Darkfall

Jack hastily opened it, rummaged through the contents, and extracted an eight-by-ten glossy.

Carramazza said, “It's an enlargement of a snapshot taken in a restaurant shortly after Lavelle began operating in what has been traditionally our territory.”

Traditionally our territory. Good God, Jack thought, he sounds as if he's some British duke complaining about poachers invading his fox-hunting fields!

The photo was a bit fuzzy, but Lavelle's face was sufficiently distinct so that, henceforth, Jack would be able to recognize him if he ever saw him on the street. The man was very black, handsome — indeed, striking — with a broad brow, deepset eyes, high cheekbones, and a wide mouth. In the picture he was smiling at someone who wasn't within the camera's field. He had an engaging smile.

Jack passed the picture to Rebecca.

Carramazza said, “Lavelle wants to take away my business, destroy my reputation within the fratellanza, and make me look weak and helpless. Me. Me, the man who has controlled the organization with an iron hand for twenty-eight years! Me!”

Finally, emotion filled his voice: cold, hard anger. He went on, spitting out the words as if they tasted bad.

“But that isn't the worst of it. No. You see, he doesn't actually want the business. Once he's got it, he'll throw it away, let the other families move in and carve it up among themselves. He just doesn't want me or anyone named Carramazza to have it. This isn't merely a battle for the territory, not just a struggle for control. For Lavelle, this is strictly a matter of revenge. He wants to see me suffer in every way possible. He intends to isolate me and hopes to break my spirit by robbing me of my empire and by killing my nephews, my sons. Yes, all of them, one by one. He threatens to murder my best friends, as well, anyone who has ever meant anything to me. He promises to kill my five precious grandchildren. Can you believe such a thing? He threatens little babies! No vengeance, regardless of how justified it might be, should ever touch innocent children.”

“He's actually told you that he'll do all of those things?” Rebecca asked. “When? When did he tell you?”

“Several times.”

“You've had face-to-face meetings?”

“No. He wouldn't survive a face-to-face meeting.”

The banker image had vanished. There was no veneer of gentility now. The old man looked more reptilian than ever. Like a snake in a thousand-dollar suit. A very poisonous snake.

He said, “This crudball Lavelle told me these things on the phone. My unlisted home number. I keep having the number changed, but the creep gets the new one every time, almost as soon as it's installed. He tells me… he says… after he has killed my friends, nephews, sons, grandkids, then… he says he's going to… he says he's going to…”

For a moment, recalling Lavelle's arrogant threats, Carramazza was unable to speak; anger locked his jaws; his teeth were clenched, and the muscles in his neck and cheeks were bulging. His dark eyes, always disturbing, now shone with a rage so intense, so inhuman that it communicated itself to Jack and sent a chill up his spine.

Eventually, Carramazza regained control of himself. When he spoke, however, his voice never rose above a fierce, frigid whisper. “This scum, this nigger bastard, this piece of shit—he tells me he'll slaughter my wife, my Nina. Slaughter was the word he used. And when he's butchered her, he says, he'll then take my daughter from me, too.” The old man's voice softened when he spoke of his daughter. “My Rosie. My beautiful Rosie, the light of my life. Twenty-seven, but she looks seventeen. And smart, too. A medical student. Going to be a doctor. Starts her internship this year. Skin like porcelain. The loveliest eyes you've ever seen.” He was quiet for a moment, seeing Rosie in his mind's eye, and then his whisper became harsh again: “Lavelle says he'll rape my daughter and then cut her to pieces, dismember her… in front of my eyes. He has the balls to say such things to me!” With that last declaration, Carramazza sprayed spittle on Jack's overcoat. For a few seconds, the old man said nothing more; he just took deep, shuddering breaths. His talonlike fingers closed into fists, opened, closed, opened, closed. Then: “I want the bastard stopped.”

“You've put all your people into the search for him?” Jack asked. “Used all your sources?”

“Yes.”

“But you still can't find him.”

“Nooo,” Carramazza said, and in the drawing — out of that one word, he revealed a frustration almost as great as his rage. “He's left his place in the Village, gone to ground, hiding out. That's why I'm bringing this information to you. You can put out an APB now that you've got his picture. Then every cop in the city will be looking for him, and that's a lot more men than I've got. You can even put it on the TV news, in the papers, and then virtually everyone in the whole damned city will have an eye out for him. If I can't get to him, then at least I want you to nail him and put him away. Once he's behind bars…”

“You'll have ways of reaching him in prison,” Rebecca said, finishing the thought to which Carramazza would not give voice. “If we arrest him, he'll never stand trial. He'll be killed in jail.”

Carramazza wouldn't confirm what she had said, but they all knew it was true.

Jack said, “You've told us Lavelle is motivated by revenge. But for what? What did you do to him that would make him want to exterminate your entire family, even your grandchildren?”

“I won't tell you that. I can't tell you because, if I did, I might be compromising myself.”

“More likely incriminating yourself,” Rebecca said.

Jack slipped the photograph of Lavelle back into the envelope. “I've been wondering about your brother Dominick.”

Gennaro Carramazza seemed to shrivel and age at the mention of his dead brother.

Jack said, “I mean, he was apparently hiding out, in the hotel here, when Lavelle got to him. But if he knew he was targeted, why didn't he squirrel himself away at his own place or come to you for protection? Under the circumstances, no place in the city would be as safe as your house. With all this going down, surely you must have a fortress out there in Brooklyn Heights.”

“It is,” the old man said. “My house is a fortress.” His eyes blinked once, twice, slow as lizard eyes. “A fortress — but not safe. Lavelle has already struck inside my own house, in spite of the tight security.”

“You mean, he's killed in your house—”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Ginger and Pepper.”

“Who're they?”

“My doggies. A matched pair of papillons.”

“Ah.”

“Little dogs, you know.”

“I'm not really sure what they look like,” Jack said.

“Toy spaniels,” Rebecca said. “Long, silky coats.”

“Yes, yes. Very playful,” Carramazza said. “Always wrestling with each other, chasing. Always wanting to be held and petted.”

“And they were killed in your house.”

Carramazza looked up. “Last night. Torn to pieces. Somehow — we still don't know how — Lavelle or one of his men got in, killed my sweet little dogs, and got out again without being spotted.” He slammed one bony hand down on his attache case. “Damnit, the whole thing's impossible! The house is sealed tight! Guarded by a small army!” He blinked more rapidly than he had done before, and his voice faltered. “Ginger and Pepper were so gentle. They wouldn't bite anyone. Never. They hardly even barked. They didn't deserve to be treated so brutally. Two innocent little creatures.”

Jack was astounded. This murderer, this geriatric dope peddler, this ancient racketeer, this supremely dangerous poisonous lizard of a man, who had been unable or unwilling to weep for his dead brother, now seemed on the verge of tears over the slaying of his dogs.

Jack glanced at Rebecca. She was staring at Carramazza, half in wide-eyed wonder, half in the manner of someone watching a particularly loathsome creature as it crawled out from under a rock.

The old man said, “After all, they weren't guard dogs. They weren't attack dogs. They posed no threat. Just a couple of adorable little toy spaniels…”

Not quite sure how to handle a maudlin mafia chieftain, Jack tried to get Carramazza off the subject of his