Chapter 127 128

Chapter 127 128
“Good.” I busy myself checking my weapons.

The van comes to a slow stop a few blocks down from the laundromat. I look at the men, into their eyes one by one, not having to say anything. We all know the details of the plan: attack, burn, send a clear fucking message. “Let’s go.”

Durante and I approach from the front with our rifles at our sides, sticking to the shadows. The streets are dead at this time of night, especially this far out in the city, the only sounds coming from a few apartments. People screwing, yelling, watching TV. The laundromat is quiet and, as we expected, deserted. Durante places his bag on the floor and starts getting the cocktails ready.

I reach my hand out for one, already going for the lighter. Then, behind us, somebody coughs.

Durante and I turn.

There are three Irishmen there, standing in the shadows, one of them with a needle sticking out of his arm as he slumps against the graffiti-covered wall. The other two look at him like hungry junkies. I wonder if that’s how I look when I’m staring at Hazel. Addicted to her. Thinking of her even now, when three armed Irishmen—they’re always armed—are staring at us in the middle of the night. Colleen, I tell myself. I have to start calling her Colleen.

We all just stare at each other for a second, maybe lost in the absurdity of it, that we would randomly cross paths on this night of all nights. Then I curse and go for my gun. I made a mistake, putting it down to light the Molotov. The injected Irishman is useless, just smiling dumbly as he slumps down. But the other two spring up.

Durante made the same mistake I did, dropping the lighter and going for his gun. The Irishman pulls his gun so fast it’s like we’re in an old Western, the kind Father would sometimes watch when I was really young, with me sitting between his feet on the floor.

With a bang that seems unrealistically loud, the bullet thumps into Durante’s belly. The big man roars and, instead of falling like the shooter expects, throws himself at the Irishman.

That distraction gives me the time I need. The other man squeals and turns his pistol on me. He’s at least fifty and the squeal sounds out of place. He’s bald except for a few curls of gray hair. Snot clings to his upper lip, making him look like an overgrown infant.

I duck just before he fires. The bullet whizzes past somewhere above my head. The junkie is trying to stand, looking around half aware of what’s going on. I aim and fire, catching the gray-haired bastard in the throat. He fires again, somehow hitting Durante in the shoulder as he wrestles his friend. Durante roars out, “Fucker! Fucker!”

I shoot again, this time catching him in the chest. He falls against the wall with a gasp, sliding down and clawing at his heart like he’ll be able to dislodge the bullet.

“Durante,” I say, moving forward.

He nods, oddly casual, and then flips onto his back and lifts the man into the air. I fire carefully just above the ear, not wanting to hit my lieutenant’s hand. Durante tosses the man aside like a rag doll and then slumps down, heaving breaths, his eyes opening and closing slowly in a way I don’t like at all.

I grab the junkie and pat him down, taking his gun, and then whip him across the face with the butt of the pistol. He collapses to the floor. Blood and broken teeth trickle from his mouth.

Then I radio Nario. “Family doctor. Laundromat. Now.”

“Who and what?”

“Durante. He took two. Belly and shoulder.”

“Shit. Okay. He’s on standby. About five minutes.”

“Make it quicker.”

“Okay.”

I kneel down next to Durante and pull off my black hoodie, pressing it into his belly. He smiles sickly up at me. “Is it true, Carlo?” he says. “Is it true you’re gonna be a dad? Is it true I’m gonna be an uncle?”

“How do you know that?” I ask uncertainly.

“Nario mentioned. Just in passing. Said you were real tore up about it.”

I shake my head. Blood seeps into the hoodie, all around my hands. “That’s the last thing you need to be worrying about. Just focus on staying awake.”

He grins at me, this giant loyal man. “What if this helps me stay awake? I wanna be an uncle. Never had a nephew before. Your kid can call me ‘uncle,’ right, Carlo?”

“Sure, sure,” I say, looking over my shoulder for the doctor. He needs to hurry the fuck up.

“Do you love her?” he asks.

I laugh savagely, thinking about how she looked in the office. I feel the sting of betrayal all over again. “She lied to me, Durante.”

“A woman lied?” Durante sniggers, sounding oddly young. There’s too much blood coming from the wounds. If the doctor doesn’t hurry, I’m going to kill him out of mercy. “They do that, Carlo. She just wants you to like her. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with white lies.”

“This lie wasn’t so white.” I shake my head. “Where the fuck is that man?”

“Is there a lot of blood?” Durante whispers.

“Don’t look,” I tell him as he tries to sit up.

“You’d make a good dad, Carlo.” Durante smiles. Behind me, there’s a crash and then a whoosh as the laundromat catches fire. The men on the other side must be throwing their Molotovs, which means it’s only been a few minutes. That seems absurd. It feels like much, much longer. “What is a dad, really, except a don for a little kid? And you’re the best don in the world.”

His voice has a distant quality, fading. I don’t like it.

“Just keep your eyes open, man.”

Finally, the car pulls up and the Family doctor comes running out, followed by two Family men. They look down at Durante uncertainly as the doctor, a tall thin man named Ettore, adjusts his wire-framed glasses and frowns as though looking at a crossword.

“And how are we this evening, Mr. Marino?” he asks. He gestures at the men. “Help me lift him.”

“Oh, fine, doc.” Durante smiles sleepily. “I’m going to be an uncle.”

Hours pass as I pace around the small lobby area in Ettore’s apartment, which is decked out like a miniature hospital ward. I wonder if the injury was bad enough that we needed to take him to the actual hospital, but lately, I’ve been hesitant about doing that. The Irish are getting bold. I wouldn’t put attacking a hospital past the Elephant.

Finally, Ettore emerges. “He’ll live,” he tells me. “But he is staying here. Okay?”

I nod. “Sure. Can I see him?”

He shakes his head. “He’s sleeping. Go, sir. There is nothing more for you to do.”