you know what, tony, I believe you

When he left the morgue, Clete had gone to ground at the Monterey Court, under the name Mickey Hargitay, a name Tessio knew. Clete was hoping that Tessio would look for that name, and would send some people to take him out because they’d be easier to kill at the Monterey Court than inside the Vizzini compound.

And Tessio did call.

He asked for a meet.

Clete thought about it, figured it was a trap, but he said yes because getting into the compound would have been the hardest part of what he planned to do. He didn’t care about getting out.

Didn’t want to get out.

So he said yes.

Clete gunned up—his .357 with a pocket full of auto-loaders, a little hammerless Smith in his hip pocket, and a cut-down M2 Carbine on a shoulder rig hidden under his suit jacket.

It was a full-auto machine and had a thirty-round magazine. He drove to the Vizzini compound with death in his heart, for him and for everyone he could take with him.

The stone-walled compound had two wrought-iron gates as massive as the gates to hell. Two button men stood behind the gates as Clete pulled up to the gates, his Colt Python at his side, the cut-down M2 digging into his ribs.

The left-side guard, a recent arrival from Abruzzo, stepped through a small door in the gate, bent down and put a hard white flash in Clete’s face, held it there long enough for insolence and then stepped away, waving to the other man—the gatekeeper—to hit the button.

The gate creaked and ground its ponderous way along a buried track. The Abruzzi, still a boy, but hard enough, smiled at Clete as he pulled through.

“You are expected,” he said, and the other guard showed his teeth, store-bought in Napoli and blue-white like tombstones.

Clete drove up the long curving drive and parked inside the walled compound, in the midst of a cluster of shiny blue-black Cadillacs and Lincolns and Packards and Oldsmobiles.

There another Abruzzi guard, with a cut-down lupara hooked over his left arm, lifted a hand and with a cold smile invited Clete to walk down the long sloping lawn to where the alligator lagoon shimmered in the moonlight, framed by a stand of saw palmettos.

Eight men, at Clete’s rough count, stood around the edge of the lagoon, four of them armed with shotguns. As he got closer, Clete could see Tessio Vizzini standing in the foreground of the group, watching him come down the long lawn.

He had a machete in his left hand, the tip pointed low and by his side, and in his other hand a glass of what looked like red wine.

Sergio Carpo and Sal Bruni stood near, and the rest of Tessio’s soldiers, six of them, stood around in scattered groups, and all of them tracked him as Clete came into the wavering glow of the torches.

Behind Tessio, Little Anthony sat in a wooden beach chair, naked, trussed up like a roasted pig, coated in sweat, his face streaked with tears.

In the darkness beyond the compound lights the lagoon waters were ruffled and uneasy, and the red glitter of the torches were reflected in the slitted eyes of the gators waiting in the shallows.

As Clete came up to him, Tessio stepped forward and met him halfway.

“I know why you are here, Clete. Your beautiful wife is dead. But we did not do this thing. On my heart, on my honor as a Vizzini, we did not.”

Clete looked past Tessio, to where Tony Vizzini slumped in the lawn chair. Tony’s eyes were wide and Clete could see that he had fouled himself.

“I have put him to the question. He admits that he was at the house. On Florala. He drove by it. With Carpo. In the middle of the night.”

“How did he know where my wife was, and why did he go there?”

“Because Aurelia DiSantis sent him there.”

“Why did she do that?”

“She saw what you and your cousin did to Tony and his people at the Alcazar. She made trouble. She taunted him with it, and then she told him where your wife was. Yes he is a stupid boy, and yes he went down there, but Sergio was with him, and Sergio would never have let him hurt your wife.”

He stepped in close, looked into Clete’s haggard face, saw the loss, how deep the wound was. And although he had a lizard heart, he felt it.

“My old friend, we do not make war on the wives and children. You know this. You have come here to die, and to kill as many of us as you can as you die. With your pistol and that little rifle you have under your coat. And we understand this, and if we had done this infamita, we would have shot you down by the front gates.”

He stepped closer, put a heavy calloused hand on Clete’s shoulder.

“But here you are, alive, and I tell you, we did not do this thing. And if we could bring your wife back, my friend, by putting a bullet into my son’s head, we would do it. Here, take this.”

He reached into his belt, pulled out a heavy Smith & Wesson revolver, cocked it and handed it to Clete.

“Here is my only son, my Little Anthony. If you do not believe me, go put a bullet in his head.”

Clete had to smile at that.

“If I do, your people will shoot me dead before his brains hit the grass.”

Tessio laughed.

“Yes. Of course. But Mary Alice will be avenged, and then your pain will end too. All at once. This is a kindness I offer you, Clete. Go kill him, if you do not believe me. Kill my son. Then die and be at peace.”

Clete took the revolver from Tessio’s hand, checked that it was loaded and walked down the slope to the edge of the alligator lagoon.

He could hear the gators, churning and moving in the black water, hungry, impatient, smelling the blood and anger in the air.

The night was humid and salty and the air was hazy. Flies buzzed around Tony. He looked up as Clete came to stand in front of him.

Clete could smell him from five feet away, and the flies were clustering thick on his skin.

“You went down the shore to kill my wife?”

“You insulted me. In front of my friends.”

“So then you decide to kill my wife?”

“No. I was looking for you.”

“No. You knew I was in New Orleans.”

A dim-witted flicker in Tony’s eyes, and he cut away. His tongue ran over his lips.

“I was angry. Look at me. I have paid.”

“This will burn inside you. You will want to get your balls back. You’ll come for me some day, shoot me in the back. Or come for my son.”

No one spoke.

Clete considered the boy for a while longer, and then, sighing, turned away, letting the revolver come down at his side. The anger was gone. Let it go. Don’t keep it in your future. He started back up the long grassy slope.

A gator hissed in the outer dark, and then thrashed his tail, a white explosion of water that caught the torchlight and sent it glittering back, ruby-red sparks in the white waves.

Tony watched him walk away, a sneer forming on his bruised lips.

“That’s right, fat boy, paid boy. You Mick prick. Walk away. Fuck you, paid boy. Some day, I will kill your fucking paid-boy ass.”

“Tony!” said Tessio, a warning tone. “Enough. Shut the fuck up.”

Clete stopped, his shoulders slumping. He glanced at Tessio, then he turned around and walked back to Tony, lifted the revolver, pointed it at Tony’s head.

“Clete, no,” said Tessio. “He’s just a stupid kid!”

Clete stood in front of Tony, thinking what to say. Finally, after a long silence, he said, “You know what, Tony, I believe you.”

He shot him in the head, and Tony, his skull a blown-out ruin and his brains spattering across the lawn, flew backward in the chair, legs flying.

Clete turned around and shot Sergio Carpo in the chest, because Sergio Carpo was an excellent gun hand, then he pivoted and shot Sal Bruni too, for the same reason—didn’t wait to see either man fall—the other six, panicked, were fumbling for their guns—Clete dropped Tessio’s revolver, tugged the M2 out from under his coat, stood rock still as the six men facing him started a hurried and ragged fire—he felt big rounds hissing past him, felt a blow in his hip that almost knocked him down—saw the muzzle flare of their guns—and then he opened up on them, full-auto, shooting carefully, aiming at their silhouettes, adjusting for the muzzle climb—he had done this kind of thing for a living in Korea—another body blow in his left side—another round scored a shallow furrow in his neck—he wasn’t dead yet...he stood his ground and raked the standing men with fire—and they all went down—back and down—and now the magazine was empty and the bolt was locked back.

Silence, except for the echoes of gunfire coming back across the bay.

Clete stood there, weaving, fighting the shock of his wounds, standing on a grassy slope littered with dead and dying men. The gunfight had lasted about twenty seconds.

Tessio was on his feet, waiting.

Clete reached down, feeling the pain now, his wounds beginning to wake, picked up Tessio’s revolver, walked slowly up to where Tessio was standing, the gun in his left hand, the M2 in his right, until he was five feet away.

“My men,” said Tessio. “Why not me?”

“We have an understanding.”

He flipped out the cylinder in Tessio’s revolver, dumped out the remaining three rounds, handed it to Tessio.

“Why? Why do this?”

Clete studied him, a long silence.

“Mary Alice.”