Paradise City

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  Lo Manto moved away from the Impala and ran toward Elmo Stalli.

  Carlo Bertz watched the action taking place below with amusement, like seeing a video game brought to life and played out in real time. He slid a long, thin bullet into the rifle chamber and clicked it in place with one quick wrist snap. He brought the glass end of the black scope up to his right eye, shut his left, and pointed it down, squaring in on Lo Manto as he ran toward Stalli, firing off four rounds in his direction. The cop whirled, tossed aside one of his guns, and fired several shots at Rummy with the second, moving in a slow, rhythmic ballet, bullets careening off parked cars, past screaming bystanders, and through storefront windows. Bertz placed the index finger of his right hand on the trigger and zeroed in on his target.

  He froze when he heard the woman’s voice. “One of your bullets leaves your rifle,” she said, “and three of mine will find a home somewhere in your back.”

  “The cop will be dead before I will,” Bertz said. “I’ll see to that.”

  “That’s going to have to be enough to last you for all eternity,” Jennifer Fabini said. “If that’s what works for you, then take the shot.”

  Bertz moved his finger along the edge of the trigger, his eye still at the scope, Lo Manto well within the kill range, the shot sure to penetrate center mass. He lowered his left hand from the end of the rifle, resting the weapon on the edge of the roof, still holding aim. He reached into the front flap of his jacket pocket, trying to grab for the butt end of the nine-millimeter wedged to the right side of his rib cage. He moved his eye away from the rifle scope and peered down at the action. There was still plenty of time to kill both the woman behind him and the target six stories down. Carlo Bertz just hated to put a bullet into anyone without a fee. He dropped the rifle and turned to face Jennifer Fabini, the sun at her back and square on his face.

  Lo Manto was in the middle of the street, ducking and dodging bullets, a gun in each hand, both arms extended. John Rummy was closing in on him from his right, Elmo Stalli rushed down from his left, moving in and out of a series of parked cars. Combined the trio had fired over forty rounds and not one slug had yet to find its way to flesh, fitting the pattern of most high-end, multiple-person shootouts. Lo Manto knew that hitting any target on the run, with background noises and movements added to the mix, was often a matter of pure luck rather than skill. There was no chance to take a steady aim, to focus the shot, to bring any form of control to the situation. A firefight was nothing short of organized chaos played out across an urban landscape. The odds of a spent bullet finding its prey always worked out against the shooter.

  Rummy was firing like a man on his last breath, spraying a stream of gunfire toward Lo Manto, each bullet inching its way closer to his body. Stalli worked a much more patient game, firing off a single round as he moved from one car to the next, making his way to where he was now within solid striking distance. Lo Manto cast aside the second .38 Special and was down to the shells in his nine-millimeter, shooting his way from the center of the street into the gated entrance of a basement apartment, a row of tin garbage cans as a shield.

  “Cover my back,” Stalli shouted toward Rummy, still hunkered down behind the front end of a Buick Regal. “I’m going in to waste the bastard.”

  “He’s cornered and good,” Rummy shouted back. “He can’t move in any deeper. We either close in on him or wait and see if he makes a fresh run.”

  “You get his attention and keep it,” Stalli said, lowering his voice, gesturing with his hands. “I’ll move on him from the right.”

  The garbage can landed between Rummy and Stalli with a hard thud. Rummy flinched and fired off two shots, more from instinct than need. Stalli stumbled backward and fell to the ground, eyes blinded by the sharp overhead sun. Lo Manto ran from the entrance of the basement apartment and jumped on the front hood of a Chevy Caprice, firing his nine-millimeter at Rummy, landing two bullets in the shooter’s right leg. To his left, Stalli shook off the daze and lifted his gun hand to aim it at Lo Manto’s back. The first shot missed. The second landed with a sound as soft as a bursting bubble.

  The bullet tore through Lo Manto’s leather jacket, catching him at the top of his left shoulder, its force tossing him against the side of a thin, dying tree, down to one knee. He pointed the nine-millimeter at Stalli and fired the last three rounds in the clip. He heard the shooter give out a sharp grunt and knew that at least one had found its mark.

  Lo Manto lay against the tree, blood running down the length of his arm, cascading onto the dry dirt foundation. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, knowing the two gunmen would soon be on him, ready to pounce and finish him off. Lo Manto took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and saw the shadow creep up from behind. He lifted his head, expecting to see one of the hitters, bleeding and ready to do what they had been paid to accomplish. Instead, he looked into the eyes of his greatest enemy.

  “How bad are you hit?” Pete Rossi asked.

  Mifo shifted the gears on the car and eased it out of its parking slot. He had sat through all the action and now figured it would be his best time to move against the wounded cop from Naples. He had a clear and open path down the street and across the intersection. Once there, he would veer the charged and heated Mustang to the left, jump the curb, and ram right into Lo Manto, leaning against a tree halfway down the street. He calculated the speed to run up to at least sixty miles per hour by point of impact. If that wasn’t enough to kill him, it was more than enough to leave him damaged and unconscious, primed for the sniper’s hits from the rooftop. Once he had made contact with Lo Manto, he would slice the car off the curb at the first open driveway, take it down the steep hill, and head for the Major Deegan Expressway and freedom. His plan was nothing if not foolproof.

  Mifo shifted from first to second gear, closing in on the intersection. He gave the gas a harder push and jumped the speed to thirty as he crossed out onto White Plains Road. The lights were red on the two main stops, East 233rd Street and East 238th, which meant no traffic would be moving in either direction. He shifted into third and prepared to release the clutch.

  He heard the UPS truck before he saw it.

  It was coming down at him full speed, pistons burning, engine creaking, a streak of white smoke rushing out of the tailpipe. It crashed against the side of the Mustang with such violent force that it sent the car hurtling into a steel subway beam. The double crash brought the speeding car to a blinding halt, the front end folded like a child’s discarded music box, brown smoke and low flames billowing from the exposed motor. Mifo sat behind the wheel, squeezed breathless by an inflated air bag, his right eye cut and bleeding, his nose broken. There was a thick shard of glass wedged into the right side of his neck. His pained head hung to the left, resting against a panel of crushed metal. His body was cold and began to twitch violently. His eyes were opened wide and filled with a mixture of tears and blood oozing out from seared vessels.

  The man behind the wheel of the brown UPS truck stepped down from the driver’s seat and walked over to Mifo’s smoldering Mustang. He peered down through the smoke, ignored the wail of the sirens and the squealing tires coming at him from all sides, and locked eyes with the dying assassin. “It’ll be over for you in a few minutes,” Sal Fabini assured him. “But you’ve probably been on the other end of enough of these to know that on your own.”

  “That was no accident,” Mifo said. “And you’re no UPS man. I’ve been on the other end of enough of these to know that, too.”

  “I would have preferred to shoot it out with you,” Sal said. “But it’s not the way you like to do business. So I figured I’d come at you in a way that would be familiar.”

  “How much did it cost them?” Mifo asked. “How much did they pay you to take me out?”

  “Not a penny,” Sal said. “Tell you the truth, I’m out of pocket on this deal. I got the UPS truck from a friend, but he didn’t know what I was going to do with it. From the looks of the damage, I’d say I’m f
acing a six-grand tab at the very minimum. But then again, it’s going to be all on you.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Mifo spit out, blood now running down the sides of his mouth, mixing with bubbly white foam.

  “You ran a stop sign back at the corner,” Sal Fabini said with a nod of his head. “Last time I checked, that’s against the law.”

  He stared at Mifo for a few quiet minutes, watching as the life ebbed out of the killer’s body. Then Sal Fabini turned and walked, heading toward the subway stairs and the ride that would eventually lead back to his home.

  The last job of his police career was at an end.

  Elmo Stalli and John Rummy were now both on their feet, four car lengths away from Lo Manto, Pete Rossi still by his side. Stalli aimed a .38 Special directly at the cop and was primed to pull the trigger. Rossi looked at Lo Manto and then over his shoulder at Rummy. “You have any ammo left?” he asked the cop.

  “I’m empty,” Lo Manto said. “And if it’s all the same, I’d rather you take me out than leave it to one of your shooters. We both have earned the right to make that demand.”

  Pete Rossi smiled down at the bleeding detective and then pulled a nine-millimeter from his waist, pointed it away from Lo Manto, and fired two shots across the trunk of a battered car at a surprised Elmo Stalli. The first clipped the shooter in the ribs. The second left a small hole in the center of his right cheek and sent him falling flat to the ground, jammed between the bumpers of two parked cars, dead. Rossi turned and veered toward Rummy, crouching down, looking for the shooter who had now ducked inside a tenement vestibule. “Get behind one of the cars,” he said to Lo Manto. “And stay low.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Lo Manto asked.

  “Shut up and do what I tell you,” Rossi said. “Before I really do put another bullet in you.”

  Lo Manto pushed away from the thin tree and crawled toward the street, a short distance from the shooting, dragging his damaged right arm, leaving behind a thick blood trail. He rested his back against the curved edge of a wide rim and glanced up, watching Rossi and Rummy circle each other as if they were two gunslingers settling an Old West vendetta. The very fact they had their guns drawn indicated that none of the shooters knew Rossi on sight. The negotiations, the deal itself, and the cash payouts would have been handled outside his line of vision, probably by Gaspaldi the pimp. That all fit neatly together and made sense.

  Pete Rossi’s presence did not.

  Lo Manto peered over at him, watching him stride close enough to Rummy to take the hitter, his instincts dictating which way he turned, his movements slow and in control, like a gray cat walking after midnight. Rummy may have been the one in the battle paid to kill. Pete Rossi was the one who had been taught the bloody art by the masters of the trade.

  Lo Manto sat back against the car, checked out the police action about half a mile away, smoke billowing from a crushed car and a stalled UPS truck, and knew the uniforms would be on them in a few minutes, unless Captain Fernandez could hold them back and let the drama play itself out. There were still two shooters out there to be handled besides Rummy, plus Rossi, and at this point, anyone else with a gun ready to join the fray. And he was out of bullets. For the first time in his police life, Lo Manto had lost control of the plan of action.

  “I figured you could use this,” Felipe said.

  The boy had scurried next to him, moving low from one car to the next, a loaded .38 in his right hand. Lo Manto turned, took the gun from the boy, and stared at him with hard eyes. “You can never have enough guns or bullets in a fight like this,” Felipe said.

  “This is a cop’s gun,” Lo Manto said, gripping the .38, finger fast to the trigger.

  “That’s why I’m giving it to you,” Felipe said. “You’re a cop.”

  “I told you I wanted you to stay with Blind Moe,” Lo Manto said. “What part of that was confusing to you?”

  “And I did like you told me,” Felipe said. “I never left him. He boogied out on me.”

  “He say why?”

  “Told me that him and that foaming brown bear he likes to call a dog hadn’t been on a subway in a while and were going to go for a ride,” Felipe said. “And that I was free to do as I pleased. Stay in his office or maybe catch a train up to the Bronx and see how you were holding up.”

  “And the gun?”

  “Technically, it’s not theft,” Felipe said. “Blind Moe left it on the kitchen table. A note next to it had your name written on it. What would you have done?”

  The two shots came at them from the elevated subway station to their right. They both missed their mark and shattered glass. Lo Manto dove over to Felipe and shoved him under the chassis of a parked car. “You only move if this car catches fire,” he said to the boy.

  Lo Manto got to his knees and jumped over the front end of the car, ignoring the pain shooting down his gun arm. He stood alongside Rossi, both men, now united, squaring off against Rummy. “You going to take this guy out or just teasing?” he asked Rossi.

  “I don’t think I called for help,” Rossi said, his eyes and gun trained on the shooter crouched down across from them. “And if I did, it wouldn’t have been for you.”

  “Right now, I’m all you got,” Lo Manto said. “So, let’s finish this so we can get down to the real fight. The one between you and me. It’s what we both want and have both waited a long time to see. Today’s that day.”

  “Fine by me, cop,” Rossi said.

  Rossi turned away from Lo Manto and walked fearlessly toward the shooter. Rummy fired two shots at close range, one skinning Rossi’s upper thigh, the flesh wound drawing blood and tearing through the crease of his pants. The other went wide, lost in the dry wind of a bloody summer morning. Rossi emptied his gun in Rummy’s direction, bullets clipping the wood in the vestibule, sharp chunks flying in the air, small circles of dust clouding the area between them. One bullet caught the already wounded Rummy in the shoulder and its force sent him out into the open, his back to a glass-paneled door. The next three landed square in his chest, each bullet tearing through a great artery and ripping the last breaths from his body. John Rummy went crashing through the glass, chips and large slivers raining down to the ground. One large chunk tore into the dead man’s back.

  Rossi walked over to the gunman, blood gushing from every open wound, and pumped a final bullet into the man’s forehead. He gazed down at him for several seconds, tossed out the empty clip, jammed in a fresh one and turned to face off with his brother, Lo Manto.

  Jennifer was thrown against the steel door leading down the tenement stairwell. Carlo Bertz reached over, grabbed her by the hair, and tossed her to the ground. Her right hand was coated red with blood, the result of a quick exchange between her .38 Special and the rooftop shooter’s hidden nine-millimeter. Jennifer’s bullet had splintered the bone in Bertz’s gun elbow and the blood from the wound dripped down on her jeans and the soft tar ground. “You have cost me money,” Bertz said to her, his words inflamed by hate and frustration. “And that will cost you your life.”

  The gun was four feet to the right of Bertz, its dark barrel gleaming in the sunshine. Jennifer lay flat on her back, legs out, arms by her side. They were in the middle of the roof, both bleeding and sweating heavily, both knowing that one of them was seconds removed from death. They could hear the sirens coming at them from below, smelled the smoke, absorbed the heavy gunfire, each anxious to get into the bigger game being played out six stories away. Bertz nodded and turned for the fallen nine-millimeter. Jennifer jumped to her feet, ran toward Bertz, pushed him off stride, sending him to the ground. She ran to the edge of the roof and picked up the cocked and ready high-powered rifle. Gripping it with both hands, her trigger finger drenched with blood, she aimed it at Bertz. He kept his eyes on Jennifer, ignoring the rifle aimed at his chest. “That is not a child’s weapon,” he said to her in a deliberate tone. “The force from the trigger pull will be enough to send you over the roof. I
suggest you put it down. I promise to make you a painless kill.”

  “I’ll go over, but not before I see you go down,” Jennifer said, her hand throbbing, a sharp, hot pain running from the open wound up the length of her arm, intense enough to make her eyes tear.

  “It ends then as it should,” Bertz said. “Each of us down to a final shot. In my way of life, it is the ultimate dream exit.”

  Bertz jumped for the gun, did a double roll along the tar roof and came up firing, his single blast grazing past Jennifer and looping off a thick row of black tiles, sending them hurtling to the ground. Jennifer didn’t flinch, pressed down on the rifle trigger, and braced herself for the recoil. The shock of the pull sent her reeling, rifle dropping from her hands, her upper body leaning over the edge of the roof. She reached for an iron rail sticking out of the base, held it tight enough to break the skin on her hand, her eyes gazing up at a clear blue sky, the sounds of the gunfire below filling her ears. With a slow and steady effort, she pulled herself back to her feet, dazed and shaken. She looked across the roof and saw Carlo Bertz lying down flat on his side, his eyes and mouth open. There was a small hole just below his neck bone, blood flowing out of it as if from a small fountain, his right hand pressed against it. She walked toward him, the blood still running down her right hand, picked up her .38 Special, and headed toward the door leading off the roof. She glanced at Bertz one final time.