The Strangler (27 page)

56

Sunday Mass at St. Margaret’s.

Frozen in time, Michael thought.

Same harp parish. Father Farrell still at the altar. White-haired heads in the pews, all those Sullys and Murphs and Flynns and Flahertys—except that the white heads now belonged to the parents, not the grandparents, of Michael’s generation. Here were the same kids he and Ricky and Joe had grown up with, all looking a little flabbier than their fathers had at this age. Same brick cathedral named for a Scottish queen, Saint Margaret. It was Margaret’s husband, Malcolm III, who murdered Macbeth, and Michael always figured they should have called this place St. Malcolm’s—but they didn’t make saints out of guys like that.

Anyway, this parish already had a Margaret: Daley. In her customary seat, front and center.

And beside her, Brendan Conroy, in the aisle seat, where every time he lowered his bulk down onto the kneeler, his own fat knees squashed out the narrow ruts dug there Sunday after Sunday by Joe Daley, Sr.

And beside them was Joe, drenched in worry. Kat, wearing a matching blue coat and hat. And Little Joe, in a clip-on tie.

No Ricky. Ricky did not bother. Did not care what his mother said. Ricky was blithely agnostic about the Lord, and he was not about to fall for Margaret’s tail-chasing argument that doubting is a necessary part of faith. God or the God-shaped hole simply held no interest. What difference did it make? How would you live your life any differently, God or no God? Forget it, pal. Not a useful way to spend your time. Sunday mornings Ricky slept in.

So the last seat in the Daleys’ row was taken by Michael. Michael who did not believe in God or Church, and who had not been to Mass in years. And yet, he figured, if he could just swallow the placebo—if he could trick his brain into giving his heart a rest—maybe there would be some relief here. Praying to a nonexistent God would be every bit as effective, in psychological terms, as praying to a real one, the whole thing being an exercise in talk therapy and blissful submission. And he could not deny that the placebo worked for billions of people. Why not for Michael, then? Wasn’t it at the darkest moments that grace was supposed to descend? To wish for the thing, to crave it, was to make it so. But to Michael, the Mass—every aspect of it, the tortured Christ above the altar, the dull expressions of the parishioners’ faces, the familiar musty smell of the church—seemed puny and desperate and exhausted. He had been a fool to come back here. As the Mass progressed, Michael’s disappointment quickened into anger, which he flung out at the entire parish for their collusion, for taking Conroy in. They saw Conroy walk in with Margaret on Sunday morning, they saw him cup his hand under her stout elbow as she shuffled out into the aisle for Communion, saw the two of them march around here with imperious nonchalance. Nothing went unnoticed here—over the years Michael had heard his mother condemn virtually everyone in this parish for one indiscretion or another—and yet no one raised an eyebrow. They pretended not to notice. Had they forgotten Joe Senior already?

At Communion, Michael followed the rest of them out of the pew to line up two abreast. It did not even cross his mind not to take Communion. People would gossip, his mother would grind him for embarrassing her.

The man beside Michael in line whispered, “Hey.”

Michael turned to see Kurt Lindstrom. His face was mottled with blue and yellow bruises, and one eye bulged, but he was still smirky and undaunted, like a rich cousin.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Michael. Should you be in this line?”

“Shh.”

“Have you confessed?”

Michael did not respond.

“Have you confessed?” Lindstrom whispered. “For what you did to me?”

The line inched forward one step.

“It’s alright, Michael. I forgive you.”

A step. Another step. “Michael, who’s that with your mother?”

The line stopped.

Lindstrom, imitating the others, stood with his hands clasped at his belly. “She looks lovely today. Saint Margaret. Did they name the church after her?”

“Shut up,” Michael whispered.

“Such a lovely woman.”

“Shut up.”

When they reached the front, Michael knelt on the red-carpeted stair. Lindstrom knelt beside him.

The priest worked his way efficiently across the row of communicants. When he reached Lindstrom, the priest hesitated, distracted by the bruises. Lindstrom opened his mouth and extended his tongue too far. Again there was a pause. The priest seemed unsure whether he was being mocked. He laid the wafer on that too-long tongue, and Lindstrom retracted it slowly.

The priest hesitated at Michael, too, and gave a bent little smile. Long time since he’d seen Michael Daley at Mass. He placed the wafer on Michael’s tongue, then moved on to Little Joe.

Michael circled around to the outer aisle to return to his seat. Turning, craning his neck, he could not see Lindstrom anywhere.

57

Vinnie Gargano had an idea: “You wanna know what you do? You do like the Romans used to. Get yourself a cross, a few hundred crosses, whatever, you set ’em up where everyone can see, up nice and high, like on the Common or someplace, and you fuckin’ nail these fucks up and leave ’em there a couple of weeks. Let the birds eat ’em. That’s the Roman way, see, that’s the Italian way. None of this take the guy in some little closet in Walpole and fry him up where no one can see. The whole point is people gotta see. They gotta see! I mean, that’s the whole fuckin’ point, am I right? Now I guess they ahn’t even gonna do that anymore. They’re just gonna stick ’em in a cell and leave ’em there. The fuck good does that do?”

He scanned the table for an answer. Gargano’s features were scumbled in the dim light. His eyes in particular had a hooded, drowsy menace.

But the three mooks at the table were mushing crab Rangoon and sub gum chow mein in their mouths and could not do much more than nod and make humming sounds to signal their agreement. But agree they did. They always agreed with Vinnie The Animal, even in his drunken expansive moods.

Gargano loved going out for chink, and this was his favorite after-hours stomp in Chinatown, Bob Lee’s Lantern House. They took care of a guy here. Gave him an upstairs room. Gave him mai tais and Blue Whatevers with the little pussy maraschino cherry wrapped in an orange slice and speared with a little plastic sword—drinks that, despite appearances, could knock Sonny Liston on his ass. Plenty of cooze at the bar. No bosses; the bosses stuck to the tomato-sauce joints in the North End or the basement office at C.C.’s Lounge over to Tremont Street. And the cops did not even know Chinatown was part of the city. The only cop Vinnie The Animal was likely to see in Bob Lee’s Lantern House was the one he brought with him.

“What about you, cop? What do you say? What good does it do?”

“Whaddaya askin’ me? Fuck do I know?”

“I just figured you’re a cop, you see this shit every day.”

Joe shrugged. He did not like Vinnie The Animal. He was not charmed or frightened by him. He was too tired and too drunk to feel anything. “I don’t see nothing, Vin.”

“The fuck you do. You pop some fuckin’ guy, he’s out the next day. Or maybe he does a little time and he’s out in a month or whatever. You know what I’m sayin’. Doesn’t make any sense, keep arresting the same guys. It’s got to bother you, don’t it?”

“Not really.”

“It should.”

“It’s the system.”

“It’s a shitty system, then.”

“I’m over it.”

“That’s the problem. That’s why you cops never get anywhere. Put me in charge for a day.”

“And what? You’d crucify everyone? That’s your big idea? Round up all the jaywalkers and the hookers and crucify ’em? That’s a great plan, Vin.”

“Not hookers. Who said anything about hookers? That iddn’t even really a crime. I’m talking about murderers here. I’m talkin’ about the way you need to do things if you really want to get the thing done. You think they had a lot of murders in Rome?”

“Sure.”

“No way.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know. ’Cause they understood. People want to see this stuff. That’s why they put up all those crosses. That’s why they built the Colosseum, so people could go see the fights and see people dyin’ and whatnot, and they’re happy. People need to work it off a little. You gotta let ’em. You gotta do that. For the people.”

“They can go to the movies and see all that.”

One of the mooks chimed in, “Like
Ben-Hur
. You see that one?”

“The fuck are you talkin’ about,
Ben-Hur
?”

“It’s a movie.”

“I know it’s a movie.
Stugatz.
”

“I’m just sayin’, Vin. You were talkin’ about goin’ to the Colosseum and see people gettin’ killed, and then Joe here said they could see all that shit at the movies, so I said they can go see
Ben-Hur
and see people gettin’ killed—at the Colosseum. It’s all in there. That’s what I’m sayin’.”

“And I’m sayin’ it’s a fuckin’ movie.”

“So what, it’s a movie?”

“So it’s make-believe.”

“
Ben-Hur
? I thought it was nonfiction.”

“That’s
Spartacus
.”

“They’re both nonfiction,
Spartacus
and
Ben-Hur
.”

“Would you guys shut the fuck up. I’m not talkin’ about fuckin’ movies. I’m bein’ serious here. Jamokes. Listen, the Romans lasted a thousand years. Or whatever. You know why? ’Cause they didn’t fuck around. That’s my point. Jesus comes along and tells ’em, ‘I’m God’ or whatever, and they say, ‘Too fuckin’ bad, get up on the cross.’ They didn’t give a shit, these guys.”

“Yeah,” Joe said, “but Jesus won.”

“How did he win?”

“Vatican’s in Rome.”

“How does that help Jesus? He was dead.”

“I don’t think you really get the whole Jesus thing, Vin.”

“No, you’re the one who doesn’t fuckin’ get it. What I’m sayin’ is, there’s a proper use. There’s a proper use. Hitler, same thing. If they’d a killed Hitler back when he started making trouble, they’d a had no problems, none whatsoever. Instead we had to go send millions of guys over there. And what’d we tell ’em? ‘Go kill as many of these fucks as you can.’ That’s what I’m talking about. A proper use.”

“Hitler? What are you talking about Hitler?”

“I’m sayin’ a guy like that you got to take care of. You can’t just look the other way, even on the small stuff.”

“That was a war. It’s different.”

“It’s not different. Same rules. It’s always war.”

“You’re crazy, Vince.”

“Yeah? If I’m so crazy, how come you work for me?”

“Because I’m stupid.”

“And these guys? They stupid, too?”

“Is that a real question?”

They laughed, Gargano, the mooks, everyone but Joe.

“Here’s what I’m sayin’. Bein’ a cop and all, you know I’m right. I’ll make you a bet: The guy that killed that what’s-her-name, the girl you know that got strangled, the reporter…”

“Amy Ryan.”

“Amy Ryan. I’ll make you a bet: That wasn’t the first one he did. That’s a guy with a history. He’s been in the can, too, I betcha. They had him and they let him out so he could do that there.”

“So?”

“So she was a good girl, wasn’t she, this Amy? Didn’t deserve what she got?”

Joe did not answer.

“So if they’d a taken care of him the first time he did it, like they should have—”

“You don’t know what a guy’s gonna do. In the future.”

“Trust me, sometimes you know.” Gargano gave him a look.

The mooks hummed and nodded some more. Vinnie The Animal, after all, did have some expertise in this area.

58

Kat at Ricky’s door again. Defeated.

“What’s wrong, Kat? What happened?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do. I’m just…”

“Jesus, come in.”

Ricky attempted a series of solicitous little gestures, a palm laid on Kat’s shoulder, an arm outstretched toward the couch, a reach to relieve her of her purse. The resulting display was a little ridiculous, like a sailor semaphoring, and Ricky wondered again at his new awkwardness. It was a new role, Ricky After, and he had not learned to play it yet. Ricky Before—detached, irresponsible, bored, charismatic—had been a closer fit. But Kat’s very presence here seemed to confirm the change in Ricky, or at least the change in the family’s perception of him. He had never been the type that weeping women turned to. He had not, for that matter, been in very direct touch with the female side of the family at all. For years Amy had represented him among the women. She had explained him to Margaret and Kat and the various aunts and cousins who materialized at family functions. But now Kat was here, and Ricky wanted to be what she needed.

Kat, though, seemed to gather strength as she came into the apartment and observed the mess there. She regarded Ricky’s apartment as if it were a direct reflection of his interior life, and she seemed to calculate that, whatever problems she might have, Ricky might actually be worse off.

“Where’s your record player? And all those records?”

“Somebody broke in.”

“Somebody what!?”

“You heard me.”

“Sorry, Ricky. It’s just…” She snorted.

“Can’t trust anyone these days.”

“I can give you back that Miles Davis record.”

“No, you keep it.”

“New couch?”

“Yeah.”

“Thief took the old one?”

“Sure.”

“That’s weird, thief taking an old couch like that.”

“Long story.”

“I bet.”

Kat sat on the new couch and ran her palm over the cushion.

It had been eleven weeks since Gargano’s goons turned Ricky’s place upside down looking for the stones. In that time Ricky had bought a used couch and coffee table and a new hi-fi, but that was it. He did not feel the same connection to the place. He thought he might move. He had no idea where. Someplace far away.

“You got to help Joe.”

“Help him how?”

Kat lowered her face into her hands.

“What, is he catting around again?”

“No, it’s not that. I think he’s in trouble. He’s betting. And we’re broke. I mean literally broke. You know? We have no money, Ricky. I don’t even—I have nothing to give them for dinner tonight.”

“Jesus, Kat, why didn’t you say so? I have plenty of cash. It’s no problem.”

“It is a problem. He’s not acting right. I think he’s in trouble.”

Ricky fished some cash out of his pocket. He peeled off two twenties and a ten, and handed it to Kat.

She gawped at the bills in her hand. “This is—I can’t take this. It’s too much.”

“Take it. I’ll get you more.”

Kat kept a twenty-dollar bill and put the rest down on the coffee table. “Thank you. We’ll pay you back, Ricky, I promise.”

“You don’t have to pay me back, Kat. It’s for you.”

“Ricky, do you know what’s going on with Joe? You do know, don’t you?”

“I—He told me a few things. Not the whole story.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Nothing, Kat. Really. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“Ricky, you gotta tell me.”

“I really don’t know the whole thing. Joe and I don’t talk much, you know that. All I know is what you know: He likes to bet, he got himself into a hole, he’s a little short of cash right now. It’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad? He steals from us! He steals—from
us
! We have bills. You can’t imagine the bills.”

“Give them to me. I’ll pay them.”

“I can’t do that. He’d kill me.”

“So don’t tell him. Just put them all in a paper bag and give them to me.”

Kat rubbed her eyes. Her hand was jittery, with fatigue or strain Ricky could not tell. “Ricky, you won’t let anything happen to him, will you?”

“He’s a big boy. He doesn’t need my help.”

“Ricky, you look at me and you promise you won’t let anything happen to him. He’s your brother.”

“You overestimate me, Kat.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Look me in the eye.”

“Alright, alright. I promise.”

Kat exhaled a long sigh, as if the thing was agreed: No harm would come to her Joe. The twenty was still in her hand—that made two prayers answered. She folded the bill in half, then folded it again, so those magical digits,
20,
showed in the corners. This piece of paper would change her life, it would stave off catastrophe. Kat had never thought much about money until the last year. Now she thought about little else. She opened her pocketbook and got out her wallet to put it away carefully. On twenty bucks she could feed her family for a week, maybe more.

Ricky retrieved her coat, which she had dropped on a chair. On the pretext of holding it open for her, he slipped the other thirty into her coat pocket.