For Nothing (29 page)

“I guess I bear the responsibility for that.

Unfortunately, the one way I could get the money to be delivered was to convince Jack that it needed to be delivered for our undercover mission. Jack was to make the exchange and pay off the man who was supposed to switch sides.”

“Only Jack didn’t bring the money.”

“Only Jack didn’t bring the money.” El iot repeated. “Also, Rafael Rontego wasn’t the type to be bought off. Even if he didn’t have the money, like be bought off. Even if he didn’t have the money, like you said, they would never just kil a cop. Threaten him? Kidnap him? Extort him? Sure. But a cop who was paying somebody to eliminate the mafia hierarchy, wel I guess they made an exception.” Vaughn’s head was swirling. He could never have guessed how deep al of this went. He flashed to the scene that night. Jack lying on the pavement.

Rontego disappearing around the corner. The white van. The cigarette. The white van.

How had he not pieced it together before?

“You were there that night.”

El iot arched an eyebrow. “Wel done, detective. Yes, we were there. We watched helpless as Jack was shot. We even saw you run up the al ey.

That was a surprise to al of us. Frankly, we had no idea that Jack reached out to you. In fact, we had no idea how to deal with you or what to make of you until you, quite fortunately for us, fel right into our lap.

When you cal ed Ryan Slate, it al seemed too perfect for us.”

“Christ. Ryan too?” Alex felt depressed now.

Was there anyone in this fucking city who
was who they said they were?

“Relax, Alex. Ryan is not that involved in al of this. He’s undercover. I was his undercover liaison.

You wanted to reestablish your cover, so the rest natural y worked itself out.” El iot put his lips together and glanced down at his watch. He cocked the hammer on his pistol. “If you don’t mind, I need to know where that money is.”

Alex was growing more and more desperate.

He knew that the money was his only bargaining chip. A chip he would be forced to throw on the table to protect his family. But he was going to hold onto that chip as long as he could.

“So this whole thing was al about one man’s greed. It makes me sick. Two hundred grand is a nice chunk of change. I admit it, but it hardly seems like enough to kil for. What is two hundred grand divided by three of you anyway? A year, a year and a half of salary?” Vaughn spit on the ground and looked at El iot. “You make me sick.” El iot grimaced at the verbal assault and ran a hand through his hair. Then he chuckled. With a hint of regret he said, “I wish we were getting this money.

No, we won’t see a dime of it. Unfortunately, the Bonannos want their money back. I can’t say that I blame ‘em, we did fail to deliver the cash and we were turned down in our overtures in any case. We have until six tonight to return this money or we’re dead men; me, Hambone, Hi-Def, dead. This, al of this,” he waved his pistol around the room, “it’s a self preservation thing.”

Alex sat there, the ropes biting into his skin, his eye pulsating from the wound under it and the cut along his neck burning; and took it al in.

“Now, the money.”

Vaughn closed his mouth, knowing what would come once he let El iot know.

El iot walked around behind Alex, and placing his mouth next to Vaughn’s ear whispered, “For your family, Alex.”

Alex Vaughn hung his head in defeat. “It’s under the floor behind Jack’s bar. It’s in the basement.”

Without saying a word, El iot walked to the front of the garage and waved Hambone over. “Give me twenty minutes to col ect the money. Once I have it, take care of this.”

Hambone shook his head in understanding.

Before El iot walked out he turned and regarded Alex Vaughn as if getting one last look before he said goodbye. “Sorry things couldn’t have been different. But life is a goddamn shit storm and al of us are trying to fit under the same little piece of cover.”

Alex could just watch, helpless, as El iot closed the garage door behind him with a clang of finality, and left Hambone and Vaughn alone.

*

Rafael Rontego snapped his head up with a start. He’d dozed off. With a cough, he swung his feet off of the wooden bench and sat up. Pinching the corner of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, Rafael rubbed the sleep out of them. He glanced at the bag stil resting at his side and gave it a pat.

“Oh it’s stil there lad. Not many people seem to be lining up for the train today.” Rontego looked to his right at the edge of the bench and saw an older gentleman seated just beyond the perimeter of where his slumbering feet had lain. The man clutched the handles of a plaid bag with both hands. He was hunched over in the bag with both hands. He was hunched over in the fashion of most eighty year olds and his thin grey hair seemed to have faded away with the years of his life.

God no.

The old timer slid over on his corduroy pants until he was seated right next to Rafael. He could smel the man’s World War I musk and caught a slight hint of what appeared to be peppermint on his breath.

It was confirmed when the man asked, “Care for a mint?”

“No thanks.”

Rafael looked careful at the man’s lips as they moved but found that he was noticing the rather clean shave that was broken up by a single patch of stubble where the old-timer’s eye sight must have failed him.

“Just as wel . Sugar is no good for you anyway. My doctor says it’s not good for me. Oh wel , at this point what is good for me?” He flashed a grin that was manmade.

Rafael could only clear his throat in response and he stared straight ahead at the empty tracks.

“I couldn’t help but notice your hat,” he went on. “I used to have one just like it, years ago.” Rafael glanced over at the man out of the corner of his eye. A slight twinkle developed there as Rontego thought how odd it was that this man was shooting the shit with him. It’d been sometime since anyone talked to Rafael about anything other than business. The old man looked at Rafael and the assassin realized that he missed something.

“What was that?”

“I said, where ya heading, son?”

Rafael glanced at the departures screen.

“This is the train to Toronto, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, but I suppose what I mean was, are you seeing family, friends?”

“Friend.”

“Ah, friends are good. Me, I’m going home. I just got done visiting my great grandson. Now I’m heading back home to the missus. She doesn’t let me stay away long, no sir.”

The old man began shuffling in his plaid bag and with a triumphant smile pul ed out a little wal et.

Humming a tune Rontego didn’t recognize, he flipped through several items inside of it until he came to what he was looking for. He held a smal photograph in front of Rontego. There was a picture of an infant lying down in a pink blanket covered to the neck and sporting a pink wool-knit hat.

The old man cleared his throat and pronounced, “Cute little fel a, isn’t he? It’s a boy, never you mind the pink. That’s what they get for keeping things a surprise. Mol y, that’s my wife, she knit the cap there. Yes sir, great grandson number three. Thirteen grandchildren in al .”

“That’s al ?” Rontego noticed the surprise on the man’s face and let a smile past his lips.

The old man chuckled and pointing to Rafael’s ring finger said, “Big talk from a man who isn’t even married.” The old-man chuckled again seeing the surprise switch over to Rafael as the dig took a hold.

“Not even a contender then?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps there was once upon a time.”

“Once upon a time, eh? Wel , the thing about fairy tales is they only come true if you wil them to.” Rafael laughed.
Was this man really trying to
impart wisdom on him?
“Perhaps. But that ship sailed long ago.”

“I never understood that statement. The ship has sailed. People say that like you can’t just turn the ship around again.”

Rafael sat there for a long moment. His thoughts shifted to the evening before and his rendezvous with Elyse.

“Sometimes it’s best to see what else the world has to offer.”

“Fair enough.”

The old man popped a mint into his mouth and seemed to retreat inside of himself.

The assassin looked over at the man, an odd moment of thoughtfulness creeping up on him. “You think a man can rewrite his history?” The old-timer thought about it for a moment and then shook his head.

“No, I don’t believe you can. History, that’s done. Ain't no changing it. Set in stone it is, sir.” Rafael Rontego dropped his head, realizing the truth of the man’s words.

“Now, your future son, that’s what’s to be decided. Your future, that’s a thing written in sand. It can change or even disappear with a strong gust of can change or even disappear with a strong gust of wind.”

The assassin looked up at the old man who flashed him that artificial smile that felt al of a sudden very real. He accepted his pat on the back and felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Rafael Rontego felt hope. He felt alive. He felt like there was the business of living to attend to. For the first time, he felt like he was the captain of his own ship. The past; that was the past.

Hell, most of those fuckers got what they had
coming to them.

But that was life by a different set of rules.

That was survival, not living. Rontego smiled as he thought about life on his terms, about actual y
living
.

Vaughn lay down on the pavement as Hambone instructed. Time seemed to have gone much quicker than any other twenty minutes Alex ever knew. As he lowered himself to the floor, he was keenly aware of his various aches and pains.

The cut under his eye burned as drops of Alex’s nervous sweat infiltrated the wound. The gash on his forehead pulsated with his heartbeat and the razor thin tear along his neck itched but Alex’s bound hands couldn’t scratch at it with any authority, even if Hambone afforded him the time.

The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to dig his nails into his neck and scrape of a layer of skin; anything to stop the itch. Alex let out a little groan as his bruised ribs protested against his body stretching out on the floor. It reeked of gasoline and the smel became more poignant as Vaughn lay his face down onto the cool cement.

“Why make me lay on the floor?”

“It’s less messy. Ever try to clean brains off of a wal ?

Alex didn’t know what else to say. He forgot about the discomfort of his neck as he couldn’t dislodge the image of his brains sliding down a wal .

Vaughn closed his eyes. He didn’t want that to be the last image in his mind as he exited the world. He forced his mind to think of other images.

Her smile. He concentrated on Charlotte, he thought of how her face looked. Every memorized crease along her lips, the whiteness of her teeth.

Despite the lone crooked tooth in her under bite, the smile loomed supreme to Alex.

He concentrated on El a. Her wide eyes. Alex could see them learning. They gobbled up everything that her gaze fel upon and they did so without judgment. Simple regard, acknowledgment, and wonder fil ed al her vision. Her baby picture was stil tucked in his boot. At least if it was too messy, they might be able to identify him by the picture in his shoe.

Alex thought about what Charlotte scribbled on the back of it.

The creation of Charlotte and Alex Vaughn
.

The cut under Alex’s eye grew moist and stung with the salt that the new moisture left behind.

He thought of al of the things he wished he said. The things he knew he should have said. He didn’t want Charlotte to become someone he used to know. He didn’t want to become someone Charlotte used to know.

Vaughn thought to get up and make Hambone earn his kil . He wanted to fight. He wanted to make it messy to clean up, but he thought about El a. He thought about Charlotte. He lay stil .

He could never endanger them.

The tears continued to melt through the creases in Alex Vaughn’s eyes. Not tears of fear, but tears of bitter, salty regret. They flowed unabated as he felt Hambone stand over him. Alex wil ed himself back to images of El a, to Charlotte.

He heard two explosions. Alex’s body clenched as every muscle contracted in unison. His neck stil itched. The tears stil stung his wounds.

Alex breathed in.

He breathed.

Stil prostrate on the ground, Vaughn opened his good eye and heard some shuffling. He saw two sets of boots.

“Hey Garducci.” Alex knew that voice. It continued. “Now don’t do that. I said don’t do that.” The detective rol ed over and saw Hambone sitting down and propped up against the far wal of the garage. His body leaned at an odd angle, hunching forward towards the ground but trying to maintain an upright posture. A bul et scorched a single hole through the side of his neck. Smoke drifted between Hambone’s fingers, which explored the new cavity.

One explosion accounted for.

Vaughn swung his head around in a daze and saw the garage door swinging on the hinges back and forth, tapping the wal beyond in an obtuse and eerie sort of rhythm.

Explosion two.

Hambone tried to stem the flow of blood from the gaping wound on his neck with one hand. The other stil clutched his pistol and he alternately gripped it, tried to bring it to bear and dropped his arm back to his side. Tom Coughlin advanced on Hambone while Jimmy Jacks pul ed Alex to his feet.