Souvenir (39 page)

“You ever see this man before?” Bob said. He hadn’t asked that question last night.

“No, not that I remember.”

“You have much cash on hand?”

“No, just the usual change in the register we start out with. Friday’s receipts were already in the bank.”

“Sort of a dumb time to pull a heist, don’t you think? Before a bar opens, after a week of road construction out front? Must’ve affected business, right?” 
“Sure it did. That’s why I closed, to get the cleaning and painting done.”

“So why do you think he tried to stick you up?” 
“Like you said. Dumb.”

“I didn’t say he was dumb. It was a dumb time for a hold up. Armed robbery for register change?”

Clay shrugged, his hands back on his lap. What could he say? The truth?

“Clay,” Bob said, leaning in and speaking slowly. “You know that no one gets hot and bothered by the numbers anymore. You hear they’re even talking up in Hartford about legalizing it and having a state lottery?”

“Good idea,” Clay said.

“So if this has anything to do with the numbers, just tell me.”

Clay shrugged again.

“I’d need to know about it. There won’t be any charges. About the numbers.”

“Yeah,” Clay said. “Especially since there wouldn’t be any evidence left.”

Bob stood, kicking his chair back and slamming his hand, palm-down, on the table. “Stop fucking around, Clay. We know who it was. I wanted to hear it from you, but instead you give me a line of bullshit!”

“What?” Clay was stunned at the outburst, but it was what he’d been afraid of. If only he’d been smarter. Al had been right. It was foolish to plan to kill him at the Tavern. If it had only been somewhere else—but, then maybe he’d be the dead one. It wasn’t so much a question of life or death right now, but of humiliation. The shame of a lie, the humiliation for his family, all of his moral defects laid bare. He couldn’t let it all unravel now.

“Al DePaoli, uncle of Tony DePaoli. Remember him from Friday night?”

“Yeah, the kid that got Chris in trouble.”

“And now Chris is involved in the uncle’s death,” Bob said, standing with his arms folded across his chest, every inch a cop, friendship finding no foothold.

“Leave Chris out of this, Bob.”

“He’s in it. The only question is how far does this go? What did Al DePaoli want from you?”

Clay closed his eyes, trying to figure the angles, how to play it, which way to go. The darkness behind his eyelids vanished and it was stark white, blinding, like a snowfield. Sometimes you couldn’t figure the angles, and you just had to keep pushing ahead, no other choice to be made. He could see tracers over the snowfield, luminous white against a gray sky. Smoke. It covered everything, then blew away. He rubbed his eyes.

Chris hadn’t done anything wrong, didn’t even know about the connection between Al and Tony. He had to bluff, push Bob to see what he really knew.

“How did you know? That it was this Al DePaoli?

“Got his dental records. It was a match.”

“No, I mean how did you know to check his records?”

Bob hesitated. He sat down, folded his hands in front of his face, index fingers up and tapping, as he studied Clay. He seemed to come to a decision. “We’ve had him under surveillance. He gave us the slip a few times, including yesterday. But we know what car he was driving, and it turned up two blocks from your Tavern.”

Clay felt small beads of sweat gather at his temples, beginning to trickle down. The cops had been watching Al. But if they’d ever seen Al with him, surely Bob would’ve brought that up, thrown it in his face by now. If he could stay one step ahead of the cops, maybe everything would work out.

“So, Clay,” said Bob. “What did DePaoli want from you? What did you have that he got killed over?”

“Hell, it was an accident, Bob,” said Clay. “It wasn’t like I was planning on it, it just happened. Self-defense.”

“Never said otherwise,” Bob said, cocking his head and looking Clay over. “But fact is, he’s dead. In your joint. What was he doing there?”

“Maybe his nephew Tony told him I kept cash around, who knows? If I knew anything more, I’d tell you. I offered you information about Fiorenza, remember? You gave me the cold shoulder on that one, so don’t give me a hard time now.”

“We have all we need on Fiorenza.”

“What?”

“I’m doing you a favor, Clay. We know Fiorenza is the numbers guy around here, but that’s not what we were interested in. These guys see the handwriting on the wall, they know the state’s going to legalize the numbers pretty soon. So they’re looking to expand. Heavy-duty gambling, drugs, extortion. A war was heating up between Fiorenza and DePaoli, and we wanted to stop it, put both of them away. It’s part of a big statewide task force. We got enough on Fiorenza, but before we can find out more about DePaoli’s operation, he ends up roasted in your storeroom.”

“Jesus Christ,” Clay muttered. He felt as if he were teetering at the edge of an abyss, having stopped purely by chance before stumbling in. He’d been right in the middle of that war, but too much of a small fry to be noticed. Until Al came calling.

“Like I said, we don’t care about a two-bit neighborhood numbers game, but there’s a lot of unanswered questions here.”

“I told you—”

“Yeah, you told me. You never saw Al DePaoli before he stuck you up for your cash register change. But we’ve been going over Fiorenza’s books, and you know what? There’s over ten thousand dollars missing, receipts never picked up. From Meriden.” 
Clay’s mind tumbled with all these facts. Fiorenza kept books? The cops had the books? “Wait. You mean this guy keep records? How’d you find them?”

“Search warrant. Soon as we found out it was DePaoli in that fire, we picked up Fiorenza. No reason to wait and let him consolidate. And they don’t call it organized crime for nothing. He’s got a full set of books, no names, but a complete record of receipts by date. There was a notation that “Meriden” had an estimated ten grand that hadn’t been picked up yet. So, Clay, let me ask you one more time. What did DePaoli want from you? Bad enough to set up Chris. Bad enough to come gunning for you. Bad enough for you to have a loaded .45 handy?”

Clay looked down at his hands. They weren’t shaking. He could see the faint lines of dirt still left under his fingernails. Al was dead. Fiorenza in jail. The Tavern burned to the ground. The twelve thousand, safe as can be. It was like running through a hail of bullets and making it without a scratch. He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe his luck, couldn’t take in what had just been handed him. Death and redemption, partners again.

“Couldn’t tell you, Bob.”

“I have two search warrants, Clay. One for your house, one for the Tavern. I’ll give you one more chance. I know there’s more you’re not telling me.”

Clay shook his head. Bob got up and left the room. It would be more than two decades before they spoke again.

* * *

There hadn’t been time to speak with Addy before the police got to the house. Clay had barely beaten them there, after he’d gotten Chris to a friend’s house. Chris had become famous as the teenager who’d saved his father from an armed thief. That the crook died a gruesome death of his own making only added to his newly found status. Clay wasn’t sure what the effect of this violent episode would be in the long run, but for now, Chris was enjoying his notoriety.

Addy had put on a good face for Chris, but it was daggers for Clay. He hadn’t cared about the search, he only wanted to tell her the good news. But there hadn’t been a minute to spare before the police came, two detectives and two uniformed cops, armed with court papers and attitude. He’d tried to explain there was nothing to worry about, but with police cruisers in the driveway and neighbors peering through windows, it hadn’t gone well.

They stood in their living room, amidst a mess of cushions, magazines, books and papers carelessly tossed back in place. The police had been almost considerate, but thorough. Everything had been touched, opened, dumped, inspected. Clay watched Addy. She stood with her hand cupped over her mouth, her eyes darting over the belongings in her house that strangers had searched through. She began to shake her head, back and forth, back and forth.

“Addy—”

She stepped to the side, holding up one hand. She took the other from her mouth, seeming to reach deep inside to gain some control. By the look on her face, Clay saw things as she must have. Her home, her marriage, her security ripped apart. All by him. By the secret life he led and the secrets he’d kept from her. From everyone. Hell, he would’ve kept them from himself if it were possible.

“Addy,” he said, softly and slowly. She didn’t step away. “It’s all over. I—”

He stopped, stunned by the look on her face. Anger had melted away and her eyes were wide with sadness, her eyebrows knotted, mouth agape.

“No, no,” he said, holding up his hands as if to stop the words that had already left his mouth. “I don’t mean between us, oh my God, no. I mean the numbers, everything. It’s all over, done with.” He could see relief, embarrassment, anger fly across her face. He held onto that stunned expression, thankful for his clumsy way with words, so glad to have seen her anger betrayed by the sadness there would be for her if they parted. Perhaps enough to prevent it, if he wasn’t too late.

“How can I believe you, Clay, after this?” She gestured around the room, the disarray like evidence of his dishonesties.

“Addy, the guy who died in the fire was some sort of mobster. Bob told me when I went down to give my statement,” he said, trying to sound like he and Bob were just two pals shooting the breeze. “There’s a big statewide task force involved, so they’re just checking every possible lead. There’s nothing for them to find, believe me.” So close. He was so close to everything working. If Addy could just see reason, everything would be perfect.

“Clay,” Addy said, putting her palms up to her cheeks, rubbing them, rocking slightly on her heels while looking away from him. “Clay, it’s good that you’re done with the numbers and whatever else you were mixed up in. But it might be all too late. You’ve become a stranger to me. When did you turn into a numbers runner? Did it happen overnight? When we met, if someone told me to watch out for that Clay Brock, that someday I’d end up having my house searched by the police after a mobster is burned alive in his bar, I would’ve told them they were crazy! Now I feel like the crazy one. What kind of life have we been living? Is this the kind of life you planned when we got married? Who are you, anyway?”

Clay stumbled backwards, the shock of her question hitting him physically, a hammer blow to the chest. He felt his face go white, his pulse race, the blood pumping through his veins pounding in his ears. Taking another step back, he dropped to the couch, feeling his own dead weight pull him down. He watched Addy walk over and sit next to him, concern etched on her face. She didn’t say anything, but she took his hand and studied him, waiting.

“I always thought that if I could get ahead of things, it would be easier for all of us. Working at the plant, then starting up with the Tavern, it was hard. There was never enough money, especially after you quit the phone company when we had Chris. That’s why I took the job doing the cigarette route. Then they told me about the numbers. All I had to do was pick up some envelopes. It was easy money. It helped us get ahead—”

“Clay,” Addy said, gripping his hand. “It didn’t help us. It hurt. It hurt us because you kept secrets from us. It separated you from us, made you into someone you’re not.”

She was right, but for reasons she couldn’t know. Each sentence was like a shot to the heart, and he felt words form and die in his throat. He wanted to run, but instead he covered his head with his hands, like he used to do, holding onto his helmet while shells thundered into the ground around him. The truth, he was headed for the truth, like that village, it awaited him at the end of a long downward run. Tapping his fingers against his skull, he counted, one two three four five. He opened his eyes and fixed them on Addy. Just keep moving, a voice in the back of his mind told him. This is just the next thing you have to do, keep moving. You can’t go back, the past is dead and burned. You can’t stay like this. Move, move, move.

He stood rooted to the stop, long after Addy gave up looking into his eyes. He listened to her moving throughout the house, picking things up, cleaning, organizing. Moving ahead.

Chapter Twenty-One

2000

They sat sipping hot, steaming coffee in a booth by the window at Edith’s Diner. It was a twenty-four hour a day place, and it looked serious about just plain food. Two cops sat at the counter, always a good sign.

“Not bad,” Clay said, setting down his cup in the saucer. His hand was unsteady, and the cup sat in a small pool of black coffee where he’d spilled it.

“High praise,” said Chris. “Are you okay, Dad? You look worn out.”

“I am worn out, Chris. Tired, real tired.”

“It’s been a long week. The hospital, this trip. You oughta be tired.”

“That’s not really it. You know, I always swore I wouldn’t be one of those old folks who complained all the time. Don’t think I have been. But if you want to know, I’ll tell you what I feel like.”