Clay picked the Chihuahua up and tossed him into the back seat next to Edward. The boy’s eyes seemed to light a bit so maybe it was the right thing to do.
If he packed enough death around him maybe it would insulate him from his own murder for just long enough.
Mrs. Fusilli really had a set of pipes on her. Tits down to her girdle and lungs to match. He looked over his shoulder at her and said, “Sorry, lady, but that little bastard has been driving me fuckin’ nuts for two years. Go buy a nice goldfish.”
The expression on her deranged face actually made him grin. He beeped the horn and gave a quick fluttering wave before stomping the pedal and tearing down the street towards seething damnation.
CHAPTER THREE
The Feds had been onto Chuckie Fariente and the Merullo family since the beginning of time, but they’d screwed up every indictment they’d ever thrown down. Chuckie had personally killed four men that Clay knew of-two with a shotgun and two with a straight razor. Unlike most of the capos, Chuckie liked to get his hands dirty some of the time, get out there with the other soldiers and have some fun. Clay was still sort of surprised that Chuckie had hired a piece of shit like Rocco Tucci instead of coming dead-on himself.
But he’d learned not to take too much for granted when dealing with the wiseguys. Anything could come out of left field-these pricks whacked their own brothers, their kids, one capo even killed his six-year-old daughter’s hamster with a hammer because the spinning wheel squeaked too loudly. You could never be too sure what might be going on inside the head of a guy like that.
They were a slick lot though. Clay nearly had Chuckie pinned down a year ago, directly tying a couple of dealers in the South Bronx to the Merullo family. But eleven kilos of heroin did the Brooklyn bounce and vanished from the evidence room by the end of the day. Clay pretty much knew it would happen, but he figured he had a little more time on his hands. The fact that the bounce happened so quickly proved that Chuckie not only had men in the precinct, but on Clay’s team as well.
How could you ever beat a guy who could do that?
You simply had to roll with it as best as you could. You watched your brother officers and kept an eye on who bought a new car every eight months, who kept two mistresses in tenth floor apartments on the upper west side. You made a decision on who might actually watch your back when you finally brought it to the Merullo’s doorstep.
Nobody.
He took the exit for Saratoga too fast. The Caprice’s shocks didn’t have much left to them and the car jostled crazily as he jumped the median. Clay tugged the wheel hard and brought the front tire back down onto the road. He was clenching his jaws so tightly that his back teeth had begun to buckle, mouth flooding with a metallic taste that reminded him of when he wore braces.
The air conditioner was still cranked full-throttle. That thin film of ice on the inside of the windows gave the world a pleasing blue glaze, but the cold didn’t help with the stench. He stopped into a strip mall for more potpourri and a few deodorizers, tossed them all around the car.
Clay’s father used to bring him up here when he was eighteen or nineteen, and they bonded at the race track over beer and talk about the force. His Dad had tried to lay it on the line and offer all the insight he’d gained in his career, compact everything into a short but meaningful course that would matter when it counted. In retrospect, Clay thought they were both probably too drunk and pissed off about slow horses to ever really get down to it. Pity.
The Merullos had a motel a couple miles away where they did some business on occasion. They held the big card games there, hid the guys who were on the run, and set the old timers up with teenage whores after they’d done their eight-count in Sing-Sing. Some of those ancient fucks bounced back pretty good after a week in Saratoga.
The place was called The Ten-Spot Motel and the red neon “No Vacancy” light was always lit. Only a few cars in the parking lot, most at the other end of the building. The Feds had quit tapping the rooms after spending about a million bucks in tax money to plant wires in sixteen rooms. All they ever got on tape were giggling girls and, once, Don Carlo Gasticalli going into seizures when somebody fucked up and brought in a pre-op tranny hooker named Juan Munez. Clay heard Juan had double D tits and a nine inch schlong that had sent the Don into conniption fits.
Two thug soldiers were behind the counter doing a really bad job of keeping up appearances. They were watching a porno DVD on a seventeen inch television and listening to the commentary track. The director droned on about camera angles and how he inspired the best performances from his actresses.
Jesus frickin’ Christ, these were some bored wiseguy sons of bitches.
Clay walked in trying to stand straight enough to appear normal without his entrails slipping out beneath his belt.
The thugs could’ve been brothers straight off the boat from Naples. Stony, round but small faces squeezed out of dark flesh, smeared onto the heavy skull, with the thick black hair this close to being a pompadour. Five o’clock shadow at eleven a.m. On occasion, when Clay had to testify in a trial, he’d take the stand and have to point out some mobster. He’d lift his hand and get confused for a second, looking around the courtroom and seeing that same guinea face staring back at him from fifty seats.
One guy paused the DVD-didn’t want to miss any of the remarks on the best way to light sweaty asses-came up to the counter with both hands clenching his pot belly. “We ain’t got no vacancies.”
“Hey, Jo Jo,” Clay said.
“Jo Jo? My name’s Mel.”
“Mel, that’s what I meant. You seen Chuckie around today?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m looking for Chuckie Fariente.”
“He ain’t here.”
“You sure?”
“’course I’m sure.”
“So where is he?”
“You got a beef about somethin’, pal?”
“Where’s Chuckie?”
“I told you.”
“You haven’t told me anything.”
“You startin’ somethin’?”
“I want to see Chuckie.”
“Go on, get outta here, if you-”
“You’re irking the shit out of me, Mel.” Clay raised the.38 and shot him twice in the face. Mel’s occipital ridge bounced off the far wall but his eyebrows clung there about chest high, body wheeling backwards into the television set.
Clay spun on the other one. “Hey, how’re you doing?”
“Listen-I’m Frank Merullo.”
“Seen Chuckie today?” He motioned the bastard forward, stepped up and placed the barrel against the middle of the guy’s upper lip. “Careful how you answer. I pride myself on my natural repose, but I gotta admit, Frank, the last few days have left me a little irritable.”
“He’s in the city!”
“Which city?”
“The city, man. New York. Manhattan.”
“You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
“No, it’s true. He was here, had a party with a few whores, but he left this morning. I swear!”
“I believe you. Where in the city?”
“His club.”
That stopped Clay and took him back a bit. He thought he knew just about everything there was to know about the Merullo business. “Chuckie’s got a club?”
“A new place he opened on the upper west side. 73rd, I think. 72nd, something like that. I’m not sure, I ain’t never been there. Restaurant, club, whatever. Called…uh…the Experience, you know, but in Italian.”
“I’ll find it. How about Rocco?”
“Who?”
“Rocco Tucci. Junkie dealer Chuckie uses from time to time.”
Frank’s chest tightened and he damn near sneered. “Don’t know him.” The mutt was starting to get used to his fear, trying to toughen it out some.