Murder Takes Time (18 page)

MARRIAGE LASTS FOREVER

Brooklyn—Current Day

F
rankie “Bugs” Donovan stared at the blank walls of his apartment, cracking his knuckles while a cigarette dangled from the left side of his mouth. He kept his eye closed so the smoke curling around it didn’t sting.

Marriage lasts forever.
That’s what his mother always told him. And he figured she should know, having put up with his father all of those years. When he was little, he used to ask why she stayed, but the only thing she said was “marriage lasts forever.” He could still hear the way her voice trembled, as if “forever” was penance for her sins.

Penance, my ass.
No priest would have been so lenient. Even Mary Magdalene was a repentant sinner. Bugs slugged the last of his wine. If he could muster the energy, he intended to pour himself more.

The refrigerator hummed a steady beat from the kitchen, and the fan in the living room dragged a breeze he was grateful for, even if it did carry the stink of the city streets. He looked around at what his wife had left him: a picture of Humphrey Bogart from a
Casablanca
poster; his wine rack and a few bottles of Chianti; the fridge—thank God for small favors—and the chair he sat in.

Fuckin’ whore.

Even as he said it, he knew he was wrong. She was no more to blame than he was. She was pregnant at nineteen, and he asked her to marry him, promising to take care of her and what would be his offspring—another new Donovan. Not that the world needed any more Donovans, but…duty was duty. They got married, but in the eighth month, misfortune took the baby, leaving them together, alone. Some kids made it marrying young, but usually they were kept together by the babies. When that was taken away there wasn’t much left. Not at nineteen. After all, what did an Irish/Italian kid from the streets have in common with an upper-crust girl whose family could trace their English roots back a few centuries? Nothing. Less than nothing. Might have been different if she had been Irish, Polish—hell, even Jewish. Kids of immigrants understood each other. The old, established ones didn’t. Even worse, their families didn’t.

This line of thinking provided enough energy to get his lazy ass up and into the kitchen, where he poured more wine. As he came back into the room, he lifted the glass to Ingrid Bergman, staring at Bogie with those sorrowful eyes. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” And once more he slugged it down. He didn’t like his job right now; in fact, sometimes he hated his job. Bunch of idiots in suits trying to act like God. He didn’t mind putting away the bad guys, but they could stuff that pretentious bullshit up their asses. Half of the cops he worked with acted like they were in the manger with Joseph and Mary. Sister Mary Thomas would have beaten their asses for implied blasphemy.

When he succumbed to moods like this, he felt like quitting, screw being a cop with the rules and bullshit. It would be nice to be back on the streets with Tony and Paulie…and Nicky. Damn, they had fun together. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed like he had when Nicky came back. Frankie sucked hard on his cigarette, recalling the excitement—and the danger—of the old days. He hadn’t felt whole since then, and it all worked because of Nicky. He was the glue who held it together.

Goddamn, I miss him.

He meandered back to the kitchen—it was easy to meander in an empty apartment—and poured another glass of vino. He laughed. Knowledge was king, and he knew when he started referring to the wine as
vino
that he’d had too much. He punched the cork in tight, realizing too late that the bottle was empty, then went to recapture his throne.

As he plopped down in the seat, he looked at the plaque on the wall—a forgotten treasure when he took inventory moments ago—and said his name aloud. “Detective First Class, Mario F. Donovan.”

Frankie was as screwed up as his name, but he’d known that all his life. He’d been screwed since birth. Italian first name with Irish last name. Olive skin with eyes that only sometimes matched. Loved to eat, but couldn’t cook. Worst of all though, on the outside he was a cop, but inside he was still a gangster trying to get out. That’s what bothered him the most.

It made him wonder about Nicky’s time in prison and what it felt like for him when
he
got out.

CHAPTER 27

RELEASE

Wilmington—3 Years Ago

A
ugust twenty-first was a beautiful day, unseasonably cool, clear skies—and it was the day I was getting out. I packed my things—a lighter I didn’t use anymore, pictures of Angela and Rosa Sannullo, and a letter from each of them.

It took an hour to process my papers, ridiculous paperwork that should have taken ten minutes, but I had learned patience in prison, if nothing else. When the outside gates finally opened and I stepped outside, I almost didn’t believe it.

I stopped, stared. Breathed deeply. Somehow
this
air was cleaner.

A horn beep alerted me, and I jumped, turning toward the sound. An older model station wagon sat across the street. When the door opened, out stepped the most beautiful sight I had seen in years—Sister Mary Thomas.

I’ll be damned.

It was August, and even though a decent day, it was still warm to be wearing a long black habit. It covered her head, most of the face, and the rest of her body. Despite that, her smile stretched from ear to ear. I raced across the street, embracing her. “Sister Thomas, what are you doing here?”

She patted me on the head, like she did when I was in first grade, then gave me one of her famous smiles. “Someone had to greet you, Niccolo. Now, get in and tell me all about your plans.”

We made small talk as she drove toward Wilmington. I thanked her for the books she had sent me, and I told her how much I’d learned. We both avoided the subject of Angie, and it hung like a curtain between us.

“You must be eager for some good food,” she said, and stopped at a small diner where a lot of the locals went. She slid into the last booth on the right, tucking in her habit as she did. I sat opposite her. “Tell me about yourself, Nicky. How is your life now?”

I smiled. Couldn’t do anything but smile today. “Sister, I just got out. I don’t know what the hell…heck, I’m going to do, but right now life is great.”

She laid her two magnificent hands on top of mine. Stared at me with her two magnificent eyes. “I have prayed for you all of these years.”

The waitress came, and I ordered coffee.

“Coffee for me as well,” Sister Thomas said, “and perhaps some pie.” She glanced at the menu again. “Apple pie.”

I declined the pie. Had never been a big fan of apple pie.

As soon as the waitress left, Sister Thomas peppered me with questions. “What will you do, Nicky? Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only had ten years to think about it.”

We laughed, then talked more until the coffee came. When I saw her pie, I changed my mind and ordered some. Sister Thomas shook her head. “Share mine. I forgot how big it was.”

“You sure?” I asked. When she nodded, I turned to the waitress. “Just another fork then.”

“So really, what are your plans?”

“I’m going to get a job, then I’m going to see Angie.”

“Nicky…”

I stared. Braced myself. The way she said “Nicky” told me something was wrong.

“I don’t know if you know this, but Angela is married.” She squeezed my hand. “She has a child.”

Sister Thomas could have hit me with a hammer and it wouldn’t have hurt as much. I remembered the letter Angie sent, the one I treasured. Her words had been my mantra through the toughest times in prison; they kept me going when I wanted to quit. ‘Find me Nicky. No matter what happens…’
What a crock of shit that was. Now she’s married. Jesus Christ, is that somebody else’s baby? Did she…

I sipped coffee while fighting the urge to cry and curse at the same time. I didn’t trust my voice to speak her name, so I changed the subject. “I heard Tony’s in New York. I’ll probably go see him.”

“No reason to leave Wilmington. The economy is booming. We have…”

I downed the last sip of coffee, grounds and all. “I always wanted to see New York anyway; besides, I haven’t seen Tony or Suit in a long time. Be good to see what they’re up to.”

A frown crossed her face. “Up to no good is what Tony Sannullo is. You would do better looking up Frankie.”

I stared, probably blank-faced. I know I spoke with more than a little anger in my voice. “Forgive me, Sister, but I haven’t heard from anyone but you since Mamma Rosa died. I don’t know what anybody’s doing.”

Silence fell between us, then tears welled in her eyes. She squeezed my hand again. “I’m
so
sorry. I didn’t know, or I would have…” She stared straight at me, shook her head as if chastising herself. “I should have come more often. I thought you knew about Angela.”

Knew about Angela? I
know
now.
“Just tell me what’s going on with Tony.”

She raised herself up with a big sigh, the kind of sigh only nuns and moms can accomplish, and then she composed herself. “Tony Sannullo is a mobster. There’s no nicer way to say it. And Paulie is hanging onto Tony’s coattails like he always has.” She smiled now. “But Frankie is a detective in Brooklyn.”

“A what?”

The smile remained, one of those impossible-to-wipe-off smiles. “He’s a detective, and I hear he’s doing quite well for himself.”

The waitress refilled my cup. I picked it up and gulped some down. Shitty coffee, but better than what I’d had for ten years. “Son-of-a-bitch.”

“Niccolo.”

Embarrassment flushed my face. “Sorry, Sister. Prison will do that to you.”

We chatted about a lot of things for the next hour. I tried getting Sister Thomas out of there several times, but she kept drilling me with questions. The only thing on my mind was Angie, and the only thing I wanted to do was get the hell out of Wilmington. I was lucky that Delaware had abandoned its parole laws. If you served your time, you were free when you got out.

“I can’t talk any longer, Sister. I’ve got to get going.” I stood, reaching for money, but she insisted on paying. I let her, since I had almost nothing with me and didn’t know how much it was going to cost to get to New York. Most of the money I earned from the cigarettes was squirreled away in a bank account, compliments of one of the financial guys in prison. The rest of the money—what I got when Rosa sold my father’s house—Tony had with him in New York. One more reason I had to get there.

Sister Thomas paid the bill and, as we approached the car, she turned to me. “Where can I drop you?”

It only took a second to think. I had decided in prison that I wasn’t going to be like Tony or go with him, but where else did I have to go? I sure as shit wasn’t staying here in Wilmington with Angie and her husband. “The train station.”

“So, it’s New York.”

I nodded.

“May God go with you.”

We rode to the station in silence—almost silence; she hummed one of her silly tunes.

Her and Mamma Rosa,
I thought. When we got within a few blocks of the station, her humming got louder. She was always humming, and it was always a happy song, though back in school she seemed to hum the loudest just before she whacked me with the pointer or whatever she had in her hand. I half expected to be beaten right now, but I didn’t see a pointer or yardstick, so I felt safe. She turned the corner onto Front Street, and, as we pulled to the curb, I grabbed my things. Just before closing the door, I hesitated, turned back toward her.

“Sister, I—”

She shook her head. “If you are going to ask me to take a message to Angela, the answer is no. I taught you better than that. Do your own dirty work.”

Now I was embarrassed. My head drooped.

“I’ll drive you to her house if you want.”

“No thanks, Sister.”

She beeped as she drove off. I waved, but didn’t bother to turn around. There was a train waiting for me, and it was going to New York. I had mixed feelings about going there. On one hand, it would be great to see the old gang again, but on the other, I didn’t know if I even wanted to see Tony after what he’d done the night Mick died. I learned to forgive a lot in prison, but I had a rotten feeling about it all.

CHAPTER 28