Claudio stands by the large windows of Molony’s living room and looks out on the city. He is not a New Yorker by birth but it is a vista in which he feels an odd kind of pride. There is certainly a beauty to it. Claudio has always preferred paintings and photographs of natural scenes to anything man-made. He likes rolling fields and woodlands, moonlit lakes and flower meadows. But in this moment, the view beyond the glass seems to be an equally organic thing. This city has grown like mold. It is the vision of endless different planners, architects, politicians, and developers, the product of a billion warring desires. It has been fettered by bureaucracy and chiseled into unexpected shapes by artless hands. Its buildings have grown, forestlike, from tiny acorns of inspiration and then been felled by violence, poverty, and hate. And yet it is beautiful, viewed from afar. Up close, he knows the city to be different. Its inhabitants are ticks buried deep in the fetid skin of a half-rotten dog, growing fat on its blood until they risk bursting. He counts himself among their number. He wishes this view belonged to him, and not to the pitiful specimen who first wriggled into his life three decades ago, and with whom he has never exchanged a word.
Claudio did not need to intimidate or charm the pleasant lady at the nearby bodega. He gained entry into Molony’s apartment building the old-fashioned way. He picked the lock on the subterranean garage and made his way to the ground floor along a gray, sloping hallway, holding his gun in his right hand and his shoes in his left. He did as McAvoy and Alto had done, checking the empty apartments and forming his own conclusions about the scam being perpetrated by the landlord. And then he reached the red door. He picked the lock in eight seconds. Allowed himself a whistle of appreciation at the luxurious living space enjoyed by the lawyer. Then he got to work. He has checked the entire apartment for surveillance equipment and hidden cameras, and been mildly gratified to discover motion sensors in the living room and kitchen. He idly wondered who was monitoring the alarm, and how long he had before it caused him difficulties. An hour later, he has begun to feel secure. Nobody is coming. Whoever Molony is paying for security should offer the schmuck his money back.
He has surprised himself with his actions. When he was finished with the Chechen, he should have telephoned his employer and told him that the whole thing had been a clusterfuck. Wrong place, wrong time. Cheb might have killed Luca Savoca, but what was the poor bastard supposed to have done? There was no need to go to war. No need to disturb the peace. Instead, Claudio is indulging himself. It was the Chechen who told him what it was that the owner of this apartment had been doing for Pugliesca for so many years. He was soon going to be doing it for the Chechens, too, and in return, Pugliesca was going to get new territory and a new line of supply on his heroin business. In payment, they wanted his system for cleaning up their millions. Claudio is unsure how much of the information has been passed on to the other New York crime families. Nor does he know why it was that he was sent into the woods in the middle of the night to go and kill two Irishmen. A job for New York—that’s what he’d been told. That order could only have come from Pugliesca or Savoca. And Luca hadn’t mentioned his father as they plotted how to spring the trap. If Pugliesca wanted the Irishmen dead, he would need a good reason. Claudio knows the old man and knows that money and power are his favorite mistresses. Could the Irishmen be fucking with his lucrative new deal, perhaps? A deal to which Molony was central? The more Claudio considered it, the more he began to feel that Molony held the answers. He wants to poke around a little. Wants to burrow beneath the veneer and see how many answers would spill out if he were to split the lawyer open. He is following his initiative, even as he knows the risks. If this man is important to Pugliesca, Claudio’s presence here is a grave mistake. He just can’t seem to persuade himself to leave without knowing more.
The venetian blinds protest a little as Claudio adjusts them. There is a tiny discoloration upon their surface, as though they have never been opened, and Claudio wonders what kind of man would live in a place like this and not enjoy the view.
As he watches the snow blow like so much ripped tissue across the rooftops of Manhattan, Claudio finds himself overcome by memory. He has felt this way all day. He is not a man who feels much in the way of regret. He thinks of guilt as an indulgence. He has made his confessions and pays a handsome contribution to his neighborhood church in Philly each year as recompense for any misdeed he felt uncomfortable about sharing with his confessor. He is not haunted by the faces of men he has killed. But were he to admit to feeling the presence of any of the men he has dispatched, Sal Pugliesca’s face would fill his mind.
Claudio has a sudden memory of a basement room in Brooklyn. He and Sal, dressed to the nines in wing tips and gleaming suits. He remembers the tiny sting of the needle as it punctured his skin, the acrid smell as the picture of the saint curled to ash before him. Remembers the slaps to his back and the billfolds being stuffed in his pocket. They were two of the youngest men ever to be made by the Mob. Sure, Sal’s father had greased the wheels for his boy, but there was no arguing that he was a good earner. He was loyal and fearless. Claudio was there on merit, too. He already had three hits on his record and had done his brief stint in Rikers like a stand-up guy. He was a good earner and he respected the hierarchy. He was good at keeping his mouth shut. He deserved this. Deserved his moment in the sun. Even smiled through it as the older guys busted his balls for being a member of the Philly outfit. “A weak-ass crew,” they called it, and Claudio did not point out how much more money his “crew” was bringing to the table than the New York family to which they were affiliated.
It was a damn awful winter, Claudio recalls. Snow in Miami, slush in Alaska, as if the world had turned on its head. The drifts were six feet deep in Buffalo. The Salvation Army had volunteers clambering over snowdrifts to bring groceries to people who couldn’t open their front doors for the ice around the frames. He and Sal spent the night in a pizzeria, crammed in with dozens of other New Yorkers who warmed themselves on the wood-fired ovens and ate free slices like they were refugees from a war. The Dummy was there, too, looking at Sal with those big baby eyes. He was like a dog that followed his master. Occasionally, Sal would turn and ask him if he was okay, or check if he was warm enough or wanted something else to eat. The Dummy would look down and shake his head, and it seemed like it was all Sal could do not to tickle him behind the ear. Claudio had been too embarrassed to acknowledge the presence of the pale-skinned mute who followed them from bar to bar as they celebrated their new status as made men. He just trudged behind them through the snow, uncomplaining, stepping in the footsteps left by the man who called him “brother.”
It was a grim surprise when Claudio received his instructions that night in 1981. A hit had been authorized. Sal was informing. He had to go. Claudio had earned his reputation by doing as he was told, and though he felt a flicker of distaste at killing a man he thought of as a friend, he didn’t say a word of protest. He built the device himself. Didn’t say any kind of Hail Mary or apology as he flicked the switch and blew Salvatore Pugliesca’s body into strips of meat. The cops found parts of him six houses away. They didn’t speak much about the mute. Tony Blank—that was his name. The Dummy to everybody else. Tony was collateral damage—merely “an associate” of the deceased. Claudio expected there to be questions asked about the extra corpse on his ledger, but not long after Sal’s death, the Philly Mob was once more engulfed in one of the power struggles that erupted every few years. Claudio was kept busy, staying alive and stopping hearts. He was never asked a single question about how the poor dumb bastard had ended up caught in the blast. Claudio wouldn’t have had an answer even if he had been interrogated. He simply didn’t know that Tony was there. Sal had driven into the driveway of his Philadelphia home. He had climbed out of the car and approached his door. He paused on the step to find his keys. His shoulders sagged for a moment, as if he had just remembered something he couldn’t be bothered to do. And then Claudio flicked the switch and Sal disappeared in a cloud of red and gray.
Claudio should have driven away. There was no doubting that his target was dead. But then he heard the noise. Even above the sound of falling timbers and crackling flame, he heard something rhythmic and unfathomable.
He stepped over what was left of Sal Pugliesca. And he saw the Dummy, laid out beneath wood and brick. Tony was pinned by his left hand. There was a dark stain spreading across his chest. Blood was dripping into his wide eyes from a wound to his skull. And in his hand, he held a cleaver, its blade already gory with his own blood. As Sal watched, Tony hacked down again at the spot just above his left elbow. His lips moved not in pain but in silent prayer. Claudio stood still until he heard the sirens. Then he walked away. He put his memory of Sal in the little box in his head and kept it shut. He had done his job and nobody ever criticized him for it. Claudio closes his eyes before the snow makes him feel too morose. It is not that he regrets Sal’s death. But he is feeling unsettled. He has been troubled ever since that almighty clusterfuck upstate.
And now he is having to confront his memory of the Glowworm.
That’s what they called him, back in the day. Claudio used to see him around at bars and restaurants where the different crews hung out. He was always on his way to or from somewhere; always carrying books and sweating, whatever the weather. He wore big round glasses that made his eyes look twice the size. He was around Claudio’s age. Big round head and already balding. Stuttered when he talked and always looked like he was about to cry. Good at the books, though, that’s what everybody said. He wasn’t to be picked on. Did something important for our friends in the city. Leave him alone . . .
How many years ago had it been? Sometime after Sal’s death. Maybe ’82? Claudio had attended a baptism in the city. Half the mobsters from New York and Philly were there. Flashbulbs and champagne, squeezed cheeks, kissed lips, and endless billfolds stuffed in a silk purse. The Glowworm was there, though Claudio had to stare for an age before he realized who he was looking at. He was unrecognizable from the stumbling, fat-faced fuck who used to cook the books for the city Mob. This man had poise. He had self-belief. He wore a white gown and held the silver chalice as if it really did contain the blood of Christ. He looked radiant. Self-assured.
Claudio saw little of him after that day. Sometimes they would pass on the court steps or they would both be present at the same wedding or funeral, but over the years, Claudio gradually became more of a background figure. He was no street hustler or stickup artist. He was a killer and that was what he got paid to do. He gave the Glowworm little or no thought. And then this morning, he saw his big fat face staring out at him from a computer screen. A Scottish cop was looking into his background, the same Scottish cop who was piecing together what went wrong out at Cairo. Claudio is a clever man. He is already a few steps ahead. He is also a realist. He knows that whatever service Molony performs for his New York associates is valuable. Molony cannot be harmed without the action being cleared from on high. Clicking his tongue, Claudio closes the blinds and looks around him. He checks his watch. Wherever Molony is, he should be home soon. Claudio is not completely sure how he will proceed. For the fifth time in an hour, he tries to call the number currently being used by Giuliano Pagano back in Philly. Old habits are threatening his resolve. He wants to call Pagano and have him sanction his actions. But he knows Pagano is too much of a pussy to move without New York’s say-so, and he doubts Pugliesca would be pleased to learn that Claudio knows so much. Bored, twitching a little, Claudio walks through to Molony’s bedroom. He has removed his shoes and makes no sound as he crosses the floor. He has already been through the lawyer’s possessions and found little of interest. The Glowworm’s clothes are all ordered from the same online supplier. Most still carry labels that show they have not been worn. There is no laundry hamper. His drawers are neatly kept. Packets of unopened socks in one drawer, pristine vests and T-shirts in another. Claudio wonders if Molony has the obsessive condition that he has read about. Perhaps he can’t bring himself to wear the same thing twice. On impulse, he enters the en suite bathroom and opens the shelves next to the wooden medicine cabinet. It is stacked with bars of soap like bricks in a wall.
Claudio returns to the bedroom. He examines the books on Molony’s bedside table. There is a hardback with the word “Unsolved” emblazoned down the spine that Claudio recognizes. It covers dozens of cases from the past fifty years where justice was never served. Claudio has briefly flicked through the book himself, leafing through the speculation and conclusions like a professor examining a teenager’s essay. The book shares space on the bedside table with a ceramic flask in which a single yellow rose has been placed. It gives off no scent but looks fresh. Claudio opens the bedside drawer. There are pillboxes inside, their lids showing pictures of noted churches and cathedrals from around the world. Claudio opens one of the ornate little boxes at random. The pills inside are loose. Pink. They are the size of .22 bullets and look damn hard to swallow. Claudio puts them back.
At length, he sits down upon the bed and just as quickly stands up again, rubbing the seat of his trousers. Carefully, he pulls back the thick red-and-gold throw that covers the sheets. The sheets of Molony’s bed are stained brown, red, and rust by dried blood. It looks as though somebody has been split open and left to bleed out. The coppery tang fills Claudio’s nostrils but he does not recoil. He considers the sheets as if he were a forensics expert. The blood is not all fresh. And the sheets themselves are yellowed with age. They are mildewed at the edges, and in places the cotton has become so threadbare that Claudio can see the stains upon the mattress beneath. He can also see the needles. They stick up through the mattress like the quills of a porcupine, each tip silver and gleaming and flecked with blood.
Hunkering down, Claudio looks under the bed. The floor is spotless. Where does the man keep his shoes? His pornography? This place feels false, somehow. It feels like a veneer that caps a rotten tooth. It contains no true traces of the person that Claudio saw so many years ago with his face turned toward the heavens as if witnessing the Rapture. Where is his cross? His Bible? Claudio returns to the living room and considers the art on the walls. He is drawn to the blueprint of the church. It is a classy piece of work, drawn with fine black ink on pale blue paper. There is no name on the drawing and he has no way of knowing whether it is a recent build or the plans for something centuries old. The sketch occupies the prime location on the walls. Claudio leans forward and examines the smudges around the edges of the gold frame. He is a man familiar with the patina of blood. He sees the faintest traces of discoloration on the glass around the bottom edges, where a man would place his hands to lift the image off the wall.
Claudio does so now. He lifts the whole frame from the hook and places it behind the sofa. Set in the wall behind is a small metal grille, a latticework in wrought iron that reminds him of the old confessional booths. There is a small brass handle on one side and hinges on the other. Claudio pulls the handle and the door slides open without a sound.
The object within is a little larger than a shoebox. Claudio retrieves it and moves into the kitchen, where there is a marble-topped preparation area in the center of the wooden floor. Claudio places the case down upon its cold, hard surface. It is a small suitcase, bound in a soft brown leather and with two buckles at the front. Grimy, rust-colored fingermarks pattern the sides, the handle, and the straps.
Claudio remembers these devices. Had one himself when he was a young man.
He opens it up and looks at the Super8 Sound Recorder, all black and silver and strangely futuristic despite being a relic of the past.
He settles his hands upon the counter. Breathes deep. Presses play. The voice that emerges is flat and monotonous, the words emerging from a throat and mouth that sound pained and dry. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have allowed the devil to seduce me on occasions when I was unable to stop myself from touching my skin in a way that would displease the Lord. I have harbored many impure thoughts. I have thought disrespectfully about the man who calls himself my father. I am grateful for his kindness and yet when he speaks to me I feel a great rage inside me—a hunger for something I can’t describe. I have imagined myself stealing into his room at night and smashing his brains in with a hammer—perhaps driving a nail into his skull as if it were the wrists or feet of our Lord. I do sincerely repent . . . Shush, please, no more . . . I repent of these sins and ask for the strength to not repeat such offenses. Forgive me, Father, for my actions in making this confession. The girl I took had kind eyes and spoke gently to me. Please allow her torture to cease. She suffers and screams and cries and her skin has begun to repel me with its odor. Father, please intercede with our Lord and pray for her agonies to cease so she may rest with Jesus and her sinful flesh can be consumed by this sacred earth. Bless me, Father. Amen.”
The recording is interrupted midway by the sound of a female voice cracking and breaking around a scream.
Claudio feels a lump in his throat. There is something so animal about the noise, so primal. A plea for mercy that requires no words.
He is so engrossed in the sounds that it takes him a moment to register the smell. The air has changed hue, taken on a milky, rotten foulness.
He turns just in time to see him. The Glowworm.
He’s wearing his white robes and his face shines with the radiance that unnerved Claudio so many years ago.
Before Claudio can move, the Glowworm thrusts his hand into the black urn beneath his left arm. His face impassive, his eyes unblinking, he pulls free a handful of ash and flings it in Claudio’s face like confetti.
As Claudio raises his hands to his face he realizes too late he has left himself exposed.
The urn smashes into the side of Claudio’s head and as he crumples to the floor he only has time to notice that the man has bare feet and pleasant, pink toes, before the blackness closes around him like a mouth and swallows him down.