Soul Patch

I ignored that. “So what happened?”

“Guess Larry didn’t like having his balls in someone else’s hands.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that if he killed for me once, maybe he’d have to do it again.”

“Did he?”

“Let’s just say Larry didn’t have much of a heart for me fter. .” He didn’t bother finishing his sentence.

Frankie Motta was spent. The frosty looks and lobster smiles were all gone now. Only strain showed on the scarecrow. He was exhausted, but couldn’t quite bring himself to admit it. Not only had my presence been a distraction, it had breathed a few minutes of life back into him. He remembered what it felt like to be powerful, to make decisions about other people’s deaths instead of watching boat wakes and waiting for his own.

“So, you happy now?” he asked. “You gonna sleep better tonight? A dead fuckin’ nigger and a dirty cop. . I mean, who really gives a shit besides you?” Motta spun the chair about and wheeled back over by the French doors. “It’s been nice talkin’ to you, Prager, but you’re startin’ to gimme agita.”

He was right. No one gave a shit. If that was as far as it went, I might actually have been inclined to let go and toss it into the water with the rest of the world’s sins. But this wasn’t just about Larry. There was too much blood and too many bodies to ignore and simply move on.

“You still here?” he asked.

“We’re not done.”

“I disagree. Now get the fuck out.”

“Can’t do it. You’ll miss the part about your son.”

Motta flinched. It was barely perceptible and he kept his eyes on the water the whole time, but I hadn’t imagined it. “What about him?”

“You should be proud of him. He’s following in your footsteps.”

“Stop talkin’ outta your ass, Prager. My kid ain’t like me.” But this wasn’t a proud father jumping to his son’s defense. If I could have

“Nice.”

“Nice got nothin’ to do with it.”

“I guess not.”

I opened my mouth to say something else, but I can’t recall what.

“Quiet!” Motta whispered, rolling his chair up next to me.

There was a conversation out in the hallway between Anita and a man. I couldn’t make out their words. I thought I recognized the man’s voice and though Motta didn’t quite tilt his head like a curious dog, it seemed to me that he recognized it, too. I didn’t like that. Why would Frankie Motta know Captain Martello’s voice? What I heard next, I liked even less. Something thumped hard against the wall-Anita?  — and the conversation came to an abrupt halt.

Motta started panting again and there was real fear in his eyes. It was hard to tell whether Frank’s concern was for himself or his nurse. I reached around for my piece, but when I brought it forward my hand slammed against the wheelchair and the pistol fell a few feet behind Motta’s back. Never mind retrieving it, I didn’t even have time to bend my knees before Martello strolled fully into the room. He was pointing a cocked.38 of his own vaguely in my direction.

“Ripples in the water,” Motta whispered to me.

“Shut up, Frankie! And don’t look so disappointed.”

“Whaddaya do to Anita, you cocksucker?” Motta asked, trying to slow his breathing and failing.

“I put her to sleep for a little while. I wouldn’t worry about it, she won’t feel a thing. And that asshole kid of yours, you don’t have to worry about him either. What an idiot, Frankie. You sure he was yours?”

Frankie Motta clamped his hands on the arms of the wheelchair, trying to raise himself up, but it was no good. He fell back, defeated, his coughing worse.

“That’s right, Frankie, sit the fuck back down. All this violence, because your kid had to walk in your footsteps. He had to bring up the past. Now I gotta put an end to it.”

“You helped kill Mayweather!” I said to Martello.

“Prager, you schmuck! Too bad you figured that out seventeen years and two minutes too late. Kenny, get in here!” Martello barked, tilting his head back slightly over his shoulder.

Caveman Kenny Burton walked into the room, a black 9mm dangling in his hand. If I had any lingering questions about who had helped Larry Mac murder Dexter Mayweather, Burton’s appearance answered them. No doubt Kenny had enjoyed breaking D Rex’s bones.

“Hey, Moe, I ever tell you you were a cunt?”

“At every opportunity.”

The corners of his lips turned up.

“Stop fucking around!” Ever the commanding officer, Martello shouted some more orders, then turned his attention back to me. “That was some fancy gun handling I saw when I came in, Prager. Pick it up.”

If I had any balls, I would have told him to go fuck himself. What I did instead was pick up the gun.

“You told me it was a bad day for you when D Rex was killed,” I said to Burton as I knelt to retrieve my gun.

“I guess I lied. Go figure.”

“Yeah, go figure.”

Violence put Kenny in a talkative mood. “Good thing for me your pal Rico got cold feet that night or I woulda missed out on a big pay-day. You may be a cunt, but he’s a real fucking coward. I’m gonna enjoy killing him.”

“Not if I get to him first.”

“I like my chances better,” he said, making some guttural noises that passed for laughter.

“Shut the fuck up, the both of you,” Martello groused. “Prager, go stand over by the fireplace.”

I did.

“Shoot Frankie!”

At first I didn’t think I’d heard Martello right. Several scenarios ran through my head, none of them any good. I might be able to get one shot off at either Martello or Kenny, but not both, and I’d be dead before I found out if I’d hit the target. Didn’t seem like a good option, not yet, anyway. Besides, Motta was spasming and coughing up wads of blood-laced phlegm. He was twitching so much I wasn’t sure I

Martello had other ideas. “Then shoot at the fucking floor, but shoot.”

“Fuck you!” I thought I heard myself say.

A moment of clarity. He wanted me to be found with gunpowder residue on my skin and sleeve. Considering the volume of raw violence over the last few weeks, I thought this all very silly and elaborate. Homicide according to Robert’s Rules of Order. Apparently, the Caveman agreed with me.

“This is bullshit!” Kenny whined, raising up his nine mil. “I shoulda just killed you first at Rip’s the other night.” He saw the stunned look on my face. “That’s right, Moe, I was standing so close behind you I coulda licked the wax outta your fucking ear. You’re a lucky bastard, you know that? If that asshole Bento wasn’t there, you’d be-”

“Shut up, Burton, and let’s finish this up.”

“Fuck you, Martello.” Kenny had chafed at authority when we were on the job together. He didn’t seem to tolerate it any better now.

For the second time in as many minutes, I opened my mouth to say something but was interrupted, this time by gunfire.

Bang!

I looked down at my gun hand to make sure I hadn’t pulled the trigger. When I looked back up, Kenny Burton-legless as a drunken teenager, his expression asking, “Hey, what the fuck?”-was doing a London Bridge. He fell down, all right, his head smacking the hardwood floor with a nauseating, hollow thud. I felt it more than Kenny did. He was beyond feeling. Then again, he had always seemed to be beyond feeling.

“Don’t worry about him,” Martello said to me. “He was gonna die anyway. Now shoot the fucking gun, Prager. If you can’t tell, I’m not in the mood for any more bullshit.”

My gun hand felt completely detached from my arm. It took all my strength and focus just to raise it up and pull back the hammer. I pointed it away from Frankie, who was now desperately groping for his inhaler. For the