1 Murder Takes Time

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  “Your father was a good man, Nicky. He raised a good son.”

  I fought my emotions, but lost, tears forming in my eyes. “Sister, you don’t know.” I shook my head. “Sometimes I wish I could start over.”

  She pulled my hand to her. I slid across the bench some. “Would you do things differently?”

  I turned my head. Wouldn’t let her see the tears. “I would. I truly believe I would.”

  “Then do it,” she said. “You can never go back, Niccolo, but you can always start fresh.”

  “Sister, you don’t—”

  “I don’t know what you’ve done?” She patted the back of my hand. “I feel like I have raised a thousand children, though I am empty from having none of my own. My children have become priests, cops, carpenters, bricklayers, plumbers, nurses, teachers—even murderers.” She caught the surprised look in my eyes. “Yes, even murderers, and yet, there was good in all of them.” She fought tears. “Do you remember Tommy Dougherty?”

  I nodded. “The one who killed those girls up in Boston?”

  “Yes, that’s him. I spoke with him after he was sentenced.” She paused, choking back tears, almost as if she had personally failed Tommy. “He never asked for forgiveness, at least, not from me. All he talked about was what if he had made another decision that night? He looked me in the eyes and he said, ‘Sister, what if I had turned left at the stop sign instead of right, I would have never seen those girls and offered them a ride.’ And then, Nicky, he took a big sigh. I felt his pain. He said, ‘Sister, I truly believe that if I had not seen those girls that night, I would have never done anything like this. But now look what I’ve done to my family.’” She stood. Walked around a bit. “Think on it. Make your decisions count.”

  “Sister, you don’t know what I’ve—”

  “Niccolo Fusco. If you want to go to confession, find Father Tom. If you want to feel sorry for yourself, go down to Schmitty’s and drown your sorrows in beer or whiskey—you’ll have plenty of company. But if you want to do something with your life, make up your mind to change and then stick to it.” She grabbed hold of my shoulders and shook. “God knows what you’ve done, boy, and you’re not dead yet. He must be keeping you alive for something. Go earn this new life you’ve been granted. Start tomorrow on a new path. Hell. Don’t wait for tomorrow, start today.”

  I got up from the bench and paced, cracking my knuckles and biting my lip. “Sister, you would be so ashamed if—”

  She held up her hand. “I told you, if you want to confess, go to confession.”

  “I don’t go to confession, Sister. Can’t trust them.”

  “Yet you trust me?”

  “Of course.”

  She remained silent while I continued pacing and cracking my knuckles. Finally, she faced me. “Don’t do anything until tomorrow. Promise me that.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to think about something. I have to pray tonight for guidance.”

  “Sister, I—”

  “Promise me, Nicky.”

  “All right, Sister. I’ll see you tomorrow.” As I walked away, I cursed myself for not asking about Angie. It seemed as if every emotion was telling me to go see her. Say hi, if nothing else. But emotions held me back. Pride had shoved a cantaloupe down my throat, and I couldn’t get past that. And past jealousy. All these years, and I was still jealous of the guy she married. Most of all though, I was envious of the life she had—married, with a child and a house. The kind of life we planned so long ago. I shook my head as I walked to the car.

  Screw Angie. I’ll make my own life.

  SISTER MARY THOMAS PRAYED that night, knelt on the hard tile floors in the convent chapel and prayed for hours. When she finished, she went to her room and slept. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. This was a truth kept hidden for too long.

  CHAPTER 46

  A LONG-LOST LETTER

  Wilmington—20 Months Ago

  I was waiting for Sister Mary Thomas when she walked across the street from the convent. She came, long black robes flowing with each stride, her face gleaming in the morning sun. I couldn’t see her smile, but I pictured it, knew it was there. That gave me comfort.

  “Good morning, Sister.”

  “Get your car, Nicky. You’re coming with me.”

  “Where?”

  “To the bank. Bring your briefcase.”

  We drove in silence—not quite silence—but small talk all the way to the bank. “What are we doing here?”

  “Be patient.”

  She took me to a safe-deposit box, opening it once the assistant left us alone. Inside was twenty thousand dollars in cash and a manila envelope, sealed at the top. “What the hell is this?” I asked. “Where did this money come from?”

  “There should be a letter.”

  I started to open it, but she stopped me. “Not here. Bring it with you.”

  Curiosity burned inside of me, but I grabbed the cash and the envelope and put them in the briefcase. Once inside the car, I reached for the envelope.

  She stopped me again. “Wait until I leave.”

  “Sister, what’s going on?”

  “You will see in good time. Do as I ask, please?”

  I nodded. What else could I do?

  We made more small talk until we got back to the school, then she opened the door to leave. She turned to me, smiled, but it was a false one, the first one of those I’d ever seen from her. Then she kissed me on the cheek. “Goodbye, Nicky.”

  The way she said it made it feel permanent. I watched her go, feeling sorry and sad at the same time. “Goodbye, Sister,” I said as she closed the door.

  I thought about driving back to Hershey before I read the letter, but I couldn’t, so I parked in a nearby lot. My heart raced as I slid my finger along the edge of the envelope, careful not to rip anything. Once opened, I stared inside. There were a few keys and a letter.

  Nicky, my son.

  If you are reading this, that means I am dead, probably long dead. It also means that Sister Mary Thomas is either dead or that she felt a burning need to give you this letter.

  My heart breaks considering either of those situations. I would like to say that if she is dead, I would be seeing her soon, but she will be going to a place I can never enter. I will have to be satisfied living my eternal life without her, as I had to live my physical life without her.

  I put the letter down. Wiped away tears. What the hell was going on? Did Pops and Sister Thomas… no, it couldn’t be. She treated me like shit early on, was so tough on me…and why would Pops say he’d be in hell? It didn’t make sense. I shook my head, picked the letter back up.

  I’m sure you’re wondering about the money—where did it come from? How did I get so much? Why did I wait this long to give it to you—you could have used it.

  Lots of questions, I know. I’ll answer them one by one.

  First about sweet Sister Mary Thomas. Her real name is Concetta Panelli—beautiful name, isn’t it? She and I were best friends growing up. Concetta was never beautiful in the sense that most people think of beauty, but after getting to know her, I thought she was the most wondrous person in the world. And she was so smart—but you already know that. We did everything together. Not actually everything. She kept her honor, but we had more love than most people experience all of their lives. We made plans to marry. To have a house that would be full of wonderful children like you. And we spoke of living to ages people only dreamed of, spending every day in bliss.

  So what happened?

  Foolish man that I was, I felt I needed to provide her with a lot of money, and things that I now know she would have never cared about. At the time, though, I was young, and young people do stupid things. I wish I had known Rosa Sannullo then. She always said money ruins love. I believe now that she was right.

  To make money, I started working for the wrong people. One night I killed someone. After that, killing became part of the job. Soon, it became the job. I was good at it. The
best, they said, but it ruined my life, because it took Concetta from me. When she found out what I’d done, she would have no part of me. What made me saddest, though, was that it drove her to the convent. She should have lived a life with someone. Should have raised children. But because of me, she is locked away behind tall doors every night, and she covers her beautiful body in black robes. I am ashamed of what I have done.

  Later, I met your mother, and though at first it might have seemed a compromise to the love I had for Concetta—and perhaps even an act against her for becoming a nun—I learned to love your mother with a passion that I felt I could not feel for a woman again. Soon, she became my life. When she died, I knew it was God punishing me. He had taken the two most important people in the world away from me; however, he did leave me with you.

  Rosa Sannullo helped me in the early days, always there with her advice and her superstitions, but always there, too, with her love. She is a good woman. A kind woman. Shortly after you were born, Concetta came to me. It was the first time we talked in many years. She never cried that day. But she looked me in the eyes and told me. “Dante, you have a baby now. I want you to quit what you are doing and take care of that baby.”

  At first I was angry that she would even say such a thing, but then I realized she was trying one last time to save my soul, though that chance was long gone, believe me. Even God can only forgive so much. But for her, for the Concetta I once loved, I swore I would do it. So from that day on, I quit. I told the people that I worked for that I was retiring and would never have anything to do with them. They didn’t like it, but they never said anything. They gave me a job in the union, and I went back to my old trade of laying stone and bricks. A good occupation. One that sweats the bad out of you, or so Rosa Sannullo always said.

  So now you have the story. I don’t know how I died. I hope you didn’t suffer because of it. But mostly I hope that the reason you are reading this is because Concetta—Sister Mary Thomas—is in heaven where she belongs. I hope it’s not because you are in trouble.

  Inside this envelope is a list of other safe deposit boxes and the keys to them. You will find about $350,000 in all. A lot of money, I imagine, even in the day you are reading this. I hope it is. I would have put it in investments, but this money was earned illegally. You will have to do with the cash. I tried to give some to Sister Thomas, but she would have nothing to do with it.

  Also in the envelope is my favorite picture of your mother, one of the kindest, most gentle people I ever knew. And a lock of her hair.

  I hope you can fix whatever is wrong with your life—if something is wrong—and I hope never to see you again.

  Oh, and assuming Sister Thomas is still alive, say hello to her for me. Give her a kiss on the cheek and tell her that Dante says, ‘Ti amo con tutto il mio cuore’ (I love you with all of my heart.) And tell her that Dante says thank you.

  Ti voglio bene,

  Pops

  I stared at the letter for a long time. So long that I didn’t remember when I started it. Finally, I folded the pages, put them back in the envelope and turned the key to start the car. Hershey was waiting. It was going to be a long drive.

  All the way back, I thought of the letter, at first denying what it said, then finding memories that supported what I’d read. Like the time when I was six and in the cop station. Pops came to get me, and he didn’t even have to say anything. Just stared at them, then took me home. Or the time at the roach races, when Mikey the Face bet two hundred then tried backing out when Pops covered it. I’d never seen Mikey scared before that day, but he was. Now I knew why. And the comment Doggs made when Moynihan died, about how that would teach him to pick on Little Nicky.

  I guess I’d known it all my life. Known something was fishy about Pops. Maybe I just didn’t want to know.

  Horns blared, and I swerved to avoid a head-on. Goddamn. I better pay attention. Refocused now, I kept my eyes on the road, but my mind kept drifting. Sister Thomas told me I could do anything. Start my life fresh. But then I looked at the letter, and, knowing what I did now, I wondered. Maybe it was in the genes. Maybe I had no choice. As I pondered on it, I realized I’d fallen into the same trap Pops had. I was trying to make money to impress Angie, just like Pops had tried with Sister Thomas.

  What an idiot I am. Angie didn’t care about that. My thoughts ran wild for the next half hour, until I forced myself to concentrate on driving. Traffic was getting worse, and I couldn’t afford an accident. I made up my mind to figure things out when I got back to Hershey.

  CHAPTER 47

  RULE NUMBER TWO:

  MURDER HAS CONSEQUENCES

  Hershey, Pennsylvania—20 Months Ago

  I decided that night to get this over with quickly. Wasn’t going to wait and watch like I normally did. Tito wanted it rushed anyway. In the morning I checked to make sure the motel room was perfectly clean and wiped down. I hadn’t taken a shower, though I needed one badly, but a shower could leave hairs in the drain. I bundled the bedclothes and laid them on the floor. Once they were laundered, any of that evidence would be gone. I assured myself that this was my paranoia running wild. No one would even know I’d been here.

  I got my case, went to the car, and drove to the back of the grocery store on the other side of the woods. I parked among the employees’ cars, waited until no one was in sight, then took the gun from the trunk and walked into the woods. The gun fit in a small briefcase. Once I assembled it, I could make a killing shot from a hundred yards. Not sniper range, but damn good.

  As I walked through the woods, I took note of alternate routes. Before long, I was sitting on the tree stump, waiting for lunch break. Gina should not have blackmailed Tito.

  Stupid woman.

  The school-bell ring alerted me, and at the same time brought back fond memories. The doors opened, and a mass of screaming kids poured out, laughter and joy echoing through the neighborhood. I smiled. How could I not? No one—absolutely no one—could hear that many kids laughing and not smile.

  “Don’t run, children.”

  The command wasn’t as powerful as one from Sister Thomas, but it was good, firm. I looked up to see Gina—Debbie Small—admonishing the kids as they raced down the steps.

  “Don’t you dare cross that street until I get there.” She picked up her pace and ran. I smiled again. She had more of the nun in her with that command.

  Shit. I cursed and closed my eyes. Shook my head. I had to stop thinking like this. A job was a job. After all, didn’t she blackmail the mob? How stupid is that? She needed killing. Can’t leave people like that around to teach our children. Even Sister Thomas would have told her that nobody blackmails the mob.

  When I looked up, the kids were in the park, playing catch. Gina joined them, and the kids seemed to like it. I raised the gun, sighted her in, focused…then decided to wait. No sense doing it in front of kids. For almost forty-five minutes I waited, then the bell rang, and the kids headed back to class. Gina stayed in the park, directing stragglers and waiting for the late ones to reach her before ushering them back across the street.

  I sighted her in again, locked the crosshairs onto her head. She was almost to the curb, kind of bouncing in a half-jog type gait that teachers seemed to do in order to hustle kids along. When she got to the curb, she stopped, staring at the three kids she had just brought across.

  “Where’s Timmy?”

  One of the kids turned to her, “He’s coming.”

  “All right, you go in,” she said. “I’ll wait here.”

  It was perfect—her standing still, no kids around. I fixed the crosshairs one last time, then reached for the trigger. Her eyes were deep brown, and big, the kind that invited you in. And she had a long straight nose with a slight bump on it. It was a little big for a girl, but I’d seen worse.

  Just as I put pressure on the trigger, she took her right index finger and twirled her necklace. I stopped. I squeezed my eyes closed then opened them again. After adjusting to the li
ght, I focused. Then came that feeling in my stomach, twisting my gut inside out. And there was Gina, twirling that damn necklace and sliding the charm back and forth across her chin. All the while she stood on tiptoes, neck craned, looking for her lost kid like he was the damn prodigal son.

  Fuck. Why did she have to be a twirler? Angie was a twirler. She used to twirl her hair all the time. Take her index finger and wrap it around a few strands of hair at the back of her neck and then just twirl. When Gina did that with her necklace, all I could think of was Angie.

  Slowly, I let go of the trigger. Even slower, I disassembled the gun and packed it up. The walk back to the car seemed endless. I threw my life away once before for an oath nobody seemed to care about. Now I had my life back…but if I didn’t kill Gina, I was a dead man.

  CHAPTER 48

  TOUGH DECISIONS

  Hershey, Pennsylvania—20 Months Ago

  At the motel that night, I sat and pondered. For the tenth time, I reminded myself that if I didn’t do this contract, my life was over. At the very best, I’d have to go into hiding. More likely, I’d be dead. But every time I thought about pulling the trigger, I saw Angela’s face. Angela’s smile. Heard her laugh. Smelled her. Tasted her.

  I punched the bed. Then punched it more. How could anybody’s life be so fucked up? I walked to the dresser and reached into the bag. The letter from Angie was in that briefcase, calling me.

  Find me, Nicky. No matter where I am, find me.

  I punched the bed again. Fucking coward. Fearless Nicky the Rat, scared to go see her, and hear she left me to fuck somebody else.

  The letter helped me make up my mind, though. That, and thoughts of those kids playing. No way I was killing her in front of those kids. I waited until 2:00 AM, crept out the door, checking to make sure the lights were out, then sneaked out into the night. A phone booth was maybe a quarter mile away, so I jogged there and dialed Debbie Small’s number. She didn’t answer until the seventh ring.