The Penny Ferry - Rick Boyer (22 page)

"Mary says she let the guy into the basement for
a quick look at our furnace. She stayed upstairs. He was down there
for maybe ten minutes."

"Enough time. Plenty," said Joe. "He
was a real pro. He cut through your alarm wires in two lower windows,
and so skillfully you can't detect the cuts on casual inspection. He
slipped the snib on one. He left the bogus literature and split,
knowing he could come back at his convenience and get in. Which he
did."

"Only question now," said O'Hearn, "is
how many of them are there? Twenty? Keee-riste, seems like there's an
army of 'em."

"Don't like it," said Brian. "But as
far as Doc and Mary are concerned— as far as the town of Concord is
concerned think the worst has passed. Don't think I can say the same
for you, Sam."

"The worst ain't passed for them, I tell you
that," Sam said.

The phone rang. It was for Joe. While he nodded and
grunted into the instrument, Mary began making a pizza. She had
delegated tasks to everyone: Sam sliced the pepperoni, Kevin opened
the anchovies, Brian sliced mushrooms and green peppers, and I grated
mozzarella. Joe grunted and nodded. Then we all froze. in our tracks.

'
DeLucca!"

Stunned silence on the part of all the cops. Mary and
I stared at each other dumfounded, as if someone had just told a joke
and we didn't get the punch line.

'
DeLucca!" echoed O'Hearn.

"DeLucca shmalooka," said Brian
contemptuously. "Carmen DeLucca is dead."

Joe held the phone, frozen. He was wearing the
Thousand-Yard Stare, like a G.I. who's been in combat for two days,
or a football coach who's just lost the title game in the last thirty
seconds because of an interception runback. He replaced the phone
without saying good-bye, returning it to its cradle carefully, as if
it were filled with "soup." I didn't like the look on his
face.

"Lab finally did a make— a twelve-point
positive make— on the dog biscuit fingers we found at Johnny's,"
he said.

"Not DeLucca's," said Kevin.

"
DeLucca's. Positively DeLucca's. Carmen
Salvatore DeLucca, the East Coast buttonman and Wise Guy."

"
They found Carmen DeLucca in a lime pit,"
said Brian. "They found what was left of him in Elizabeth, New
jersey, in a quarry lime pit. Don't tell me different?

"I tell you different. Fingers in the doggie's
mouth belong to Carmen DeLucca. Twelve-point positive make. The bag
of smelly jelly they dragged out of that lime pit was some other poor
bastard."

"You mind?" said his sister, who was
rolling out dough for the crust.

O'Hearn glared at the other two cops.

"Bull-fucking-shit, Joe," he yelled. "I
say bull-fucking-shi—"

He stopped, ashamed, as he realized Mary was there.
She hadn't even turned her head.

"
Uh— sorry, Mrs. Adams, I didn't, uh—"

" '
S okay, pal. I'll survive," she said,
never taking her eyes off the rolling pin. "I've heard worse."

"Worse? You've heard worse? Jee-sus Keee·riste!"

"Lemme get that name," said Sam between
clenched teeth.

"
DeLucca killed Johnny. This guy Carmen DeLucca
killed my partner."

While all this was going on, Joe's expression had not
changed. Still the zombie look, the Thousand-Yard Stare. He announced
he was going outside for a little walk. We watched him go, staring
after him as the door shut. Joe does not take walks. Joe does not
like the New England countryside; he likes crowded bars and sports
events. Something was wrong.

We finished our tasks as Mary trimmed the dough on
the big pan and spread her homemade tomato sauce on it. We slid it
into the hot oven, heaped with all the cheese and goodies, then
looked out the kitchen windows at Joe, who was pacing back and forth
through the grape arbor. His head was down and he was smoking
furiously, lighting one cigarette off another. Kevin, who worked with
him almost daily, was especially concerned. He told us he hadn't seen
Joe so worked up since the Blue Hill Butcher case.

"If it is DeLucca, then that means several
things," he explained. "First, it's a giant-sized headache
in general for all of us, since he's as brutal and bloodthirsty as
they come. It's like Dracula coming out of his coffin. Second, as
regards this case, it means it's big. It involves the Mob, the Wise
Guys . . . and that alone makes it big."

"But Kevin, it was the Outfit that wanted
DeLucca dead in the first place. Two of their henchmen swore to this.
They talked, then walked," said Brian.

"
Yeah I know. And that's another thing too: it
doesn't figure. But even if he's not working for the Wise Guys, then
he's gotta be working against them, or something like that. Any way
you lay it out, Brian, the Mob's got to be involved. jeez, DeLucca
was into the Outfit like Folger's into coffee. But to even show his
face around . . . I just don't get it—"

"
You mean either he's off their shit list or
else he's risking his neck," said Brian.

"Exactly. And there appears to be quite a number
of guys involved in this. How many to kill Johnny? The way we've got
it figured, at least three: one to tag Johnny in town, the other two
at Robinson's with the bomb. How many to pull these B and E's? At
least two at Sam's for a burn job like that, plus the hole in the
roof, right? Add to that one, maybe two guys here. Then there's
Johnny's towed car. I figure two more. There are probably
half-a-dozen men working the street side of this caper, which means
two or three times that many upstairs. Now you see why he's upset."

"Could be more than that. Don't forget the guy
in the mill and our hot-rod friend on Route Three."

Mary slid the hot pizza out and onto a rack. It
smelled great.

"It's more than that," she said. "I
know Joey better than all of you put together. It's something else
he's not telling us."

She watched her brother pacing and smoking outside,
then went out to call him in. We saw him turn and shake his head.

"Not hungry?" said Kevin as he leaned on
the countertop and stared out the window. "Joe Brindelli not
hungry?"

They came in and Joe sat and smoked in the corner
while we ate. He had a Laphroaig on the rocks with a splash and
fiddled with the television. He said nothing, and we left him alone.
When we all finished he rose first and went to the door. He turned
and faced all of us.

"The way I figure it," he said, "this
thing has taken an unexpected turn. All I've got to say is— and
Kev, I'm not trying to speak for you, so disagree if you want— all
I'm saying is that it now appears to be a Mob action. Therefore I'm
turning any business I may have had with this thing, or any I might
have in, the future, over to the O.C. unit. As far as I'm concerned,
it's a local killing— as much as I loved Johnny, Sam, and I mean
that. I'm out of it and the state is out. Let O.C. handle it if they
want. Good-bye."

He turned and left and got into his cruiser. We all
stared after him.

"What the hell was that all about?" asked
Brian.

"I have no idea," said Kevin, "except
I don't believe it."

We walked the rest of them out to their cars. Kevin
got in the shotgun seat next to Joe. Mary stuck her head in and
kissed her brother; her long black hair hung down and cascaded all
over the door. Most women over forty say they can't wear their hair
long. But Mary can. She looks under thirty. She leaned back and
brushed her hair aside and Joe motioned me over with his finger.

"Doc, stay away from this business. Stay away
from it!"

He and the others drove off, and Mary and I went back
into the house. She sat down and put her chin on her lists.

"What's the O.C.?"

"Organized-crime unit. But I can't understand
the sudden turnaround. Nobody liked Johnny better than Joe. And he
was keen on this case too, especially since it involved us. Can't
understand it."

"
I can."

"What?"

She narrowed her eyes and glared at me. 'Not
telling!"

"
Why not?"

"You know why. Remember, I said I'd get even
with you. Well here's round one: Joe told me why he's dropping the
whole thing, and why he's upset. But I'm not telling you and neither
will he. Then maybe next time you and Janice— "

"How'd you know that— uh— what makes you
think I—"

She waved her hand through the air impatiently.

"I just know, Charlie. And the next time you get
even a pinky finger near her it's going to be all she wrote!"

She jumped up and stomped out, leaving me to clean up
the luncheon mess. I opened another Bass and regarded the task before
me, contemplating recent vicissitudes.

The needle wasn't moving up out of the Dead Zone.
Sumbitch appeared to be stuck.
 
 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I finished cleaning up, relighted my pipe, and went
to find Mary. It was time for a Long Talk, in which I would tell her
that I really hadn't meant to grab Janice like that. I would explain
that it was all her fault, not mine. That's all.

Swell, Adams.

To hell with it, I decided as I passed the door of
her workroom. Besides, Long Talks are like summit meetings; when
they're over things are more screwed up than they were before. I went
for a medium-long run, did a hundred sit-ups on the inclined board,
and took a sauna. I dressed and left the house as the first of the
insurance claim officers arrived, and I left a warm note for Mary
which explained that I would be at the residence of Morris Abramson,
M.D. I thought it best to communicate by diplomatic note until the
crisis
d la frottage au derriére
blew over.

There was a darkening cloud cover, with a chilly
blowing drizzle, as I turned into Walden Breezes trailer park. It's
right across from Walden Pond, where Thoreau wrote the famous tract.
But old Henry David would get the fantods if he glimpsed the
horrendous assemblage of mobile homes permanently parked across Route
126 from the pond. Most are vintage fifties and sixties, with a few
more recent additions. Moe's dwelling was at the end of the circle,
right by the deep pine woods. This was a good thing because he keeps
two Nubian goats in a miniature corral and they can be noisy. I got
out of the car and felt better immediately. Although I have no
firsthand knowledge of how good a therapist he is, I can say that
being with him is good therapy for me. After being in his company
even briefly, you begin to sort out what's important and what isn't.
And it's amazing how many things in twentieth-century middle-class
American life aren't at all. I sauntered down the tiny gravel path
lined with myrtle and climbed the two narrow wooden steps to the side
door of the old Airstream trailer.

One could say that Moe is antimaterialist. He claims
that cluttering your life with too many possessions fetters your mind
and soul. Aside from the old Airstream and the battered Dodge sedan
(1963, white over blue), he has nothing.

I rang the little cowbell and waited. Above the door,
painted in Gothic letters, was the vehicle's name: "Der
Schleppenwagen."

Moe says that there are three basic ways to measure a
person: by what he is, by what he does, arid by what he has. The
first is the most important, the second slightly less so, and the
third almost meaningless. America's primary fault, he says, is that
it foolishly persists in paying attention solely to the third item.
Remembering this made me feel guilty again that I had so much, and I
thought of Bartolomeo Vanzetti in his little rented room in Plymouth,
giving the kids dimes. Moe was like him. Moe was like Thoreau too,
with a modern-day, riveted-aluminum version of Henry David's hut.

A gravelly, irritable voice answered my yank on the
cowbell.

"Who's dat?"

"Electrolux!" I chirped.

"Oh yeah? Well make like a vacuum and suck. I'm
busy."

"It's me."

The curved slab of aluminum opened and Moe's angular,
bearded face peered out. He was dressed in a soaked running suit.

"Oh hiya, Doc. What brings you here? Some
masochistic desire for humiliation at the chessboard?"

I entered the tiny residence, which was akin to
boarding a miniature, stationary airplane. I stood next to him but
detected no locker-room stink from the sweat-soaked garments which I
hadn't been washed in weeks. Moe runs over fifty miles a week and his
sweat has about as much poison in it as distilled water. He rattled a
metal Band-Aid box at me. It had a coin slot gashed in the lid and
was wrapped with tape. It was his charity-of-the-month box. I heard
the rattle of the coin of the realm inside. I pointed at the battered
tin box.

"
What this time?"

"Saint Bonaventure's Home for Runaways."

"Since when are you giving to Catholic
charities? You're not Catholic."

"So? A runaway is a runaway. Let's have it."
He rapped my trouser pockets with his knuckles. No coins. He glared
at me. "It'll take folding green, Adams. Gimme a bill. One wit'
double digits?