Gangster (17 page)

    You wait, McQueen said, stepping up to him. Until I decide if you're for real. Like Angelo and Pudge. Or just another name looking for a headline.

    You won't be disappointed, Angus, Ballister said. Believe me.

    I'm never disappointed, McQueen said.

    Pudge nudged Ballister with the palm of his right hand. You're not a partner yet, which makes it time for you to leave.

    Ballister looked at the three faces surrounding him, giving each of them a slow nod. I hope we see each other again, he said.

    We will, McQueen said. One way or another. He watched Ballister walk back into the woods, then turned to Angelo and Pudge. You think he came up with the idea to leave Wells on his own? he asked. Or did somebody hand it to him?

    He doesn't seem the type to have a lot of ideas, Angelo said. Let alone good ones.

    Spider will take it from here, McQueen said. You boys take the rest of the night off.

    Cold beer and warm women, that's where I'm heading, Pudge said. You guys want to tag along?

    McQueen stopped short, kicking up small dust clusters at the base of his feet. I'm married, he said. And drinking is against the law. Or don't you bother to read the papers?

    The three of them shared a laugh as they walked across the cooling shelter of the Cloisters.

     *     *     *

GANGSTERS THRIVE ON feuds. The feuds are almost always genuine, deadly and last for decades, spilling over into subsequent generations. These underworld hatreds and grudges usually start with the most minor offense and end in the most horrendous forms of death. And they almost always begin in the most innocent of places. You want to stay away from any function that involves going to a church, Pudge would say. It's the feeding ground of feuds. It could be a wedding, a baptism, a confirmation, a funeral--I don't care what, it ends up deadly. You sit in the wrong pew. You pay too much attention to the bride, or maybe not enough. You don't bring a big enough gift or you bring one so big it offends the host. You get stuck in traffic and you're late for the funeral mass, that becomes a sign of disrespect. Believe me, inside a church, there is no way a gangster can come out ahead.

    My sense of Angelo was that he enjoyed feuds. He had the perfect mental makeup for dealing with them, especially feuds that spanned decades. He seldom exhibited any emotion, keeping both his anger and his respect hidden well below any visible surface. With the exception of his cramped inner circle, no one ever knew those against whom Angelo held a grudge. No one other than Pudge was told when he would strike against an enemy and what form his retribution would take. Angelo was the perfect gangster in that sense, a silent and deadly terminator capable of waiting a lifetime for his payback or choosing to launch an attack within a matter of days. Only he knew when the moment was ripe and the time at hand.

     *     *     *

PAOLINO VESTIERI WAS asleep in a corner bed, facing the wall of the small back room. He was in number sixteen, on the third floor of a run-to-the-ground Baltimore rooming house catering to a client list working their way south of the poverty line. The doors were plywood thin and sounds of discord carried through the halls of the five-story building. Paolino was once a strong man with an insatiable desire for work. But now, still shy of fifty years, he had surrendered his will to the facts of his life. He no longer held out any large-scale ambitions, but had settled down into the oddly comforting routine of a job-to-job and place-to-place existence. He had been living at the Burlington Arms for six weeks, paying the three-dollar-a-week rent from his salary as a bootblack at a shoe-shine concession on the lower level of Baltimore's main train terminal. He lived alone and had few friends, and would fall asleep with one hand loosely holding an empty bottle of red wine. He had not seen Angelo since the day he walked out of their New York apartment and never made mention to others of having a son. Paolino Vestieri was living his life as it had come to be. He was neither bitter nor angry, but simply accepted it as the way it was meant to unfold. In his wallet he kept only two reminders of a past life--his wedding photo and a torn picture of him holding his son Carlo above his shoulders, both with full, bright smiles, the gleaming waters of the Mediterranean Sea behind them.

    Angelo walked into the room and stared down at his father. His sleep was heavy, the weariness of the workingman compounded by the bottle of wine. Angelo had taken the train down from New York alone, not needing Pudge, not needing anyone, for his meeting with Paolino. He sat next to a window in a parlor car, gazing out at the passing scenery, his mind racing to conjure up the few warm memories he had of his father. Through the underworld network, he had kept tabs on Paolino as he moved from city to city, knowing he would never venture far from water nor be able to afford anything other than a cheap flophouse. He knew his father was short on money and low on hope. But little of that mattered. Paolino Vestieri needed to be confronted.

    The time was now. Angelo was set to begin a new life with Isabella, the wedding less than two weeks away. He did not wish to have that life clouded by shadows. She, along with Pudge, Ida and Angus, knew about his father and Angelo was confident that they would take whatever happened to their grave.

    Wake up, Papa, Angelo said in a strong, quiet voice.

    Paolino stirred but did not open his eyes. His breath was heavy from the drink and his body fatigued from the long day spent slumped over other people's shoes.

    Papa, wake up, Angelo said, leaning over to shake him. I need to talk to you.

    Carlo, Paolino muttered, still half asleep. Carlo.

    Carlo's not here, Angelo said.

    The words forced Paolino's eyes open and he turned on his cot to glance down at the feet of the man in his room. The shoes were expensive, black lace-ups with thick heels. The cuffs of the pants just above them were also black and tailor-made. Paolino looked up and saw his son's hard eyes boring in on him.

    What are you doing here? he said, quickly sitting up. Who asked you to come here?

    No one asked, Papa.

    Then why are you here? To stare at me? To prove to yourself that your way is better? Is that it? Well then, look around, gangster. Have your laugh and then leave.

    I have come for Carlo, Papa, Angelo said. He was calm and confident, standing erect and a short distance from his father. Paolino's thick hair was tousled from his sleep, stacked to one side and coated with shards of gray. His blue work pants were soiled by shoe polish and grease and his white T-shirt was smudged with the remains of past meals.

    You have nothing to do with Carlo. Paolino spit out the words. You have not even earned the right to speak his name.

    You made two mistakes, Angelo said. You murdered your own son, then you had another one who found out about it.

    So what will you do now? Paolino wearily got to his feet. Kill me, too? Are you that stupid? Can't you see, gangster, that I already walk among the dead?

    I'm here to make your pain go away, Papa. You have suffered enough. Angelo slid a hand inside his jacket, slowly pulled out a revolver and held it, pointed at Paolino's chest. He twisted the gun in his hand and clicked open the chamber. He slid a bullet into one of the empty slots then snapped it back shut. He stepped forward and placed the gun on a rickety nightstand next to the cot.

    There is one bullet in it, Angelo said. It's time to make your peace and use it.

    Why don't you do it yourself? Paolino asked quietly. Do you lack the courage to end my misery?

    Yes. Angelo stared at his father. But for once in your life, I pray that you will have such courage. I leave it to you, Papa. Bring it to an end. For both of us.

    I loved my Carlo, Paolino said, tears forming around his eyes.

    I know, Angelo told him. And I know you loved me, too.

    He took a slow look around the room and then turned back to his father. He walked over to the night table and pointed down at the gun.

    You made a mistake and it did nothing but ruin your life, Angelo said. I am leaving you with a chance to make it right.

    Paolino Vestieri picked up the gun, cradled it in two hands and sat back down on the cot.

    Good-bye, Papa, he heard his son say.

    Angelo walked out of the room and shut the door behind him. He was turning a corner, heading for the first-floor landing, when he heard the shot echo down the thin walls. He sat down on the top step, his head pressed against his chest. His eyes were closed and he bit down on his lower lip.

    He sat there well into the late hours and mourned the death of his father, Paolino Vestieri.

     *     *     *

ANGELO GOT OFF the train and saw Isabella standing on the jammed platform, waiting for him. He walked toward her and reached for her as soon as she was close enough to touch. I am so sorry, she whispered between sobs. So sorry.

    I hope he finally has the peace he always wanted, Angelo said. He more than earned it.

    Isabella looked up at him, her face smeared with tears. You have both earned it, she said.

    I gave my father nothing to be proud of, Angelo said. I became what he most hated. My hand was not on the gun that killed him, Isabella. But in every other way, I was the one who helped pull that trigger.

    Isabella stared into Angelo's eyes and stroked the sides of his face. On both sides, harried commuters rushed toward final destinations, dragging luggage and reluctant children in their wake. They stood between them, holding one another, both shedding tears over the death of a good man. Alone in the middle of a crowd.

     *     *     *

HE COULD HAVE just left his father alone, I said, handing Mary a fresh cup of water. Let him live out what was left of his life. Treat him as if he were already a dead man. It wasn't as if he was a threat to him or anyone else, for that matter.

    It would go against the way he had been raised, Mary said, speaking with subtle authority. Against all the tenants of the life he had chosen. His father's death haunted Angelo, probably to this very day. But he had to answer for Carlo's murder. There was no way out, for either one of them.

    Why not give the job to somebody else, then? I asked, staring over at the dying man. He could have ordered it done. It would have had the same effect.

    It was personal, Mary said. And he had been raised to separate the business from the personal. He could never have allowed anyone else to kill Paolino. To him, that would have been an even bigger crime.

    I always thought Paolino's death was just another way for Angelo to finally bury his past, I said. Help to clear away everything that happened before that day he was taken in by Ida the Goose. He always thought of that as the most important day of his life. What came before it didn't matter.

    There's some truth to that. Mary nodded. His father's presence reminded him of the life he would have had without Ida or Angus. And those were images he didn't want to keep alive.

    I've thought about his father quite a bit, I said. I don't really know why it's stayed with me as much as it has all these years. I guess because I could never really figure out whether what Angelo did was an act of courage or just one of cruelty.

    Mary rested her cup on the small tray cart behind her, then turned to look at me. I think it was both, she said.

     *     *     *

PUDGE NICHOLS SLEPT with his back to the open window, its curtains furling against the early morning breeze. He was naked except for a pair of cream-colored boxers. His muscular body rested on the soft feather mattress, his burly arms curled against a stained pillow. Shirley lay next to him, one arm draped across his back, the other shoved beneath her thin frame. Strands of brown hair flowed down her face and neck. She was awake, her eyes peeking above the curve of Pudge's shoulder, looking at the two men on the fire escape, guns in each of their hands. She lifted her left hand and waved them into the room.

    The two shoved aside the curtains and slid carefully through the window, their eyes fixed on their sleeping target. They stood there, poised and steady, their  backs to the bathroom, its door slightly ajar. As the men lifted their guns to waist level, one motioned to Shirley, asking her to move away from the bed with a nudge of his head. Shirley slid her arm off Pudge's shoulders, fingers skimming the hard skin. She leaned over and kissed him on the flat of his cheek, the cascade of her hair hiding his face. She moved back and lost all her breath when she saw him look up at her and smile.

    I got a lot to learn about women, Pudge said, the sound of his voice getting the two men's attention.

    Pudge rolled off the bed just as the first volley of bullets plunked through the mattress, sending feathers flowing through the air and knocking Shirley to the floor. He landed in a crouch position, the hand that was shoved under his pillow now holding a gun and firing rounds aimed at the two men.

    The bathroom door swung open and there was Angelo. He stood, feet firm between toilet and sink, his two guns firing bullets in the direction of the shooters. Within seconds, both men crumpled to the ground, one on top of the other, their suits stained with dark blotches. Pudge walked over and looked down, his bare feet stepping into puddles of blood. He stared up at Angelo and gave him a relieved wink. Angelo glanced past Pudge and saw Shirley standing at the foot of the bed, a gun in her hand. Pudge caught his look and knew it was too late.

    The two bullets ripped into the center of Pudge's back. He fell to his knees, still holding onto his empty gun.

    Angelo walked out of the bathroom and stepped over Pudge, careful not to slip on the blood-slick floor. He looked at Shirley, the warm gun still grasped in both her hands. Her face was ashen, stunned that she had actually managed to shoot Pudge Nichols.

    Angelo looked at her for several long seconds and then lifted his gun and fired a bullet into Shirley's chest. The force sent Shirley crashing back onto the bed, her face up and her eyes closed.