“I don’t think Bruno’s coming out,” Tony said. “Why don’t we go in and see if he’s there?”
“Because we don’t want Mrs. Marchese to see us,” Angelo said. “If she sees us then we got to do her too, and that’s not right. The Lucia people might do that kind of stuff, but we don’t. Besides, look. Here comes the punk now.” Angelo pointed to the front entrance of the tiny two-story row house.
Bruno Marchese emerged into the night dressed in a black leather jacket, freshly pressed Guess jeans, and sunglasses. He paused for a moment on the front steps of the house to light a cigarette. Tossing the match into the shrubbery, he started toward the sidewalk.
“Get a load of those shades,” Angelo said. “Must think he’s Jack Nicholson. My guess is that he’s going socializing. He should have stayed home. The trouble with you young guys is that your brains are in your balls.”
“Let’s get him,” Tony urged.
“Hold on,” Angelo said. “Let him round the corner. We’ll nab him when he walks under the railroad tracks.”
Five minutes later they had Bruno cowering in the backseat, staring into Tony’s smiling face. The pickup had gone even more smoothly than it had with Frankie. The only casualty had been Bruno’s sunglasses, which ended up in the gutter.
“Surprised to see us?” Angelo asked after they had driven a short while. Angelo looked at Bruno in the rearview mirror.
“What’s this about?” Bruno demanded.
Tony laughed. “Oh, a tough guy. Tough and dumb. How about I give him a few whacks with my gun?”
“It’s about the Cerino incident,” Angelo said. “We want to hear about it from you.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Bruno said. “I never even heard of it.”
“That’s funny,” Angelo said. “We’ve had it from a friend of yours that you were involved.”
“Who?” Bruno asked.
“Frankie DePasquale,” Angelo said. He watched Bruno’s expression change. The kid was terrified, and for good reason.
“Frankie didn’t know crap,” Bruno said. “I don’t know anything about any Cerino incident.”
“If you don’t know anything about it, how come you’re hiding out at your mother’s house?” Angelo asked.
“I’m not hiding out,” Bruno said. “I got kicked out of my apartment so I’m just staying there a few days.”
Angelo shook his head. They drove to the American Fresh Fruit Company in silence. Once they were there, Angelo and Tony brought Bruno to the same spot they’d brought Frankie.
As soon as Bruno saw the hole in the floor, his tough-guy stance melted. “All right, you guys,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“That’s better,” Angelo said. “First sit down.”
Once Bruno had complied, Angelo leaned toward him and said, “Tell us about it.” He took out a cigarette and lit up, blowing smoke up toward the ceiling.
“I don’t know much,” Bruno said. “I only drove the car. I wasn’t inside. Besides, they made me do it.”
“Who made you do it?” Angelo asked. “And remember, if you give me any bull now, you’ll be in deep trouble.”
“Terry Manso,” Bruno said. “It was all his idea. I didn’t even know what was going on until after it was all over.”
“Who else beside you, Manso, and DePasquale were involved in all this?” Angelo said.
“Jimmy Lanso,” Bruno said.
“Who else?” Angelo demanded.
“That’s all,” Bruno insisted.
“What did Jimmy do?” Angelo asked.
“He went into the place early to locate the electrical panel,” Bruno said. “He made the lights go out.”
“Who ordered this hit?” Angelo asked.
“I told you,” Bruno said. “It was all Manso’s idea.”
Angelo took another long pull on his cigarette, then tilted his head back as he blew out the smoke. He tried to think if there was anything else that he needed to ask this punk. When he decided there wasn’t, he glanced at Tony and nodded.
“Bruno, I’d like to ask a favor,” Angelo said. “I’d like you to take a message back to Vinnie Dominick. Do you think you could do that for me?”
“No problem,” Bruno said. A bit of his earlier toughness returned to the timbre of his voice.
“The message is-” Angelo began. But he didn’t finish. The sound of Tony’s Bantam made Angelo flinch. When it wasn’t your own gun, it always sounded louder.
Since they hadn’t tied Bruno to the chair, his whole body sagged forward and crumpled to the floor. Angelo stood over him and shook his head. “I think Vinnie will get the message,” he said.
Tony looked at his gun with a mixture of admiration and pleasure, then took out a handkerchief and wiped the soot from the muzzle. “It gets easier every time I do it,” he said to Angelo.
Angelo didn’t respond. Instead, he squatted down next to Bruno’s body and pulled out his wallet. There were several hundred-dollar bills and a few smaller denominations. He handed one of the hundreds to Tony. The rest he pocketed. Then he put the wallet back.
“Give me a hand,” he told Tony. Together they carried Bruno over to the hole and tossed him into the river. Like Frankie, Bruno obligingly floated quickly away, pausing only momentarily against one of the pier’s piles. Angelo brushed off his trousers. Bruno’s body had kicked up some dust from the floor.
“You hungry?” Angelo asked.
“I’m starved,” Tony said.
“Let’s go over to Valentino’s on Steinway Street,” Angelo said. “I’m in the mood for a pizza.”
A few minutes later Angelo backed up the Town Car, then made a three-point turn to exit through the chain-link gate. At the junction of Java and Manhattan Avenue, he made a left, then gunned the car.
“It’s amazing how easy it is to whack somebody,” Tony said. “I remember when I was a kid, I used to think it was a big deal. There was a guy who lived on the next block. We kids had heard that he’d bumped somebody off. We used to sit outside his house just to see him come out. He was our hero.”
“What kind of pizza you want?” Angelo asked.
“Pepperoni,” Tony said. “I remember the first time I whacked somebody I was so excited I got the trots. It even gave me bad dreams. But now it’s just fun.”
“It’s work,” Angelo said. “I wish you’d understand that.”
“Which list we going to work off of after we eat?” Tony asked. “The old one or the new one.”
“The old one,” Angelo said. “I want to show the new one to Cerino just to be sure. No sense making work for ourselves.”
5
6:45 a.m., Wednesday
Manhattan
From where Laurie was standing she could see her brother heading for the lake. He was walking quickly; Laurie was afraid he might break into a run. She thought he knew about the mud and how dangerously deep it was. Yet he kept going as if he didn’t care.
“Shelly!” Laurie cried. Either he was ignoring her or he couldn’t hear. Laurie yelled again as loud as she could but still he didn’t respond. She started running after him. He was only a step away from the horrid ooze. “Stop!” Laurie yelled. “Don’t go near the water! Stay away!”
But Shelly kept walking. By the time Laurie reached the lakeside, he was already in black mud up to his waist. He had turned back toward shore. “Help me!” he cried.
Laurie came to a stop just at the edge. She reached out for him, but their hands could not touch. Laurie turned and screamed for help, but no one was in sight. Turning back to Shelly, she saw that he had sunk up to his neck. There was pure terror in his eyes. As he sank further, his mouth opened and he screamed.
Shelly’s scream merged into a mechanical ringing that pulled Laurie from her sleep. Still desperate to help Shelly, Laurie’s hand shot out and swept the Westclox from the windowsill. The same movement toppled a half-full glass of water and collided with the book she’d been reading the night before. The clock, the glass of water, and the book all fell to the floor.