Revolver (24 page)

Jim doesn't go home until very late Sunday night. He just drives, aimlessly, blindly, only returning at dawn to shower and change his clothes before heading back to the Roundhouse. Claire says nothing, not wanting to start a fight. He's grateful. On his way out Audrey runs up to him and clamps her entire body onto his lower leg like a deadweight, begging him not to go to work today. “I have to, sweetie,” he says. “Daddy has to go.”

Aisha tells him he looks like shit. Jim thanks her for that observation. They go through the timeline again, and the list of possible boyfriends, and she brings up the
JDH
initials again and Jim stares at her and says he has nothing. Then they go back through it again and Aisha says this isn't going anywhere—maybe it's those two knuckleheads after all. Jim says yeah, maybe. Let's press 'em, see what we got.

And with those words, Jim knows that this is the beginning of the end.

Later that day word leaks to the media that the police have two “persons of interest” in custody and that they're on the verge of confessing.

This is not true. The deliverymen maintain their innocence. Aisha pushes harder, even when the DNA comes back and it's not a match.

Jim says nothing.

He tries to convince himself he's doing nothing wrong. Kelly Anne was a fact-checker. Let's examine the facts. Does he know for a fact that John DeHaven raped and murdered Kelly Anne Farrace, used her own keys to break into her apartment, changed her into jogging clothes, then dumped her body in a stairwell on Pine Street? Maybe if he had a forensic trial establishing all this. But he doesn't. So there's no way to be sure. Because John DeHaven is not a person of interest.

In this city, killers go free all the time.

Just look at Terrill Lee Stanton.

That evening Jim drives over to 2046 Bridge Street and tells his mother they have to talk. She offers him some leftovers, coffee, tea, maybe some sweets—but Jim doesn't want any of that right now. He just wants the truth.

“Yes, your father had a brother,” she says quietly.

“Sonny Kaminski.”

His mother nods.

“Jesus Christ, Ma, why didn't you tell me?”

“Your father didn't want anyone to know. He never even told me. I only found out because Sonny told me after your father died.”

Now Jim remembers. Of course. He was there at his father's funeral. Lots of guys in suits were there, paying their respects to Pop, but until this moment he didn't remember that “Sonny Jim” Kaminski was one of them, putting his hands on Jim's shoulders, squeezing them, almost massaging them, telling him everything was going to be okay, which of course Jim knew was a lie.

“You're named after him, you know. Your father didn't want anything to do with his old family but he couldn't resist.”

The old family—the Kaminskis, his mother explains. Stan ran away from home when he was just a boy, leaving his younger brother behind. He was always torn up about that, but how could he bring his brother along? Stan was just a kid himself; staying alive on the streets would be difficult enough. He changed his last name to the name of a lodger they once had: Walczak. He always said he became a cop because his father was a bad man and he wanted to make up for it.

Beyond that, he never liked to talk about the job much. Being a policeman just became a way to make ends meet.

“Your father didn't want you to know,” Rose says. “I always hoped that when you got older, he would change his mind. But then he—”

“I have an uncle,” Jim says. “I have an entire family I didn't know about.”

Something occurs to his mother. “How did you find out? Who told you?”

Jim says, “I was working on a case with his daughter.”

As Audrey walks down Front Street she rehearses the words in her head, but there's no way it doesn't sound funny.

Hi, uh, Mr. Kaminski, it looks like I'm your great-niece and I think you might know who killed my grandfather and his partner back in 1965.

Sonny Jim Kaminski lives on Kenilworth, just two blocks below South Street. It's a surprisingly beautiful block just beyond the edge of downtown. Back in the day—“the day” being the summer of 2005 or so—Audrey and her asshole friends in high school used to troll South Street and its tattoo and piercing parlors, its bars, its sex shops. Everyone told them South Street was over, but fuck you, man. It's over for you because you're old.

Kenilworth is just two blocks from that circus and yet worlds away. Who knew the ancestral family home was so close to Zipperhead?

It's the day after Sta
ś
's funeral. Audrey called Sonya Kaminski's office (or is that Great-Aunt Sonya's office?) this morning to arrange this little awkward meet-and-greet. Sonya herself is supposed to meet her at 106 Kenilworth, even though she's busy running her son's quixotic campaign for mayor.

Yeah. Democratic mayoral hopeful John DeHaven: totally Audrey's cousin, too.

Or something like that.

Being the adoptee, Audrey always felt like the poor relation growing up. Turns out she's the poor relation in a family that is itself a poor relation to the ultrapowerful Kaminskis. Kind of makes a girl feel like a photocopy of a photocopy. She should be out busking in front of the condom store, not knocking on this door.

Still, she knocks.

Waits.

The door opens to Great-Aunt Sonya, who smiles at her.

“Hello, Audrey. I'm so glad you called. Come on in.”

The interior is all expensive wood and plush carpet and interesting art.

“Sorry we didn't have the chance to speak more at the funeral. But it's primary season, and my son John, as you probably know, has pretty much every minute of every day scheduled for him.”

“Gotta be tough.”

Cousin John running for mayor. Guess it would be a faux pas to slip Sonya here a resume, ask her to pass it along to her cuz.

“Anyway, my father is expecting you. Just up the stairs to the bedroom—he has a hard time with the stairs. Can I get you anything to drink before I leave?”

Probably poor form to ask for a Bloody Mary, so instead Audrey says no, thank you.

“Hope you find what you're looking for,” Sonya says, then leaves.

Ho boy.

Up the stairs she goes to the second floor. The walls have all been knocked down, making two smallish bedrooms into one decent-sized room. In the middle of all this space is a large-boned man in a wheelchair.

“Hello, Audrey,” says a quiet voice. “I've wanted to meet you for a long time now. So glad you called.”

Oh, there's definitely a resemblance to her grandfather Stan. Same deep-set eyes, almost like a pair of shiners. Wispy gray hair. Strong jaw—the kind that can take a punch, even if it's part of a weak old man now.

“Glad you invited me,” she says.

“This is your ancestral home, believe it or not,” Sonny says. “You don't know the delight I felt when I heard this house had gone on the market. Snapped it up at a good price, too—though I would have paid double or even triple to get it back.”

Audrey looks around. “Nice place. A little small. Don't you big shots go for urban mansions?”

“Would you believe that a hundred years ago there were nineteen people crammed into this place? Not even the same family. Your great-grandfather Jan Kaminski rented a room for himself and his wife. Later, we boys came along. I don't remember a single private moment.”

“Must be nice, having this all to yourself now.”

“To be honest, it's lonely.”

“Awww.”

Sonny's not sure how to take that. “Did you really come here to mock me?”

“No, I came here to talk about my grandpop Stan. Seems you might know who killed him and haven't said a word for fifty years.”

“So Rosie told you.” The old man grimaces. “Up until now you've been perfectly fine with being completely ignorant of your own history. Kids like you…you think life began when you opened your eyes and cried for your mama, no idea of what came before.”

“I know my history,” Audrey says. “For instance, I know that the Liberty Bell cracked one day when Ben Franklin lost a bet and he kicked it. But then Rocky put it back together again, so it was okay.”

“My grandson is going to be the next mayor of the city, and he's going to get it back on track. You know how much we've lost over the past sixty years? James Tate started it, stupid prick handing over power to the Negroes. How are they supposed to handle power? They can't even handle their own lives.”

“Can we not do the whole racist thing right now? I'm not here about your grandson. I want to know who killed my grandfather and George Wildey.”

Sonny Jim closes his eyes and smiles, as if relishing a private memory. For a moment, Audrey worries that the tough old buzzard has fallen asleep on her (wouldn't be the first time). Or worse—that he's died, before she's had the chance to hear the truth. But no, he opens his eyes and fixes them on Audrey like laser pointers.

“You're different from your brothers,” Sonny says. “What is it about you?”

“I have tits?”

Sonny guffaws and shakes his head. “Yeah, I suppose you
are
one of us, aren't you? Sonya had a mouth on her, too, when she was your age. Quite the hell-raiser.”

Audrey thinks:
No fucking way am I like you people.

“I don't know if anyone told you,” Audrey says, “but I'm adopted.”

“Is that what they told you?”

She has no clue what he means by that—hell, she only just found out the Walczaks and Kaminskis are related.

“Can we stick to the topic at hand?”

Old Sonny Kaminski's face drops, all traces of levity gone. He shifts his body in his wheelchair as if to seem taller.

“You want to know who killed my brother? His stupid black partner, that's who.”

“I don't have my degree yet, but I'm pretty sure George Wildey didn't pull the trigger.”

“You ever hear that word they use—
brother?
Hey, brother, what's happening, brother. They have no idea what that word means. So when my own flesh-and-blood brother partnered up with a
murzyn…
”

“You should seriously stop using that word,” Audrey says.

The old man leers and nods his head. “Right, right, I almost forgot. You screw
murzyns,
don't you. In fact, one of them is the father of your child. Little half-breed Bryant, back in Houston.”

Audrey feels the breath rush out of her lungs, her skin go frying-pan hot. She doesn't know how this old man knows all this (hell, her own father doesn't know). She doesn't care.

“If you ever say that about my kid again I swear to God I'll pull you out of that chair and kick the living shit out of you.”

“Big words for the daughter of a whore.”

“Big words for a racist prick in a wheelchair.”

The creepy old man smiles like a dog—all teeth, wild eyes. “You fucking people. Pointing fingers at me. Clawing at me, all the time. Seems like every generation I have to deal with one of you Walczaks.”

“So what—did you
deal
with my grandpop Stan, too?”

Audrey means, of course, that rich ol' Sonny Jim here didn't want to deal with his blue-collar cop brother making trouble for him. But Sonny gives her a cold, dead stare for a moment before his eyes go wandering.

“I didn't mean to do it,” he says quietly. “It was an accident.”

Inside the taproom at the corner of Seventeenth and Fairmount, a novelty polka is playing:

First time Stan played it for George on New Year's Day, his partner couldn't stop laughing. It was the most absurd song George had ever heard. What made it even funnier was when Stan told them the performers were local boys, the Matys Brothers, from down in Chester, and they'd recorded the song at Broad and Columbia, in the heart of North Philly. Stan said it with such pride, which just made George laugh even harder.

“Hey, barkeep,” George calls out over the song, “get my Polish boy here another Schmidt's. Who stole the kishka, man. Heh heh heh.”

The world-weary bartender looks up, wondering why a black cop would play a polka on the jukebox, shuffles over to the taps.

Sunlight streams into the bar. Another gust of hot air.

Both Stan and George turn to look, half-expecting to see the construction worker again, as if he changed his mind.

But it's not the construction worker.

It's a man with a gun.

Specifically, a revolver.

The winos stand up, revolvers in their hands, too.

Both Stan and George instinctively reach for their sidearms. Both remember—at pretty much the same moment—that they're in civilian clothes. No guns. No nightsticks.

No nothing.

“Fuck
meeee,
” George says, already on the move.

Stan couldn't agree more.

As the winos lift their guns Stan and George do the only thing they can: heave themselves over the bar, knocking the old, petrified bartender down on his ass in the process.

And over their heads—

BLAM BLAM.

A chamber spins twice—

Two quick finger squeezes, double-action.

A mug on the bartop explodes.

BLAM.

Another chamber spins—

Finger squeezes, double-action—

BLAM.

A chunk of wood sprays off the bar.

Someone yells,

“Stop that shit! Stop it!”

Down below, Stan and George crouch down and scan the back bar for weapons. There are none. The trembling bartender looks at Stan, then at George, his eyes lit up with
what-the-fuck-is-going-on?
This old man has been wiping away beer rings since FDR made it legal to do so. He pegged them as cops from the beginning. He did not, however, count on somebody deciding to open fire on said cops.

“You got a piece back here?” Stan asks. “A scatter gun? Something?”

Bartender shakes his head no, no, no.

Stan grunts, looks around, considers a bottle, but—what's a bottle going to do against a couple of guns?

George says, “Sometimes you ever think the whole fucking city's against us?”

“Yeah, I'm starting to believe that,” Stan says.

The polka ends, and on comes George Wildey's final selection. It's a tune he thought Stan might appreciate because of his boy and that lick he was always playing around the house. It's the Staple Singers' original version of “This May Be the Last Time,” a gospel-infused wail that now fills the bar. Eerie. Funereal. Otherworldly.

Right about now George is regretting the selection. He'd give anything for that goofy-ass polka to come on right about now.

“You two!” a voice shouts. “Come on out from behind there. Hands in the air.”

Stan and George look at each other, their noses just a few inches apart.

“Don't think we have a choice, man,” George says finally.

They come out from behind the bar.

“Okay, now strip.”

“What?” George asks.

“Do it! All your clothes, down to your skivvies!”

Stan recognizes the winos, now that their chins are up and eyes fully open. They're the fake police “inspectors” they dealt with a few months ago. This isn't going to be a friendly warning. The fact that they want them to strip can't be a good thing.

What choice do they have?

So Stan and George remove their civilian clothes, all the way down to their white undershirts and boxers. They're told to kneel in front of the bar, hands behind their backs. George complains about the broken glass on the floor. Their captors don't give a shit. The bartender, meanwhile, is told to stay the fuck down, facing the floor, like he was told.

The winos hold guns to the backs of their heads.

“May I inquire as to what this is about?” George says.

“Shaddap,” one of the winos says. Deep neighborhood accent. If George had to peg it, he'd have to say Whitetown, one of the river wards.

“I just want to know if you're gonna kill us or not. My knees are getting all cut up and shit.”

Stan shoots George a look.

“Stop giving them ideas.”

The bartender, still facedown behind the bar, cries out, “Just go! I don't want any trouble in here!” His voice is muffled by the tile floor.

“Shut the fuck up and keep your face on the floor like you were told!”

George looks over at Stan. Once again, he has no idea what's going through that thick-necked Pole's damn fool mind.

“You know, when we partnered up nine months ago,” George says, “I should have known we'd end up like this.”

That gets a grim smile out of Stan.

The door opens and with it comes light. Another gust of hot air blows through the room. Then the door slams shut and someone whispers.

“Hey,” Stan calls out.

More whispering and murmuring. Like the fact that they've got two cops in civilian clothes kneeling on the floor of this taproom, on broken glass, doesn't matter in the slightest.

“Hey, look, can you hurry it up? I've got tickets to the Phils tonight and don't want to be late.”

Then a voice says, “You're a stubborn
schnudak,
you know that?”

Stan's face relaxes when he hears the voice. “You've gotta be kidding me…”

George's eyes dart toward Stan. “Who is it? Please tell me you know what's going on, Stanny boy.”

But Stan ignores his partner.

“So this is all about you putting the scare into us,” Stan says. “Isn't that right?”

“No, Stanisław. We're a little far beyond that now.”

Then he hears the click of a revolver and then he feels the cold steel against the back of his head and knows this is it.

“You know whose gun this is? Think hard. It'll come back to you. You used to sneak it out of the shoe box and look at it.”

“Stan,” George says, eyes wide, “come on, man, what the hell is going on?”

“The old man kept it. Like a trophy. And when he died, he passed it on to me. Never thought I'd be able to use it like this. I think the old man would be happy we were still getting some good use out of it.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“I have to admit, I thought you were playing a sick joke on me. You, partnering with
him
. Thought you asked for him specifically, just to prove some kind of point.”

Stan realizes what his brother is saying. Jesus, is that what all this is about? No, he didn't know George Wildey from any other person until they were partnered at the riots. Just like Jim to think it was all about him.

“I didn't know,” Stan says. “
He
doesn't know!”

George says, “Stan…know what?”

Sonny Jim Kaminski pulls the gun from his brother's head and taps it against George Wildey's head. The force rocks George on his knees a little.

“Ouch.”

“Does this gun feel familiar? Huh,
murzyn?
”

The winos with the guns laugh and change their positions. If something's going down, they want their piece of the fun, too.

Stan squirms on his knees.
Please don't do this. Don't be this stupid.

“Yeah, I know you didn't know, Stan,” Sonny Jim says. “Which makes me wonder about fate and life and all that. This is a small city, but not that small. I like to think that fate has brought us to this moment here, where there is an important choice to be made.”

The next thing Stan knows, he's being lifted off his knees. Legs have gone numb, so the winos continue to hold him up as he regains his footing.

His brother smiles as he holds up the revolver. Stan knows which one it is. Of course it would be. The old man was always proud of that .38 Special. Carried it like he was an Old West gunslinger. Considered himself a Polish outlaw. Other thugs around Southwark shared a single pistol. Not Big Jan Kaminski. No, he had to have one of his very own. Spent their money on a gun instead of putting food on their table. His logic, of course, was that the gun would put food on the table.

Sonny Jim holds it to his brother, grip out.

“Go on. Take it. Fully loaded with the stuff you're used to. Winchester–Western Metal Piercing Super-X. Am I right? Cocksucker won't feel a thing.”

“No.”

“You can end this right now. We don't want to have to worry about you anymore. You take your boy to that ball game tonight. Hell, I'll even spring for the hot dogs and beer.”

“Fuck you,
Sonny Jim
.”

“Hey, you're among friends here. They just want to know you can be trusted to do the right thing. Make sure you remember whose side you're really on. There's too much at stake.”

George, on his knees, both understands what they're saying—the life-and-death shit—and at the same time has absolutely no idea what they're talking about.
Which
side?

“Uh, Stan? Really would love to know what the hell is going on. If this is some elaborate practical joke, it's really not fuckin' funny.”

But Stan can't hear his partner because he's thinking of his sweet Rose, about how mad she'll be when she hears what happened. Mostly, though, he thinks of his boy, Jimmy, and how disappointed he'll be to miss the Phillies game tonight.

“Go home to Southwark, Sonny. Leave us alone.”

“You don't understand. Southwark's your home, too. You got yourself all confused playing around in the Jungle. Family's family. After all this time, I'm willing to welcome you back with open arms, all forgiven. You just gotta do one little favor for me.”

“Let us go. We stick to the old arrangement. You stick to your side of the city, I stick to mine. I don't know why it has to change now.”

“Thought you'd be smarter than that. Rose thought so, too. She was counting on you to save her. Guess I'll have to.”

Now Stan is ready to explode—how many times has he warned his brother about even thinking about Rosie? But Sonny's arm is already moving. The revolver in his hand is pointed at the back of George's head. His thumb cocks the hammer back with a metallic click. Finger ready to squeeze.

No.

Stan lunges forward, slams into Sonny's knees. Knocks him off balance.

The revolver goes off—

BLAM.

Bullet WHACKS into the front of the bar—six more inches to the right and it would have buried itself inside George's skull.

“You stupid son of a bitch!”

Stan responds with a jackhammer punch right to his brother's nuts. The impact is so hard it lifts him off his feet. Sonny falls on his ass.

George senses his chance—

He scrambles to the bar, turns around.

The winos lift their guns.

Pointed right at him.

Cock their hammers.

Stan leaps up into the air just as they—

Open fire.

BLAM.

BLAM.

BLAM.

The first bullet is like a punch to the shoulder and spins him around. The second slices through his back and emerges from the front of his belly. The third misses, buries itself in the bar. The shots feel like punches. His whole body goes cold.

Sonny Jim roars in horror, screams
NOOOO
. Starts pounding on the wino next to him, beating him with the butt of his revolver. The wino stumbles backward, drops his own revolver. It clatters on the tile floor. “YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!” Sonny Jim is screaming. The other shooter is paralyzed with fear. Christ—they shot the boss's cop brother!

Stan looks over at George, who's all wide-eyed, his face splattered with blood.
My own,
Stan thinks. Oh Christ, Rosie is going to be upset.

“Go,” Stan tells his partner.

George scrambles across the tile floor, toward Sonny Kaminski. George heard the piece drop. He's gotta get it.

“HEY HEY HEY!” someone shouts.

But before he can reach it, someone kicks him in the stomach. George doubles up and slowly flips over. “Let me at him,” Sonny snarls as he staggers over to George. He crouches down now, even though it hurts, and places the barrel of the revolver against George's forehead.

“As I was saying, I'll bet some part of this gun feels familiar. Maybe the ghost of your daddy is crying out right now, oh no, not again. You want to cry now, too? Beg for your life, just like your daddy begged for his?”

George just stares at him. The face of pure hate. There's no talking to a man like this, no reasoning. With someone like Sonny Jim Kaminski, you can only speak the truth.

“I don't have to cry for my daddy,” George says, “because my partner's got my back.”

And indeed he does.

Stan Walczak rises from the tile floor just high enough to reach the revolver in one of the winos' hands and force his finger to squeeze the trigger and pull off a sloppy shot. BLAM. Sonny Jim twists and screams out—he'll never walk again. But he pulls the trigger on the way down, BLAM. The side of George's head disappears. The other wino turns and fires at Stan, repeatedly, BLAM BLAM BLAM. But he's a stubborn Pole, and it takes the other one to join in the effort, unloading their weapons at him before he finally falls. Some of their shots miss, embedding those Super-X bullets in the front of the wooden bar, all while the bartender cowers on the other side, praying to God they're not strong enough to punch all the way through.