Written in the Blood

by Stephen Lloyd Jones

‘Gladly.’

  Sorrentino lunged at the counter and yanked at the knife. It defied him, stuck firm; he had to lever it back and forward several times before he managed to pry it loose.

  Otto screamed, collapsing against a rack of crockery. He dislodged cups and plates, sending them crashing to the floor.

  The front door of the Ready Eat jangled and Lucy walked in. For a moment, nobody moved.

  She saw Sorrentino standing in the middle of the diner, and Izsák hovering behind him. She saw her father slumped against the crockery rack. A moment later she noticed Otto’s bloodied hand, and the blade held in Sorrentino’s.

  Izsák was utterly bewitched by how serene Lucy appeared at that moment, how pure. She didn’t scream; didn’t panic; didn’t run.

  Instead, she walked up to Sorrentino, mouth set rigid, so invested with power that the man actually took a step backwards. ‘You’ve done your work,’ she whispered. ‘Now get out of here.’

  The pug laughed, eyes hard. But Izsák would never forget how the man had backed away as Lucy approached.

  Sorrentino returned his attention to Otto. ‘I’ll come by tomorrow. With others, if that’s what you want. You’ll pay me what you owe, you Kraut fuck.’

  When Izsák heard that, he felt something pop inside his head, a gasket blowing. For the first time in his life his rage ignited, so all-consuming that his legs shook from its effects. Images rushed at him, like cards dealt by a shark: the soles of his father’s boots inside the Citadella; Katalin’s hair as it burned; his uncle’s body staked out on the floor of his study; his flight from Budapest; the years of wandering; the fear; the pain; the solitude. And, finally, this place in which he now stood; the sanctuary of simple love and humanity he’d found inside a German immigrant’s catering business deep in the heart of one of New York’s poorest districts.

  His voice trembled when he spoke. ‘You come back here tomorrow,’ he told Sorrentino. ‘And you’ll get what you’re owed. All of it. I give you my word.’

  The thug stared. Raising his knife, he pointed the tip towards Izsák’s face. ‘See, Emil? This is what you lack. Business sense.’ Cackling, he picked up his hat and swaggered out of the diner.

  The moment he was gone, Lucy and Izsák scrambled behind the counter. Together, they helped Otto to the booth.

  ‘I don’t feel good,’ he said.

  ‘Get him some water, ’Sak,’ Lucy told him. ‘Bandages, too.’

  ‘No,’ Otto wheezed. ‘Not yet. Don’t go, Izsák. I think . . .’

  His face was the wrong colour; in fact it lacked any colour at all. The sweat pouring off him was greasy and cold. He held out his good hand and Lucy gripped it.

  Suddenly understanding what this was about – the knowledge hitting him with baseball-bat certainty – Izsák placed his hand over theirs, linking their fingers together. Otto panted for breath, once, a huge lungful. He clenched his teeth. The muscles in his jaw tensed, relaxed. And then he died, slumped in the booth between his daughter and the man who would marry her.

  The Ready Eat was closed the next morning when Sorrentino came back. The shutters were down and most of the lamps were dark, throwing the diner’s interior into deep shadow. The old Pavoni breathed no steam. The fryer remained unlit. The wireless was silent and the griddle was cold.

  But the door was unlocked. Izsák sat alone in the single booth, his head bowed.

  Sorrentino pushed open the door and walked in, noticing both the shadows and the silence. A moment later he noticed Izsák. ‘What the fuck is this?’

  ‘Take a seat.’ Izsák said. He indicated a brown paper bag to his left. ‘I have what you’re owed.’

  ‘Where’s Emil?’

  ‘You wanted to conduct business. So please; sit down, and let’s work this out.’

  ‘Business, yeah,’ Sorrentino muttered, eying the bag. He slid into the booth. ‘Who are you, anyway? I never seen you before.’

  Izsák flicked a wall switch beside the booth. Above them, a bulb in a frosted shade winked on. He raised his head. ‘I’m you, Mario. That’s who I am. I’m you.’

  The effect on the man was immediate and extreme. Blood drained from Sorrentino’s face as if someone had pulled a plug. His eyes widened, so large they lent him an almost comic intensity. ‘Che cazzo,’ he whispered, tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

  ‘Do you believe in God, Mario?’ Izsák asked.

  ‘No.’ The man stared. A pulse began to beat in his neck. Violently, he shook his head. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I mean yes. I do. I do.’

  ‘He’s a long way from you right now. About as far away as He can get.’

  Sorrentino’s protuberant eyes moistened and then filled with tears. ‘Are you . . . Do you mean you’re . . . ?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Satana.’

  ‘In the flesh.’ He held up his hands, noticing with some satisfaction how the other man cringed away. ‘Well, in your flesh, I should say. What do you think? I’d say you’re ugliness personified, wouldn’t you? I’ll bet you’ve never even considered just how far apart your eyes are set. It actually stings to wear your face for too long. Did you know that? That’s how ugly you are, Mario. So ugly it hurts.’

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. I’m not here because of your face.’

  Izsák reached into the paper bag and removed one of the diner’s filleting knives. Seizing the man’s wrist, he drove the blade between the bones of his hand, pinning him to the table.

  Sorrentino screamed.

  ‘If you get a single spot of blood on those clothes, I’ll cut off your face and feed it to you. Do you understand?’

  The man nodded, eyes as round as moons.

  Leaning over the table, Izsák patted Sorrentino down. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Right pocket. I think . . . I think I’m going to be sick.’

  Izsák pulled a Colt pistol from the man’s jacket. He swung himself out of the booth, fetched a bowl from behind the Ready Eat’s counter and set it down on the table. ‘If you’re going to be sick, be sick into that. Remember what I said: if you get blood on your cuff, on any part of your clothing, I’ll make you eat your face. And if you’re sick on yourself instead of in the bowl, I’ll cut out your eyeballs and make you chew on them like gum. Do you understand me?’

  Sorrentino was crying now. ‘Yeah,’ he whispered. ‘I understand you. What you gonna do? What’s gonna happen to me?’

  ‘You’re going to die, Mario. After that . . .’ He shrugged. ‘You’ll see soon enough. But first I’m going to ask you some questions. The better the answers you give . . . well, I don’t need to spell it out, I’m sure. Frank Fischetti. Where does he live?’

  ‘What?’

  Izsák clubbed the man’s face with the gun, hard enough to split his cheek. ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘He . . . he’s up in Riverdale.’

  ‘Give me the address.’

  Sorrentino told him.

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘B . . . big guy, kind of obese. Early fifties. Double chin. Black hair, grey in places. Wears a lot of gold.’

  ‘What’s your connection?’

  ‘I’m his nephew. Well, sort of nephew. Not directly, you know? I don’t know what the word is. Hang on.’ Noisily, he vomited into the bowl. He glanced down at himself, saw that he’d spilled nothing over his clothes. Sagged.

  ‘Are you close? To Fischetti?’

  ‘Yeah. We’re close.’

  ‘Who does he keep around him?’

  ‘Why are you asking? Surely you—’

  ‘You want to question me?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Was that a question for me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who does he keep around him?’

  ‘Leo and Fabian. They’re his sons. Then there’s Bruno. Bruno’s not related, but he’s usually there. And sometimes Seve, too’

  ‘Who’s waiting for you in the car outside?’

  ‘
George.’

  ‘Is that what you call him?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Who’s in charge?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Out of the two of you. Who’s the boss?’

  ‘Uh . . . I guess me.’

  ‘Walk me through the house. Fischetti’s house.’

  ‘I . . .’ Sorrentino stared at him, terrified and confused. He tried to stand.

  ‘Not literally, you idiot. Your hand is attached to the table. Sit down. Now, walk me through it. Tell me where Fischetti will be.’

  ‘It’s a big place. Kind of . . . like a palace. Pillars out in front. This huge lobby. Frank’s study is on the ground floor. You take the first left off the lobby, keep going. It’s the big door at the end. What’s this got to do with Frank?’

  Izsák took a wad of napkins from the bag. He leaned forward and eased the knife out of Sorrentino’s hand. Handed him the napkins. ‘Stand up. Take off your clothes. Don’t get blood on them.’

  Eyelids flickering, looking as if he might pass out, the man shuffled from the booth, clutching the wad of napkins to his hand. Awkwardly, he shrugged out of his jacket. Then he removed the rest of his clothes, folding them neatly.

  ‘Now back up. Over there in the corner.’

  Quickly Izsák undressed. He threw on Sorrentino’s trousers, shirt and jacket. Stepped into his shoes. Picked up the pistol from the table.

  ‘I still don’t get why you’re asking me all—’

  Izsák raised the gun and shot Sorrentino between the eyes. Then he walked to the door of the Ready Eat. On his way past the counter, he grabbed a leather satchel and a bag of pastries.

  Outside, an Oldsmobile was parked against the kerb. Izsák opened the passenger door and slid onto the seat.

  The man behind the wheel stared. ‘You shot Otto?’

  Opening the bag, Izsák took out a strudel and stuffed it into his mouth. ‘Yeah. Take me to Frank’s.’

  The car pulled out into traffic. Izsák swallowed the pastry and took out another.

  ‘You hungry or something?’

  ‘Shut up and take me to Frank’s.’

  The Fischetti place was a Georgian-style mansion set back from the road on an impeccably manicured square of land. Izsák told George to stay in the car, and walked up the drive. A rake-thin man in a wide suit opened the front door, nodding when he recognised who was calling.

  ‘Frank here?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Anyone with him?’

  ‘Nope. He’s on the telephone. Guys are out back.’

  Izsák strode across the parquet floor, took a left and kept going. At the end of the hall, between two ugly bronze statues, he saw a thickset oak door, just where Sorrentino had described. Without hesitating, he pushed it open and walked inside.

  Frank Fischetti wasn’t on the telephone. He was sitting at his desk, using a ramrod to insert a ball and patch down the barrel of what looked like an antique duelling pistol. Behind him, drapes were pulled across a pair of French windows. On the left, the door to a wall safe hung ajar.

  Sorrentino had described Fischetti reasonably well, but he’d failed to explain the lizard-like quality of the man’s eyes. Fischetti’s face was pock-marked too, as if, in his past, he’d caught either a bad dose of acne or a round of birdshot. He glanced up as Izsák came in, and for the briefest of moments his eyes narrowed. Then he smiled. ‘A pair of Mantons,’ he said. ‘You ever heard of Joseph Manton?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One of the finest gunsmiths that ever lived. These were made in 1797. Just look at the engraving on the trigger guards.’

  Izsák approached the desk, dropping his satchel onto the floor. A mahogany case in front of Fischetti contained the second pistol. It had already been primed. ‘They sure are nice,’ he said.

  Fischetti nodded. Working with methodical slowness, he took a metal tube from his desk and tapped primer into the pistol’s flash pan. Once he’d closed the frizzon, he lowered the weapon until the barrel pointed straight at Izsák’s chest. ‘Since when did you walk in here without knocking?’

  Moving with the speed of a striking snake, Izsák snatched the Manton off him with one hand and punched him in the throat with the other.

  Fischetti toppled back into his chair, hands darting to his neck. He gasped, choked. When he still couldn’t get enough air, he panicked, tried to stand, and crashed instead to his knees.

  ‘You’re a scourge, Mr Fischetti. A parasite. Or you were,’ Izsák told him. ‘Not after today.’ He opened his satchel, removing a bed sheet and several pieces of rope.

  Working fast, he laid out the sheet on the floor. Then he picked up Fischetti’s ankles and dragged him on to it. While the man clawed at his throat, Izsák stripped him of his clothes. He bound Fischetti’s hands and feet, then dressed himself in the discarded garments.

  Walking up to the safe, he peered inside. ‘Are those what I think they are?’

  Wheezing now, desperately trying to inhale through his crushed windpipe, Fischetti nodded.

  The discovery of the safe’s contents justified a revision to his plans. Five minutes later, after receiving a whispered explanation from Fischetti, Izsák knelt down and gagged him. He put his face mere inches from the man’s own, studied the contours of his skull, his pocked skin, his eyes, his hair, took a deep breath, and changed.

  Fischetti tried to scream, nearly suffocating himself on the gag. Grabbing him by the shoulders, Izsák rolled him up inside the sheet and secured him with the ropes. Then he opened the drapes covering the French windows.

  Outside, four men were standing around a peppermint-green Lincoln, smoking. Two of them shared the same lizard-eyed stare as Fischetti.

  Izsák opened the doors and shouted out to them. ‘Get in here, all of you.’ Once they’d assembled inside the room, and Izsák had locked the doors, he pointed at the body, wrapped in a bed sheet, writhing on the floor. ‘This man,’ he said, ‘is a thief. He’s stolen something from me no one can replace.’

  One of the Fischetti brothers hawked and spat on the fabric. ‘Well that was a fuckin’ mistake. What did he do, Pa? What did he take?’

  ‘I’ll tell you once you’ve killed him.’

  At that, Fischetti began to struggle more violently, like a newly formed moth trying to escape a chrysalis. The men raised their eyes to Izsák.

  ‘Now? In here?’ one of them asked.

  ‘Yes, now. Yes, in here. But no guns. And keep him inside that sheet. I don’t want him messing up the place.’

  Grinning, the men removed their jackets.

  As the blows began to fall, as the room filled with cries of animal excitement and hoots of laughter, as the white linen grew dark with blood, none of the four noticed the man who looked like Frank Fischetti pick up the two flintlock pistols from the desk and walk out of the room.

  They continued to kick and howl and stamp, until finally the exertion got the better of them. Leo Fischetti was the first to stop. He rested his hands on his knees and bent over, panting, grimacing at the blood on his shoes. ‘Boys, I’d say that’s enough. Someone’s gonna have to bury this shit sack. Any longer and it’ll be like shovelling mincemeat.’

  ‘Where’s Pa?’

  ‘Must have stepped out. Say, I want to see who this guy was. Don’t you?’

  A chorus of agreement.

  Leo pulled out a switchblade and cut away the sheet from around the dead man’s head. For a moment, everyone was still.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ Leo said. ‘Oh Jesus, oh JESUS.’

  Balázs Izsák walked along the hall to the foyer and out of the front door, closing it behind him. He was halfway down the drive when the dynamite he’d found in Fischetti’s safe detonated, vaporising the man’s sons, blowing out every window on the ground floor and lighting up the building with flame. The air rained brick dust and plaster and glass.

  George was waiting in the car parked at the kerb. When the house exploded he dived out, running up the drive towards Izsák.
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br />   Izsák lifted one of the duelling pistols and pulled the trigger. The flint struck the flash pan and the primer flared with a hiss. But the spark did not carry to the breach.

  It sometimes happened with flintlocks.

  George skidded to a halt, his mouth gaping. Izsák lifted the second pistol and fired. This gun worked perfectly, and the ejected lead ball took off a sizeable part of George’s skull. The man collapsed to one side of the path.

  Izsák climbed into the Oldsmobile, threw the pistols onto the seat and accelerated away from what remained of the Fischetti residence.

  His ears were ringing from the explosion. But when, at last, the sound faded, all he heard was the Oldsmobile’s engine and the hiss of its tyres on the road. For the first time in his life, the mocking voice inside his head spoke not a word of complaint.

  CHAPTER 25

  Snowdonia, Wales

  In the dying light, the mountains were black humps against a bruised sky. Leah stood beside her father’s grave, between the stag poised at the edge of the lake and the man called Tuomas on the gravel track.

  Even the wind had faded. The only sound she heard in the valley stillness was the rasping breath of the animal behind her, so close it felt as if the stag blew gouts of steam against her neck.

  She wanted to run, but where to? Not towards Tuomas, that was for sure. She could possibly make it into the trees before the stag reached her, but what then? The forest floor was choked with trailing vines and bracken. Further in, it was night-dark. Within seconds she would be disoriented, unable to see, even more vulnerable than she was in the open.

  Leah could feel her legs trembling beneath her, a horrifying lightness to them, as if they’d been stripped of muscle and bone. And here was that feeling again, a spider-like prickling on her skin. Not simply another symptom of her fear, but the same strange sensation she had felt when she arrived outside Etienne’s residence during her second visit.

  Tuomas took a step towards her. He held something in his hands. It was too dark to see his eyes, or the expression on his face, but there was something grim and inevitable about his silhouette.

  Behind her, the stag blew air from its snout. She heard it lift its hooves, the mud sucking at them.