Forty-Two

Sal spun his wheels, turned hard, and rocketed down a long straight road with the Tobin rising on one side and the low buildings of the Charlestown Navy Yard sitting on the other.

I gripped the panic handle over the passenger door and asked, “How did you find me?”

“When I got out, I called some guys, loyal guys. They heard that Vince was going to take you out. Prove he was in charge.”

“Yeah, but how did you know he’d go there?”

“Because he’s got no fucking imagination. He just did what he was taught. Except I never taught him to leave a fucking DNA beanie behind.”

Taught? The truth hit. I wasn’t the first guy dragged into a crate. I was the first one to walk out. I rolled the revelation around in my head. Killing guys in a disposable murder scene. It was a business process, a competitive advantage, a trade secret. It was freaking patentable! It required planning, coordination, training, bribes, and guys to pick up the crate and put it on some ship. There had to be guys across the world who got the dirty crates and—what, dumped them? Cleaned them? The system required foresight and genius. Evil genius.

I had been keeping Sal in a little compartment. He was Sophia’s husband, Maria’s father, my first cousin, and maybe a guy who did a little crime. That was as far as I had let myself go. Now I saw that he was a guy who owned, and probably invented, a murder processing facility. I glanced at Sal as he drove, pulling up to the end of the street, turning hard, and firing us across the Charlestown Bridge.

Sal said, “So you’re finally quiet.”

“I’m thinking,” I said.

“You’re new to this stuff, baby cousin. So take my advice.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t think too much.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know how to handle yourself. I don’t know what to do. Ever since I got into this, everyone wants to either kill me or arrest me.”

“Welcome to my world,” said Sal. We drove in silence down slushy gray streets, through scattershot intersections, and over the Charlestown Bridge into the North End.

Sal said, “I’m glad you got into this.”

“Why?”

“You’re the only friend I got.”

I had nothing to say. Sal navigated the narrow roads in the North End, turning down smaller and smaller streets until he turned at a sign that said Cleveland Pl and stopped in what was essentially a canyon cut between brick buildings.

“We’re here,” Sal said.

“Where?”

“Angie’s condo.”

Sal reached beneath my seat and pulled out a small gun. Handed it to me. “Be fucking careful with this.”

I took the gun. “Okay.”

Sal pointed at my gun hand. “Take your fucking finger off the trigger, unless you want to shoot someone.”

My finger had slipped beneath the trigger guard. I pulled it out, rested it alongside the gun. My hand shook and I watched it dance. Looked at Sal. “Maybe I shouldn’t have a gun.”

Sal gripped my shoulder. “Stay behind me.” He climbed out of the car.

Sal walked to a door, jingled through his key chain, produced a key, and unlocked the door.

“You’ve got a key to Angie’s place?” I asked.

He put his finger to his lips, opened the door to the hallway, and whispered, “She’s on the second floor.”

The staircase corkscrewed up to the second floor, the steps flaring wide against the wall and narrow against the railing. We climbed, the old boards creaking with each step. This wasn’t going to be a surprise. Angie’s closed door slid into view.

Sal knelt in front of the door, put his ear to it, stood, and put his hand on the knob.

“You’re not going to knock?” I whispered.

Sal shook his head. He pushed at me, getting me to move back down the stairs, around the corner. If there were bullets, he’d be taking them. I gripped the railing and waited. My finger had found its way under the trigger guard again. I slid it out, resting it on the side of the gun. I peeked around the corner as Sal tried the knob. It turned, and the door swung open to a dark apartment.

We waited, listened. Not a sound. Cooking smells from the apartment downstairs wafted up. Tomato gravy. I remembered my mother and her gravy, my mind drifting from this place to a different time. A dining room table. My father serving spaghetti. My mother fussing over something imperfect.

Sal took a step into the apartment. Still no sound, no light. I moved to the top of the stairs. Light from the hallway spilled into the apartment. Sal motioned for me to enter and close the door. Finger back to his lips, and a downward patting motion. Stay here. We weren’t surprising anyone in this place. The door and the hallway light took care of that. A living room opened to one side of the door; a hallway with two bedrooms off it led to the kitchen.

Sal worked his way down that hallway, peeking into each bedroom as he slipped past. He reached the kitchen, stepped past it into another room. Turned on the kitchen light.

I stepped inside, locked the door behind me, and joined Sal in an oak-paneled kitchen with an office and bathroom off it. Apartment envy wormed its way into my thoughts. I pushed it aside and focused.

“Why was the door unlocked?” I asked.

“Good question,” said Sal. “Check the office and bathroom. I’ll check the rest.”

I glanced through the small bathroom, peeked into the shower. No place to hide. Checked out the sink. Something was missing. Took an inventory: bar of soap, hand cream, a tube of some ointment best left alone.

No toothbrushes. No toothpaste.

The office would take longer. I surveyed the layout.

Sal called, “Tucker, come look at this.”

“What did you find?”

“Come look.”

I walked back down the hall and entered a girly bedroom with light pink wallpaper and a floral bedspread. Sal had opened a drawer in the dresser. It was full of little clothes.

“These are Maria’s,” Sal said.

“So she is with Angie.”

“Yeah, but where are they?”

We stood, thinking. Not talking. If we had been talking, we wouldn’t have heard it.

A footstep squeaked on the hallway stairs.

Sal slammed his hand across the light switch. “Kill the kitchen light!” he hissed. “Stay there!”

I hustled into the kitchen. Killed the light and crouched by the refrigerator, peering around the corner at the front door. Sal crouched in the hallway in front of me, aimed his gun at the door, waited.

The door lock rattled, banged as something slammed into it, then spun, moving the dead bolt. Then nothing. I slid forward down the hall, next to Sal.

“What’s going on?” I whispered.

“Shh. The fucker is waiting for us to make a sound.”

Silence stretched: a minute, two minutes. Sal lowered his gun.

“Damn thing is heavy,” he whispered.

Three minutes. Four minutes. Five minutes.

“Did he leave?” I whispered.

Sal shook his head. “He’s—”

The door kicked open. An explosion and a ball of light knocked me on my ass. I couldn’t see. My ears rang. I scrambled around on the floor. Got to my knees. Looked up. A black gun bore into my face. Gloved hands held the gun steady, unmoving. I followed the line of arm. Black sleeves. Black jacket. Black hair. Beautiful eyes.

Jael Navas had the drop on us.