Apaches (26 page)

•    •    •

“W
HEN DO WE
go?” Geronimo asked, scanning the faces of the others, trying to detect their levels of interest.

“I start Monday morning,” Boomer said. “I’ll be working out of Nunzio’s basement. We’ll keep everything we need down there. Anybody else who shows up that day starts with me.”

“This crew of ours,” Rev. Jim said. “You gonna give it a name?”

“The Crips would be good,” Pins tossed in. “But that L.A. gang beat us to the punch.”

“I haven’t thought of one,” Boomer said. “Is it important?”

“Eventually, Lucia’s gonna wanna know who we are,” Rev. Jim said. “Who it is fucking up her business. Be
nice if we could tell her. Let her know who she’s at war with.”

“Apaches,” Geronimo said in somber tones. “We should call ourselves the Apaches.”

“Just because you’ve got a little Indian blood in you?” Dead-Eye asked. “I’ve got African blood all through me. Don’t hear me layin’ any of that
Roots
shit on the rest of you.”

“In this case, we all have Indian blood,” Geronimo said, turning from one face to the other. “In Apache tradition, when a warrior was wounded in battle, he was left behind by the tribe. Left to fend and care for himself. He had become too much of a burden to the tribe. That’s us, Dead-Eye. That’s all of us.”

“Do we get shirts and hats to go with the name?” Rev. Jim asked. “You know, with our logo?”

“What about Nunzio?” Pins asked. “What do we make him?”

“A scout,” Mrs. Columbo said, leaning her head against Nunzio’s shoulder.

“Okay, we’ve got a name,” Boomer said, standing, reaching behind him for his jacket. “And by Monday afternoon, based on who’s here with me, I’ll know if we’ve got a team.”

They all stood, picked up their coats and hats, shook hands, and headed for the door, moving quietly, minds already drifting toward a decision.

Geronimo and Boomer waited for Nunzio, watching as he closed up the restaurant.

“That on the level?” Boomer said.

“What?” Geronimo asked.

“About the Apaches. And leaving their wounded behind.”

“How the hell should I know?” Geronimo said, smiling for the first time all night.

Boomer smiled back as he put on his jacket. “Well, as of tonight it’s a fact.”

“Sure it is,” Geronimo said, following Boomer and
Nunzio out the door. “First Custer, then Wounded Knee, and now the Apaches.”

•    •    •

F
LIGHT
518,
THE
9:08
A.M
. Phoenix to New York direct, was full. Each seat was taken, overhead compartments were stuffed with carry-on luggage, stowaway space was crammed with handbags, briefcases, coats, hats, and sweaters. Signs of a long plane ride were already apparent: tanned passengers in flowered shirts; flustered parents trying to calm anxious children; earnest young businessmen poring over computer printouts; Manhattan-bound tourists underlining passages in their color brochures; flight attendants preparing coffee and drinks and setting out cold turkey sandwiches.

The mule was in seat 14C, on the aisle, her legs crossed, the baby boy cradled firmly in her arms, his eyes closed, a soft blue blanket wrapped around zippered Snoopy pajamas. The mule was in her late thirties, rich brown hair combed in a swirl, unlined face barely touched by makeup.

As she turned to peer down the aisle, she noticed the overweight man next to her rest his paperback on his knees and smile down at the baby.

“I always like flying with babies,” the man said. “Makes me think the flight has a better chance of making it.”

The mule smiled back and stayed silent.

“Got yourself a beautiful one there,” the man said. “He can sleep through this racket, then maybe he’ll sleep through the flight.”

“He’s good that way,” the mule said. “Never gives me much trouble.”

“That comes when they’re older,” the man said. “Trust me. Got three of my own. I’d give anything to have them back to when they were as small as your kid.”

The mule nodded and turned her head away, watching a young flight attendant chant the procedures to follow in the event of a crash.

“Got family in New York?” the man asked her.

“No,” she said, turning back to face him.

“How long are you staying?”

“Not very long,” the mule said, looking down at the baby, making sure the blanket concealed a portion of his face.

“New York’s a great place for short visits,” the man said. “It’s living there full-time that’s hard. What hotel are you staying at?”

“We’ll be with friends,” the mule said, bracing herself for takeoff, once again turning away from the man, resting her head on the back of her seat.

“There’s a lot there to see,” the man said, picking up his paperback and folding it in half. “Lots of great things.”

“We won’t have much time for any of that,” the mule said. “We’re only in town for a day. It’s a quick business trip.”

“That is quick,” the man said, shifting his body up higher in the seat. “What sort of business are you involved in?”

The mule leaned closer to the man and smiled, her eyes locking on to his. “Promise you won’t tell anyone,” she said in a whispered voice.

“I promise,” the man said, lowering his head.

“Jason and I are drug dealers,” the mule said, lifting her eyebrows, a smile wrapped around her face.

“Who’s Jason?” the man asked.

“The baby,” the mule said, throwing a look at the boy wrapped in the blanket.

The man had a quizzical look on his face and held it for several moments. Then he heard her start to laugh.

“Yeah, right,” the man said, laughing along with the mule. “And me? I’m a hit man. But you’ve got to keep that one to yourself too.”

“It’s a deal,” the mule said, leaning back again and shutting her eyes.

The man returned to his paperback thriller.

The mule slept through the remainder of the flight into New York’s LaGuardia Airport, content and confident.

A dead baby held warm in her arms.

B
OBBY
S
CARPONI, SHIRTLESS
, a hand towel draped around his neck, stared into the mirror. The exposed bulb just above the hanging glass cast the small bathroom in a series of shadowy contrasts. He ran a hand along the red scars covering the upper part of his chest and running into his neck and cheek. They were hard and crusty to the touch, a constant reminder of the flames that had changed the course of his life.

Rev. Jim lived in Queens, a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a private home owned by a carpenter and his wife who seemed to be foolishly too young for him. It was the kind of apartment usually reserved for a young man starting out. It was not meant as a final stop.

Rev. Jim walked out of the bathroom, passed the small kitchen, and stopped by the open window near his bed, thin white drapes flapping in the wind. He stared down at the quiet street below, filled with parked cars and lit by the glow from a series of houses similar to the one in which he lived. It was how he spent most of his nights, his mind crowded with visions of his mother dying by his side, flames and heat surrounding his body, his mouth too seared for him to scream.

He was afraid of lying down to sleep. It only brought the visions to life, causing him to wake up bathed in sweat and tears, having ripped and torn at his sheets and skin. So he rarely slept. Rarely rested. Rarely escaped the hell that was his past, present, and future.

Rev. Jim had often thought of suicide, but knew if he
was ever really going to go that route, it would have happened after his mother’s death. Rev. Jim was not the kind of man to go out with a note, a bag over his head, and a rope around his neck. He was a fighter and needed to find a better way out.

Boomer’s plan seemed just the route he sought.

He turned from the window, went over to the refrigerator, pulled out a cold can of Budweiser, popped it open, and took two long slurps. He leaned his back against a cold wall and reached for the phone, dialing a familiar number with his free hand. He let it ring eight times before he hung up. His father had always been a sound sleeper; age had only made that sleep deeper.

Rev. Jim finished the beer, tossed the empty into a silver trash can near the window, and reached for the phone again. The voice on the other end responded on the third ring. He heard Boomer grumble a hello and waited. He took a deep breath, eyes searching past the houses across the way, gripping the receiver hard enough to crush it.

“I’m in,” he finally said. Boomer stayed silent on the other end. “Good night.”

Rev. Jim hung up the phone, walked slowly back toward the open window, and waited for the morning sun to arrive and bring with it a small sense of relief.

•    •    •

T
HE MULE STEPPED
out of the cab and looked up at the four-story Manhattan brownstone, the infant still cradled in her arms. She walked slowly up the front steps as the cab sped off into the New York night. She heard the dead bolt on the front door click open as an icy blast of winter air snapped against the edges of her skirt. A large man in a red silk shirt and black leather pants stood braced next to the door. He nodded a greeting as she went past.

“Which way?” the mule asked, her eyes catching a glimpse of the exposed .44 semiautomatic.

“Take the hall steps,” the man said, locking the door and turning his bulk toward the mule. “The second door on your left.”

“Everybody there?” She moved toward the center hall, her heels clacking on the slick hardwood floor.

“Everybody that needs to be,” the man said, disappearing around a corner, heading into a game room with a full bar and pool table.

The mule took the steps in a rush, gripping the baby with both hands, eager to get on with her task. She turned a sharp corner at the head of the stairwell and nudged open the second door in the hall. She walked in and rested the still baby on a large wood table, next to six hefty stacks of hundred-dollar bills, each wrapped with thin strips of white twine. Four men, sitting in hard-backed chairs spaced throughout the oak-paneled, book-lined room, stood and joined her by the table.

“Any problems?” Paolo, the smallest of the four men, asked.

“The guy next to me smelled,” the mule said. “And the food was horrible. Other than that, no hitches.”

“How much time do you have?” Paolo offered a cigarette from a half-empty pack of Marlboros.

“Flight to Atlanta leaves in two hours,” the mule said, refusing the cigarette. “I make the exchange at the airport and catch a connecting to L.A.”

“Can I have a piece of your frequent flyer miles?” Paolo asked.

“Wish I had some to give,” the mule said. “Each flight’s under a different name.”

“So much for the perks.” Paolo turned from the mule and nodded at the three men huddling around the cash. “Ready the baby and the money,” he said to them in a rougher tone than he took with the mule. “We’ll wait for you downstairs.”

“How long?” one of the three asked, already taking off his jacket and rolling back the sleeves of a black shirt.

“Thirty minutes at the most,” Paolo said, leading the
mule by the arm, walking her out of the room and shutting the door softly.

•    •    •

J
OE
S
ILVESTRI THREW
one pillow against the bedroom wall. Another clipped the shuttered windows and fell against a bureau lamp, knocking it harmlessly to its side. “Is this what you been doin’ all this fuckin’ time?” he shouted. His anger was directed at his wife, Mary, who sat under a pile of blankets, her flannel nightgown buttoned to the collar. “Cookin’ up crazy schemes on disability night?”

“Stop yelling, please,” Mary said. She kept a tight rein on her reaction and her emotions under control. “You’re going to wake up Frankie.”

“Almost losin’ your life wasn’t enough for you?” Joe continued to shout, stomping around the small bedroom in bare feet and red Jockey shorts. “Almost leaving him without a mother wasn’t enough to make you wanna turn your back for good? And almost leaving me, not that you give a shit, should at least be worth a little something after all these years.”

“All of that
is
important.” Mary kept her eyes on her husband, understanding his need to vent, trying not to let her words cut deeper into the frustration he harbored over never having the kind of wife he so much wanted. “Don’t think for a minute that it isn’t.”

“If you do this, Mary, you gotta know it’s over between you and me,” Joe said, stopping at the edge of the bed. “I’ve lived through a lot with you, but I won’t live with this. You lookin’ to get yourself buried, get somebody else to help you do it.”

“Look at me, Joe,” Mary said, trying not to make her words sound like a plea for help. “I’ve got scars up and down my body. I can’t even look at myself in the shower without crying. I work at a job I hate when I’m there and hate thinking about when I’m not.”

“Not many people get shot selling insurance policies.”
Joe spit the words out and sat on the side of the bed away from his wife. “And they like you there. You’re doing good work for good people.”

“It’s not what I want,” Mary said softly. “And it’s not what I need.”

“Going out on a suicide job, that’s what you want? And getting yourself killed and breaking the law while you’re at it, that’s what you need?”

“I’m dead now, Joe,” Mary said, pushing back the covers and sliding across the bed to sit next to him. “You have to be able to see that. To know that. I’m never going to be the kind of wife you want. Especially not the way I am now.”

“You don’t need to tell me.” Joe stared down at the violet carpet. “I learned that a long time ago.”

“I need to try and get back to being the kind of cop I was,” Mary said. “For no other reason than to feel alive again.”

“What about us?” Joe asked, turning to face her. “What about me and Frankie? And what about me and you?”

“I love you both very much,” Mary said. “But I love you both for what you are and who you are. That’s all I’m asking from you in return. After all these years, you’ve got to know I’m not someone who keeps house. And I sure as hell am not someone who sells insurance.”