The Evil That Men Do (8 page)

“Oh my God!” someone yelled. “Are you okay?”

But she couldn’t answer. Susan couldn’t shoulder any more tragedy. She crashed into the asphalt.

Carlos figured he’d try the gun one more time. But there weren’t any quiet parks. It was too fucking nice out. Kids were out on the swings. Moms were walking their babies. He even saw one of his asshole teachers out walking his dog. No place to just go and shoot the thing.

And like hell if he was just going to wait for the next rainy day, or fuck that, even wait for nighttime. The gun was fucking boring anyway. None of his friends wanted to come and play around with it. And it’s not like he’d ever
really
shoot someone. So he was just going to have to get rid of it.

Maybe dump it back by the river?

Nah, yo, there were always a ton of cops down there. The last thing he needed was to be seen dropping a gun off on a riverbank. They might arrest him and put him in Juvie for that thing yesterday.

Carlos wondered what happened to Cesar and Joseph with the cops. They were probably all locked up. Man, if Cameisha had seen them, she’d laugh her ass off. Running away like that, she wouldn’t respect that. No, Carlos had her respect. At least he thought he did, the way she smiled at him and laughed when he made fun of her.

But she always liked it in school when he told on the real punks. Like that time Kurt stole Ms. Caruso’s wallet. And Carlos told her what happened. Cameisha said that was good of him. Even kissed him. It wasn’t a blow job, but it was something.

Maybe he could get a blow job out of her if he did the right thing. The gun. Maybe if he took the gun to the cops and then told her about it.

He knew snitches got stitches, but yo, this was a shot at a blow job from Cameisha.

There was no question. He would walk down to the police station and turn the gun in. Tell the cops he found that shit and he didn’t want any elementary school kids to get hurt playing with it.

A fuckin’ blow job!

FRANKLIN CARTER WAS SURE HE WAS TIED TO A
wooden chair in a basement. The air was moist, and droplets of water dripped down the concrete walls into puddles. Wooden stairs led to a metal door. The door opened and a figure paused at the top of the stairs, light behind him.

Now the figure was at the bottom of the stairs. Carter could hear feet plop through a puddle as it approached, blanketed in shadow.

“Mr. Carter, you didn’t pay like I asked.”

“We only talked yesterday.”

“We’ve talked before that! I came to you, nicely! Your family owes mine! You know that.”

“What happened is in the past. It’s not my fault.”

Bryan Hackett undid the belt around his jeans and began to slide it out of the loops. Carter didn’t like where this was going.

“Blood runs deep, Franklin. It’s as much your fault as anyone’s.”

“This is stupid, Bryan.”

The belt buckle caught him across the face. Carter felt skin tear away from his cheek, felt the sharp sting, and then the drop of blood down his cheek.

“No,” Hackett said, his voice even. “This is not stupid. After all that’s happened, paying me money means you get off easy.”

Carter heard the whiz of the leather and metal through the air, and his head snapped to the side before he realized he’d been hit again. This time from the left. Both of his cheeks were bleeding now, and sweat dripped from his brow, burning into the cuts.

“Well, now you have me, what are you going to do? Kill me?” Carter had to spit the words out.

“Maybe.”

Hackett circled Carter’s chair. The buckle of the belt scratched the concrete floor slowly as he went.

“Why kill me?” Carter asked. “You kill me, you’ll never get your money.”

“Oh, I’ll get my money.” Hackett leaned in toward Carter’s ear from behind. His voice was soft. “But I’m going to have some fun first. And if you die? Well, not only will I have to find a different way to get my money, but I’m also going to consider you a pussy. Understand me, boyo? You’ll go out a pussy.”

The belt buckle caught him in the back of the head this time, right behind the ear. Carter grunted in pain.

“Your wife will pay me. She’ll pay to see you alive. And if not, she’ll pay to get your body back for the funeral.”

“No. Not Susan.” Carter squeezed his eyes shut. “Keep her out of this. She has nothing to do with this.”

The belt came quick this time. Three shots to the head. Carter tried to roll with the shots, but he couldn’t guess the direction they came from. He tried to force the pain out of his head. He thought of music. Guggenheim Grotto. “A Cold Truth.”

He sang through clenched teeth. He wouldn’t beg. He wouldn’t plead. And he most definitely would not be a pussy.

Hackett was in front of him again. Carter, refusing to look in his eyes, could tell from the direction of his voice.

“That’s the thing, Franklin,” he said. “Susan has
everything
to do with this.”

The closest police station in Clifton was in Styretown. Clifton had a hell of a lot of police stations.

This wasn’t really a big police station, it was just an office where some cops sat. It was next to a bank and a Coconuts. Carlos thought that was gangsta. He could drop the gun off and then go D-block the latest Akon CD. That shit was hot.

He pushed the glass door open and felt like he was entering a dentist’s office. His mom used to take him to Dr. Scott’s office, and it was just like this. A few metal chairs, a table, and shitty magazines scattered over it. Against the far wall was a thick glass window, behind which a cop shuffled papers.

Carlos sat down and felt the barrel of the gun press into his hip. He’d kept it there for the past two days. He’d almost forgotten it was there. And now it was fucking uncomfortable.

The cop behind the glass, a fat guy with a porno mustache and brown hair combed over, looked up at him. His hair was too long and it made him look like an asshole. He should get a shape-up. Which reminded Carlos — he had to go get a haircut himself soon.

“Can I help you?” the cop asked.

“Yeah.” He stood up and walked to the glass. “I found something down by the Passaic River. I didn’t want to leave it there or anything. Some kid could find that shit and hurt somebody.”

“What is it?”

“It was like half buried in the mud and sticking out, so I picked it up. I ain’t gonna use it or nothing. I just thought, yo, I should bring this shit to the cops.”

The cop stopped shuffling his papers. “What is it?”

Carlos reached under his jersey and pulled out the gun. He didn’t hold it like he was gonna shoot it or nothing. Held it from the barrel. He didn’t want the cop to wile out or nothing. So he held the gun at arm’s length like a bag of dog shit.

Still, the cop’s eyes widened and his hand immediately went to his own holster.

“Jesus Christ,” the cop said.

At that moment, Carlos got pissed he was giving the thing back. He just scared a fuckin’ cop.

Now,
that
was really gangsta.

Iapicca showed up at the front of the hospital as Donne was being pushed through the doors in a wheelchair. The sunlight forced him to squint and aggravated the dull roar in his head. The doctor — a very perceptive asshole in a lab coat — prescribed Tylenol. Donne could have done that. He was going to have to bill his hospital stay to Franklin Carter. It sucked being without insurance.

Iapicca sported a tie, a white-collared shirt, and sweat stains under his armpits. A line of sweat glistened on his forehead. He looked miserable.

He must have noticed Donne eyeing him up, and he said, “Yeah, it’s fucking hot. I left my coat in the car. Let’s go.”

Donne unfolded himself from the wheelchair, thanked the nurse who’d pushed him, and followed Iapicca into the parking lot.

His car was an unmarked Chevy Caprice. It smelled like cigarettes and rotten french fries.

“I didn’t even know they made these cars anymore.”

“Rutherford Police Department. Only the finest.” Iapicca started the car and pulled into traffic.

Checking his cell phone, Donne saw he had three voice mails. He dialed his mailbox.

“What are you doing?” Iapicca asked.

“I have a few missed calls. I was in the hospital all night. They kept my cell phone from me.”

“I asked them to do that.”

“Why?”

“Before we were rudely interrupted by your nurse last night, I was going to check your calls. You got lucky.”

“Well, I have missed calls to check.”

“You’re not checking them now.”

“Why not?”

He stopped for a red light.

“The only reason I agreed to drive you was so we could talk about what happened the other day.”

“We have an hour drive ahead of us. I think you can wait a few minutes.”

The detective started to reply, but his own cell phone rang. His ring tone was some Sinatra song. He took it out and looked at the caller ID.

“Sinatra? You’re like, what? Thirty-two?”

“Thirty-three, and you don’t have to be old to enjoy the Chairman.”

“Thirty-three is old.”

“You’re an asshole. And you’re only five years behind me. I have to take this, so go ahead. Check your goddamned voice mails.”

The first message was Donne’s sister asking him to call her back. There was a tension in her voice, something underlying that worried him. Next to Donne Iapicca was talking, but it wasn’t clear what he was saying.

The next message was Susan again. She sounded even more upset. The time stamp on the message showed it was only a few seconds after the first call.

The third message she was practically screaming into the phone. Something was definitely wrong. And not hearing from Donne was adding to her stress. She was worried about him. And now he was worried about her.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, he realized that before this week he hadn’t been worried about a family member in a long time.

He hung up the phone and turned to Iapicca. The cop’s eyes were on the road as he flipped his own cell phone closed.

“Forget New Brunswick,” Donne said. “Can you take me to Upper Mountain Road? Something’s wrong with my sister.”

“No can do. You’re coming with me.”

“What?”

“That was a call from a cop I know in Clifton. He said they have the gun.”

“What gun?”

“They think it’s the one that killed your aunt and uncle.”

Jesus Christ.

“I have to call my sister.”

“Do what you gotta do. It’s ten minutes to Clifton, easy.”

Iapicca reached under the seat of his car and pulled out a red light. He plugged it into the cigarette lighter and it started to flash. Then he rolled his window down and stuck the light to the roof.

He blew through the intersection.

SUSAN OPENED HER EYES AND THE WORLD CAME
into focus. She saw clouds, the sun shining, and felt the heat on her face. She could still hear the traffic and knew the world was still moving around her. The nurse who had helped her mother stood above Susan with a clear bottle. Susan wondered if the nurse had gone back inside to get it. How long had she been out? It couldn’t have been too long. They wouldn’t have just left her out in the street.

“Sit up,” the nurse said. “Have a sip of water.”

Susan felt her stomach give out. She turned her head and threw up. Vomit splattered on her clothes. She really felt the summer heat as she puked. Along with the embarrassment of getting sick in front of the nurse. By the time she was finished, her throat was raw and her mouth tasted sour.

The nurse gave her a sympathetic smile.

“Okay,” she said. “Now try some water.”

Susan took the bottle of Poland Spring the nurse offered. For the first time, Susan saw the nurse’s name tag. It said, “Bernadette.”

After sipping the water, feeling the cool liquid wash the taste from her mouth and moisten her throat, Susan said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Bernadette took Susan’s hand and helped her to her feet. “Let’s get you inside into the air-conditioning.”

They walked along together and Bernadette said, “Are you going to be okay? I know it’s hard watching your mom be sick.”

“It’s not only that,” Susan said. She stopped and looked around at the ground. “Did you see my cell phone?”

Bernadette held it up. In two pieces.

Susan quickly took the pieces and tried to fit it back together. No luck. Jesus Christ. What if Jackson had tried to call? Or the people who had her husband?

She felt light-headed again, and Bernadette saw it. She put her arm around Susan and held her up. Kept walking.

“Come on,” the nurse said. “Keep moving. Keep the blood flowing, you’ll be fine. Let’s just get inside.”

Everything was going wrong. And Susan couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Getting to the Clifton Police Department wasn’t very complicated. Iapicca made only one right turn once he found Valley Road. They followed Valley to Van Houten, passing a strip mall, two schools, a Charlie Brown’s, some houses, and an intersection that took seven minutes to get through because of construction. The entire way, Donne kept trying Susan’s phone.

No answer.

His instincts didn’t like whatever that meant.

“How the hell do you know where the Clifton Police Department is?” Donne asked. “It’s not even marked.”

“I have some family in Clifton.”

The department was located inside Clifton City Hall, a long brick building with three glass doors in the middle. They walked through the doors, and Iapicca turned toward Donne.

“The only reason you’re coming along is because I’m starting to believe your story. Anything doesn’t line up with what you’ve already said, you’ll find a different way home.”

“I haven’t said much of anything yet.”

“Keep it that way. I don’t need a headache.”

They followed a long dark tiled hallway through a narrow doorway into a bright white waiting room. On the walls were various framed pictures of successful Cliftonites. The high school marching band seemed to have some kind of reputation, because the picture of it filled the biggest frame. Along the far wall was a windowed counter and another doorway. Behind the counter, a uniformed cop watched them.