Tragic (31 page)

Kowalski shook his head. “That was another part of the conversation,” he said. “This DiMarzo apparently has friends in low places. The family is off-limits; the Malcheks say they won’t go near them and to think real seriously before we do. Essentially, until this gets cleared up, you’re on your own.”

“On my own . . .” Vitteli’s voice was right on the edge of hysteria. “What about Karp? He’s got it in for me, if he’s gone . . .”

“Are you insane?” Kowalski asked. “Hit the District Attorney of New York and you’ll bring down a firestorm of shit that will destroy you and anybody else who has anything to do with it. If the Malcheks knew you were even thinking of such a thing—with all the heat it would bring to their business interests, including the project at the docks—they’d kill you themselves.”

Vitteli swallowed hard. His chest felt suddenly tight and he wondered if he was having a heart attack. The whole thing was driving him crazy. Just the night before, his mistress had found him in the bathroom sleepwalking. She said he was washing his hands, complaining that the spots wouldn’t come off. Then he’d woken up. He wondered if he was losing his mind.

Kowalski patted him on the shoulder. “Look, this is all part of Karp’s plan to rattle you and make you do something stupid,” he said. “Bebnev was the only connection to Barros and Jackie. Karp still doesn’t have a case, so stay cool and ride this one out—”

“Bebnev wasn’t the only connection,” Barros interjected. “Jackie Corcione can fuck us all. He needs to have an accident and it needs to be soon.”

Sweat dripping from his brow, Vitteli looked from Barros to Kowalski. “I don’t know. . . .” he said.

“Damn it! We got no choice, Charlie,” Barros snarled. “If Karp gets to the little faggot, we’re all going down!”

Vitteli’s shoulders sagged. “You’re right. But how do we get the bank accounts and passwords? You can’t be slicing him up and have it look like an accident.”

Smiling, Barros reached inside his coat and pulled out what appeared to be a flashlight. “My little toy here will get it out of him,” he said. “A few million volts will light him up and he’ll talk. After that, he goes over the balcony . . . just another queer who couldn’t handle the shame.”

“When?”

“Tonight, now,” Barros answered. “Before Karp gets to him. Give him a call, make sure he’s alone. Tell him I’m coming over to deliver some legal papers that he needs to sign and I don’t want to see none of his fag friends.”

Vitteli swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay, do it.”

“Stick him good and we’ll be okay,” Kowalski added.

Barros grinned like a skeleton. “Don’t worry about that; I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.”

J
ACKIE
C
ORCIONE STOOD ALONE AT
the rail of the balcony of his Hell’s Kitchen rooftop loft gazing west. The setting sun cast a warm orange glow on the Hudson River and South Jersey shore. Near and far, boat traffic of all sorts—barges, cargo vessels, sailboats, tourist cruises—moved in and out of his vision like actors going on- and offstage in a never-ending play.

A warm breeze stirred the air and the pigeons on the eaves cooed and strutted in their mating rituals, a sure sign that spring had sprung in Manhattan. In the parks, the crabapple and cherry trees were blossoming and others were newly sheathed in lime-green leaves; daffodils, tulips, and forsythia competed for Best in Show. On the sidewalks below, the florists and rug merchants were bringing their merchandise in for the night, and the first of the Friday dinner crowd were carrying on without a care in the world as they waltzed along to their destinations.

Corcione sighed. It seemed incongruous to him that the world went obliviously about its business while he suffered so much. Physically and emotionally exhausted, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep, but it most certainly was sometime before the murder of Vince Carlotta, when he was still living the high life, the quintessential New Yorker and feeling the
first harbingers of love. It all seemed surreal now, as if it had been an art movie he watched in another lifetime at some trendy Manhattan scene, like the cinema in the Tribeca Grand Hotel.

A tear trickled down a cheek just as he heard the sliding glass door open behind him. He didn’t turn around; he didn’t want Greg to see him crying. However, his resolve evaporated when his boyfriend walked up and put his arms around his waist.

“God, it’s beautiful up here,” Corcione whispered just before the tears began to flow in earnest, and he shook as he struggled to maintain control.

“Hey, hey, what’s the matter, handsome?” Greg asked.

Corcione shook his head as he looked down at one of Greg’s muscular forearms and the green-black tattoo of a trident. After college and the end of his football aspirations, Greg had joined the Navy to become a SEAL commando. He’d passed the rigorous testing, then served in the first Gulf War and then reupped for Afghanistan after 9/11. He’d been wounded once and awarded the Silver Star for gallantry in combat.

Yet he was the kindest, gentlest person Corcione had ever known, as well as the steadiest. “It’s nothing, just stress,” Jackie replied with a sniff.

Greg released his hold around Jackie’s waist and placed his hands on his shoulders and gently turned him around. Jackie tried to keep his head down, but Greg put a finger under his chin and lifted, forcing him to look into his eyes.

“Jackie, you’ve been stressed since December,” Greg said. “I know you were upset by the death of Mr. Carlotta, but you’re not getting past it. You don’t sleep; you’re losing weight; you’re distracted, an emotional wreck most of the time, and—sorry, I love you but—lazy as hell. Maybe you should see someone, a professional; better living through pharmaceuticals and all that. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help when you’re going through a rough patch.”

Corcione tried to smile but only half managed.
Rough patch,
he thought.
I have murdered sleep,
as the Bard once wrote. “I’m
okay,” he replied. “It’s really not something a shrink can do anything about.”

“Then what is it? Let me help you,” Greg insisted. “If you can’t trust someone who loves you, then who can you trust?”

Corcione’s lip began to quiver, and then his hands flew to his face as he let go and broke down. “I want to die,” he sobbed.

“And I want you to live. But tell me why you’d feel that way.”

“You’re going to hate me.”

“Try me,” Greg replied, his steel-gray eyes unwavering.

A long moment passed before Corcione nodded. “Let’s go sit down,” he said, indicating the living room. “This is going to take a while.” Thirty minutes later he reached the end of his story and sat quietly with his head down.

Greg, his own eyes wet with tears, let out a deep breath. “Jesus, Jackie, I didn’t expect that,” he said. “An affair maybe, or you were having second thoughts about us. But murder?” He shook his head. “I guess I knew that the docks have a reputation as a tough place, but I thought the murder-for-hire and mob shit was crap they made up for the movies.”

“Sorry to say, but wherever you have ports of entry into this country, you have somebody who wants to control what goes in and what goes out,” Corcione explained. “It’s worth an awful lot of money, and some people will do anything to get a piece of it.” He looked down at his feet and sighed. “Even people you wouldn’t expect. Every once in a while some reform-minded guy like Vince comes along and tries to clean it up. Somewhere he got the crazy idea that a union’s purpose isn’t to make its bosses rich or powerful, but to look out for the little guy, the members. But that runs contrary to the bosses and the criminals.”

“But why, Jackie?” Greg asked. “I know you—probably as well as anybody ever has—and you’re not a killer or without a conscience.”

Corcione shrugged. “First it was greed, then it was fear. Fear of getting caught. Fear of going to prison. Then I was so far in it, I
didn’t know how to turn back. Or, more accurately, I was too much of a coward to do anything about it.”

Both men sat in the silence of their own thoughts for a minute until, without looking up, Corcione asked, “So do you want me to take a hike while you pack?”

“I didn’t say I was leaving,” Greg replied as he stood up and stretched. “But I’m going for a run; I need some time alone to think.”

Corcione nodded and wiped at his eyes. “What do you think I should do?”

Greg didn’t answer at first as he zipped up the front of his gray U.S. Navy sweatshirt. Then he shook his head. “That’s something you need to answer for yourself, Jackie, and not just for your freedom, but for your sanity and your soul. All I know is that this has been pulling you apart at the seams and that can’t go on forever.”

“Will you be back?”

“This evening, yes. I’m not going to leave you alone with this hanging over your head,” Greg replied. “But after tonight, I don’t know, Jackie. You helped kill a good man, or at least you did nothing to stop it. And if that wasn’t bad enough, by doing that you betrayed us and any chance we had at a future together.”

Corcione reached out and grabbed Greg’s hand. “Please . . . we could go away,” he pleaded desperately. “Costa Rica . . . or, or Venezuela; they don’t have an extradition agreement with the U.S. I have plenty of money. We could live . . .” His voice trailed off as his boyfriend withdrew his hand.

“Even if I was willing to leave my work and my country,” Greg said, “do you really think I could live off blood money? Don’t you know me better than that? But more than that, this isn’t something you can run away from, sweetheart—it will follow you wherever you go. You have to decide if you can live with that.”

Corcione hung his head and nodded. Greg furrowed his brow. “You won’t do anything stupid while I’m gone?”

Realizing the reason for Greg’s concern, Corcione smiled. “Don’t worry, I don’t think I have the courage for that either,”
he said. “I’m more the run-away-and-hope-they-don’t-find-me kind of guy.”

Greg reached down and stroked Corcione’s hair. “You’re a good man, Jackie; you did a terrible thing, but it’s never too late to do the right thing. I’ll be back in a half hour.” With that, he turned and left the apartment.

A few minutes later, Corcione was still sitting on the couch contemplating his next step when his cell phone went off. He looked at the caller ID and ignored it. But when the cell went off again with the same caller ID, he angrily picked it up.

“What do you want, Charlie?” he demanded and listened before replying, “Not now. I just don’t feel like seeing Joey Barros, or dealing with any union business at the moment.” He scowled and then swore. “Goddamn it, all right, the asshole can drop off the fucking papers, and I’ll look them over and get back to you tomorrow. . . . What? Why? . . . Joey doesn’t want to meet any of my friends? Fuck him, but you can let him know I’m alone so there’s only one fag he has to be near. . . . Yeah, good; the sooner he gets here, the sooner he can leave.”

Hanging up, Corcione went into the bathroom to wash his face. He didn’t want Barros to know he’d been crying; he wasn’t going to give the bastard any more ammunition for his homophobic bullshit.

He’d just returned to the living room when the door intercom buzzed. “Yeah?” he answered, his gut clenching at the thought of the ghoulish Joey Barros standing in the doorway of his building fifteen floors below.

“You alone?” Barros asked.

“Yeah, Barros,” Corcione replied. “Don’t worry, you’re not going to get gang-raped by a pack of wild homos.”

There was a pause and Corcione imagined that he could feel the man’s cold hatred for him radiating up to the loft. “Let me in,” Barros replied tersely.

Corcione shivered as he pressed the button and waited impatiently at the door for his visitor. At the soft knock, he turned the
deadbolt and opened the door to see his antagonist dressed in a black raincoat and fedora.
Looks like a funeral director,
he thought. He expected the look of disgust in the man’s dark eyes, but he didn’t expect the expression to morph into a grin as Barros extended his right hand, in which he held what looked like a flashlight.

“Night-night, fairy,” Barros sneered as he pressed the stun gun just below Corcione’s rib cage and pushed the button.

The electroshock weapon immediately sent a bolt of intense pain shooting through Corcione’s body as well as caused his muscles to contract and spasm, knocking him backward off his feet. He was twitching and completely disoriented as Barros calmly shut the door and threw the deadbolt.

Barros then walked around and, grabbing him by the back of his sweatshirt, dragged him into the living room, where he left him before disappearing from sight. Corcione could hear him moving through the apartment, calling out, “Hello? Is there anybody here?” When there were no answers, he returned.

Barros walked over to the dining room table and picked up a chair that he placed in the middle of the living room. He grabbed the still-dazed Corcione by the hair and yanked him up and into the chair. Binding his victim’s wrists to the arms of the chair with a roll of duct tape, he grabbed Corcione’s sweatpants and yanked them down, exposing his genitals, before taping his ankles to the chair’s front legs. Barros stood up, panting lightly.

As he came increasingly to his senses, Corcione struggled against his bonds, which seemed to please Barros, who smiled and reached into his raincoat pocket. He pulled out a notepad and pen, which he showed to Corcione and placed on the coffee table. “We’re going to have a little conversation and I’m going to take notes,” he explained. His hand disappeared back inside the pocket and emerged with the stun gun.

Holding the weapon in front of the terrified man’s face, Barros pressed the button again; the electrodes arced wickedly with a crackling flash of blue light and the smell of burned ozone. He
then lowered the device until it was hovering just above Corcione’s groin.

“I want the location and number of all your bank accounts and the passwords,” Barros demanded. “I have an associate standing by who will let me know if the information you give me is accurate.” He leaned over to speak quietly into Corcione’s ear. “And if you even think of lying to me, I’m going to fry your balls into jelly, you little cocksucker, and then I’m going to do the same thing to your boyfriend.”