BALLARO LOOKED OLDER. He stood in the doorway of his home, one hand clutching the doorframe. The passing months had pulled on him with preternatural force, dragging down jowls and carving lines with the indelicate taps of a clumsy and belligerent sculptor. Streaks of grey-white tarnished his sleek black hair, and stubble stained his cheeks like smudges of charcoal. Christ, he looks like hell. By the way Ballaro looked him up and down, David assumed the man was thinking the same thing about him.
“Detective. I guess it’s my turn to offer you my condolences.”
“Thanks,” said David.
“Don’t count for shit, do they? Come in if you’re coming in. This an official visit? If so, say the word. I’ve got my lawyer on speed dial.”
David shook his head. “As unofficial as it comes. If it was on the books, I’d burn ‘em.”
“That’s sexy talk from an officer of the law. You tryin’ to juice me up for something?”
“I guess you could say that.”
They sat in the same places they had for their last two meetings. Ballaro offered David the comfier of the two guest chairs, but the thought of taking Walter’s spot was unbearable. David settled into the cushion, crossing one leg over the other and swallowing the grimace the motion brought to his lips. His ribs felt like shards of broken pottery clumsily glued back together.
“I know what killed your sons.”
Ballaro made a steeple of his fingers, pressed it to his lips. “What, but not who?”
“What. Who. Where. When. Everything but why.”
“Always the hardest itch to scratch, ain’t it?”
David clamped a cigarette between his teeth and held up a lighter. He pointed to it and looked at Ballaro, a non-verbal request for permission. Ballaro shrugged.
“Yeah, sure. Ruin my upholstery, what the fuck do I care?”
David lit the smoke, inhaled. Smoke hugged his lungs, the nicotine like rubber caps sheathing the jagged edges of his ribcage. He watched Ballaro as the mask of nonchalance ran from his face like wax under a heat lamp. His plump fingers toyed with their many rings, scratched at the lip of his armrest. David gave the man a few moments to sweat before playing his hand. “Tell me what you know about Luka Volchyin.”
Ballaro pressed his hands together as if in prayer. His gaze wandered somewhere far away, returning with reluctance several moments later. “Fuck. Volchyin. You’re sure?”
“About what? I just asked what you know about him.”
“Don’t shit a shitter, kid.”
“The name means something, then.”
Ballaro rubbed his face. “He hung around Main and Ferry, slingin’ weed. Had a few girls turned tricks for him. Small shit, but he was real impertinent about it, some fucking nobody actin’ like he was Scarface. Some of the fellas had words with him, but the kid wouldn’t learn his lesson.”
“He wouldn’t learn?” David asked. “Or your boys couldn’t teach him?”
“Kid was slippery as hell, I’ll give him that. Guys chased him up and down town, but no one could ever nail him. Rumor stared goin’ around that the kid had protection, and I don’t mean one of the families. His grandma was supposed to be some sort of gypsy or somethin’, one of those babushka Slav hags, you know. Kind that can brew a tea can grow your hair back or make your dick fall off. Bad juju.”
“You believed it?”
Ballaro exhaled through pursed lips. “Fuck, no. But if the mokes on the street start buyin’ it, truth or lie don’t make that much difference. Anyway, people started askin’ around, found out that granny was holed up in one of the local old folks’ homes.”
“That wouldn’t be Stanford Acres, would it?”
“Good guess, detective. You deducted the shit out of that one.”
“You like that, how about this one. That fire they had a few months back? I’m guessing grandma Volchyin was one of the victims.”
Ballaro scraped a bit of dirt from beneath his fingernails. “Y’know, I think she was. As I recall, the fire started in her room. Old biddy musta been smokin’ in bed. Careless.”
“You burned an old woman alive to send a message,” David said, as if by speaking the act aloud he could better measure the scope of its cruelty.
Ballaro dug a strand of dirt from the nail of his middle finger, flicked it away. “That’s a pretty big accusation, detective, and I gotta say I resent it. I’m a legitimate businessman. Why the fuck would I want to burn up some old lady? But I will say this. There are some guys on the streets of this city’ll do anything if the price is right. If someone needed a building torched, say, to collect the insurance, they wouldn’t have to look far.”
They sat ensconced in a brief silence. Ballaro shook his head, tutting to himself. “Volchyin. I should’ve fucking known.”
“You want this guy, right?”
“And I’ll get him. Thanks for your visit, detective, but I don’t have anything for you.”
“I hope that’s not true. Otherwise we’re both going to be pretty disappointed.”
“How d’you figure?”
“I’ve got something the guy wants. I know how he became . . . whatever the hell he is, and what he plans to do next. I can fix it for him to show up at a time and place of my choosing. When he does, I can nail him.”
“Yeah, and lock him up so’s he can sit on his ass and watch the tube for fifty years? He murdered my boys, detective. I don’t want him behind bars. I want him in the fucking ground.”
“So do I.”
Ballaro fingered the crease of flesh beside his lips, contemplative. “Yeah?”
“If I wanted the guy put in jail, I’d be talking to my sergeant, trying to get a warrant typed up. That’s not gonna cut it here. We’re not talking about a normal criminal. This is more like dealing with a rabid dog. And you don’t lock a rabid dog in the pound. You put it down.”
Ballaro cocked an eyebrow. “You’re pissed about Pulaski, huh? Buddy killed your partner, got you out for blood?”
David said nothing, his face a stone mask.
The Mafioso chuckled to himself. “Take your moral high ground, see if I fuckin’ care. Hatred ain’t something to be ashamed of. It’s our most human emotion. Animals don’t hold grudges. They kill for food, run from fear. Death ain’t nothin’ to them. It happens when it happens. Not us humans, detective. Death offends us. It spits on me and mine, I spit right back in its face.”
Ballaro leaned forward. Age sloughed off him like shed skin, revealing something sharp and toned and hungry beneath.
“Tell me what you need, detective,” he said. “And it’s yours.”