pulled, and poured the skag down his throat. “Here, enjoy.”
Rocco immediately began convulsing and choking and pissing himself, kicking the passenger seat so hard that Kathy flopped wildly and her chin wagged back and forth the way she sometimes did during sex.
The wailing traffic tore by. He counted two police cruisers but neither cop so much as turned his head to look at the side of the road. Sometimes apathy was its own reward.
Clay got back into his car. He sprayed the apple cinnamon freshener all over the inside of the Caprice, and the flies buzzed and spun in the fragrant mist.
CHAPTER FIVE
It took six hours to get to the Tri-borough Bridge and back into Manhattan. Lights of the city seared into his eyes. Clay had blacked out twice at the wheel for a couple of seconds each time. Now it was 7 PM, right around the time Chuckie liked to start his antipasto. Clay had about twenty hours of video of Chuckie chomping calamari, stuffed artichoke leaves, prosciutto, and thinly sliced Capacola sausage. He made soft humming noises of delight while he ate.
Clay drove over to 73rdStreet and circled the neighborhood a few times until he found the Experience-L'Esperienza Bella-right off Central Park West. He double-parked out front and left the engine running.
The agony had become so total now that he had somehow gone beyond it, detached but still hurting, making peace with his own slaughter. Clay could feel himself winding down, the heavy fist tightening around him even as his heart slammed in his chest, lungs struggling to keep his nearly dead, poisoned body going.
Not much time left, and none to waste on subtlety. He had his.38, the throwaway.32, and the service revolver he took off Tommy Yahmi. Plus the two sets of handcuffs. Clay didn’t much like the feel of Tommy Yahmi’s piece so he stuffed it into the glove compartment, carefully maneuvered the guns in his jacket pockets and kept his finger on the triggers, hands out of sight.
Clay walked into the restaurant and immediately spotted Chuckie Fariente in the back at the VIP table with Big Frankie Merullo, Roma Bartone, Fabrizio Allegante-the main players in the Merullo crew. Sure enough, they were all forking the shit out of a plate of calamari and red peppers.
Did he know his boys or what?
Smug Chuckie Fariente, with his ferret-face drawn into a perpetual sneer, was browbeating Bartone over the east side construction unions. Clay was still a little surprised that nobody had put a hit on Chuckie yet just for the way he looked. Always grinning and self-satisfied, ready to toss his wine on someone’s shirt.
All those stony, round, small dark faces looked up at the same time, four black pompadours frozen thickly in place with oil and mousse, even big Frank who was pushing seventy.
Snorting blood, Clay drew both guns and casually pointed them at the crew, covering everybody. He said, “All I want is Chuckie. He comes along and the rest of you fat fucks get to finish your dinner. We clear?”
Big Frankie turned to Chuckie and said, “I thought you told me this cop was dead.”
“Look at him, he is.”
“Not enough.”
“Give him a few minutes to keel over.”
“I don’t think he’s gonna wait.”
Clay braced himself against the table with his hip. Fabrizio had been inching his left hand under his jacket, where he kept his knife upside down in a holster. You had to give it to some of these Sicilians, they sure had style. Clay put the barrel of the.32 in the wiseguy’s ear and said, “How about if we just remain respected adversaries, eh, Fabi?”
Now it was Roma’s turn to start acting up. “Don’t we pay your goddamn precinct enough? What, you didn’t get your cut from the bag man this week?”
Fabi’s hand strayed another half-inch under his arm. Clay sighed, wishing there’d been another way to handle this, but still not too bothered by it. He pulled the trigger and a small piece of Fabi’s head flew laterally down the room. It landed with a wet slap on the lady sitting over there, her gray Prada strapless suddenly mired in blood and bone chips. The screeching started and people ran around the restaurant yelling in Italian, the kitchen help going at it in Spanish.
Boss Merullo went, “Ah, motherless-”
Clay pursed his lips, met Big Frankie’s gaze, drew down and shot him and Roma Bartone twice in their chests.
“Come along, Chuckie. We’re going for a drive. You like dogs?”
Man, the cool on the guy. Chuckie continued to sip his wine, unwilling to move a second faster than he wanted. You had to admire somebody with that much poise and calm who wasn’t pumped full of heroin.
“You’re in charge, at least for the moment.”
“Ain’t it the truth?”
“What do you want?” Chuckie asked. “It’s easy enough to pull the trigger.”
“I’d have nothing to do with the rest of my life then.”
“How long’s that gonna be? Five minutes?”
A spasm whipped through Clay’s abdomen and he almost went over. Another burst of blood worked up his throat and leaked out of the corners of his mouth. “Give or take.”
“You got any idea what you look like?”
“Let’s go.”
Chuckie hadn’t gotten a speck of dust on his suit. He slowly finished his wine, wiped his lips with the cloth napkin, buttoned his coat and walked past Clay. Like they might be heading off to take in a Knicks game at Madison Square Garden.
They got outside where the horrified faces clustered in the shadows and the sirens screamed over the city, coming at them. The guy he’d blocked in by double-parking was huddled in his front seat with his hands on top of his head.
Chuckie peered into the Caprice. “The junkie dead?”
“Consider my state of mind, then ask again.”
“He was just supposed to warn you off. The rest of this…it had nothing to do with me.”
Clay grinned at him, feeling the infection on his own teeth. He opened the back door. “Climb in.”
“You’re crazy!”
“I only wish. Now, inside.”
“Forget that nonsense, you psycho son of a bitch!”
“There’s just enough room. Everybody’s been waiting.”
“Fuckin’ lie down already!” Chuckie cried, his voice cracking. “You’re dead!”
“Not just yet.”
“You’re leaking shit like you just had twelve enemas.”
“You sure talk pretty, Chuckie.”
“Fuck off, dead man!”
“You’re going to start hurting my feelings soon.” Clay pointed both guns at Chuckie’s eyes. “Get in.”
Chuckie Fariente, worth about six million or so, wearing fourteen hundred dollars of silk suit and another eight grand in gold jewelry, with the ruby ring, Rolex watch, and diamond stick pin, went gray and threw up all over himself.
“That goddamn smell!”
“You get used to it. Move.”
Finally Chuckie started to clamber in. Clay slashed down with the barrel of the.32 and sent him for a little loop. It would make things easier. Chuckie flopped backwards, moaning but awake, and the flies gusted into a lazy black cloud. Frost sprinkled down from overhead like snow flurries. Clay got the air freshener and sprayed Chuckie’s dripping coat, hitting all the undigested calamari and bits of salami. They didn’t need a new stench.
He handcuffed Chuckie’s right ankle to Rocco’s left one, and used Tommy Yahmi’s set to cuff Chuckie’s left
