Deadly Lullaby (2 page)

The rest of me wants to rip out Macky's heart and gnaw a chunk from it before his horror-stricken eyes.

It will be that kind of meeting.

Macky instructs his bodyguards to stay put in the reception area, closes the office door and sits behind his too-big desk. Me and my son ease into the chairs across from him and Macky takes a chrome-plated revolver—which is also too big—from the desk drawer and makes a production of assuring it is loaded, unlatching and spinning the cylinder, then flipping it shut. He places it on the desktop, grinning like the cocky asshole he has just confirmed himself to be.

“No disrespect intended, Babe, but I was shocked to learn that you are standing up for your son.” He looks at him. “A cop, a lousy gambler who don't pay his debts…Pathetic is the nicest word that comes to mind.”

I seethe a few seconds before I say, “He has certain financial issues now, yes. But—and I say this as objectively as any father can—he also has certain qualities that make him worthy of redemption.”

This is a true statement.

My son has a good head for academics, especially for math, and has a business administration degree. And he was always as proficient and enthusiastic a street fighter as his father ever was; just ask any of the old neighborhood bullies who don't walk or talk quite right anymore. Better yet, ask any of the so-called criminals who have filed complaints of excessive force against him, and I hear there are quite a few.

Macky looks so bored he is practically yawning, so I take a thick envelope from my breast pocket and toss it over the desk to him. “In any event, this is not about him. It is a matter of honor with me,” and I say this because this is the kind of corny
Goodfellas
crap that I know impresses Macky.

And he is, in fact, impressed. He sighs after a long few seconds and says, “Well, I certainly understand that,” and nods and shrugs as if he would never allow a stand-up guy like me to dishonor himself, like he is only accepting the money for my benefit.

He finally picks up the envelope and peeks inside it, thumbs through the bills absentmindedly like he knows it is all there. He looks up. “I demanded that both of you be here in person so I can make something very clear.” He points a fat finger at my son. “The only reason you're not dead or at least seriously fucked-up is because I've known your father for years. This is the only pass you get. Ever welsh on another betting tab with one of my guys? I'll have you slaughtered like an Easter lamb—Crucci or no Crucci, cop or no cop. Understood?”

My son barely nods.

Macky looks at me.

I nod.

Macky appears satisfied.

I rise and prepare to say,
We now have no conflicts and no debts between us,
a take on a line from
Godfather III
that I know will make Macky want to hug me again.

But Macky does not stand. Instead he leans back in his chair, picks up the revolver and rests it on his bloated stomach. “Not yet, Babe. I want to talk about something else.”

I sit.

“You need work?” Macky says.

My son rustles in his seat.

I am not surprised by the question, because my so-called employment with Joe Sacci, the man I have worked with for years, is the subject of much talk and conjecture on the street. “Why do you ask?” I say.

Macky smiles. “Sacci says you're not on his full-time payroll no more.”

“That is correct.”

This is a true statement.

“He says you're available to the open market.”

“I am.”

This is also a true statement.

“Good, I have plenty for you to do.” A grim smile. “You know about Viktor Tarasov?”

“Very little.”

This is
not
a true statement.

Macky turns solemn and his face becomes even more inflamed than usual. “Tarasov's a Russian who's been establishing a presence here in LA for about a year now. I thought me and him were becomin' friends, but now it looks like that ain't gonna happen. Last week we had some disagreements, and—well, let me be frank—eliminate me from the face of the fuckin' planet is what he wants to do. I need good men like you to protect my interests. Men who will permanently see to it that Tarasov will no longer present a competitive threat.”

He winks as if a wink is necessary for me to understand the underlying meaning of the latter comment.

I pause as if I am thinking it over—though I am really savoring the irony of all this—then we talk amicably about money, about fees, the expenses he will cover, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Then I say, “Sure, on those terms I will help you address this Russian menace.”

This is not a true statement.

I say further, “I have admired and respected you from afar these many years,” which is not true either, “and swear upon the soul of my dead mother that I will be loyal to you 'til my bones turn to dust.”

Ditto.

Macky is so clearly moved by this goombah bullshit, the likes of which I have heard uttered only in movies, that his eyes mist up.

He rises from his chair, places the revolver on the desk, and walks around the desk to give me The Welcome-Aboard Hug. “I've always wanted you in my family. C'mere, you big wop, you're one of us now.”

I am relieved he does not hold out his fucking hand for me to kiss, which would have sent me into such a fit of uncontrolled laughter that it would have spoiled everything.

He gives me The Hug and I enthusiastically return it.

We separate a few inches and look into each other's eyes. I pat his cheek affectionately. “Macky?”

He smiles. “Yeah, Babe?”

“Viktor Tarasov wanted me to say goodbye to you on his behalf,” and I clutch his trachea by sticking three fingers just below his voice box on one side and poking the thumb behind the other side, then squeeze my fingers together and twist with all my might.

To learn how to crush a trachea, surround a fat carrot with, say, two sticks of celery. Wrap a flank steak around the entire concoction. Anchor it in a vise, then hold the top steady with one hand and perform the above procedure with your dominant hand—a forceful squeeze followed by a mighty twist. The carrot should be cleanly broken and the celery reduced to a juicy pulp when you unwrap them. If the latter two events do not occur, do not try to kill someone in this fashion—instead, go to the gym.

Macky's unconscious if not dead already, his pallid face turning reddish blue and streaked by white.

At the other end of the spectrum is my son's face, which is drained of all color. He lights the wrong end of a cigarette and takes a deep drag before his eyes go wide at the flaming tip. He nonetheless takes another drag, then stares at me and moves his mouth soundlessly, like a big fish that needs to jump back in the lake for a dose of oxygen.

I have my son's rapt attention.

I allow Macky's body to collapse to its knees, step gingerly behind it, cup the chin in the palm of my left hand and grab a hunk of hair with my right. In a rapid counterclockwise motion, I twist the head.

The neck snaps.

My son flinches.

Try as I might, I have never figured out the right combination of inanimate materials that realistically simulate the sensation of snapping a human neck. You can, of course, practice on stray dogs that shit in your yard, the bigger they are, the better. But, if you are a kid, I do not recommend you do this to your father's pet German shepherd he named Adolph who bites you one too many times. It will give your father yet another excuse to pummel you senseless, and the Department of Children and Family Services will take you away.

I ease the carcass to the floor.

My son's elbows are propped on his knees and his head is in his hands. He uncovers his face, which is flushed from the neck up. “Why the hell didn't you tell me you were going to do that?”

An odd sense of rejection hits me in the gut. I thought he would be impressed—won over, even—by the physical prowess and sheer cunning I just displayed, the élan. Stunned mute by his reaction, I step over Macky's remains to retrieve the cigarette smoldering on the floor; it has burned a patch in the yellow carpet, and I fear the stink will alert the bodyguards outside. After extinguishing the smoke in the desk ashtray and stowing the butt in my pocket (fingerprints, fingerprints), I lean down to quietly address him. “Is this really something you would want to know about ahead of time? I mean, think about it.”

“What? I—” He shakes his head, blinks, as if waking from a bad dream. “You used me. You claimed you wanted to help me just so you could burn Macky.”

“Pull yourself together and lower your voice,” I say, giving the closed door a quick glance. “Listen to me. There wasn't any other way to get to him.”

He stares at me as if I am speaking in tongues.

Try another tack: “He
slapped
you, for Christ sake.”

No dice: “I was going to pay the fucker back someday but, god
damn,
I wasn't—” Another shake of the head, another blink. “That was psycho
,
” he says. “Even coming from you, that was fuckin' psycho,” and he runs both hands through his hair and looks away in disgust. “I don't know what—” His expression of shock and anger quickly mutates to one of concern. He jerks his head at the door. “You got
any
idea how we're supposed to get out of here alive?”

“Oh, them. They will be no problem,” I say, and reveal my straightforward plan: I surprise the bodyguards outside with Macky's pistol and tie them up with the cords from the window blinds and phones.

“What about Godzilla downstairs?”

“Chief? I will tell him what happened then offer him a job. Me and Chief are friends, plus now he needs work. He will present no problem.”

He stands. “I want out of here
now.
”

“Let's go, then,” I say, and retrieve the revolver from the desktop, then snatch the fat envelope of cash resting next to it. I move toward the door with my son in tow, conceal the gun behind my back and grip the doorknob. I pause an instant to think, then whisper, “I'm starving. You are still up for breakfast at La Parrilla, right?”

His reaction makes it obvious to me that the ball game is out of the question, too.

About fifteen minutes later we walk into the bright sunlight that bathes the loading dock and find Chief leaning against a support beam. A cigarette dangles from his lips and a crooked length of ash falls to his lapel when his facial muscles attempt to form a smile. The smile, such as it is, dissolves into a bewildered expression when Leo floats past him wordlessly, expressionless, like a ghost in a residual haunting, a mere time stamp on the environment.

“What's up with him?” Chief says.

“Kids these days have no respect. Forget about him.”

Chief shrugs as if he forgot him already. “How'd it go up there?”

I stroll toward him. “You know how Macky gets with us Italians. He got all choked up.”

Chief nods. “Really laid it on him thick, huh?”

“I left him breathless.”

“Breathless,” he says and cuts his eyes at me. He squints one eye against a wisp of cigarette smoke, tilts his head as if pondering a riddle, and studies my midsection, where the bodyguards' pistols tucked in my waistband bulge against my sport coat. “Choked up.”

He doesn't get it yet, but he is close.

I move closer to him and lower my voice. “Say, Chief, how would you like to work for me?”

He toes out his spent cigarette on the pavement, lips a new one from a pack he pulls from his breast pocket, and fires it up with a vintage
Ronson
lighter. “You,” he says, “not Joe Sacci.”

“Right. Do not get me wrong. Me and Joe are still all right. It is just we are not joined at the hip anymore. I wanted to be an independent contractor, in a manner of speaking, and he agreed.”

He nods while he thinks this over, his face simmering with curiosity until something occurs to him. “Say, how come you didn't ask me to work for you when you got here?”

“You had an employer then.”

Now he gets it.

I smile.

“I knew you were up to something,” Chief says, takes a nervous drag from his smoke, and tilts his head toward Leo, who is now entering my car. “So that's what's eatin' him.”

I nod. “He will be okay.”

“I dunno, bein' a cop and all…”

“Chief, I said he will be okay.” I wink. “Trust me.”

A roll of his eyes heavenward. “Trust you, right…Tell me, how'd you do Macky?”

I describe how I did him.

“Oh, yeah, okay, choked up and breathless, sure, now I get it….What the hell did you do with the other guys up there, the bodyguards?”

“Bound and gagged them very securely. Hope they're not friends of yours.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, the pricks treated me like a rented mule….What's gonna happen to 'em?”

“Tarasov's guys will stop by to question them soon, after I make the call. Joe and Tarasov believe they possess information that is crucial to a smooth transition of power.”

“
Sacci's
in on this, too?”

“Does that bother you, Chief? I mean, being that Sacci and Macky were friends and all?”

Chief shows me his palms in a gesture of submission. “Oh, no, not me, no. I'm just—” He clears his throat. “Look, tell you what, when Tarasov's guys are finished
questionin'
the assholes up there and, you know”—he slashes his forefinger across his throat—“tell 'em I'll help…get rid of the bodies, whatever.” He takes another drag from his cigarette and his fingers tremble just enough to be noticeable. “And I'll answer any question they got about Macky's operation. I know where more than a few skeletons are buried.”

“No, it would probably be in your best interest to get as far away from here as you can before the mad Russians arrive.”