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It’s ten AM by the time we re-enter the Albany city limits. As opposed to last night, Joanne has tensed up again. I can see it on her face the closer we come to Lark Street and the Perez inner city brick fortress.
“This visit to Perez,” she says. “I suppose it has something to do with that contraption you sent him.”
“That it does,” I say. “And you’ve watched enough crime shows and read enough crime novels to know precisely what that contraption is, don’t you, Jo?”
She turns to me, nods.
“I know what it is,” she says. Then, inhaling and exhaling. “This will be the Don’s demise if it works. It’s possible that the Russian boss, Carcov will be there, plus the three men who worked for us.” A second heavy inhale and exhale. “What you...what we...are about to do...it’s all okay with me, so long as no innocents are killed in the process.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, turning onto Lark Street. “This isn’t the 2012 Boston bombing which was an evil act by evil people. I’ve thought it all out, weighed the risks.” Glancing at my watch. “Don Juan will have gotten his mail by now. He will have signed for the package. I can only assume he is alone in his office or perhaps his son is with him, while they both recuperate.”
Driving along Lark Street, we come upon the big brick, street corner mansion. Unlike the previous day, the morning has turned cloudy, breezy, and cool, like Fall is finally coming in fast. There’s also the look and smell of rain in the air. I head past the street corner mansion, and park along the curb maybe one hundred feet up from it. A few SUVs are parked outside the mansion against the curb.
I also notice another vehicle. It’s the long, black, Fitzgerald funeral home hearse. It tells me Karl/Lurch and his two cohorts, Skinny Jay and Smirking Jack are inside the basement, cooking a fresh batch of Bubble Gum. Like Joanne said, maybe Carcov is with them. I can just see the tall, blonde-haired Russian, dressed in his blue track suit, his vodka/beer gut protruding from it like a nine-month pregnancy. He’ll be observing the action while standing in the back of the cooking room, safe enough away from the cooker’s fumes. Or perhaps he’ll be seated at a table, counting the cold hard cash that’s arriving inside the MacDonald/Jones caskets.
I see no innocent pedestrians walking past the place. Only gangbangers occupy the exterior in their baggy jeans and wife beater T-shirts. Even on a good day, I can’t imagine innocent passersby taking a chance on walking on that side of the street. They will instead cross the road to the other side.
Reaching into Joanne’s bag, I pull out the walkie talkie/homemade remote detonator. I turn it on. Static fills the SUV.
“I don’t know if I can watch this,” Joanne says. “But then, I can’t keep my eyes off it either.”
It’s not necessary for me to aim the remote device in the direction of the house, but I shift myself around in my seat, and do it anyway. Tuning onto the correct radio frequency, I place my thumb on the transmit button.
“This is it, Joanne,” I say. “This is the end of our war with Don Juan Perez. This is when the Jones’s from Hope Street in North Albany win the day!”
“Wait,” she says, reaching out. “Let me.”
I feel my stomach tighten up.
“You sure?”
“The man shot our son. He had every intention of killing our boy. He decapitated my mother, for God’s sakes.” She pauses for a breath. “Yeah, Brad, I’m real sure.”
Carefully, I hand her the remote detonator.
“Just press the transmit button,” I say. “That’s all it takes.”
She’s seated in the passenger side seat, her back to the building, a strange smile painting her face.
“This is for mom, Don Juan,” she says. “And this is for Bradley, Junior.”
She presses the transmit button.