sealed trunk, this insignificant curled little animal-the long view was worse. Joe felt a panic of claustrophobia. He shook it away, forced himself to relax.
This was the way they would come for Joe, too, someday. They would not come heavy, they would not send a soldier. They would use someone he trusted, an old friend, someone he felt safe with. Joe’s murderer would come wearing a smile, bearing a shiny gift-an offer, an invitation-he might even be a cop. No frontal assault, no spray of machine-gun fire, no “you dirty rat.” The blow would come from behind, a sucker punch, the Beantown special. Joe would never see it coming.
In Revere they came to a motel called The Hideaway. Cinder-block construction, neon sign out front. A high picket fence bordered the parking lot. It blocked the view of the industrial plants on either side, though both were marked in three-foot lettering visible above the fence, REVERE MARINE ENGINE CO. on one side, INDUSTRIAL HEAT TREATING on the other.
Gargano nosed the Caddy into a parking space next to a white ’63 Impala. The second car parked on the opposite side of the Impala.
The men got out, stiff-limbed, stretching, shaking off the ride. They gathered around Gargano’s trunk.
Inside, Marolla was awake. He pulled in a deep oxygen-rich breath, blinked up at them-and launched into his defense. “Vince. I didn’t do anything. I swear. I don’t know what they told you but I swear to God, Vince, IsweartoGodonmymother’sgrave, whatever they told you I did I didn’t do it.”
Gargano said, “You don’t even know what the fuck you did, but you didn’t do it?”
The men laughed.
Marolla did not laugh. “Sorry, Vince. Sorry. Tell me. I can explain.”
“You skimmed.”
“No!”
“You skimmed.”
“No! I did not! I swear! You gotta listen. It’s a mistake. I’m tellin’ you.”
“No mistake.” Gargano said to no one in particular, “Get him into the other car.”
The trunk of the Impala was opened with a key. With a grunt, a couple of guys lifted Marolla and heaved him into the trunk of the Impala. The car kneeled under the weight. “Sleep tight,” one of them said.
Joe stood among them. He was not sure how to handle himself, whether to assert his loyalty to the group with some sort of wiseacre remark or just keep quiet and let them speculate that he might, in the end, be a real cop. The fact was, Joe had no intention of being a real cop. He knew the rules. You talk, you die. Maybe you die after you talk to the D.A., maybe you die after you talk to the grand jury. But cop or no cop, you talk, you die. Everyone could be reached. Besides, how would he explain his own role in tricking Marolla out of the Top Hat? He was already an accessory. Who would believe, or care, that Joe had thought Marolla was only going to be roughed up and released? Anyway, it was already too late. Seven of them, one of him. Joe had no choice. No choice but to let it happen. Soon it would be over anyway. Marolla would get the traditional two in the hat and the trunk would be closed and they could go home. Joe lowered his eyes. Out of habit he noted the license number of the car, for the report he would never write: Rhode Island plates, PM 387. No doubt the plates and the car had been stolen separately. Probably the Impala had been left here a few days before so its arrival would not attract attention the morning after the murder. Rhode Island, PM 387-Joe wished he could write it down in his notebook. That was proper procedure. He did not trust his memory. Did not trust his own mind. He had seen death before. He’d killed guys before, Germans. He could do this.
The Impala had a long, low trunk. With the lid raised, it looked spacious enough.
Marolla was trying to jerk himself up onto the side wall of the trunk so he could face them from a semi-sitting position.
“Gimme that string,” Gargano said.
“No! Vince! Don’t! It’s a mistake. Listen to me, just one second-”
“‘Ooh-ooh, it’s a mistake!’ Tell me how it’s a fuckin’ mistake? Huh? Tell me. Tell me how it’s a fuckin’ mistake, you fuck. Go on, I’m listenin’.”
“It just is. I didn’t do it, Vin, I swear. You gotta believe me. I know everybody says that, but I’m telling you the truth. Please.”
“You must think I’m fuckin’ stupid. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No. Vin, no. I don’t think that.”
“Do I look stupid to you?”
“No.”
“Then what are you talking to me like I’m fuckin’ stupid, telling me it’s a mistake? How can it be a mistake?” Gargano was handed the ball of twine and he began to unwind it. As he worked, he explained himself, like a father explaining the punishment he was about to dish out. “They know how much you got. You think they don’t know these things, they don’t count it first? Money can just disappear and nobody’s gonna notice? Your job was to take that money and deliver it. And you were short. Not once, not twice, over and over. They were watching you, you dumb shit. They always watch the fuckin’ money. Don’t you know that? The fuck did you think, nobody was gonna care? You could just help yourself, like that money was yours? Is that what you thought?”
“I can pay it back.”
“I thought you didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t. But I mean, if it’s missing then it must be my mistake. My mistake, see? My mistake. I’ll pay it back. Plus the juice, whatever you say it is.”
“Just stop talkin’, a’right? Fuckin’ embarrass yourself. Shit your pants.” To no one he said, “Let’s do this already.”
“No! Stop!”
Marolla scanned the faces and, desperate, he locked on Joe: “Hey, cop, help me out.”
Joe shook his head.
“Cop. C’mon, help me out. You’re a cop. You gotta. Help me out.”
Joe felt the eyes of the group shift toward him. He shook his head again. “Nothin’ I can do, pal.”
Lying on his side Marolla managed to lift his shoulders a few inches off the floor of the trunk. “I can te-I can tell you what you want to know. Those questions.”
“I don’t have any questions.”
“You do you do you do. We talked, remember? We did, we talked.” Marolla’s voice was skittery-frantic- breathless. But he was still negotiating, still talking. He seemed to think if he could just keep someone engaged, he could buy himself a little more time. A little more time. “We talked once, we talked. The West End, remember? The grocery store, that whole thing? You wanna know what happened? You wanna know? Huh? You wanna know? I can tell you. I can tell you. I’ll tell you the whole thing, the whole thing, I’ll give it to you, the whole thing. Forget that guy, the grocery, that’s just one building. That’s nothing. I can give you the whole thing.”
Gargano said, “Shut the fuck up.”
“These guys-”
“I said shut the fuck up.”
“These-”
“Jesus!” Gargano collared Marolla’s neck with two hands and hammered the man’s head against the lip of the trunk three times. A frenzy, then over.
“Hey, cop.” A spreading, woozy smile. “Hey, cop, I know who killed your old man. I know who you are. I can tell you.” Marolla knew he was doomed. He seemed finally to accept it. It gave him false courage. “Wanna know who killed your old man? That’s what you really want to know, isn’t it?”
Gargano gave the man’s head a final crack against the car, like a fisherman gaffing a stubborn flapping fish, and Marolla slithered down inside the trunk. His face lolled on the floor.
Gargano leaned over to add his own ropework, but the body was too far away. “Get over here,” he growled. He dragged the body closer, then began to wind the twine around Marolla’s neck.
Marolla bucked. He tossed his head back and forth to avoid the string. “No! Don’t don’t don’t! Please. Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t!”
One of the mooks stepped forward to hold him still. Gargano pulled the string taut around the neck, then ran several long loops connecting the neck-rope to the ankles. He jacked Marolla’s feet up a little to create slack, and shortened this segment until the weight of the feet and legs tensioned the string. Then he released Marolla’s feet,
