Nick's Trip (34 page)

“Martino,” Boyle said. He chuckled and shook his head. “Martin. Fuckin’ goombahs and their names.”

We brushed past the Lincolns and moved toward the porch. I left my hands in the pockets of my overcoat as we walked up the steps. Frank’s arms hung loosely at his sides. His corduroy car coat was open, exposing the khakis and a dark blue shirt. The Airweight was in the nylon holster, unsnapped, tucked into the side of his khakis, and Frank made no effort to hide it. He touched his fingers to the grip, then let his hand fall back at his side. We stopped on the porch in front of him. Frank looked at me.

“Salesman, huh? I knew you weren’t no fuckin’ salesman. No such thing as fifty off.” A big band sound with a vocalist came softly through the front door.

“Can we go in?” I said.

Frank looked at Boyle for the first time. “You’ve got heat under your coat—I can see it. Take the guns off and leave ’em at the door.”

“I’m a cop,” Boyle said, his voice deepening a note. “I wear a gun, and it doesn’t come off. We came to talk to your boss. You want to start somethin’ before we get into that, start it now.”

Frank swung both hands nervously, careful not to swing them near the Airweight. He looked away from Boyle and put his hand on the knob of the front door. Frank turned the knob and opened the door. “Go on.”

Boyle stepped first, and I followed. Sinatra was the vocalist,
and he was singing “It Happened in Monterey” at a low volume through the Sony’s black speakers on the bar. Goloria was sitting on one of the chairs near the two blank television screens, his bones etching their angles on a cheap brown suit. A tan shirt and a yellow-and-brown rep tie hung beneath the suit. The tie was crooked at the knot.

Solanis stood behind the bar, wearing a black sport jacket and a tieless deep red shirt, buttoned to the neck. His buckshot scars matched the redness of the shirt, but the rest of his face was finely lined and almost serene, his black hair damp with gel and lazily combed back. He moved the swizzle stick around slowly in a rocks glass filled with scotch whiskey and watched Boyle move into the room. I closed the door behind me and withdrew my hands from the pockets of my overcoat.

Goloria stood quickly, touched the knot of his tie, and slid four fingers of the other hand behind his belt. “Boyle,” he said nodding. “We didn’t expect you so soon. You should have called. We could’ve set a time, when we could all talk together.”

“Where’s Bonanno?” Boyle said.

“Not here.”

“I can see that. His car’s out front.”

“He got picked up by friends,” Goloria said. “What can we do for you?”

Boyle moved toward Goloria and stopped a few feet away. I walked over to the card table. Solanis watched me do it, a restful smile growing on his face. I picked some red chips up off the table and ran them around in my fingers, glancing up the stairs to the landing. The lights were out and the landing was deep in shadow.

“How’s the wife and kids, Goloria?” Boyle said.

“Same as yours, I guess. Same as anybody’s.”

“And Wallace?”

Goloria paused to narrow his eyes. “You want a drink, Boyle? You look to me like you could use a drink. Jack’s your pleasure, isn’t it?” He glanced over toward the bar and grinned with effort. “Solanis, fix Detective Boyle here a Jack Daniels.”

Boyle said, “Keep your hands on the bar. I drink with my friends. This is business.” Solanis’s face remained expressionless as a stone.

Goloria rubbed the heel of one brown shoe against the instep of the other. “Tell us what you two want.”

“Stefanos wants what I want,” Boyle said. I didn’t know where he was going with it, and I don’t think he did either, but he had their attention. Standing there, a head taller than Goloria, his feet spread wide and firm on the wood floor, Boyle was like a bull, staring them down on their own turf.

“You’ve got to get clearer than that,” Goloria said.

“All right,” Boyle said. “Stefanos came to me with the details of your operation. He knew the reporter that was looking into it, and he got curious. Pretty soon the Pie Shack arsons and the bookmaking came to the surface.”

“So?”

“You always were a piece of shit, Goloria.” Boyle took a step forward but kept his voice low and even. “Shaking down bartenders, threatening informants, that’s one thing. Making book and setting fires, that’s another. It depends on where you draw the line. I draw the line at all of it. You got no problem with turning your head and getting your palm greased, that’s up to you I guess—as long as nobody gets hurt.”

“Keep talking.”

“Solanis over there—murder one on the reporter. You buried the evidence, and you planted some that was phony.”

Goloria sighed and ran one finger down a crease in his gaunt face. “You still haven’t told me a fuckin’ thing, Boyle. Now I’m going to ask you again—what do you want?”

Boyle said, “Low as you are, Goloria, you’re still a cop. I’m not about to turn you in, if there’s any other way.”

“You talking about a payoff?”

“I’m talking about options.”

A heavy dull sound pushed in from beyond the front door. Goloria and I turned our heads in the direction of the sound;
Boyle stared ahead. The song from the box ended and another one began, Sinatra’s “I’ve Got You under My Skin.” Goloria grinned and turned his attention to the bar. “Turn it up, Solanis,” he said, snapping his fingers. “This one really jumps.”

Solanis walked slowly to the Sony and hiked up the volume. I heard movement from the second floor and looked up, but there was nothing, and then the sound of the movement was drowned out by the music. When I looked back Solanis was walking back to his spot behind the bar, staring at me.

I stared back and said, “We’ve got a problem here.”

Goloria said, “We don’t need a private cop in this, Boyle. It’s between you and me.”

“What kind of problem you got, Stefanos?” Boyle said, smiling a little now, ignoring Goloria, getting into the rhythm he had talked about.

“The security guard,” I said, feeling that rhythm, and a warmth in my face.

“What about him?” Solanis said, his voice dry as a December leaf.

“Shut up,” Goloria said, turning his head to the bar. The Nelson Riddle arrangement swelled in the room, horns rising, Sinatra bending his vowels as he jumped back into the verse. I put my hands on the belt loops of my jeans, hiked them up, and ran my right hand around the waistband to the back, feeling the checkered points of the Beretta’s serrated grip. I rested my thumb on the grooved hammer.

“If I’m going to get involved in this,” I said, “there better not be any loose ends. I talked to that security guard myself. He’s a broken-down drunk. He’ll talk, eventually.” In my peripheral vision I saw motion from above. I kept my eyes on Solanis.

Solanis smiled. “He won’t talk.”

“I told you to shut up,” Goloria said.

“Maybe you better let me handle it,” I said.

“No need,” Solanis said, the smile gone now, a sudden
emptiness in his black eyes. “I took care of him, the same way I did that reporter.” The black eyes narrowed. “That nigger screamed when I gave him the knife. He screamed like a girl.”

“Goddamn it, Solanis, shut up!” Goloria said.

Boyle crossed his arms and reached into his coat. Then he drew his guns, pointing them at Goloria. Solanis’s hand slid under the bar, and he began to crouch down.

I pulled the Beretta and thumbed back the hammer.

Goloria whitened and said, “Take it easy, Boyle,” and as he said it his own hand jerked toward the inside of his brown suit.

Boyle said, “I’ll see to your wife and kids, Goloria,” and he turned one gun on Solanis, and that’s when everything blew up at once.

Solanis dropped just as Boyle fired the Python. A strip of oak splintered off the bar and bottles exploded from the shelf.

I saw the movement again from above on the landing, and I looked up. A man stepped out of the shadows and swung a sawed-off in my direction.

I dived, and then there was thunder, and the card table heaved up at my side and seemed to come apart. Something tore away at my cheek. I squeezed the trigger on the nine as I fell, aiming in the direction of the landing, the Beretta jumping in my hand, my knuckles white-hard on the grip. I saw a figure tumble and fall through the smoke of the muzzle and the ejecting shells, and then I saw a man in black twills convulsing at the base of the stairs.

Boyle walked across the room, firing both guns into Goloria, alternating shots from the Python to the .38. Goloria was covering his face with his hands, and one of his hands was without fingers now, and he was dancing backward, shaking his head furiously like he was coming out of water, fighting for breath. Goloria’s knees buckled and he toppled onto his back, his hands crossed now as if tied at the wrist. The heels of his brown shoes kicked at the floor.

Boyle dropped the .38, turned toward the bar, and switched
the Python to his right hand. He yelled, “He’s coming up, Stefanos!” and Solanis stood straight from behind the bar, the dreamy smile on his face, his eyes wet and black, a .45 in his hand.

Solanis howled and fired blindly in my direction, the round fragmenting the arm of a wooden chair beside me. Boyle shot Solanis once in the chest. The slug threw him hard against the liquor shelf and the mirror, and Solanis’s back was blown out, his blood and cartilage spraying the mirror. Pieces of the stained mirror shattered and flew off, and Solanis fell to the floor.

Sinatra sang from the box.

Boyle said, “Cover the front door.”

I pointed the Beretta there, keeping both shaking hands on the grip. I looked down at the blood on my shirt. The blood seemed to run from my cheek.

Boyle moved through the gun smoke, his arm extended, the Python at the end of it, and walked behind the bar. He pointed the barrel down at Solanis and clicked off an empty round.

Boyle turned, switched the radio off, and went to Bonanno at the foot of the stairs, kicking the shotgun across the room. He bent at the knees, pressed a finger to Bonanno’s neck, then holstered the Python inside his jacket as he stood. He didn’t bother to check Goloria.

“Dead,” Boyle said. “All of ’em.”

“I took one in the face,” I said.

Boyle rubbed his nose as he walked to my side. I sat on the floor and held the Beretta at the door. Boyle crouched down and looked me over. He put two thick fingers to my cheek, and pulled something away. There was raw pain, and the pain blinded me for a short second, and then it went away. Boyle focused his pinball eyes on the fragment of red poker chip he held in his hand.

“You’ll live,” he said.

I rubbed my cheek and surveyed the ruins. “Jesus Christ, Boyle.”

“You can lower that gun. Martin’s long gone. You better get going too.”

“What are you going to do?”

Boyle said, “Fix it.”

I dropped the Beretta to the hardwood floor. Boyle drew a handkerchief from his jacket and rubbed my prints from the gun as I stood. He moved to Goloria and placed the automatic in the hand that still had fingers, and he wrapped the fingers of that hand around the grip. Then he drew the Python and the .38 and walked around the bar to Solanis. Boyle bent down, and when he came back up the guns were no longer in his hands. I knew then what he was going to do. Boyle looked at me with impatience.

“Get going,” he said, turning to put his hand around a bottle of Jack Daniels that stood with a few remaining bottles on the liquor shelf. He undid the cap.

I nodded, said nothing, and walked out the front door. Standing on the porch, I saw a set of headlights pointed in the direction of the Maryland line on Gallatin Street, and I heard the faint wail of sirens. I looked down at the base of the porch. In shadow, Frank Martin’s body lay like a large crumpled bird, the head twisted at an odd angle to the shoulders. A vague black line ran open beneath his chin.

I looked back through the lace curtains of the porch window, to the heavy figure with the bushy gray sideburns heaped at the foot of the stairs. Boyle was standing over Bonanno, the sole of one shoe resting on the dead man’s chest, the bottle of Jack tilted back to his lips.

I stepped off the porch and walked through the trees, toward the lights that burned at the end of the gravel road.

B
OYLE FIXED IT.

In the three days that followed, an article ran daily on the front page of the
Post
’s Metro section, detailing the violent events that transpired in the house near Fort Totten Park. Every day that week, when I arrived for my shift at the Spot, a newspaper was left for me by Darnell, folded behind the register to the story’s page.

Darnell had not spoken one word on the ride back that night, had never mentioned the name Frank Martin, and he would never speak about any of it again. With Boyle it was the same, though he could not enjoy Darnell’s anonymity. Boyle’s daily entrance at the Spot invariably created a nervous flurry of whispers from the regulars. The papers had made him out to be the city’s premier badass, a Wyatt Earp–style lawman in a town whose initials had come to stand for Dodge City. No one took a stool next to Boyle at the bar again.