and placed the Taser and the Glock .40 caliber pistol into the safe in the closet. After slipping on a pair of basketball shorts and a worn Red Sox T-shirt, he returned to the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Michelle.

  “How was your day?” he asked, kissing her on the cheek.

  The kids swarmed in shouting, “Family hug!” and threw their arms around them. Michelle met his eyes with a wry smile. They hadn’t shared a hug without at least one kid swooping in for the last five years.

  Michelle rolled her eyes. “It’s like having my very own rape whistle.”

  “Let’s see how well protected you are after the kids go to bed.”

  Michelle furrowed her brow. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Oh, I’ve got plenty of ideas.”

  Allie tugged on Ray’s shorts and stared up at him with her bright hazel eyes. “Daddy, what’s a rape whistle? Can I have one?”

  He mussed up her hair and turned toward Michelle. “What’s for dinner?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” Michelle said. “What are you making?”

  ***

  After surviving another exhausting bedtime routine, Ray and Michelle grabbed a bottle of wine and climbed the narrow staircase to the roof deck. Dusk had settled over the city and a pregnant moon hung low in the cobalt sky. From the patio table, Ray could see the gleaming lights of the Boston skyline toward the south and the granite obelisk of the Bunker Hill Monument to the east.

  More than two decades of gentrification had transformed Charlestown into a hot real estate market, especially for neighb
orhoods like Ray’s that were within walking distance of Monument Park and the shops and restaurants of the Gaslight District. Ray had purchased the townhouse when he first joined the force, back when prices were still reasonable and the scars of the Irish Mob Wars hadn’t completely healed. These days, you couldn’t touch a three-bedroom home in his neighborhood for less than $600K, and if you wanted to live a block or two from the Monument that would run you a million easy.

  It was a warm May evening, one of the first of the season, and the vibrant scent of spring flowers from rooftop planters permeated the air. Ray loved coming up here after a long day to unwind, but he felt no relaxation tonight.

  Michelle gazed at him over her glass of sauvignon blanc. “What’s wrong?”

  “Rough day.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  He shook his head. She worried enough about the dangers of his job. She didn’t need to know he’d confronted the city’s most dangerous men on their own turf, let alone that Flaherty had made a veiled threat against their family. The last thing he wanted was to allow Flaherty into his head, but there he was in the back of his mind, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  Michelle reached for his hand. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” He sipped from his glass. “How’d the PTA meeting go this afternoon?”

  “Not good. They’re moving ahead with the tuition hike for next year.”

  Ray groaned. “A ten percent increase? Just like that, no room for argument?”

  Michelle tapped a manicured nail against her lips. “Let’s see if I can remember the exact quote. ‘The tuition increase is meant to compensate for the general rise in operating costs.’”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You got me.”

  “Christ. Last year was five percent and this year is ten percent? It’s ridiculous.”

  “I know, but there’s not much of an alternative.”

  “No kidding,” Ray grumbled.

  Public school wasn’t a viable option. Boston city schools received a boatload of state funding, but too many of the kids came from shattered homes and ended up involved in drugs or gangs at an early age.