O’Leary sinks down onto the ground again, whimpering. “But he’s a good kid,” he says at last. “He doesn’t deserve this.”
“Maybe if his papa plays nice, he’ll go on being a good kid.” That’s a lie. I’ve been given a direct and explicit order on this hit: the Donovan kid dies to teach his old man a lesson. But I know O’Leary wants an excuse to spill. Something that’ll ease his conscience. “Come on, now,” I urge him. “Be reasonable. My boys are tired of punching you, and you’re tired of being punched.”
He cries then.
I hate this part, when they cry, even though it’s what I’m best at. But in general, I’m uncomfortable with emotion.
Frank, across the room, smirks at me, and I think about his damn nickname for me. He used to sing it at me every time I came in from a one night stand; every time some twink came knocking at the door, begging to see me; every time they rang the phone and pleaded for one more night with me.
Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie.
Kissed the boys and made them cry…
Men used to cry over me because they loved me. Now they cry for other reasons.
I take the white and red polka-dotted handkerchief from my top pocket and wipe away the sweat and blood rolling into O’Leary’s eyes. The handkerchief came with the suit I’m wearing, and I thought it looked good on the mannequin in the store. It’s ruined now.
“Come on, Jim,” I say softly. “I want to show you mercy. Give me what I need, and I will.” I’ve learned over the years that the motherly touch is what makes them break all at once, but you have to time it just right. After the gut punches and the broken bones. It works here just like it always does.
Weeping and choking on his own tears, he gives me the information I need.
I look up at Frank, who nods, and beckons to another two of the crew, and the three of them head out together on their mission.
I look at the two guys left with me and sigh, gesturing at the Irishman. “Get this cleaned up. Make him presentable for our guest.”
O’Leary begins wailing at that. “No, no, no, Mr. D’Amato! Please, please don’t let him know I turned on him, I love that boy like he’s my own son—”
“If that were true, you would rather have died than tell us where he is,” I point out. “The deal was that you get to live, O’Leary. Whether you’d rather die isn’t my concern. You’ll have to wait until we’re through with the Donovan kid. And then, well, I guess his father might have something to say about your involvement.”
I leave him to my men, who’ll hose him down and tie him to a chair to wait for the arrival of Howard Donovan the Third, beloved son of Howard Donovan Junior. How these rich folks can’t afford to give their kids new names I’ll never know.
Howie Three vanished years ago after the hit on his mother, Orla Donovan. He’s kept out of the gossip rags and off all social media, too, which must have been a feat in this day and age. All I’ve managed to dig up about him is that he went to a fancy private boarding school, got kicked out of Harvard after one semester, and has a drug problem that Daddy keeps quiet for him in between rehab stints. I guess Howard Junior wants to make sure his son is still fit to take over the family business when it’s time. I also know that Howie Three is gay, but with three daughters before he finally popped into the world, I bet his sexuality doesn’t make much difference to his aging, billionaire father.
No, I bet that kid had anything he wanted growing up.
And now he’s just about to turn twenty-four, and my Capo thinks it’s time he became a player in the game. Well—not a player, but a pawn.
The Irish Mob have been making waves lately. My seniors corralled them and controlled them before I was even born, but some of the Boston gangs seem to have new plans for New York City. Donovan pretends to have cleaned up his business, but lately he’s been tugging against the very generous leash we Italians have given him in this town. He owes my Capo, Sam Fuscone, enough to justify a kidnapping of his son, but Sam Fuscone has never been known for his restraint. He’s ordered a hit instead.
Problem is, he hasn’t run it by the Boss, Augustino Morelli.
I said I’d take care of it when Fuscone ordered it because I’m a good soldier, even if I think it’s a stupid idea. But then, Fuscone is a stupid man, as well as greedy. His hold on power is wavering, which makes him hold on that much tighter. But I can sense the loyalties shifting around him. His lack of control over his own impulses make the other Families nervous. Fuscone’s been up before the Commission more than once to explain himself, but he has just as many friends as enemies in high places.
Still, if I play my cards close to my chest, I could move up another rung on the ladder by Christmas, make Capo myself, run my own crew. God knows I pretty much run Fuscone’s for him.
We’ll see.
This shitty warehouse we’re in doesn’t have a shower, but in the grimy bathroom I wash off my hands and trash the handkerchief. I wait up top in an old office that looms over the warehouse floor so I can watch Frank come in with our prize. This is the part where all I have to do is wait and think, and I prefer to do that alone. I can see O’Leary below, still sniveling, tied to his chair, spirit defeated. Two of my crew are guarding him, Mikey and Snapper, but there’s no fight left in the Irishman
