Richard Montanari (6 page)

    
A
few minutes later I blot the blood on Beckman's forehead, clean it with an
alcohol pad. I go to work on the man's right ear. When I am finished I take out
a measuring tape, measure down from the ait on the forehead, mark the spot with
a red felt-tip pen, then take the second killing instrument in hand, hold it to
the light. The carbon tip is a dark, lustrous blue.

    
One
final check of the sound levels and I set about my penultimate task. Slowly,
deliberately - largo, one might say - I proceed, knowing that just a few feet
away, on the other side of the outside wall, the city of Philadelphia is
passing by, oblivious to the symphony being composed inside this common looking
building.

    
Then
again, has not the greatest art in history come from humble surroundings?

    
Zig,
zig, zag.

    
I
am Death in cadence.

    
When
the power drill reaches its full RPM, and the razor-sharp bit nears the skin
covering the frontal bone, in an area just above the right eye, Kenneth Arnold
Beckman's screams reach a majestic volume, a second octave. The voice is off
key, but that can be fixed later. For now, there is no need to hurry. No need
at all.

    
In
fact, we have all day.

    Sophie
Balzano sat at one end of the long couch, looking even smaller than usual.

    Jessica
stepped into the outer office, talked to the secretary, then entered the main
office, where she chatted with one of Sophie's Sunday- school teachers. Jessica
soon returned, sat next to her daughter. Sophie did not take her stare off her
own shoes.

    'Want
to tell me what happened?' Jessica asked.

    Sophie
shrugged, looked out the window. Her hair was long, pulled back into a
cat's-eye barrette. At seven, she was a little smaller than her friends, but
she was fast and smart. Jessica was five-eight in her stocking feet, and had
grown to that height somewhere during the summer between sixth and seventh
grade. She wondered if the same would happen for her daughter.

    'Honey?
You have to tell Mommy what happened. We'll make it better, but I have to know
what happened. Your teacher said you were in a fight. Is that true?'

    Sophie
nodded.

    'Are
you okay?'

    Sophie
nodded again, although this time a little more slowly. 'I'm all right.'

    'We'll
talk in the car?'

    'Okay.'

    As
they walked out of the school, Jessica saw some of the other kids whispering to
each other. Even in this day and age, it seemed, a playground fight still
generated gossip.

    They
left the school grounds, headed down Academy Road. When they made the turn onto
Grant Avenue and the traffic halted for some construction works, Jessica asked,
'Can you tell me what the fight was about?'

    'It
was about Brendan.'

    'Brendan
Hurley?'

    'Yes.'

    Brendan
Hurley was a boy in Sophie's class. Thin and quiet and bespectacled, Brendan
was bully-bait if Jessica had ever seen it. Beyond that, Jessica didn't know a
lot about him. Except that on the previous Valentine's Day Brendan had given
Sophie a card. A big
glittery
card.

    'What
about Brendan?' Jessica asked.

    'I
don't know,' she said. 'I think he might be ...'

    Traffic
began to move. They pulled off the boulevard, onto Torresdale Avenue.

    'What,
sweetie? You think Brendan might be what?'

    Sophie
looked out the window, then at her mother. 'I think he might be G-A-E.'

    
Oh
boy, Jessica thought. She had been prepared for a lot of things. The talk about
sharing, the talk about race and class, the talk about money, even the talk
about religion. Jessica was woefully unprepared for the talk about gender
identity. The fact that Sophie spelled the word out instead of saying it -
indicating that, to Sophie, and her classmates, the word belonged in that
special classification of profanities not to be uttered - spoke volumes. 'I
see,' was all that Jessica could come up with at that moment. She decided not
to correct her daughter's spelling at this time. 'What makes you say that?'

    Sophie
straightened her skirt. This was clearly difficult for her. 'He kind of runs
like a girl,' she said. 'And throws like a girl.'

    'Okay.'

    'But
so do I, right?'

    'Yes,
you do.'

    'So
it's not a bad thing.'

    'No,
it's not a bad thing at all.'

    They
pulled into their driveway, cut the engine. Jessica soon realized that she had
no idea how much Sophie knew about sexual orientation. Even thinking about the
words 'sexual orientation' in connection with her little girl freaked her
completely out.

    'So,
what happened?' Jessica asked.

    'Well,
this girl was saying mean things about Brendan.'

    'Who
is this girl?'

    'Monica,'
Sophie said. 'Monica Quagliata.'

    'Is
she in your grade?'

    'No,'
Sophie said. 'She's in third. She's pretty big.' Consciously or subconsciously,
Sophie balled her fists.

    'What
did you say to her?'

    'I
told her to stop saying those things. Then she pushed me and called me a
skank.'

    That
bitch
, Jessica thought. She secretly hoped that Sophie had cleaned the
little shit's clock. 'What did you do then?'

    'I
pushed her back. She fell down. Everyone laughed.'

    'Did
Brendan laugh?'

    'No,'
Sophie said. 'Brendan is afraid of Monica Quagliata.
Everyone's
afraid
of Monica Quagliata.'

    'But
not you.'

    Sophie
glanced out the window. It had begun to rain. She traced her finger on the misting
glass, then looked back at her mother. 'No,' she said. 'Not me.'

    
Yes,
Jessica thought.
My tough little girl.
'I want you to listen, okay,
honey?'

    Sophie
sat up straight. 'Is this going to be one of our talks?'

    Jessica
almost laughed. She checked herself at the last second. 'Yes. I guess it is.'

    'Okay.'

    'I
want you to remember that fighting is always the last resort, okay? If you have
to defend yourself, it's all right. Every single time. But sometimes we need to
take care of people who can't take care of themselves. Do you understand what I
mean?'

    Sophie
nodded, but looked confused. 'What about you, Mom? You used to fight all the
time.'

    
Ah,
crap,
Jessica thought.
Logic from a seven-year-old.

    After
Sophie was born, Jessica had discovered boxing as an exercise and weight-loss
regimen. For some reason she took to it, even going so far as to take a few
amateur bouts before letting her great uncle Vittorio talk her into turning
pro. Although those days were probably behind her - unless there was a Senior
Tour for female boxers closing in on thirty-five - she had begun to visit Joe
Hand's Gym in anticipation of a series of exhibition bouts planned to raise
money for the Police Athletic League.

    None
of that training helped her at this moment, however, a moment when she was
faced with explaining the difference between fighting and boxing.

    Then
Jessica saw a shadow in her side mirror.

    Vincent
was walking up the drive, carrying a pizza from Santucci's. With his caramel
eyes, long lashes and muscular physique, he still made Jessica's heart flutter,
at least on those days when she didn't want to kill him. Sometimes he dressed
in suits and ties, cleanshaven, his dark hair swept back. Other days he was scruffy.
Today was a scruffy day. Jessica was, and always had been, a pushover for
scruff. She had to admit it. Detective Vincent Balzano looked pretty damned
good for a married man.

    'Sweetie?'
Jessica asked.

    'Yeah,
mom?'

    'That
thing we were talking about? About fighting versus boxing?'

    'What
about it?'

    Jessica
reached over, patted her daughter's hand. 'Ask your father.'

    She
and Vincent had just closed on a vacant trinity in South Philly, a three-story
row house belonging to old friends, which was how many houses in the
neighborhood changed hands. Rare was the property that made it to the
classifieds.

    They
would be living in the shadow of their new church, Sacred Heart of Jesus, where
Sophie would be starting school. New friends, new teachers. Jessica wondered
what the effect on her little girl was going to be.

    Jessica's
father, Peter Giovanni, one of the most decorated cops in PPD history, still
lived in the South Philadelphia house in which Jessica had grown up - at Sixth
and Catharine. He was still vibrant and active, very much involved in the
community, but he was getting on in years, and the trip for him to see his only
granddaughter would eventually become a burden. For this, and for so many other
reasons, they were moving back to South Philly.

    With
her daughter fast asleep, and her husband ensconced in the basement with his
brothers, Jessica stood at the top of the narrow stairs to the attic.

    It
seemed as if her entire life was in these boxes, these cramped and angled
rooms. Photographs, keepsakes, awards, birth and death certificates, diplomas.

    She
picked up one of the boxes, a white Strawbridge's gift box with a piece of
green yarn around it. It was the yarn with which her mother used to tie her
hair in autumn, after the summer sun had made her brunette hair turn auburn.

    Jessica
slid off the yarn, opened the box: a faux-pearl mirror compact, a small leather
change purse, a stack of Polaroids. Jessica felt the familiar pangs of pain and
grief and loss, even though it had been more than twenty-five years since her
mother had died. She slipped the yarn back around the box, put it by the
stairs, gave the room one last survey.

    She
had been a cop for a long time, had seen just about everything. There wasn't
too much that unnerved her.

    This
did.

    They
were moving back to the city.

    'Fuckin'
city,' the man said. 'First my car gets booted, then I they tow it, then I
hadda go down to PPA and spend two hours standing around with a bunch of smelly
lowlifes. Then I hadda go down to Ninth and Filbert.
Then
they tell me I
owe three-hunna-ninety dollars in tickets. Three-hunna-ninety
dollars.''

    The man
slammed back his drink, washed it down with a mouthful of beer.

    'Fuckin'
city. Fuckin' PPA. Buncha Nazis is what they are. Fuckin' racket.'

    Detective
Kevin Byrne glanced at his watch. It was 11:45 p.m. His city was coming alive.
The guy next to him had come alive after his third Jim Beam. The man migrated
from tales of woe that began with his wife (fat and loud and lazy) to his two
sons (ditto on the lazy, no data on body type) to his car (a Prism not really
worth getting out of hock) and his ongoing war with the Philadelphia Parking
Authority. The PPA had few fans in the city. Without them, though, the city
would be chaos.

    They
were sitting at the bar in a corner tavern in Kensington, a hole in the wall
called The Well. The place was half-f. Kool and the Gang were on the juke;
an ESPN wrap-up of the day's sports was on the television over the bar.