A song he hated, Elton John's 'Crocodile Rock,' was on somebody's car radio down the block, and he was tempted to shoot whoever was playing that shit.
The butcher shop's front door was open, and when he waltzed in, his father didn't even look up – but he must have seen his son pass the window outside.
The usual stack of Irish Echo newspapers was by the door. Everything always in its goddamn place. Neat, tidy, and completely messed-up.
'Whattaya want?' his father growled. The broom he was using had a scraper blade to dislodge fat from the grout on the floor. It was the kind of scut work Sullivan hated.
'Have a talk with you?' he said to his father.
'Fuck off. I'm busy earning a living.'
'Oh. Is that right? Busy cleaning floors?' Then his arm swung out fast.
And that was the first time Sullivan hit his father – with the gun – in the temple over his right eye. He hit him again, in the nose, and the large man went down into the sawdust and meat shavings. He began to moan and spit out sawdust and gristle.
' You know how badly I can hurt you?' Michael Sullivan bent low to the floor and asked his father. 'Remember that line, Kevin? I do. Never forget it as long as I live.'
'Don't call me Kevin, you punk.'
He hit his father again with the gun handle. Then he kicked him in the testicles, and his father groaned in pain.
Sullivan looked around the store with total contempt. Kicked over a stand of McNamara's soda bread, just to kick something. Then he put the gun to his old man's head and cocked it.
'Please,' his father gasped, and his eyes went wide with shock and fear and some kind of bizarre realization about who his son was. 'No. Don't do this. Don't, Michael.'
Sullivan pulled the trigger – and there was a loud snap of metal against metal.
But no deafening explosion. No brain-splattering gunshot. Then there was powerful silence, like in a church.
'Someday,' he told his father. 'Not today, but when you least expect it. One day when you don't want to die, I'm going to kill you. You're gonna have a hard death, too, Kevin. And not with a pop gun like this one.'
Then he walked out of the butcher shop, and he became the Butcher of Sligo. Three days before Christmas of his eighteenth year, he came back and killed his father. As he'd promised, not with a gun. He used one of the old man's boning knives, and he took several Polaroid shots as a keepsake.
Chapter 58
OUT IN MARYLAND, where he lived nowadays, Michael Sullivan shouldered a baseball bat. Not just any bat, either, a vintage Louisville Slugger, a 1986 Yankees game bat, to be exact. Screw collector's items, though, this solid piece of ash was meant to be used.
'All right,' Sullivan called out to the pitcher's mound. 'Let's see what you can do, big man. I'm shaking in my boots here. Let's see what you got.'
It was hard to believe that Mike Junior was old enough to have a windup this fluid and good, but he did. And his changeup was a small masterpiece. Sullivan only recognized it coming because he'd taught the pitch to the boy himself.
Still, he wasn't handing his eldest son any charity. That would be an insult to the boy. He gave the pitch the extra fraction of a second it needed, then swung hard and connected with a satisfying crack of the bat. He pretended the ball was the head of John Maggione.
'And she's out of here!' he crowed. He ran the bases for show while Seamus, his youngest, scrambled over the ballpark's chain-link fence to retrieve the home-run ball. 'Good one, Dad!' he screamed, holding up the scuffed ball where it had landed.
'Dad, we should go.' His middle son, Jimmy, already had his catcher's mitt and face mask off. 'We've got to leave the house by six thirty. Remember, Dad?'
After Sullivan himself, Jimmy was the most excited about tonight. Sullivan had gotten them tickets to see U2's Vertigo tour at the 1st Mariner Arena in Baltimore. It was going to be a fine night, the kind of family activity he could tolerate.
On the ride to the concert, Sullivan sang along with the car stereo until his boys started to groan and make jokes in the backseat.
'You see, boys,' Caitlin said, 'your father thinks he's another Bono. But he sounds more like… Ringo Starr?'
'Your mother's just jealous,' Sullivan said, laughing. 'You kids and I have rich Irish blood running in our veins. She's got nothing but Sicilian.'
'Oh, right. One question: Which would you rather eat – Italian or Irish? Case closed.'
The boys howled and high-fived one for their mom.
'Hey, what's this, Mom?' Seamus asked.
Caitlin looked; then she pulled a small silver flip phone from under the front seat. Sullivan saw it, and his stomach heaved.
It was Benny Fontana's cell phone. Sullivan had taken it with him the night he'd visited Benny and had been looking for it ever since. Talk about mistakes.
And mistakes will kill you.
He kept his face in perfect control. 'I'll bet that's Steve Bowen's phone,' he lied.
'Who?' Caitlin asked.
'Steve Bowen. My client? I gave him a ride to the airport when he was in town.'
Caitlin looked puzzled. 'Why hasn't he tried to get it back?'
Because he doesn't exist.
'Probably because he's in London.' Sullivan kept improvising. 'Just stick it in the glove compartment.'
Now that he had the cell phone, though, he knew what he wanted to do with it. In fact, he couldn't wait. He drove the family as close to the arena as he could get, then pulled over to the curb.
'Here you go – door-to-door service. Can't beat it. I'll park this buggy and meet you inside.'
It didn't take him long to find a parking garage with vacancies. He drove all the way to the top for some added privacy and a good signal. The number he wanted was right there in the phone's address book. He punched it in. This should be good. Now just let the bastard scum be there.
And let him have caller ID.
John Maggione answered himself. 'Who's this?' he asked, and sounded bent out of shape already.
Bingo! The man himself. They'd hated each other since Maggione's father had let Sullivan do some jobs for him.
'Take a guess, Junior.'
'I have no fucking idea. How'd you get this number? Whoever you are, you're a dead man.'
'Then I guess we've got something in common.'
Adrenaline raced through Sullivan's system. He felt unstoppable right now. He was the best around at this kind of thing: setting up a target, playing with a mark.
'That's right, Junior. The hunter becomes the hunted. It's Michael Sullivan. Remember me? And you know what? I'm coming for you next.'
'The Butcher? Is that you, punk? I was going to kill you anyway, but now I'm going to make you pay for what you did to Benny. You piece of shit, I'm gonna hurt you so bad.'
'What I did to Benny is nothing compared to what I'm going to do to you. I'm going to cut you in two with a butcher saw, and send half to your mother, and the other half to your wife. I'll let Connie see it just before I fuck her in front of your kids. What do you think of that?'
Maggione exploded. 'You are dead! You are so dead! Everything you ever cared about is… dead. I'm coming after you, Sullivan.'
