Seventy-Six

Holden Court, rather than protecting us from the northeast wind, channeled and intensified it. Snow swirled through the court as the windchill gnawed at my face.

“Sonovabitch,” said Bobby.

“Yeah, you said that,” I said.

“She was here all along.”

Joey Pupo’s apartment, or ex-apartment, still stood at the end of Holden Court. I looked up at the roof that I had travelled so long ago, looked around in the snow beneath me.

“What are you looking for?” Bobby asked.

“My cell phone. I dropped it here off the roof.”

“You’ll never find it.”

“Yeah, I know. I just wanted some closure.”

“We’re going to get all the closure we can handle in a couple of minutes.”

We stood in front of another door off the court.

Joey came over and killed Marco. “Came over” as in “Mrs. Pupo, can Joey come over and play?” You say that when you live in an apartment building, in a neighborhood, or in a tiny court with entrances on both sides. You say it when the guy who came over to kill your best friend lived three doors away.

“Angie never left Holden Court,” I said.

“That’s why I never saw her,” Bobby said.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Bobby reached to lean on the bell to the first floor apartment, but I decided to try the front door instead. It was unlocked, either an oversight or an acknowledgement that you wouldn’t want to leave someone out here in the storm fumbling for their keys.

We climbed yet another spiral box of stairs, again to the third floor, the top. I hazarded a guess that the people on the first and second floors would have some idea about a little girl who had come to live in the apartment. A little girl who, a few days ago, had run breathlessly up these stairs while I recovered from a battle with black ice.

We reached the door. Bobby and I exchanged a glance. Bobby made an after you gesture. I knocked.

Angie’s voice floated out. “Who is it?”

Bobby said, “It’s the FBI, ma’am. Please open up.”

The door opened. Angie looked at Bobby, then with surprise at me. “Come in.”

Maria sat at the kitchen table, holding playing cards. We had interrupted a game of cribbage. When Maria saw me she dropped the playing cards, jumped off her chair, and ran behind Angie, hiding behind her skirt.

I said, “Hi, Maria.”

Nothing.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” I said.

Maria clutched herself tighter into the skirt.

“Tucker, leave Maria alone,” Angie said. “You terrify her.”

Bobby said, “Why is that, ma’am?”

“Call me Angie.”

“Why is that, Angie?”

Maria pointed at me. “He killed Ma, with the necktie I gave Daddy.”

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “I was with—”

Bobby shushed me. Squatted. “Why do you say that, honey?”

Maria wouldn’t make eye contact.

“Nobody is going to hurt you.”

Nothing.

Angie said, “Maria, why don’t you go to your room and I’ll tell these men to go home.”

Maria fled, dodging from behind Angie’s skirt, sliding along the cabinets, and bolting out of the room.

“What did you tell her?” I asked Angie.

Angie said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How did she know about the necktie? How did you know about it?”

“Get out.”

“You friended Maria on Facebook, used her status to tell Joey where to get her.”

“Shut up.”

“Then you killed Sophia.”

“Shut up!”

“Did Maria see you kill Joey Pupo too?”

Angie’s face twitched as a spasm of loathing shot across it.

“C’mon, Angie. Did she watch you shoot the guy when you rescued her?”

Angie said, “Of course she did. He still had her tied to that chair. Sick bastard.”

“For how long?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Angie. “Long enough for me to—” She paused.

“Drop that envelope at my front door,” I finished. “He had her tied to that chair for an hour?”

“At least an hour!”

“Liar.”

“You’re the liar!”

“Maria ran through the blood after you shot Joey. She couldn’t have done that if she were tied to the chair.”

“So you shot him and ran,” said Bobby. “Took Maria here.”

Another spasm across Angie’s face. The mask was fragile. I decided to see how fragile.

I said to Bobby, “She realized that Joey was going to want more than blow jobs.”

Bobby blinked at me.

“You shut your mouth,” Angie said.

“Oh c’mon, Angie, it’s obvious. You blew Joey so he’d kill Marco.”

“Shut up.”

“You led him around by his little dick.”

“You’re filthy.”

“And you’re a whore. You even got Sal to give you his apartment.”

Angie’s eyes filled. The mask was slipping. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Sal loved me.”

“Sal loved Sophia.”

“Sophia? Don’t you mention that name in my house.”

“It’s not your house. It’s Marco’s house. Did Marco give you the key so you could come up here and fuck him?”

“Shut up!”

“You know, he’d call, you’d come up and let yourself in so that he wouldn’t have to get up from his Barcalounger. Then you could bring him a beer and blow him.”

Angie said, “Stop it. Maria is right in the other room!”

“And you thought you had Sal wrapped right around your finger.”

“He loved me!” said Angie, eyes streaming. “He gave me a baby. He was going to marry me, except for that bitch Sophia. Sophia made him—made him—made him do what he did.”

She was at the edge and I had my thumb on the jagged cut in her mind, the place that would hurt the most if I pushed down.

I could have stopped.

If I had stopped right there, Bobby would have had enough to arrest her. He’d arrest her, we’d take Maria and be on our way. That was all we had to do to wrap this up.

I could have stopped, but Angie had killed Sal right in front of me.

“Made you do what, Angie?” I asked. “Made you kill your baby?”

“He had a name!” shrieked Angie. “Antonio! He was Antonio, named after Sal’s father.”

“But Sal didn’t want to marry you. He didn’t want a little Antonio.”

“He did! He told me. He’d finally have a son. Sophia made him do it. Made him force me to get an abortion, lose my womb, lose my baby. I wasn’t a woman anymore.”

“Oh, you still had parts left.” I hated her so much. “And you sure knew how to use them.”

The gun was small and round and fit smoothly into Angie’s hand as she slid it from her pocket.

Bobby shouted, “Gun!” and started to unzip his winter coat. His gloved fingers fumbled at the zipper, pulling it down.

Angie screamed, “You filthy bastard, you shut your filthy mouth!” She raised the gun at me.

The little kitchen had no space, no place to move or dodge. I was crammed between a cabinet and the sink. There was no place to get away from the gun. I could only move toward it, so I did. Took a step, reached. Was too slow.

The gun boomed in the little kitchen as I reached for it. Angie took a step back. It boomed again, then began to track toward Bobby. I turned to see that he had pulled off his glove and unzipped his coat. He reached for his gun.

Angie’s gun boomed again. She was just emptying it at us. Bobby pulled out his black boxy gun, aimed it at Angie. The two guns boomed together. Blood flew through the kitchen. I don’t know whose. I rushed forward to tackle Angie, but wound up catching her instead, my hands getting tangled in bloody shards of a housecoat.

I turned to look at Bobby. He slid down the refrigerator, leaving a bloody trail from his shoulder.

And then Maria ran into the room. Maria, wearing a cotton
t-shirt, pajama bottoms, and Keds sneakers, ran into the room, made straight for the front door, opened it, and was gone down the steps. I prayed that a neighbor would grab her, that somebody would see her and pull her inside. I heard her sneakers slapping against the steps.

I called, “Maria! Don’t go outside!”

The sneakers kept slapping.

I stood, took a step. “NO!”

The door at the bottom of the stairs opened, closed. Maria was in the storm.

Bobby, sitting on the floor, his hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder looked up at me.

“Go!”