Fuckin' Lie Down Already Page 3

  Kath had been even more fidgety the past few weeks as well-snappish, moody, quickly depressed and really pining for the good life that had somehow eluded them. He couldn’t get over the feeling that he just hadn’t tried hard enough.

  Maybe if he’d pushed just one extra inch along the way they could’ve made it over the line to whatever they’d been missing. The slightest brushing against the larger dream.

  She’d gone through the same sort of thing a couple of years earlier, after a cervical cancer scare. He’d seen that kind of thing jolt people into becoming wheat germ and Yoga nuts. For others, it swung them around in the other direction. Kathy wound up screwing around with H for a couple of months, but she fooled with it the same way he’d had a brief period of binge drinking. Trying to find other ways to deal with the burden of high school hopes that kept tugging at your ankles after all these years.

  Being a drunk and an addict didn’t help either, so they stopped after a while, quick and easy as that. Then the baby came and the world began to have straight angles and clear-cut corners again. A texture, direction, and simplicity that mattered.

  With a gentleness he didn’t know he still possessed, Clay touched Kathy’s face, nudged her chin back and forth feeling how the jaw was broken. Rocco had to knock her down first, tear the scrunchie from her hair, tie her arm off while she struggled weakly.

  So Chuckie Fariente knew more about them than Clay had figured. That prick put the word on the street until some dealer came forward and gave him details about the dark corners of Clay’s and Kathy’s life. All right, that was fair. Clay had spent the last few years crawling through Chuckie’s garbage bags and listening to the most goddamn boring wiretaps in all of mobster history.

  Chuckie sends Rocco out to do the deed, thinks it’s a nice gag to make it look like a drug deal gone bad. Cop’s wife with a needle in her arm. Tends to muddle the situation, brings the past into play, casts doubts on Clay’s character. Makes him look like a dirty cop who’s into Christ knows what. His own department squelches the investigation in case there’s more to be found and it leads to other officers. Nobody needs the bad publicity nowadays. Just goes to show how easy it is to cause total chaos in the NYPD.

  Good move, Chuckie.

  There it was.

  Clay slid Kathy’s feet off of his lap and saw they were now streaked with his blood. He got up with a growl, made his way back to the bathroom, carried Edward to the bedroom and dressed him in a new outfit that Kathy’s mother had bought. Blue shorts, little black suspenders, white collared shirt. Kathy didn’t like it for some reason, but Clay did. It made his boy look a little older, as if there’d been more time for him.

  He brought Edward out to the car. It took a few minutes but he got the car-seat working, strapped his son in. Cuddles was still going at it, barking with such a frantic high-pitched whining that Clay was beginning to enjoy the noise. The tiny dog dug feverishly at the chicken-wire fence separating the driveways.

  Back in the house, he dressed Kath in something comfortable-a white sweater and jeans, a light blue jacket, so that she looked, somehow, the way she did back on the cheer squad while he watched from the stands. She didn’t feel like dead weight. He could almost believe that she was helping him-because she knew they were all in this together now.

  He said, “You finally got the vacation you wanted, baby. We’re going to take a little road trip. A family outing.” He wasn’t quite so far over the edge yet not to realize how crazy he sounded. It was all right though, he didn’t mind much.

  Whatever it took.

  He grabbed a handful of paper towels and stuffed them against his belly, holding in a shriek. If he let it out he’d never stop. Took the roll and a can of potpourri out to the car, then looked around the place, wondering what else he might need. He slung Kath over his shoulder and hauled her out to the Caprice, feeling her hands swaying back and forth over his ass, the way she used to fool around with him on the dance floor. He went down to one knee twice but finally managed to get her into the passenger seat.

  Another wave of pain flared beneath his heart but it was only a sliver of sorrow. Clay forced it back down, checked the rearview mirror and saw Edward’s eyes were still half-open. He wanted to tell his son that he wasn’t missing as much as the boy might think, that life was uglier than wherever he was at now.

  Backing out, Clay felt a slight thump under the rear left wheel and knew instantly that Cuddles had dug his way under the fence and gotten loose. The hell was going on? He got out and looked down at the crushed dog. The sudden and intense silence on the block brought Mrs. Fusilli rushing to her front door. She spotted Cuddles lying there, bloody with tire tracks over his snapped back, and started screeching.

  Clay picked the Chihuahua up and tossed him into the back seat next to Edward. The boy’s eyes seemed to light a bit so maybe it was the right thing to do.

  If he packed enough death around him maybe it would insulate him from his own murder for just long enough.

  Mrs. Fusilli really had a set of pipes on her. Tits down to her girdle and lungs to match. He looked over his shoulder at her and said, “Sorry, lady, but that little bastard has been driving me fuckin’ nuts for two years. Go buy a nice goldfish.”

  The expression on her deranged face actually made him grin. He beeped the horn and gave a quick fluttering wave before stomping the pedal and tearing down the street towards seething damnation.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Feds had been onto Chuckie Fariente and the Merullo family since the beginning of time, but they’d screwed up every indictment they’d ever thrown down. Chuckie had personally killed four men that Clay knew of-two with a shotgun and two with a straight razor. Unlike most of the capos, Chuckie liked to get his hands dirty some of the time, get out there with the other soldiers and have some fun. Clay was still sort of surprised that Chuckie had hired a piece of shit like Rocco Tucci instead of coming dead-on himself.

  But he’d learned not to take too much for granted when dealing with the wiseguys. Anything could come out of left field-these pricks whacked their own brothers, their kids, one capo even killed his six-year-old daughter’s hamster with a hammer because the spinning wheel squeaked too loudly. You could never be too sure what might be going on inside the head of a guy like that.

  They were a slick lot though. Clay nearly had Chuckie pinned down a year ago, directly tying a couple of dealers in the South Bronx to the Merullo family. But eleven kilos of heroin did the Brooklyn bounce and vanished from the evidence room by the end of the day. Clay pretty much knew it would happen, but he figured he had a little more time on his hands. The fact that the bounce happened so quickly proved that Chuckie not only had men in the precinct, but on Clay’s team as well.

  How could you ever beat a guy who could do that?

  You simply had to roll with it as best as you could. You watched your brother officers and kept an eye on who bought a new car every eight months, who kept two mistresses in tenth floor apartments on the upper west side. You made a decision on who might actually watch your back when you finally brought it to the Merullo’s doorstep.

  Nobody.

  He took the exit for Saratoga too fast. The Caprice’s shocks didn’t have much left to them and the car jostled crazily as he jumped the median. Clay tugged the wheel hard and brought the front tire back down onto the road. He was clenching his jaws so tightly that his back teeth had begun to buckle, mouth flooding with a metallic taste that reminded him of when he wore braces.

  The air conditioner was still cranked full-throttle. That thin film of ice on the inside of the windows gave the world a pleasing blue glaze, but the cold didn’t help with the stench. He stopped into a strip mall for more potpourri and a few deodorizers, tossed them all around the car.

  Clay’s father used to bring him up here when he was eighteen or nineteen, and they bonded at the race track over beer and talk about the force. His Dad had tried to lay it on the line and offer all the insight he’d gained
in his career, compact everything into a short but meaningful course that would matter when it counted. In retrospect, Clay thought they were both probably too drunk and pissed off about slow horses to ever really get down to it. Pity.

  The Merullos had a motel a couple miles away where they did some business on occasion. They held the big card games there, hid the guys who were on the run, and set the old timers up with teenage whores after they’d done their eight-count in Sing-Sing. Some of those ancient fucks bounced back pretty good after a week in Saratoga.

  The place was called The Ten-Spot Motel and the red neon “No Vacancy” light was always lit. Only a few cars in the parking lot, most at the other end of the building. The Feds had quit tapping the rooms after spending about a million bucks in tax money to plant wires in sixteen rooms. All they ever got on tape were giggling girls and, once, Don Carlo Gasticalli going into seizures when somebody fucked up and brought in a pre-op tranny hooker named Juan Munez. Clay heard Juan had double D tits and a nine inch schlong that had sent the Don into conniption fits.

  Two thug soldiers were behind the counter doing a really bad job of keeping up appearances. They were watching a porno DVD on a seventeen inch television and listening to the commentary track. The director droned on about camera angles and how he inspired the best performances from his actresses.

  Jesus frickin’ Christ, these were some bored wiseguy sons of bitches.

  Clay walked in trying to stand straight enough to appear normal without his entrails slipping out beneath his belt.

  The thugs could’ve been brothers straight off the boat from Naples. Stony, round but small faces squeezed out of dark flesh, smeared onto the heavy skull, with the thick black hair this close to being a pompadour. Five o’clock shadow at eleven a.m. On occasion, when Clay had to testify in a trial, he’d take the stand and have to point out some mobster. He’d lift his hand and get confused for a second, looking around the courtroom and seeing that same guinea face staring back at him from fifty seats.

  One guy paused the DVD-didn’t want to miss any of the remarks on the best way to light sweaty asses-came up to the counter with both hands clenching his pot belly. “We ain’t got no vacancies.”

  “Hey, Jo Jo,” Clay said.

  “Jo Jo? My name’s Mel.”

  “Mel, that’s what I meant. You seen Chuckie around today?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m looking for Chuckie Fariente.”

  “He ain’t here.”

  “You sure?”

  “’course I’m sure.”

  “So where is he?”

  “You got a beef about somethin’, pal?”

  “Where’s Chuckie?”

  “I told you.”

  “You haven’t told me anything.”

  “You startin’ somethin’?”

  “I want to see Chuckie.”

  “Go on, get outta here, if you-”

  “You’re irking the shit out of me, Mel.” Clay raised the .38 and shot him twice in the face. Mel’s occipital ridge bounced off the far wall but his eyebrows clung there about chest high, body wheeling backwards into the television set.

  Clay spun on the other one. “Hey, how’re you doing?”

  “Listen-I’m Frank Merullo.”

  “Seen Chuckie today?” He motioned the bastard forward, stepped up and placed the barrel against the middle of the guy’s upper lip. “Careful how you answer. I pride myself on my natural repose, but I gotta admit, Frank, the last few days have left me a little irritable.”

  “He’s in the city!”

  “Which city?”

  “The city, man. New York. Manhattan.”

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

  “No, it’s true. He was here, had a party with a few whores, but he left this morning. I swear!”

  “I believe you. Where in the city?”

  “His club.”

  That stopped Clay and took him back a bit. He thought he knew just about everything there was to know about the Merullo business. “Chuckie’s got a club?”

  “A new place he opened on the upper west side. 73rd, I think. 72nd, something like that. I’m not sure, I ain’t never been there. Restaurant, club, whatever. Called…uh…the Experience, you know, but in Italian.”

  “I’ll find it. How about Rocco?”

  “Who?”

  “Rocco Tucci. Junkie dealer Chuckie uses from time to time.”

  Frank’s chest tightened and he damn near sneered. “Don’t know him.” The mutt was starting to get used to his fear, trying to toughen it out some.

  “So you’re gonna lie now and cover for a filthy scumbag like that just to show me what a fierce prick you are?”

  “You know who I am? I’m Frankie Merullo! I’m Big Frankie’s second cousin!”

  “And you’re both assholes. What room is Rocco in?”

  Clay shoved the barrel harder, mashed Frankie’s lip against his teeth. He knew the guy was going to make a move, but he hoped he’d get an answer first. “Come on, Frankie, help me out here. I’ve had a rough couple of days.”

  “At the far end! Room 16!”

  “Key. Hand it to me carefully.”

  Frank slowly reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a plastic card. “It’s the master, gets into every room.”

  “Now you’re being helpful.”

  Frankie tensed up again, knowing what was coming. He opened his arms wide and flung himself boldly forward as if he was throwing a tackle, maybe scared or stupid enough to forget there was a gun in his face. Clay fired once and Frankie did a complete backwards somersault, landed on his feet again and then flopped over Mel’s corpse, just as dead.

  Clay didn’t worry about the noise. Rocco was in the back of the Ten-Spot and probably still on the nod with Chuckie’s money.

  The hallways were cleaner than he expected. Maybe Mel had taken some pride in the place and had the maids come in and clean after the party broke up. A sweet flowery aroma wafted all around.

  The surge of relief in finally finding Rocco nearly dropped Clay to his knees before he could get the key into the lock.

  In the two and a half days he’d been on the road he’d started to lose hope. Rocco hadn’t been at his apartment in Flatbush, or at Chuckie’s casino in Atlantic City, or at the Merullo complex in eastern Connecticut.

  No, because he was here sleeping on the bed in a T-shirt and sagging shorts, with his arm tied off with a loop of rubber. Needle conscientiously cleaned and set on the night stand next to the throwaway .32 he’d stolen from Clay.

  A naked teenage whore sat on the floor cross-legged, smoking a joint. Her chest was tattooed with a giant raven, and when she snapped up at Clay’s entrance her tits went jiggling, and the wings of the bird seemed to be flapping. It was a sharp effect, she probably made some money on stage with that trick.

  Clay trained the pistol on Rocco’s heart, fighting down the furious urge to retch. It would kill him if he did.

  Just seeing that face again nearly snuffed out Clay’s brain with scorching rage and poison.

  Nobody had enough cool to handle it all, but Christ, he was trying.

  The girl said, “Hey, man, you can ass-fuck me, all right? Just don’t shoot.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Okay. You wanna see me dance?”

  Teenybopper next door looks: cobalt eyes, blonde hair done in a pony tail, pouty lips and a dimpled chin. She reminded him of Kathy back in high school, when beauty and youth overrode everything else. He couldn’t decide if it was already too late for her. Probably.

  “Not at the moment,” he said. “Got something else on my mind. What’s your name?”

  “Lula. You don’t look so good, man. You’re leaking. And your skin-”

  “Shh.”

  Rocco had been on the nod for a couple of days and wasn’t ever going to come out of it. He opened his bleary eyes, lost in the back of his own head, about ten seconds behind the rest of the world. He was just picking u
p on the fact that Clay had busted in. Idly rolled over on the bed and tried to go for the gun in slow motion.

  Clay stepped over and pocketed the pistol. He checked the drawer and came up with a couple of grams of skag and $450 in fifties. The money must’ve been left over from whatever pocket cash Chuckie had paid him.

  Something inside was moving on its own, maybe his pancreas, maybe an animal that had crawled up for warmth.

  That’s okay, we’re getting there.

  Rocco’s gaze almost focused on him. Clay had trouble catching his breath, air hissing over his teeth, but finally he bit down a groan and said, “Hey, how’s it hanging?”

  It took a while to get an answer. Lengthy pause…one…two…three…with Rocco’s eyes going to half-mast, then widening again, until finally his mouth moved. “Shit, man…you’re…dead…!”

  “Pretty much. You and me both.”

  Clay’s sweat wasn’t sweat anymore, he could taste the infection as the drops ran into the corners of his mouth. He gestured with the piece.

  “Come along, Rocco.”

  “What?”

  “Come along.”

  “What?”

  “Come on.”

  “Where we going?” That pallid face fell in on itself and his vacant eyes started to water. “The heck is that smell?”

  “New after shave.”

  Lula was breathing hard too, the raven really flapping. She gave Clay a nervous smile, those blue eyes burning with fear and spirit, pink tits upturned and her pubic thatch shaved down into a thin line so light that it was almost transparent. Despite everything, he suddenly found himself becoming aroused, and the aching misery of it made him want to yelp.