Apaches

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “Okay if I ask you somethin’?” Pins said, pushing aside his glass of beer.

  “Doesn’t look like you’re here to drink,” Nunzio said, “and we’re not open for lunch. So I figured it was talk you wanted.”

  “The way things are going,” Pins said in soft tones, “it doesn’t seem like it’s going to end good for any of us. You included.”

  “Everything’s gone your way so far,” Nunzio assured him. “You’ve done some damage, caused the lady a few headaches, and, most important, you got her attention.”

  “That’s right,” Pins said. “Those are all the reasons I’m worried.”

  “Well, you’re not wrong there,” Nunzio said. “I’ll give you that.”

  “There’s a weak link in every team,” Pins went on. “I’ve been around long enough to know that. I don’t want to be the weak link here.”

  “You’ve held your end,” Nunzio told him. “It wasn’t your talkin’ that got the lady sniffin’ in our direction.”

  “It just seems to come easier to the others,” Pins said, his words backed by Ella now singing “Good Morning Heartache.” “The action, I mean. It’s like they’re waitin’ for it. Me, I’m always kinda hopin’ we just take her down, cuff her, and hand her over to the feds.”

  “You wanna walk?” Nunzio asked, spreading his hands across the bar. “Might not be too late. Word can spread that you’re out just as fast as it spread that you were in.”

  “Maybe I will have another beer.”

  Pins slid his glass toward Nunzio, who tapped out a refill with a foamy head and reached under the bar for a wooden bowl filled with pretzels.

  “They’re scared too, you know,” Nunzio said. “We all are. And there’s good reason to be. Not all of us are gonna make it outta this one alive.”

  “I know that,” Pins said. “Except with them, you can’t read it on their faces. With me, you pretty much can. I think that’s the difference. It’s a look that’s easy to spot—by a cop or a shooter.”

  “They’re one up on you, Pins,” Nunzio said. “They’ve been around the action so long, they learned how to hide the look. But that don’t mean it ain’t there.”

  “What’s your story?” Pins asked, finishing his beer. “Why are you in this? You got a good life here, solid business, steady. You don’t need to be in the middle of a war.”

  Nunzio stared at Pins for several moments, then turned and reached for a bottle of Seagram’s and two shot glasses. “Knowin’ my story ain’t gonna be any help to you,” he said, topping off both glasses.

  “You don’t have to tell me, you don’t want to,” Pins said. “I was just curious.”

  Nunzio swallowed his drink in a gulp, wiping his lips with a folded paper napkin. “I got a daughter. Sandy,” he said, his voice calm, his body tense. “You may have seen her around the times you been in here. She waits on tables the nights I’m short help.”

  “I talked to her once,” Pins said. “Seems like a nice lady.”

  “She’s a good kid,” Nunzio said. “Her whole life, she never gave me any trouble. Married a good guy too. His name was Frank. Irish kid from a hardwoiking family. He worked two jobs and was going to classes over at Fordham at night. They were crazy in love with each other. Were gonna have a big family and be together forever.”

  “But they aren’t,” Pins said.

  “Lots of times forever ain’t that long a stretch,” Nunzio said. “In Sandy’s case it was only three years.”

  Pins rested his hand on top of the older man’s. “You can stop there. I think I know the rest.”

  “I don’t think you do,” Nunzio said. “They had a baby. A doll of a girl named Theresa. She was only three months old and she already had my heart.”

  Pins grabbed for the bottle of Seagram’s next to Nunzio’s elbow and poured out two more drinks. He moved one glass closer to Nunzio.

  “August 6, 1972. It was a hot day and hotter night.” Nunzio held the shot glass, not drinking. “Nobody could sleep, least of all a baby about to break with her first tooth. Sandy and Frank took her out for a walk. It wasn’t just the air they needed. With him workin’ and studyin’ most of the time, they didn’t have all that much time to spend with each other. A walk’s a good way to catch up.”

  Pins could hear Nunzio’s voice straining to stay firm.

  “They were only ten minutes into the walk,” Nunzio said. “It was a clear night and they were holding hands, the baby asleep in the carriage. And then, in a little less than five minutes, everybody’s world got a lot smaller.”

  “They were mugged?” Pins said, hoping the answer was that easy.

  “Two guys were standin’ in front of them before they even knew it,” Nunzio said. “They forced them over into some tree cover. They beat Frankie, beat him bad, lookin’ to leave him for dead. And they did things to Sandy I don’t need to tell you about.”

  “What about the baby?” Pins asked, his mouth dry, one hand bunched into a fist.

  “Theresa?” Nunzio said. He blinked his eyes twice. He would not let tears fall down the front of his face. “They took her right outta her carriage.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Pins said. “I’m sorry, Nunzio. I’m so sorry.”

  “It changed everything, that night,” Nunzio said. “Took years to put Sandy back together, bring her to a place where she could come close to leadin’ a normal life. And Frankie … he never came out of it. Stuck around for a few months and then one morning, got up, got dressed, and got out.”

  “Where to?”

  “Don’t know,” Nunzio said. “Don’t need to know. We all handle our wars in different ways. He’s handling his the only way he can.”

  “They ever get Theresa back?”

  “No,” Nunzio said. “All my wise-guy contacts. All my cop friends. We all came up empty.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Nothin’ to say,” Nunzio said. “Years go by, you bury it, but you never forget it. And then Boomer comes in here and tells me about Lucia. Now, I know Lucia had nothin’ at all to do with takin’ my little Theresa away from us. But you know what?”

  “Tell me,” Pins said.

  “She might as well have been the one,” Nunzio said. “That’s why I’m in. It’s why we’re all in. To get a taste of even. In our way of lookin’ at things, it’s as good as you can hope for. You can’t ever get back what you lost, so you make somebody pay for it.”

  Pins stared at Nunzio, his eyes moist, his throat dry.

  “I’m just like the rest of the crew,” Nunzio said. “And so are you, Pins. Our hearts been carved out by different people in different ways. It’s only the taste of gettin’ even that keeps us all going forward.”

  They sat across from each other, sun filtering in through the large front windows, the silence between them welcome and relaxing.

  “I’m going over to the bowling alley,” Pins said. “Roll a few games. Helps clear my head. Wouldn’t mind having company if you’re interested.”

  “You as good as they say you are?” Nunzio asked, the hardness back in his face and voice.

  “Probably better,” Pins said, smiling.

  “What will you spot me?” Nunzio asked.

  “I’ll give you twenty,” Pins said. “We play three games, that’s a sixty spot. Highest total wins.”

  “How much we playin’ for?”

  “I don’t want your money, Nunzio,” Pins said.

  “You ain’t gettin’ my money,” Nunzio said, walking out from behind the bar. “Now, how much?”

  “Ten bucks a game,” Pins said. “Twenty if you sweep the three.”

  “Deal,” Nunzio said, rolling down his sleeves and putting on a black leather jacket.

  “You ain’t a ringer, are you?” Pins said, walking behind Nunzio toward the front door.

  “You’ll know in a couple of hours.” Nunzio shrugged his shoulders and walked out, leaving Pins to lock the door.

  • • •

  BOOMER AND
DR. Carolyn Bartlett walked quietly side by side down the south end of Thirty-sixth Street between Park and Madison. It was late on a warm Tuesday night, a cloudless spring night, a mild wind brushing against their backs. Boomer glanced over at her unlined face lit by an overhead streetlight, struck by the simplicity of her beauty and still surprised she had accepted his dinner invitation. He was attracted to Bartlett from the first and admired her for the stance she had taken in defense of Jennifer Santori. He wished he had said something to her about it back then. But, as usual, Boomer let anger stand in his way.

  He had driven down to pick her up in front of her office building and taken her over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge to a favorite Long Island City hangout, where they had feasted on southern Italian specialties prepared to heavenly perfection by the proprietor and his wife. During the course of the three-hour meal, they talked, laughed, easily broke down the barriers thrown between them by their work. They even joined Vincent, a retired cop from Naples, in an off-key rendition of “Amore Mio.” Boomer introduced Carolyn to Fernet Branca, an after-dinner digestive with the smoothness of lighter fluid, and he watched with mild wonder as she shot back the drink in one gulp and was able to name three of the herbs used in its making.

  They drove back into Manhattan in comfortable silence and she seemed amenable when he suggested that they park the car and walk for a bit. He curbed up next to a fire hydrant, tossed an NYPD permit across the dash, and walked over to hold her door open.

  “Are you still allowed to have one of those?” she asked, pointing to the permit.

  “No,” Boomer said.

  “Do you follow the rules on anything?” Carolyn asked.

  “No.”

  Carolyn slid a hand under his arm and moved herself closer to his side. “I’m glad you called.”

  “I owed you,” Boomer said. “I ran a little rough on you about Jenny. Wrote you off as another bleeding heart. I should have known better.”

  “Is that an apology?” she asked.

  “It’s as close as I get to one,” Boomer said. His eyes locked on Carolyn. “But don’t go getting used to it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You know, I talked to Jenny’s dad the other night,” Boomer said. “He told me she’s starting to come around and that you’ve been a big help to her and the family. I appreciate that.”

  “Is that the only reason you asked me out?” Carolyn said, stopping in front of her brownstone.

  “No, that wasn’t the reason,” Boomer said, turning to face her. “That was just a damn good excuse.”

  “What other reason, then, would you have to ask me out, Detective?” Carolyn asked, running a soft hand against the hard features of Boomer’s face.

  “Would you buy it if I said I didn’t want to eat alone?” Boomer asked.

  “No,” Carolyn said.

  “How about if I told you I wanted free medical advice?” Boomer said. “Would that one work?”

  “No,” Carolyn said.

  “How about if I told you I’ve thought about you every day since we met?” Boomer said, leaning closer to Carolyn. “And that I picked up the phone a dozen times to call you but didn’t because I’d’ve bet money you’d say no. Would you believe any of that?”

  “There’s a good chance on that one,” Carolyn said.

  Boomer leaned closer and kissed her, holding Carolyn tightly in his arms, her hair brushing against his face. Her lips were soft and her breath was as warm as the light wind coming up off the East River. He held on to her for as long as he could, engulfed by the peaceful night and the passion of her kiss. They stood under the streetlight, the pains and fears of their jobs shoved aside for this brief moment.

  “Now you know my real reason,” Boomer whispered, sliding his face alongside Carolyn’s, his strong arms still holding her slight frame.

  “And now you know why I said yes,” Carolyn whispered in his ear.

  “I haven’t felt like this in a long time,” Boomer said, forgetting what lay ahead, concerned only with the present. “A very long time.”

  Carolyn lifted her head to look at Boomer, cupping her hands around his face. “Come up with me,” she said. “But there’s something you should know before you do.”

  “You’re married,” Boomer said. “And your husband’s asleep on the couch with a gun in his hand.”

  “Besides that,” she said, laughing and leading him up the brownstone steps.

  “You don’t have any Fernet Branca,” Boomer said, following her.

  “And I never will either,” Carolyn said, reaching into her shoulder bag for the key to the front door.

  “That’s as good as my guesses get,” Boomer said, standing behind her, arms around her waist.

  She shoved the key in the latch, opened the door, and turned around to face Boomer. “I’m afraid for you,” Carolyn said, losing the smile. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to me either,” Boomer said, holding the door open with one hand.

  “I’m pretty sure I’m going to fall in love with you, Boomer. And it would be very nice if you were around long enough to see it happen.”

  “I’ll be around as long as you want me to be,” Boomer promised. “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

  The smile returned to Carolyn’s face as she wrapped her arms around him. They stepped into the foyer, let the door shut quietly behind them, and moved up the stairs toward Carolyn’s second-floor apartment.

  The peaceful spring night was theirs to call their own.

  • • •

  THE BLACK LEXUS was parked across the street. Wilber Graves sat behind the wheel, smoking a Cuban cigar, a grin on his face as he watched Boomer and Carolyn walk up the brownstone steps.

  “Our friend has himself a woman,” Wilber said to a young man seated on the passenger side of the car.

  “Do you want me to deal with it now?” the young man asked.

  Wilber looked over at him and spread his smile. “You have no sense of romance, Derek,” Wilber said. “Let the lovers have their night. Let them have something to remember. This way, when we reach for them and let them feel our touch, the pain will be that much harder to forget.”

  “How soon, then?” the young man said.

  Wilber took a long drag from his cigar, filling the front of the car with smoke. He took half of it back in his lungs with a deep breath. “The cop will have his way tonight,” Wilber said. “And come the morning, we will have ours.”

  19

  DEAD-EYE WAS ON his third turn around the Central Park reservoir, building up his lung capacity, trying to get back reasonably close to the pace he’d kept in the years before the elevator shoot-out. He was taking long strides, heavy beads of sweat soaking through his blue NYPD running gear, the center of his chest burning with a pain he willed himself to ignore. His legs stabbed at him with sharp bolts, his back muscles twitched in spasms, his stomach churned out its acid.

  And still Dead-Eye ran.

  The shooting had altered Dead-Eye’s life in so many ways, but the physical changes were the hardest. His diet now consisted mainly of fruits, fresh-cut vegetables, and fish. He attacked his local gym three mornings a week, lifting and pulling for three hours at a heavy clip. The longer his workouts went, the more intense his pain grew. And despite stern warnings from a concerned battery of doctors, Dead-Eye made it a point to hit the track.

  Four mornings a week, four miles at a time.

  It couldn’t make him whole again, nothing could do that, but it helped keep him sane. When he ran, regardless of weather or time of day, Dead-Eye always brought himself back to younger years when he raced along the Brooklyn piers next to his father. He was never able to beat him, but he always managed to finish the course, no matter how tired. During their daily runs, Dead-Eye’s father had imparted to his son the two rules he held absolute: Give everything you do an honest effort and never give up or give in.

  It was the only way Dead-
Eye knew how to live. Even with a body that was scarred and ravaged.

  He was coming around a hard curve now, trees and brush to his right, the clear waters of the reservoir to his left. He checked the stopwatch in his hand. Forty minutes and two more miles to go. He picked up his pace, looking to finish in thirty-five.

  The two men came at him from behind, and he never had a chance. They jumped out from behind a thick row of bushes, slammed Dead-Eye up against the chain-link fence, two guns drawn, both held against his chest.

  The man on his left was decked out in a dark designer jogging suit. The other one had on a black leather jacket over a thin black turtleneck and a pair of tailored blue jeans. Dead-Eye waited for them to talk, his breathing still heavy from his run.

  “Your little bullshit game is over as of today,” the man in the jogging suit said. “You walk away from it now and we’ll forget all about the crap you pulled.”

  “You go back to your friends and tell them that,” the one in the turtleneck said, a touch of a lisp to his words. “Tell ’em this is their last fuckin’ chance to leave the table alive.”

  “Give me a nod so I know you understand what we’re tellin’ you,” the jogging suit said.

  Dead-Eye stared at the two of them and slowly nodded his head, beads of sweat falling onto the dark dirt by his feet.

  The man in the turtleneck reached a hand into the side pocket of his leather jacket and brought out a color Polaroid. He held the photo close to Dead-Eye’s face.

  “This is your boy, am I right, cop?” the man asked.

  Dead-Eye didn’t move. But his eyes flashed anger. They had gone beyond touching a cop. They were touching family. He knew now there could never be any turning back. Lucia and the Apaches were alike in only one respect. They were both in this fight to win. And, Dead-Eye realized, looking at Eddie’s picture, that the only winners were going to be those who were left alive when the fight was over.