THE LIVING ROOM looked very much as David remembered it, but the feel of the place couldn’t be more different. The air of cordiality in spite of grief was gone, razed by the calamity in the poker house. In its place gaped a charred and barren strip of hurt and aimless hostility, spiny and brittle and choked with ash. David received no offer of expensive European coffee, and the cord of repartee between Walter and Frank—a subtle twine of words and gestures that betrayed, if not mutual affection, then at least a certain mutual respect—lay severed at their feet. Mrs. Ballaro flitted about the house like an uneasy phantom, carting loads of laundry and mopping floors and scrubbing tables.
As if to balance his wife’s flurry of activity, Ballaro himself sat motionless. His head sank into his shoulders, corrugating his neck with a series of bulging folds and plumping the wattle of slack flesh under his chin. He cradled a wine glass in his hand, its fluted base tucked between his middle two fingers. Only the gentle clockwise swirl of the wine in its clear belly betrayed the fact that Ballaro moved at all. He could otherwise have been nothing more than an ugly and awkward piece of furniture.
“Frank,” Walter said, taking up his half of the severed cord at their feet. “I dunno what to say. You’ve got our deepest sympathies. I mean, it’s just . . . ”
“Terrible beyond words,” David tried. Walter’s minute nod signalled a good effort, but Ballaro didn’t seem to have heard. His wine glass began a more pronounced swirling, the gyre of Merlot deepening. Walter leaned forward, elbows braced on his hefty thighs.
“I want you to know that we’re doing everything we can to investigate. In Vincent’s case and in Eddie’s.”
Watching the tiny whirlpool in his glass, Frank gave a single guttural laugh. “And how is that going for you?”
“God’s truth? Not that well, Frank. I’d usually slather on some platitudes about how our best minds are on the case, and strides are being taken every day to bring us closer to the truth, but we’re men of the world, you and me, right? So I’ll spare you the bullshit. This is a stumper if ever there was one. I mean, it doesn’t take a genius to see both attacks are connected, but how and why? We’re fumbling around in the dark here. You’re the common denominator, Frank. Whoever’s doing this has got it out for you bad, and I don’t see them stopping any time soon. Anything you can tell us, any suspicions, altercations, reasons someone with this kind of capability would be after you—”
“What kind of capability is that, detective?” Frank’s eyes snapped up from his glass, the skin beneath them puffy and bruised. “Skinning a man like a deer in a strip club parking lot? Ripping seven men to shreds—seven armed men—and walking away unscathed? You ask if I know a man such as this? Your office has watched me a long time, Walter. Do they think me a Mafioso, or a voodoo priest?”
Walter swallowed, saying nothing.
“My family and I will deal with this in our own way, detective.” He drank his wine in one long, rolling swig. “If we can think of something that might assist you in your investigations, we will be sure to let you know,” he added, in a tone that suggested he would do anything but.
It was then that David noticed a few things that had changed in the room besides its tone. The loose collection of art and keepsakes that had decorated the hearth was gone, replaced by a network of Catholic iconography. A procession of saints lined the mantle, a tea candle burning before each one. They faced inward towards the mantle’s centre, where a large crucifix hung from a nail a few inches from the ceiling. It was solid wood, cross and savior alike carved from a single piece of mahogany. A crown of dried thorns—real, from what David could see—encircled his head, rivulets of glossy blood frozen mid-trickle down his face. It was a fabulous piece of devotional art, though David figured such a compliment wouldn’t land well under the present circumstances.
“Frank, listen. I don’t want to cheapen your grief—God knows that’s the last thing I’d want to do—but we can help each other. I’m not asking for a handout, and I’m not trying to weasel up to you and get you to compromise yourself. Any side business of yours is entirely outside my interest here; I’ll swear an oath to that if you like. Right now all I want is to nail this scumbag who’s terrorizing my town. I know you want that too. We’re on the same side here.”
Frank’s laughter pounded the silence. David jumped in his seat, fingernails digging into the armrest. His face flashed red. Christ, you ninny. Way to show some balls here.
“You’re on my side, detective? That so? Trust me, you don’t want to be. This is a dark road I’m walking. I don’t need any pussyfoot badges holding my hand.” He stood with a groan, one hand braced against the small of his back. “Show yourselves out,” he said, and walked into the kitchen without another word, leaving David and Walter alone in his living room.
“Christ, poor guy,” said David. “Losing two kids in the span of a month. That’s gotta be a dark road. I can’t think of one much darker.”
“I don’t think he was talkin’ about grief, Davey.” Rubbing his chin, Walter approached the shrine running the length of the hearth. He picked up a book lying next to an icon of Saint Christopher, ran his finger along the binding, underlining the book’s title: The Book of Black Magic and Ceremonial Magic. “I think that path of his leads somewhere else altogether.”