“You stupid son of a bitch!”
Stan responds with a jackhammer punch right to his brother’s nuts. The impact is so hard it lifts him off his feet. Sonny falls on his ass.
George senses his chance—
He scrambles to the bar, turns around.
The winos lift their guns.
Pointed right at him.
Cock their hammers.
Stan leaps up into the air just as they—
Open fire.
BLAM.
BLAM.
BLAM.
The first bullet is like a punch to the shoulder and spins him around. The second slices through his back and emerges from the front of his belly. The third misses, buries itself in the bar. The shots feel like punches. His whole body goes cold.
Sonny Jim roars in horror, screams NOOOO. Starts pounding on the wino next to him, beating him with the butt of his revolver. The wino stumbles backward, drops his own revolver. It clatters on the tile floor. “YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!” Sonny Jim is screaming. The other shooter is paralyzed with fear. Christ—they shot the boss’s cop brother!
Stan looks over at George, who’s all wide-eyed, his face splattered with blood. My own, Stan thinks. Oh Christ, Rosie is going to be upset.
“Go,” Stan tells his partner.
George scrambles across the tile floor, toward Sonny Kaminski. George heard the piece drop. He’s gotta get it.
“HEY HEY HEY!” someone shouts.
But before he can reach it, someone kicks him in the stomach. George doubles up and slowly flips over. “Let me at him,” Sonny snarls as he staggers over to George. He crouches down now, even though it hurts, and places the barrel of the revolver against George’s forehead.
“As I was saying, I’ll bet some part of this gun feels familiar. Maybe the ghost of your daddy is crying out right now, oh no, not again. You want to cry now, too? Beg for your life, just like your daddy begged for his?”
George just stares at him. The face of pure hate. There’s no talking to a man like this, no reasoning. With someone like Sonny Jim Kaminski, you can only speak the truth.
“I don’t have to cry for my daddy,” George says, “because my partner’s got my back.”
And indeed he does.
Stan Walczak rises from the tile floor just high enough to reach the revolver in one of the winos’ hands and force his finger to squeeze the trigger and pull off a sloppy shot. BLAM. Sonny Jim twists and screams out—he’ll never walk again. But he pulls the trigger on the way down, BLAM. The side of George’s head disappears. The other wino turns and fires at Stan, repeatedly, BLAM BLAM BLAM. But he’s a stubborn Pole, and it takes the other one to join in the effort, unloading their weapons at him before he finally falls. Some of their shots miss, embedding those Super-X bullets in the front of the wooden bar, all while the bartender cowers on the other side, praying to God they’re not strong enough to punch all the way through.
Another Shot
November 7, 1995 (Election Day)
Jim wakes up around 4 a.m. with a full-blown panic attack. He can’t do this. He knows he can’t do this. Might as well put the gun in his own mouth and pull the trigger. He barely makes it to the bathroom before he vomits up his mostly liquid dinner. He tries hard not to choke or cry out—doesn’t want to wake Claire or the kids. But he hears the voices in his head—
Am I really about to let a killer go free?
Objection, Your Honor, the detective presumes to prejudge my client?
Objection sustained, Sonya. Your first cousin should rephrase.
Thank you, Your Honor.
Mr. Walczak, let me remind you that in this city, killers go free all the time.
The mayor is reelected in a landslide. Sonya Kaminski, along with union boss “Sonny Jim” Kaminski, shares the stage with him at the Bellevue during the postelection party, streamers and confetti and balloons everywhere. Part of the team that’s going to lead Philadelphia into the twenty-first century. Not too long ago workers would flee downtown before night fell, and muggers and rapists and scumbags would control the city streets. But the mayor turned things around. Locked everything down tight. Reclaimed Center City, which comprised the original Philadelphia city limits back during the Revolutionary War. This had been a battle, too. They were only getting started.
Sonya Kaminski tells a reporter she’ll help with the transition into the new term but plans on returning to work with her father.
However, her son, John DeHaven, Sonya tells the reporter, is someone to watch. He’s already done so much at such a young age.
Jim drives along Erie Avenue. He doesn’t even have to think about the address. Before he knows it he’s pulling up outside the halfway house and climbing out of the car and staggering a little because he’s had more than a few drinks and reaches for his gun and is relieved that it’s still there.
Inside, he flashes his badge at the landlord, asks to be taken to Terrill Lee Stanton. The landlord sighs and says he hasn’t seen Stanton in days—didn’t his parole office tell him? What is he talking about—Stanton’s missing? Yeah, the landlord tells him. Looks like he did a runner. Been gone since Sunday night, according to the PO.
Jim asks for the key to Stanton’s room. Landlord gives it to him, no questions asked. He walks the four floors up to Stanton’s room—4B. Tumbles the lock, opens the door, steps inside. Once he sees the sad bed with the paper-thin mattress and lumpy pillow, the banged-up dresser, the threadbare carpet that may have started out as brown but has faded to a sickly gray…he remembers.
Late Saturday night.
Nobody knows he’s here.
Just Jim…
…and his father’s killer.
“Don’t do this, son. You’re making a big mistake.”
“I’m not your fucking son!”
Jim Walczak has his father’s killer at gunpoint. To complete the circle he should force the man to strip and kneel down on the dirty threadbare carpet. He should tap the barrel of his revolver against the man’s skull, let him think about the last few seconds of his life. Then pull the trigger.
But shooting him would be a mistake. Ballistics too easily traced. He’s murder police. He knows how detectives will read this scene. It’s important to present an airtight narrative.
Jim tosses Stanton a small leather bag. The man catches it by reflex. Looks down at it. He knows a works bag when he sees one. And he knows what Jim wants him to do.
“This ain’t gonna give you peace.”
“Shut the fuck up and take the needle out of the bag.”
“I knew your father. He was a good man. He wouldn’t want you doing this.”
At first Stanton pretended not to know his father. But then he sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and admitted the truth. Yeah, he knew Jim’s father. Yeah, he was their snitch a couple of times. But he didn’t kill them! Why would he do such a thing? He needed them, and when they got killed, Stanton said, he knew he needed to lam out of North Philly for a while. The big bad wolves had come for them.
Wolves? Jim had no idea what he was talking about, wolves.
“There are things you don’t understand, my son,” he said. “The wolves have taken over. They won.”
Now Jim looks down at Terrill Lee Stanton’s lifeless body, needle hanging out of his arm. The stink has stayed confined to this room. Another day or two and his hall mates would have started complaining.
Did Jim force this man to stick the needle in his vein at gunpoint? Did Jim really kill this man?
No.
The “parole officer.”
If Jim had killed him Saturday night, the PO would have found his body the next night—when he told the landlord Stanton had pulled a runner. A real PO would have called the cops, the EMT. But a fake PO would have looked at the body, wiped down fingerprints, and left the way he came, telling the landlord that Stanton was missing, not dead. Probably told him to leave the room alone for a while, too. A PO who was not a PO. But in the employ of the Kamin
ski family.
Jim didn’t do this. He was drunk and stupid Saturday night but he was not a killer.
Killers—they were on the other side of his family.
The Final Shots
May 15, 2015
Audrey takes the El back toward Unruh Avenue in a kind of daze. So much to process and none of it even remotely what she expected. It’s all just so goddamned Cain and Abel.
The only thing that’s clear is that she needs to speak with her father. Like, right away. But he hasn’t been answering his cell. Which leaves her no choice but to take the El and the 66 home to Mayfair and wait for him there. Maybe pour him a double vodka on the rocks, because he’s going to need it.
Your secret uncle killed your father. Or ordered him killed. Or at least ordered his partner killed, and Grandpop Stan put himself in the way.
The El speeds down the tracks. There are no seats, since it’s rush hour, so Audrey stands and holds the slightly slimy pole to keep her balance. She feels eyes on her. She turns to look. Nobody. Paranoia’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Doesn’t take much, really, to tip your whole world on its axis. She remembers the day Claire sat down and explained that she was adopted. They wanted to wait until she was old enough to understand, but before that happened Claire and her father had split up. She was six years old and probably not ready to hear this kind of news. She’d look at all the parents picking up their kids in the schoolyard thinking—wow, all those moms and dads actually wanted their kids. Not mine. They gave me away for someone else to deal with. It fucked her mind up for a very long time.
Audrey snaps out of her reverie and turns. Whoa whoa whoa. Someone is definitely looking at her. She can feel the eyes on her, she swears. She believes in extrasensory perception because how many times have you just thought someone was looking at you and you turn and boom—someone’s looking at you?
The Bridge Street terminal—last stop on the El—can’t come fast enough. She blends into the crowd and walks with them down the long concrete stairs toward the terminal proper, which is fairly busy for the middle of the morning. She’s a cop’s daughter; she knows what to do. Stay with a crowd. She pulls her crappy cell from her bag and tries her father one more time. Maybe he can pick her up.
It rings six times, then nothing. No Dad. Where the hell are you?
She’s thinking about trying again when someone punches her hard on the shoulder.
She spins, drops the cell, which cracks on the ground. The entire terminal is echoing with this giant boom.
People around her begin to scatter. She wants to reach for her phone—she can’t leave it here in the Bridge Street Terminal, for Christ’s sake—
And then—
BOOM.
Another punch.
Audrey’s on the ground before she even realizes she’s fallen. She feels cold all over. There’s someone in a hoodie looking down at her, and it’s only when she sees the gun in his hand does she realize, holy fuck, I’ve been shot.
We’re basically bags of water, a professor once said.
And someone just shot her bag at least twice.
She’s a living—for now—chunk of ballistic gelatin.
The guy in the hoodie is aiming the gun, a revolver, at her face now, and she’s pretty much toast and too weak to do anything about it.
Audrey thinks about that old song about how you can’t get to heaven on the Frankford El.
Au contraire, mon frère.
But then something spooks him—the rush of footsteps and the loud cries of grown men. The man in the hoodie disappears. She tries to be a good policeman’s daughter and remember the details of that face for a sketch artist later. Later. How optimistic of you. You, of all people, should know what a bullet can do to a human body. You watched all those shows. You studied it in class. All to prepare you for this moment, when you’re shot and bleeding out below the Frankford El.
She reaches out her hand. Daddy, pick me up. Please. Her body is so damn cold—she doesn’t even feel the pain of the bullet wounds. Her hand is the only thing warm. That’s because someone’s holding it. Squeezing it.
It’s a man’s hand—rough skin, strong, somehow familiar.
The same man tells her to hold on, hold on, hold on.
It’s a nice thought, but at this point the decision is kind of out of her hands.
Stan
May 7, 1965
Stanisław Walczak stays alive for a surprisingly long time, considering a portion of his brain has been obliterated. Must be the stubborn Polack in him.
He reaches out toward his partner across the tiled floor but George looks like he’s already moved on. Mouth open, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. Face splattered in blood.
Your quarter’s run out on that jukebox, George. Why don’t you go play us another three songs. Surprise me.
George says nothing. There might be a hint of a smile on his face, though.
This was not part of the Plan, was it, George?
Heh heh heh.
Someone’s screaming. There are sirens. Stan tries to focus on his breathing. If you’re still breathing your heart is still pumping. Heart still pumps, you’re still alive. Fuck you, Sonny Jim. I’m going to live. I’ve got to take my boy to a ball game. With that thought, Stan passes out for a moment.
When he wakes up there is someone touching his hand. Squeezing it. A female hand.
Telling him to hold on, hold on, hold on…
Funny thing is, now that he’s awake again, he thinks maybe it’s the other way around. That he’s holding some pretty girl’s hand and telling her it’ll be okay. She is everything. She is salvation. She is the future. He opens his eyes and he’s the one crouching down, and she’s the one on the floor. Dark hair, full lips, bright eyes. She looks just like Rosie did when they first met.
And then it hits him with the bright wattage of a thousand stadium lights who she is, what she’s doing.
Stanisław Walczak has never seen anyone so beautiful in all his life.
Jim
November 7, 1995
Jim drives home to Unruh Avenue. Audrey runs up to him and squeezes him tight. Wife Claire is in the kitchen, preparing supper. She’ll be pleased to know that he’s home for a family meal for once. Too bad he can’t eat. His stomach is a black pit.
He’s made the anonymous phone call, tipping them off to room 4B on Erie Avenue. The rest is up to God. He pours himself a vodka rocks, eases himself into his recliner, and waits to see if someone will show up to arrest him.
He feels the first chest pains several hours later. He stumbles out of bed, still drunk, thinking he’s having a heart attack. As he’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror, his vision goes blurry and his fingers feel numb and there’s a choking sensation around his neck. He slams a fist into his chest as if he can shock his heart back into a regular rhythm. Please God, he says, don’t let me die like this. Not at this sorry point in my life.
The next day a cardiologist at Pennsylvania Hospital says the EKG shows nothing—most likely an anxiety attack. Which is not surprising, considering his line of work.
But his life and career slip out of their groove. Any joy he once found in the job is gone, robbed by the knowledge that he’s betrayed his badge. Where he used to fantasize about killing Terrill Lee Stanton, now he thinks about working up the courage to arrest John DeHaven, consequences be damned.
But he doesn’t have that luxury. The consequences wouldn’t just fall on him. An organization willing to kill a man and frame a cop wouldn’t hesitate to go after that cop’s family.
Audrey
May 16, 2015
The good news: she’s not dead.
The bad news: she’s pretty fucked up.
Claire repeatedly tells her: don’t worry, your father is on his way. She wishes she could talk but she can’t, not with this tube down her throat. She can’t move her arms. She could blink Morse code—but of course that would require her knowing Morse code.
Captain, I solved it
, you’ll never guess who did it!
No, seriously, you’d better sit down.
She’s had plenty of time to fit the rest of the pieces together. Oh, the independent study in her head is the most brilliant thing ever. Not that she’ll ever live to write it.
She tries to tell Claire with her eyes: Mom, I really need to see Dad. Where the hell is he? Why hasn’t he been around to visit me?
More good news: doctors say her “extra padding” probably saved her. Which is better than saying that being fat saved her life.
Three cheers for postnatal weight gain.
More bad news: she really needs a kidney. Two, actually, but one is needed immediately, otherwise it’s renal failure city. This is a problem when you’re adopted. Usually, a kidney is something you hit up a sibling for. Claire is in the room when the doctors tell her the news.
“So I’m boned,” Audrey says. Her throat still burns like hell even with the tube out of it.
“No, you’re not boned, daughter,” Claire says. “Your brother is going to give you one of his.”
“Cary? The same Cary who cries when he cuts his finger?”
“Your brother loves you.”
“How do they even know he’s a match? Don’t they have to do tests and stuff?”
Claire is looking at her funny. Like she’s ready to burst out into tears or laughter or maybe both.
“He’s a match,” Claire says, “because he’s your brother.”
After Claire explains the full story, Audrey wants the doctor to come back into her room to request a brain transplant, too, because her mind has just been blown.
Revolver Page 26