Blood From A Shadow (2012)

by Gerard Cappa

  12.30 am, I told Ryan to park the car around the corner in Devoe Avenue, while I walked back across McLean so I could see across the Expressway to the bus stop on the other side, where Central Avenue ran parallel to the State road. Sure enough, about fifteen minutes early, brake lights marked where the bus stop was. I jogged back to Ryan, told him to phone the number again, tell the guy he was on the wrong side of the Expressway, he should turn back along McLean Avenue and pull up at the park opposite Durty Nelly’s Bar. In less than a minute, I could see them coming our way, pulled Ryan up to the trees at the corner of McLean and Devoe, he switched his cellphone to silent mode.

  The Chrysler pulled up about 30 feet away from us, I sent Ryan down the path that ran through the middle of the trees, I crouched around the wall that bordered the park. I got to the end of the wall before I saw the Ford pull up, across the Avenue, nearly parallel with the Chrysler. They didn’t see me, but I couldn’t make out how many of them there were. A fat guy was out of the first car, leaning against the hood, waiting on Ryan to come closer. The kid had the sense to stay back, he could escape into the trees if he had to. The fat guy was well spoken and well dressed, looked like he had spent many years behind a desk.

  “I believe we spoke earlier, you like to come down and talk?” Fat Guy said.

  Ryan couldn’t have been any more than 21 years old, but he had been battle hardened somewhere.

  “I said you were to come on your own. The deal is off,” his Belfast accent wasn’t out of place here, somehow had earned the right to be heard on these streets.

  The Chrysler driver opened his door, windows went down on the Ford. No radio crackle, I didn’t think they were using their cellphones either.

  “You don’t want my $500?” Fat Guy tried to tempt him.

  “Get that other car to fuck out of here, or I’m gone and you’ll never find him,” Ryan said. “And the price has just gone up to $1,000. Take it or leave it.”

  He shoved his fat head into the Chrysler, then the driver waved signals to the Ford. Some talk in the Ford, before it eased away from the sidewalk, next left was no entry, they had to come past me, first right into Devoe Avenue. I skipped over the wall, hunkered behind the trees, watched the Ford edge past and stop, just far enough so that Ryan couldn’t see them, but close enough to cut off his escape through the park. The Chrysler driver was on the sidewalk now, slowly tracking to Ryan’s right while the Fat one kept talking. The driver was fat too, both these guys were in their fifties, maybe older, long time since either had seen active service. They inched towards Ryan, Fat Guy 1 and 2, trying to move but, at the same time, look as if they were standing still. Ryan edged back at the same rate, kept looking straight at them, didn’t give me away. The Ford driver was out now, creeping towards Ryan from behind, he was about twenty feet away from me but didn’t see me. He was another old one, must have been in his sixties, plump face fringed with white sideburns, knees creaking under the strain of keeping low.

  Somebody was watching from the Ford passenger seat, I knew I could get around to the driver’s door if I was quick enough, Ryan would be ok, was too smart to be caught. I jumped over the wall and dived in the driver’s door, rammed the 45 into the face sitting there. Fucking Lutterall, elbowed him with my right, head butted him on the cheekbone, stuck the Colt in his mouth. He was carrying, a 45 as well, but his was a new Kimber, made just up that I-87 in Elmsford, the Yonkers stamp right over the trigger. I grabbed the collar of his expensive jacket and trailed him out my side, smacked him with his own gun to speed him up, he splurged out on to the sidewalk. I pinned his skull with the Kimber barrel buried under his jaw, trailed him around to face the others.

  Ryan hadn’t been quick enough, or these old guys hadn’t forgotten how to move. Lutterall’s driver had Ryan’s head twisted back, a pistol to his right temple forcing his head down and to the left. The other two were flanking around either side of me, not quickly, just taking their time, making sure I wasn’t jumpy.

  “It’s over, Maknazpy! Drop your weapon!” Lutterall snarled it out the side of his mouth. I head butted him again, the same firm cheekbone, a deep cut opened. Up close, the mileage on his skin couldn’t be disguised, so he must have been about thirty five years old, back in Berlin, in 1989. The others stopped their flanking manoeuvre, moved back behind Ryan, one cracked him in the face with a pistol. Ryan took it, spat back a mouthful of blood and teeth in the tough guy’s face.

  “Tell them to send the kid over here, Lutterall, or I’ll blow your head away with your own gun,” I pressed my mouth against his ear.

  “He’s going nowhere Maknazpy, neither are you. We have got a job to do, it’s too important to be sidetracked by scum like you. Drop your weapon, I won’t say it again,” Lutterall said.

  I pressed his Kimber 45 against his right bicep and squeezed the trigger. Boom! It echoed all around the Avenue, above the Expressway traffic, flashed me back to Gallogly and the big Pole in Coyne Park that night. Lutterall sagged in my grip, half his arm was gone, his blood cascaded down over my shoes. He was silent, I think he fainted, maybe went into shock.

  “Send him over!” I shouted across the park.

  The three old timers looked at each other, no discussion, then nodded consent to each other, and pushed Ryan towards me. I dragged Lutterall backwards, out of the park and back to his car. Ryan walked three paces before ducking to his right and diving into the trees, he wasn’t waiting to be nailed in the back. He emerged behind me, helped me drag the lifeless Lutterall to the car, I waved the old guys back with the pistol, Ryan jumped the driver’s seat, I piled on top of Lutterall in the back. Ryan knew his way around these streets as well as I did, he thumped the Ford to the end of McLean and on to the Saw Mill Parkway, heading for the Bronx.

  Lutterall was filling the back seat with his blood, I slapped him until his eyes flickered.

  “Where’s McErlane hiding, you motherfucker!” I screamed up close to his face.

  The contempt in his eyes marked how inferior he knew I was.

  “Forget McErlane, you bastard!” Lutterall barked. “You should be asking me where your wife is, where your son is. But it’s too late for them now, you dumb motherfucker! You have killed them too, Maknazpy, just like everyone else you touch, you have killed them too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Lutterall’s filth fragmented in my head like a grenade, raptured my soul plasma through a white void of heartbeats until I blinked out of the fog to find my fingers squeezing his limp windpipe. He was melting into the abyss when Ryan wrestled my choking hands away. Traffic flew past on the Parkway as he dragged me out by my ankles, but drivers hit the rubberneck pedal when I transferred my rage to Ryan, my hands around his throat now, his head viced against the fender. The kid’s eyes bounced in his head, his fingers clawed at my wrists, but it was as if I was watching myself, I wasn’t really there, and I know he would have died if I hadn’t suddenly snapped out of it. And something real stopped me, like somebody hit a switch, I was back, knew who I was and what I was doing. I was shaking, heart banging in my ears, gulping air, as if I had just escaped the terror of my nightmare again. Ryan had that look in his eyes, the look I had seen before.

  I helped him back to the automobile, coughing his lungs back to life, Lutterall barely alive in the back seat, still gurgling blood. I bolted out in front of a truck driver, ignored the blast of his heavy duty twin klaxons, swerved to the fast lane and bombed south through the Bronx. I would dump Lutterall at the Montifiore Hospital and get back to the apartment. If anything had happened to Rose or young Con, I would blow this fucking town up myself.

  Lutterall’s face was a white wooden mask when I stalled the Ford outside the hospital and jerked him out, he was no use to me now. I slowed down to pass a lurking patrol car before turning north at Webster, I would be home in minutes. Ryan was silent, must have wondered what sort of freak he was tied to, still had his nine mill, I hoped he wasn’t going to turn it on me, really didn’t want the kid to get
hurt. I pulled out two grand of Duffin’s cash and pressed it in his fist. He shoved it in his jeans, still silent, just nodded. I knew we were ok.

  We were on McLean now. I pulled in across the street from the apartment, there was a light on up there, calling me in.

  “It’s a trap,” Ryan said.

  “You stay here, Ryan. If there is trouble, just take off and dump the car. Forget about me, ok?” I said.

  “What’s your real name, anyway? What did that guy call you?” Ryan said.

  “If you are caught, tell them Conor McAnespie took you prisoner. There was nothing you could do, you had no choice, ok? Just tell them it was Conor McAnespie,” I said.

  I stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the light, knuckled my head to focus, breathe, think straight, calm down, take control. But it didn’t work, that dark energy rimmed my skull like a macho halo raging to explode. And the name, McAnespie, I hadn’t said it out loud since Artie had given me the history lesson, but I savored the sound, now I had said it. It echoed through my head, too, stoked the darkness with some primitive chill I couldn’t finger. I knew my hero father’s power couldn’t purge the demons, and he had vanished without warning me. A shadow scanned across the window, shot the trapped light a blue shimmer. Didar knew the ghosts were my transport to destiny. I gripped the Kimber 45 against my thigh, slipped the old GI 45 in my belt, and crossed McLean. Fine, I was ready.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  My brown door still flaked scabs of paint. Music inside, turned low, that old tape of McKenna and Morrison, Irish icons of Rose’s FDNY grandfather. All long dead, and Rose had no ear for that sound, somebody else was in there. The door wasn’t locked, the Kimber led me in, lights off now, just a glow from the living room.

  “I knew you would come. I hoped you wouldn’t but I kinda knew you would,” Ferdia McErlane, sitting in my chair, wearing my green “Irish Brigade 1860” sweatshirt, the burn scars spilling out, etched along his neck.

  “I came to get you the fuck out of this thing before it’s too late,” I said. “But where are Rose and young Con? In bed?”

  “It’s already too late, Con, we’re going right ahead. The only thing we can do now is get you out of here until it’s all over,” Ferdy said.

  Fire Patrolman McKenna’s flute bubbled “The Blackbird” thru the crack and scratch of the 1940’s recording. Her Captain grandfather made the Audiodisc in his Fire House in the Bronx, McKenna glad to see his old pals, all frozen into the brittle acetate. Laughter and cheer in the background, sounded like a Fireman rattling a step on a platform. I turned it off, switched the lamp on, sat down opposite my mirror image.

  “Where’s Rose? How come you are in here this time of night?” I said.

  “They’re safe, Con, don’t worry about them. I made sure they were out of town, there’s no way they will be in any danger. But we need to get you out of here, you have become that problem I warned you about,” he said.

  “Yeah? Well Lutterall is the one with a problem, I just dumped him at Montefiore, see if he’s so smart now, huh?” I said. “And this ‘thing’ of yours isn’t going to happen. It stops right now, and you know what I’m saying here, right?”

  “I hear you, brother, but you’ve got to stand down on this one, there’s a limit to how far I can go to protect you, you know?” he said.

  I laughed at him.

  “Fuck off, Ferdy! I’ve spent our whole lives keeping you out of trouble, covering for you. I’m not the one needs any protection here”, I said. “And I won’t allow you to keep going with this. It is stopping now, hear me good on this one, brother, it is over.”

  He bowed under the lamp to restart the music and read her grandfather’s inky playlist on the cassette case. The old man’s hand was shaky when he finally transposed the 78’s to tape, but Ferdy recognised most of the tunes anyway.

  “Rose should do something with this, you know. Donate it to a museum or something, there are still people would love this old stuff,” he said.

  “She’s not interested, she’ll throw it all out some day,” I said. “I told her she should keep the original 78’s, found them outside in the trash one day when I got home.”

  “The Maids of Mount Kisco”, kissed alive again after seventy years, flute and fiddle chasing each other. Mount Kisco, just a skip along that Sawmill Parkway now, must have been a day trip from the Bronx when those old guys were big names in Irish New York.

  “This is for real, Con,” he said. “I know you’ve been a brother to me, but that’s why you have to step aside, you just can’t get in the way here, I can’t stop it now, nobody can, it’s too late. Help me out here, man, there’s a road I don’t want to go down, but you’re not making it easy for me.”

  Ferdy took out the cassette and slipped it back inside the case, set the case back on its place on the bookshelf, where it had been since the old man’s funeral. He angled the lamp towards me and opened his hand, showed me four phials, maybe four inches long, finger width, packed tight with a yellow white powder.

  “So, that’s it?” I said.

  “That’s it. Pure Abrin, brother, straight from an Iranian laboratory. There’s enough in here to wipe out Manhattan, no antidote for this shit either,” he said.

  He was calm, no big deal, he may as well have been telling me about the seventy year old flute music. I was shaky, but had the 45 in my grip, could see the dead end looming, looked like he wasn’t going to stand down.

  “See, that’s the important thing here,” he said. “This shit can be traced back to Iran, back with the two fuckers that brought it all this way. We made it easy, through Turkey to Amsterdam, boat to Ireland, took them over the border to make sure the Brits had them tagged, then boat from Ireland to New York. No doubt about who they are either, Quds Force, Iran’s elite, we have these two tapped right back to Tehran. It’s all prepared, Con, that’s why we have to get you out of here. There is no other way, brother.”

  “This is just fucking crazy, Ferdy! You’re going to wipe out Manhattan to give us an excuse to go to war again? No way, man, I won’t let you do it. I should have fucking finished you off in Iraq but I swear to God I’ll do it now if you force me, Ferdy, believe me, brother, don’t push me!” I said.

  He sank into the seat, hands rested easily on his lap, no weapon. He nodded at my 45.

  “You really would use that thing on me, wouldn’t you?” he said.

  I guessed I would if he didn’t give me a way out, but I didn’t say so.

  “Well, don’t get carried away, Con. I said this was enough to wipe out Manhattan, I didn’t say that’s what we are going to do, did I?” he said.

  I sighed out my relief, my shoulders sagged, my head rolled back, I dropped the 45 to my thigh again.

  “Thank Christ for that! What the fuck are you playing at then?” I said.

  “Look, we are going to stage an attack, but we have doctored the load. It’s diluted with some neutral shit, those two Quds fuckers will blow themselves up but only a fraction of the Abrin will be discharged. The pure stuff will be found, that’s all we need to start the bandwagon rolling,” he said.

  I tensed again, raised the 45, looked him in the eye.

  “Diluted? But you are going to set that fucking poison off in New York, right? Americans will be put in danger? How many innocent people are going to die so that some asshole can get a promotion out of it?” I said.

  He shrugged, resigned, like he was losing patience trying to explain a school problem to a 5th grader.

  “We have already wasted ten thousand American lives since 9/11,” he said. “We took the wrong fucking path back then, you know it was Iran that always was our enemy, but we turned our back and now they are a fucking nuclear power. If we don’t bring on regime change now, how many more Americans are going to die? You want that on your conscience as well?”

  “How many people are you figuring on dying here, now?” I said.

  “Best estimates say a maximum of 100 fatalities, but probably les
s than 50 in the end. Maybe 500-600 injured. Most of them will recover, no real long term side effects,” he said. “Juggle that against the tens of thousands who will certainly die when those fuckers perfect their bomb. You think they won’t use terrorists as proxies to attack us then? Anytime, anywhere in the world, Americans won’t be safe. You prepared to take responsibility for that, Con?”

  “Where’s Rose and young Con?” I said.

  “Like I said, they’re out of town. They don’t know anything about it, Rose thinks she won a holiday, that’s all. I told you they wouldn’t be anywhere near it, didn’t I?” he said.

  “Like where, out of town?” I insisted.

  “Fuck I don’t know! Just far enough away that they won’t be in danger, so forget about them, it is you and me has a problem right now. How far are you prepared to go here, brother? You already tried to kill me in Iraq once, think you could go the whole way now? You would sacrifice me to save a bunch of Wall Street scumbags you don’t even know? You think they gave a fuck when we watched our brothers fall in Iraq, got blew to fuck in Afghanistan? Christ, Con, you gotta get real here man, and quick, hear what I’m saying?” he said.

  “Yeah, I tried to kill both of us, Ferdy,” I said. “I couldn’t let you do that woodworker thing again, but I wouldn’t go home in disgrace without you either. Seemed the only way out at the time, and I should have finished it then.”

  He shook his head, rubbed his face with both hands, rocked back and forward on the seat.

  “The woodworker story again. Care to tell me what you remember happened in there, Con?” he said.

  “You fucking know what happened,” I said. “You sawed that guy’s head off then drank his blood like a fucking wolf! That’s what happened, you were fucking crazy then and you’re crazy now, but I’m not letting it happen again, so get used to the idea! This time it really is over, Ferdy.”