Favorite Sons (26 page)

Under the cover of darkness, I took a nostalgic lap through Crystalton, driving past the old homestead, which was occupied by a family whose name was lost to me; a light burned in my old bedroom. Across the street from the post office, two boys in Crystalton Royals varsity jackets stood talking under a streetlight, duffel bags slung over their shoulders. All was quiet as I drove south on Third Street, past the drugstore, the Glass Works Bank and Trust Company, the stadium, the sand quarry, and the Danduran Insurance Agency, which had converted Fats Pennington's antique shop into a neat, vinyl-sided office. It had cleaned up the corner, but sacrificed much of its former character.

I drove out of Crystalton, headed north on Ohio Route 7, and picked up Route 22 in Steubenville. The spotlight on a passing barge lit up the Fort Steuben Bridge as I crossed the Ohio River and headed east toward Pittsburgh. The visual of Jack Vukovich sitting behind the wheel of his car, glaring at me with his one good eye, the other sagging deep in the socket, continued to invade my psyche. He wasn't kidding. I knew that. I also knew that if I made this particular problem disappear, it would not be the last I saw of him. He held the upper hand. Why wouldn't he continue to blackmail me? Today it was a professional favor, tomorrow it would be money.

If the evidence wasn't there and I didn't pursue an indictment, Vukovich would still win. He would be convinced that his pressure had prompted me to collapse and meet his demands. His promise to leave the county was hollow. He might stay low for a while, but he would be back with his same threats. I was certain that it was only a matter of time until Jack Vukovich's story of our involvement in the death of Petey Sanchez would be made public. That would be hastened if the FBI crime lab found evidence enough to indict him.

For that reason, I needed to confer with my co-conspirators. I was Vukovich's target, but when he dropped the bomb they would certainly be peppered with shrapnel, victims of collateral damage. As I pondered my predicament, the absurdity of my current mission seemed even more immense—reconvene the old gang to reconfirm
our commitment to silence. With a renewed commitment from the old gang, I could indict Vukovich, then feign outrage when he went public with his claims. I could find a polygraph expert of my own to dispute the results. Such allegations would create a cloud of doubt over my campaign, but not one that I couldn't buffer with an eighteen-point lead in the polls.

There would, however, be a major difference this time around. When we were fifteen, we were juveniles committed to silence. We never told any lies because we were never questioned. Now, we were adults. Questions would be asked. Lies would be told. Reputations were at stake.

It was a long shot. A lie grows like frost on a window. It extends in all directions and efforts to rein it in are futile. The more people who know the truth, the more the lie grows and branches in nearly incalculable directions. The challenge was heightened by pure logistics. The four of us had not been in a room together since before high school graduation. I at least knew how to find Deak and Pepper; I had no idea of Adrian's whereabouts. From what I last heard, he might be living under a bridge somewhere. The last time I had spoken to him was when our paths crossed in Connell's Market during Christmas break of our sophomore years in college. I was wearing my Laurel Highlands varsity jacket. I'd heard he was dropping out of the University of Iowa after sitting the bench for two years. He didn't want to talk. Jewel Connell handed him his change, and he muttered, “See ya,” and walked out the door. That was the last time I laid eyes on him.

Traffic was sparse when I got onto the Parkway, the freeway that connects Greater Pittsburgh International Airport with downtown. A mile onto the Parkway, high on the hillside to the north, was a large, blue and gold neon sign stretching over a four-story glass and stainless steel building built hard into the hillside. The top of the sign was a blue “22” in block letters. Beneath the numerals, in gold neon script, was “Double Deuce Enterprises.” It was the headquarters for the corporate conglomerate that operated the Double Deuce Car Wash franchise, Double Deuce Food Distributors, Beast of the East Fitness Centers, Beast of the East Vitamin & Supplement Shops, and a myriad of other businesses that included a vending company,
a steel scrap yard, an excavation and construction business, and the Homestead, Duquesne & Glassport Railroad, a short line that ran along the banks of the Monongahela River. The president, CEO, and sole owner of Double Deuce Enterprises was Eldon “Pepper” Nash.

Years earlier, when I stated that Pepper was destined to be rich, I had underestimated his potential. After graduating high school, Pepper earned a bachelor's degree in business from the University of Pittsburgh, where he played on the 1976 national championship football team, started three years, was named the team's defensive MVP his senior year, and was second-team All-American, wearing number twenty-two. After graduation, he bought a small car wash in Mt. Oliver and played on his popularity as a member of the Pitt football team, naming it Pepper Nash's Double Deuce Car Wash.

From that single car wash, Pepper Nash launched an avaricious climb that would make him a multimillionaire. Within a year he had opened car washes in Dormont and Castle Shannon. Within three years he had sixteen facilities stretching from Monroeville to Sewickley. He opened the first Beast of the East Fitness Center in Cranberry Township in 1985. Beyond that, I could never keep up with his business ventures. He was a popular figure in Pittsburgh and was frequently asked to be a ceremonial chair for a variety of business and charitable events, as having Pepper Nash's name associated with an event was gold.

Jutting from the hillside on the ground floor of the headquarters building was the Double Deuce Steak House, a high-end restaurant and bar that was popular with professional male athletes and business leaders and the women who followed them. Of all his successful business ventures, Pepper most loved the restaurant, where he was always the center of attention, except when some of the more popular Steelers showed up. It also kept him in contact with the city's other power brokers, and a steady, seemingly endless string of women.

Although it was late on a Tuesday night, the lot encircling the building was full, and I parked in a remote corner. At the instant I pulled the key from the ignition, my cell phone rang. It was Shelly. I waited for the call to roll to voice mail, then sent her a text message:
All is well. Will call soon.
I turned the phone off before she could respond and tossed it in the center console.

There was an open stool at the end of the bar nearest the kitchen. I sat down, ordered a merlot, and scanned the restaurant. A piano player swayed and rolled through slow versions of American classics; a bubbling tank of lobsters awaited their fate on a wall behind me; the restaurant hosted an extraordinary number of fake breasts and bad toupees, often at the same table; a trim, muscular man with a quick smile, a receding hairline, and the cuffs of his white, tailored dress shirt rolled up to his forearms strode from table to table, shaking hands and slapping backs. It was the old double deuce himself—Pepper Nash—and he was working the crowd like a career politician.

I ordered dinner—a small Greek salad and Castellane pasta with sausage, peppers, cherry tomatoes, and marjoram. It was excellent. I was finishing my dinner—the first food I had eaten since the cantaloupe earlier that morning—when Pepper walked past. He slapped me on the back and asked, “How was the Castellane?”

“Excellent,” I said. “The sausage had just enough bite.”

“Isn't that great sausage? I get that made-to-order at a little butcher shop in the North Hills. It's got a little cayenne, some crushed chili peppers, and fennel seed. They do a terrific job.” He patted my back again. “Glad you liked it.” He kept walking to the computer behind the bar and seemed to be punching in an order when the picture his eyes had taken finally registered in his brain. He jerked like he had grabbed a hot electric wire, then slowly turned back toward me. I winked. “Son of a bitch,” he said, already in full stride back toward me, laughing, arms spread wide. “I don't believe it,” he practically yelled, causing everyone at the bar to look his way. I stood to greet him and he wrapped me up in a bear hug. “What the hell are you doing here?” He laughed and hugged me again. He turned to a couple sitting at the bar who had absolutely no interest in the encounter and said, “You see this guy?” He pointed at my chest. “He's going to be the next attorney general of the state of Ohio.” They could not have been less impressed. He hugged me again. “Why didn't you tell me you were going to be in town?”

“I didn't know myself until a couple of hours ago.”

“Christ, I can't believe it. How long's it been?”

I shrugged. “Seven, maybe nine, maybe ten years. The last time I saw you was when I was in town for the prosecutor's conference.”

“Damn, it's been way too long.” He pointed up and behind me. “Let's go up to my office and catch up. You want some dessert?”

“Just some coffee, black.”

Pepper's office was on the second floor of the building, but had been built with a one-way window that allowed him to look down over the first-floor restaurant. We sat in chairs around a round, granite coffee table. A young woman with her hair pulled back in a ponytail came up with a pot of coffee and cups. Pepper peeled off a ten-dollar bill and thanked her. “Good kid,” he said. “She's an engineering major at Carnegie-Mellon.”

I turned and watched as her tight hips disappeared out the door. “Uh-huh. And . . . ”

“And nothing. I don't mess with the help, especially the ones who are younger than my daughters. It's bad for business.”

I smiled and poured myself a cup of coffee as Pepper crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “So, what brings you to Pittsburgh? You're not campaigning in Pennsylvania, are you?”

“In a manner of speaking, I guess I am.” I took a sip of my coffee and he frowned. “I'm trying to keep my campaign from running against the rocks.”

“What's up? The last time I talked to Deak he said you had a big lead in the polls. You need money?”

I shook my head. “No, nothing like that. My lead is solid, but there's a chance it could collapse pretty quickly.”

“Why's that?”

“Well, someone from our mutual past paid me a disturbing visit yesterday.”

He shook his head and shrugged. “I give.”

“One-Eyed Jack.”

He frowned for a moment, the old nickname not immediately registering, then his mouth dropped and eyes widened in unison. “Holy shit, Jack Vukovich?” I nodded. “You're kidding me? He's still alive?”

“Very much so.”

“Wow, I figured he would have died a long time ago.”

“No, we couldn't be that lucky.”

“What did he want?”

“He's blackmailing me, Pepper. He's been living in Summit County and taking liberties with a severely mentally retarded boy. He's under investigation for the assaults and wants me to ignore it in exchange for his continued silence on what he knows about how Petey Sanchez really died.”

“I'm not sure I'm following you.”

“Vukovich says he was still in the brush when Adrian threw the maul. He claims he saw the whole thing. In fact, he described it in pretty convincing detail. He said he passed a polygraph test, but that doesn't mean anything. The bottom line is, he knows what happened up there. I'm not sure he was really in the brush. I'm guessing Deak got weak at some point and decided to clear his conscience by telling his uncle what really happened up on Chestnut Ridge.”

Pepper swallowed and rubbed his eyes. “Deak didn't say anything, Hutch. Vukovich was there.” He sat up on the edge of his chair, rested his forearms on his knees and interlocked his fingers. “Goddammit.” He was silent for a moment longer, collecting his thoughts. “Let me tell you something you don't know. The night after they arrested Vukovich, it was real late, dark out, I remember, and I see this car coming up Gilchrist Street. I was already in bed, but I could see out my bedroom window and I watched it pull up to the curb at the side of the house. I couldn't tell that it was a cop car until he turned off the headlights, and I about shit. Sky Kelso and a deputy got out of the car and started toward the house. I ran into Adrian's room; he was working on a model car and listening to records. He turned off the stereo and we put our heads down by the register so we could hear what was going on; they were in the room right below us. The sheriff and my dad had known each other for years; they both belonged to the Mingo Sportsman Club. Dad had no idea why they were there and he's acting like it's some kind of social call. Then Sky says, ‘I received some disturbing information this evening, Carson.' My Dad tells him to sit down, but Sky says he would rather not. He says he wants to talk to Adrian. He says that Jack Vukovich had admitted to sodomizing Petey Sanchez, but claimed he didn't kill him. Sky tells Dad that Vukovich was hiding
in the scrub and he saw Adrian throw a rock and kill Petey. You can about imagine how that went over with the old man. An admitted child molester had fingered the anointed one with a murder. He tells Sky that he can talk to our attorney, but he isn't getting anywhere near Adrian without an arrest warrant. Then, they start arguing. It got ugly and loud. Sky told Dad that Vukovich said it was total self-defense. Vukovich told the cops that Petey was attacking Adrian with a tree limb and that he was just defending himself. Sky told him that if it was really self-defense, Adrian wouldn't do any time. Probably wouldn't even get charged with anything. But Dad didn't want to hear any more. He told Sky to fuck off. Sky said he had information that there were other boys with Adrian, but that Vukovich said he didn't really get a good look at them.”

“He didn't want to implicate his nephew,” I offered.