Exact Revenge

by Tim Green

  A navy blue Grand Marquis had pulled up alongside the curb. The driver reached back and over to swing open the rear door. Frank got in, fighting the urge to yank his arm free from the man’s grip. He slid into the car and strained his eyes to see. The two men wedged themselves in on either side of him. Ramo’s men. He felt a gun barrel pressed to his ribs. They pulled out into the street, and when they got under the first light, he saw the man behind the wheel was the scar-faced Dominic Battaglia.

  Frank felt his insides go tight.

  He looked at the men on either side of him. They were staring straight ahead. Soldiers following orders. Neither of them knew that he had a fishing knife up his sleeve. Now wasn’t the right time, but it might save him later.

  “Let me go, Dominic,” he said in a croak. “I’ll give you all the money.”

  “You think I’m like you?” Dominic said into the rearview mirror. His lips were pulled clear of his teeth.

  “It’s a lot.”

  “I know how much it is,” Dominic said. “We all do.”

  Frank’s mind spun with a billion possibilities. The car passed over the 59th Street Bridge, then onto the BQE. When they passed the Atlantic Avenue exit where Ramo Capozza lived, Frank knew he was going to die. He could kill one of them with the knife, but he’d die. His eyes searched for an interested Port Authority officer when they passed through the toll at the Verrazano Bridge. There was none.

  As they crossed over onto Staten Island, Frank looked north toward the big city. The galaxy of lights. The dark towers. He bit into his lower lip and narrowed his eyes.

  They left the main roads and turned onto an empty street marked by a huge billboard with a sketch of the office buildings soon to come. At the back end of the deep loop, tall piles of dirt and stacks of raw steel girders shone under the car’s yellow beams. They left the pavement and jolted along a dirt track, through the dirt piles and steel, coming to rest in a cloud of dust at the edge of a foundation hole.

  The men on either side of him got out, and for an instant, he felt almost free.

  “Get out, Frank,” Dominic said, wagging a snub-nosed.38 into the doorway of the car. “Don’t make me tell them you squealed like a pig. Be a man. Ramo said if you were a man, you could go easy. Me? I voted to make it last.”

  Frank slid his bulk to the edge of the seat and hoisted himself out into the warm night. His armpits had bled all the way through his suit coat and he smelled the sour scent of his own fear. His eyes darted up toward the shadowy form of a machine. One of the men was climbing up its side. He heard a heavy metal door squeak open and closed and then the coughing of a diesel motor as it spun to life. Its rheumy eyes glowed and Frank saw now that it was a concrete mixer.

  “Come on,” Dominic said, pushing Frank toward the hole with the.38 in his back.

  Frank stumbled forward. The other muscle was on his left with his gun out too. Dominic stayed behind him. The barrel of the mixer clanked into action, spinning with an electric whine.

  “Kneel down,” Dominic said, pointing to the lip of the black hole.

  Frank heard the truck’s gears grinding into place and the squeak of the axle as it crept forward. He knelt down and bowed his head. He started to shake and blubber.

  “Dominic, please,” he said, sobbing. “You can have it all.”

  He turned his head back to see Dominic with his legs slightly straddled, moving the pistol toward the back of his head.

  “I don’t want to die,” he said, whining and holding his trembling hands up near his temples.

  Dominic’s toothy grin shone in the headlights of the cement mixer. Frank spun and grabbed Dominic’s hands and gun at the same time. The gun flashed, blasting a hole through Frank’s palm, but he hung on, dropped to his shoulder, and flipped the smaller man over his back into the hole. Frank rolled, his ears ringing. The second man’s gun fired, licking with orange flames, and he felt the bullets humming past his head. Something struck his leg as he came out of his roll with the.38 leveled.

  One shot to the head and the man went down like a puppet.

  Frank ran limping at the cement mixer. The third man was bursting out of the door, jumping for the ground with the knife in his hand. Frank shot him in the chest in midair and he fell in a heap.

  Frank turned and bolted back to the lip of the hole. He stuffed the.38 in his pocket, scooped up the second man’s Glock, and checked the load, calmly standing over the deep dark trench, listening. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a shape moving slowly along the bottom. He fired three quick shots and heard Dominic screaming in pain and fear.

  Frank moved closer, limping on down the length of the foundation hole, his feet scuffing up little clouds of dust in the headlights. His left hand was throbbing now and he balled it into a fist to try and stop the bleeding. Dominic still screamed.

  “Hey, Dominic!” he shouted above the noise. “Fuck you!”

  Frank unloaded the Glock into the hole, careful to shoot only below his business partner’s waist. Dominic’s squealing continued now at a heightened pitch. Frank tossed the empty gun down in the hole. His own gun was in the second man’s waist and he took it out before dragging his body to the edge of the hole and kicking the gun into the bottom of the trench with Dominic. The third man went in too, along with the.38 before Frank climbed into the cab of the mixer. He eased the truck to the edge and dumped its load, filling the bottom of the footer with four feet of concrete.

  66

  LEXIS CAME OUT of Lincoln Center in high heels, clutching Allen’s arm to steady herself. “Thank you,” she said, looking up at him, burying her nose in the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. “I know that’s not your favorite thing.”

  “That’s ’cause you are,” he said, opening the door of the limousine for her.

  Lexis bit her lip.

  “What’s wrong?” Allen said. “I thought that was nice.”

  “Very nice,” she said, smiling and touching his arm.

  “Man, it’s late,” Allen said, looking at his watch. “You gotta be tired, huh?”

  Lexis yawned and nodded her head.

  “I’ll drop you off,” he said, his voice suddenly upbeat. “I’m shot too, but a bunch of guys are meeting in the Village. You know, since it’s my last night.”

  “You want to have some tea?” she asked. “Or a coffee?”

  That’s how she saw the night ending. His last night in the city before going back to school. Just the two of them at the kitchen table. But Allen looked at his watch again and winced.

  “You don’t mind, right, Mom?”

  “Of course not,” she said, forcing a smile.

  Allen took out his cell phone, turned it on, and called Martin to find out where everyone was going. Lexis sighed, then took her own cell phone out of her purse and turned it on. She had a new message. It was Cornell Ricks, the governor’s man. He’d left a package at their building. His voice cold and clipped. Not saying anything else. No hint. Nothing.

  Michael, their doorman, had given personal things of hers before to Frank. She dialed the apartment and looked at her watch. There was no answer. She looked at her son, forced a smile, and leaned forward to fill a glass from the crystal decanter of bourbon.

  When she looked back at Allen, he was still talking, but watching her. He immediately looked away. Lexis sighed, but still brought the glass to her lips. She took two small sips, watching her son, then swallowed the whole thing and fumbled with the decanter again, refilling her glass with her eyes on him the whole time.

  The second one she enjoyed a little more, and by the time the car pulled to a stop in front of their building, she was feeling much better. She replaced the empty glass in its holder and let Allen help her out. Michael held the door for them with a slight bow.

  “Mrs. Steffano,” he said in his Brooklyn accent. “Your husband just came in. He doesn’t look good. He said he took a spill at one of his construction sites, but I’m worried. There was a lot of blood.”

  She asked about the
package.

  He rubbed the side of his face and showed her his crooked yellow teeth.

  “Mr. Steffano took it up for you about fifteen minutes ago when he came in.”

  Lexis gripped Allen’s arm and walked unevenly to the elevator.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” he asked.

  They got on the elevator.

  “Nothing,” she said, forcing a smile. “Maybe you should just go like you are.”

  “In a tux?” he said with a brief laugh. “Right, Mom. What’s wrong?”

  “Everything’s fine,” she said.

  They arrived at the top floor.

  “Mom,” Allen said, stepping out into the hall.

  He followed Lexis into the apartment.

  “Dad?” he called.

  She shut the door behind them. When Frank didn’t respond, she took a deep breath. Maybe he was gone. Maybe he didn’t read what Cornell Ricks brought her. Maybe there was nothing much inside the envelope besides an account of how Raymond White had died in jail or was living out his life in a cell somewhere.

  Allen was looking at her.

  “I’m just tired,” she said. “Your father probably got a Band-Aid and went right back out.”

  When she reached up to kiss his cheek, she heard Frank’s muffled voice calling her name from deep inside their master bedroom.

  Allen looked that way.

  “Allen,” she said, following him down the hall.

  Allen disappeared into the bedroom and she heard him cry out.

  She went in. Frank was sitting on the bed, a gun in one hand, the other in a fist jammed into his coat pocket. His suit, like his face, was covered with dirt. The collar of his shirt was red with blood, and when he took the other hand out of his pocket, she saw the bloody bandage. There was a hole in his pants and a dark stain. Behind him was a manila envelope, opened with the papers spilling out. On it was her name.

  “Allen,” Frank said in a growl, “listen. We’ve got trouble.”

  “What happened?”

  Frank held up his bloody hand and pressed his lips tight. He raised his voice.

  “Allen Francis. Listen, goddamn it,” Frank said. “I’ve got a plan. It’ll all work. Go change your clothes and pack some things for a few days. I’ll meet you on the back stairs.”

  He looked at his watch and said, “Hurry up. We’ve got to meet Mickey at the Rockefeller Outlook at midnight.”

  “Dad, we start practice-”

  “Goddamn it! Look at this!” Frank shouted, holding up his hand clenched around the bloody white rag. “Go get your fucking things!”

  Allen left. Lexis moved toward her husband, reaching for his hand.

  “Frank, let me-”

  “You get back,” he said, waving the gun at her and grinning. “You’re not coming. I’m getting the money from Mickey and you’ll have nothing.”

  “Frank, what are you talking about?”

  “Bitch,” he said, standing up and raising the gun as if to strike her.

  Lexis flinched and backed away.

  “Get in the closet.”

  “Frank, tell me.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” he said, limping toward her, herding her back. “I know.”

  Frank pointed his bloody hand back at the papers on the bed.

  “That fucking Raymond White is behind all this. Him and that Seth Cole,” Frank said in a harsh whisper, “and you knew. He escaped and he’s out there. Who do you think ruined Rangle? His daughter’s dead. That fucking Raymond White wants to kill me. He wants to kill my son, and you knew.”

  “Allen won’t leave me,” she said, feeling the doorframe of her closet and stepping inside.

  “You think he’ll know?” Frank said, grinning even wider, moving into the doorway and steadying himself on the door handle. “Just that we had to split up. To be safe. That we’ll meet you. But don’t you ever let me see you again.”

  Frank had her backed into the corner. He raised the pistol and struck her in the side of the head. Lexis crumpled to the floor. She tried to raise her hands, but Frank brought the gun down again and again. Blood spilled down her face. One eye went dark. Her teeth were shattered and she gagged on the bony fragments and the blood.

  Frank stopped and stepped back. He was breathing hard, holding himself up by the bar that held a row of dresses, smearing their collars with his own blood.

  “You can’t take him,” she sobbed, spitting blood and teeth onto the carpet, her head hanging. “You can’t, Frank.”

  Frank was bent over, huffing from his efforts. He tilted his head up, his pale blue eyes burning beneath his thick dark eyebrows.

  “The only reason I’m not going to kill you,” he said, “is because of that boy.”

  Frank turned to go, staggering toward the closet door.

  “You can’t, Frank!” she shouted, sobbing now, her face already puffy from the swelling. “He’s not yours!”

  Frank whipped around, pointing the gun at her, his hand shaking.

  “He’s mine,” she moaned, looking away.

  “Not anymore,” Frank said. He slammed the door shut and left her in the emptiness.

  67

  HELENA AND I LIE IN THE DARK, the sweat cooling our naked bodies. My fingers are interlaced with hers and I squeeze them, compressing the bones between the second and third knuckles with my own. I used to do this to Lexis and I wonder if I should feel ashamed, thinking of her when I’m lying here like this.

  I can’t help what I think. It was another life, but some parts of it are still vivid, no matter how hard I try to forget.

  Helena rolls my way, puts her fingertip against my Adam’s apple, and starts drawing a straight line down when the phone rings.

  Helena groans and says, “Don’t answer it. It’ll be Darwin. He’s the only person I gave your home number to that would call this late.”

  “You should talk to him if it is,” I say, picking up the phone.

  “It’s eleven o’clock,” Helena says, arching her neck so she can see the clock by the bedside.

  When I hear Chuck Lawrence’s voice on the line, my body goes rigid.

  “I know you said not to interfere,” he says, “but you better come over here.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s in pretty bad shape,” he says.

  “Lexis?” I say, and now Helena’s body goes rigid too.

  “She needs a doctor,” he says, “but she wants you first.”

  “I’m coming,” I say, and swing my legs out of bed.

  I look down at Helena. She grabs my hand.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks. “Where are you going?”

  “An old friend,” I say, pulling away from her and putting on my dark blue slacks. I pull on a matching short-sleeved collared shirt, button it up without tucking it in, and slip on my shoes.

  “That’s his wife,” she says, tilting her head and raising one eyebrow.

  “She is an old friend,” I say, putting on my watch. “Please, Helena. This is almost over.”

  “Then what?” she asks.

  I shake my head that I don’t know.

  “And us?” she says, raising her voice. “Am I part of your plan?”

  I bend down to kiss her.

  “Don’t,” I say, running my fingers through her long silky hair. “I’ll be back.”

  I don’t make any noise leaving my room, but when I get to the bottom of the stairs, Bert is hustling after me, pulling on his shirt.

  “Working?” he asks.

  “Maybe.”

  “Forget me?”

  “Figured you’d make it.”

  “You know me,” he says with a thin smile. “Never like to miss any fun.”

  In the garage next to my limousine is a boxy black Mercedes G55. I get in and drive toward Lexis’s address on Park Avenue. At 54th Street, I run through a yellow light turning red. The car behind me makes it too. Maybe it’s following me, but I don’t have time to worry about that. I leave the SUV right there on the str
eet. The doorman seems flustered-purple-faced with a crooked hat-but he sends us right up. The heavy wooden door is open. We go in and I call Chuck’s name. My voice rebounds off the glass dome far above. The Caesar without a nose stares from his pedestal. I walk through the rotunda entry, my heels clicking on the marble until they reach the deep rug of the great room. I stop short and Bert bumps into me.

  She stares down at me from that painting and then I hear Chuck’s voice coming from the vaulted passageway on the opposite side from where Lexis has her studio.

  I jog down the hall, past a doorway that leads into the kitchen, and into a bedroom of long drapes and marble columns. Chuck is sitting on the bed with his arm around Lexis. Her hands cover the top of her head. When she looks up at me, I stop, sickened.

  “Jesus,” I say.

  “Frank,” Chuck says, getting up and moving away from the bed.

  Her hair is crimson and matted. One eye is a bluish slit. That side of her face has grown red and swollen. She’s been crying and holds a knotted towel in her hand.

  “Raymond,” she says.

  I hear Bert grunt behind me.

  “You’re thinking of someone else,” I say, frozen in front of her.

  “I know who you are,” she says.

  I shake my head and feel my plastic face.

  “The Blue Hole,” she says, angling her head. “I think of it every day.”

  Behind her is a painting on the wall. Thundering water, foamy green. Three figures in the mist. Faceless parents holding hands with a child. My face is stern. I can feel it heat and my eyes filling.

  “You said it couldn’t happen,” I say, sitting beside her on the bed, staring at my hands. “That we couldn’t be apart.”

  I can smell the hint of Frank’s Cool Water cologne. The demon that haunts even my memories. She reaches out and takes my hand, stroking my palm with her fingertips.

  “In a way, we weren’t,” she says, looking into my eyes and tilting her head. “Part of you has been with me all the time. We made love that day, remember?”

  I squint at the painting and see, now, my totem-the stick figure of a running deer-faintly etched in the mist above the father. A smaller totem floats over the child in the middle.