Codes of Betrayal (9 page)

“It is not right—not ever—for a man to bury his son. Nicholas, it will never stop hurting. It will hurt in a different way, not so sharp. But it is so bad.”

“Papa, I can’t seem to concentrate on anything. Sometimes, God, for a minute, I can’t remember what he looks like.”

“I know. And then it comes back. Yes. I know. Nicholas, I wanted to tell you two things. I hope the first will make you feel … if not happy, maybe comforted. The second thing—well, let’s get to the first. Do you remember last Easter, when Peter and I had a long private conversation?”

Nick had watched the two of them walking through the blossoming garden, Peter speaking earnestly as Papa inspected the flower beds, stopping, listening, nodding.

“He told me something I had never heard. About the greyhounds from the race tracks.”

Nick was surprised. “Peter told you about that?”

“We’ve talked about many things, Peter and I. I didn’t know—imagine all these years I’ve bet on the races in Florida and never knew how these beautiful animals were treated. How they were destroyed if they won too many times, which brought down the odds. Or if they lost … not considered worth feeding.”

Nick remembered his son’s passion and anger: how can they get away with this?

“I asked him how I could help. He told me he’d read about a group that helped people adopt these dogs. He said people were trying to get the government to help, but they needed money.” The old man smiled. “He told me, ‘Adopting is good, Papa, but I don’t know if you could keep up with a greyhound.’ So instead I helped them out, gave them a little money for their legal fund.”

Nick remembered his son reading nature magazines while his friends were still casting around comics. He’d matched Peter’s fifty-dollar donation with his own. The kid saved every penny he earned at odd jobs, and dutifully sent in round amounts to help people who were helping animals. Most adults didn’t have the kind of conscience this kid had.

“I also sent word to certain people, in certain places, that they would be made to account for each and every animal in their races. I would hold them responsible for any mistreatment myself.”

Nick was touched by the old man’s sincerity. He hadn’t known about any of this.

“Papa, that was a good thing to do. In the spirit of my son.”

Casually, to break the moment, Papa said, “The IRS will make my accountants crazy checking the donation. Five figures to protect the animals? From me? Who’s going to believe that? Hell, that’s what I pay CPAs for. Nicholas, come, let’s walk in the garden. Get my sweater over there, it’s a little chilly.”

In the center of the square garden was a small pool, with a flow of water from a simple statue. Bright orange fish, quick, fat, inquisitive, darted to the surface, then raced each other around in circles. Surrounding the pool was a series of intricate brick patterns. There was a heavy wooden container in each of the four corners. Herbal gardens, Papa told him. And the benches: not only copies of the ancient benches, but made by the very same carpenter who made those in the gardens of the Cloisters. Sweet birdsong could be heard over the splashing waters.

Papa Ventura stopped, pointed to the brickwork, which Nick hadn’t even noticed. “These are called brick carpets, Nicholas. See the intricate patterns, the end row like fringe? Each one different; each one unique. And in the containers, all of the herbs were planted exactly like the herbs in those tapestries—you know, the Unicorn Tapestries.”

Nick listened carefully to his grandfather. He seemed to be setting a quiet scene for something. “Who did all this work, Papa? Did you design it?”

The old man laughed and took his arm, led him to a bench. “Oh, if only I could. I saw this kind of work in a design magazine. Found the architect, an artist. She’s designed these around the world, so I had her come out here. I liked the way she looked and talked. She knew her stuff. Brought brick craftsmen who had worked with her before. See that one, over there, leading to the trellis? The brickmen told her, no, lady, no, this is an impossible design. Cannot be done. My lady smiled and put her hands on her hips and told them, ‘Of course it can be done. And you’re going to do it.’ When they finished, she whispered to me, she really wasn’t sure they’d be able to get that pattern—she’d never tried it before.”

The old man smiled, sat very still, drinking in the strange atmosphere of separation: from the house, from the world. It was as if they had left time behind.

Finally, he patted the bench. “Come, Nicholas, sit here beside me.”

“And the second thing you want to tell me, Papa. That’s why we came out here, right?”

His grandfather’s tone of voice was very serious. “This that I tell you now, Nicholas, it will never be spoken of again. By either of us. Ask any questions, here and now. And then it will be finished.”

Nick knew something terrible was coming; something he had to hear.

“There was no gang fight in Chinatown that day. The gangs are well controlled and supervised. There were four boys involved in the shooting. Two were brothers. One of the other two had insulted a girlfriend of the older brother. They were there to avenge the insult to the girl.”

“Peter got killed because one of those boys insulted a girl?”

“Exactly.”

“Who are these boys? What are their names?”

An amazing change took over his grandfather. He seemed to slip out of his old age. His voice was strong and firm; it commanded caution.

“You don’t need to know. Those boys no longer exist.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean. You know
exactly
what I mean. They killed my great-grandson and wounded another. Nicholas, not only were
we
hurt, the Chinese community was damaged. Those boys violated all the rules by which they lived. It was dealt with. The way we would deal with such a thing.”

“You had them killed?”

A nerve jumped in the old man’s jaw.
“I
had nothing to do with it.” He waited a moment, then broke the intense silence. “I have some connections in the Chinese community. It was in their interest that they deal with it. From the moment those four boys confronted each other with guns, in the street, their lives were over.

“None of this will make you feel any better. I understand that. Peter is still dead. But I didn’t want you to spend any time, any energy on all of this. The police will be continuing their investigation, but nothing will come of it. But you had to know.
It is over.”

There was nothing he could say. What could he ask? What was left for him to do?

W
HEN HE RETURNED HOME,
he was surprised to see that Kathy had suitcases on their bed. She was filling them with her things from the closets and drawers.

“Kathy, what are you doing?”

“Packing.”

“Hold it a minute. What the hell’s going on?”

“I’m going up to Boston, Nick—to my sister’s. I … I’m leaving you.”

“Will you please,
please
stop for a minute. Babe, c’mon, stop.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled up a chair and sat in front of her.

“Kathy, in all this time, since … Peter … we haven’t talked, you and me. We …”

She studied him with a puzzled expression as though she didn’t understand what he’d said.

“But that isn’t something we do, Nick, is it? Talk. You and I, talk. Not for, God, how many years?”

“You know how I always felt about the job, that I didn’t want to bring any part of it home with me.”

“Nick, you
brought
it home with you every single day of your life. But you kept it to yourself. It was your real world, out there. Here, with me, with Peter … this was your catch-up time. But Nick, what about
us
—you and me? Besides our son, what have
we
had between us all these years?”

Years of silence, subterfuge. Years of late-night phone calls with excuses, some valid, some not. Mornings of uncertainty—not knowing when, or if, he’d make it home for supper. He thought of all the broken marriages; cops’ wives not able or willing to hack it anymore. The guys on the job were never at a loss to talk with each other: there was always someone who wanted to go over a case with him, a conflict, testimony, evidence, an event.

But they were always puzzled, the cops. Confused. What the hell did these women want?

“Kathy, remember a year or two ago, you wanted us to go for family counseling? Let’s do it now. We
need
each other now.”

She lifted her chin in resolve. “What family do we have left, Nick? We had Peter. Now we don’t. Period.”

“I love you, Kathy. I’ve always loved you.”

“I know, Nick. Really, I do. And I love you. But I can’t live with you anymore. You’ve created your own life. I’ve tried to share mine with you, but … what the hell. It never really worked.”

“That’s not true. Kathy, the things I didn’t want to talk about, the job—”

“Let me ask you something, Nick. Do you think the women cops go home and tell their husbands about ‘the job’?”

Quickly, he answered, “Yeah, I think they probably do.”

She spread her hands out and shrugged. “So?”

“But that’s different …”

“No, it’s not. Women share. Men don’t. Don’t you think I’ve wanted to be part of what you are, of what you care about? And when’s the last time we socialized as a couple with anyone but other cops and their wives?”

“Hey, in any job, people get together with others who have the same interests.”

“And the evening ends with all the guys hanging in one room and the wives in the other. The men tell their war stories while the women either drink a little too much or eat too much cake or talk about their kids and their fucking housecleaning methods. Except for those of us who work and are uncomfortable talking about our jobs to women who feel threatened by the fact that we have a life outside of the home.”

“Kathy, any time I ever went anywhere with your friends, your ‘colleagues,’ it always works out the same way. They tell me stories about the crooked cops they know, or ask about the best way to get a cop to skip a violation. Or they tell me about brutality, and how the kids on the street are really society’s problem, brutalized—blah blah blah.”

“Well, there we have it. Your world—my world. There is no ‘our world,’ Nick.
Peter
was our world.”

He stood up and walked around. Was shocked at the sight of his face in the mirror: haggard, wounded, his eyes swimming red.

“Kathy, this is the wrong time—the worst possible time for you to do this.”

“Is there a good time for a hard thing? One time is like another, Nick. This is not spur of the moment, and you know it.”

“Kathy,
I need you.”

When she stood up, her very posture defined her determination. “You never needed me. And you don’t now. You have ‘the job,’ you have ‘the guys.’ That’s your true life. Get on with it. I have to get on with mine. There’s too much empty space between us.”

She continued packing, speaking quietly. “Nick, I will always love you. But I can’t live a half life anymore. I can’t live here, in this house. I can’t live in this town where Peter grew up. I can’t teach in that school.” The school where Peter had gone.

He felt desperate. “Kathy, please don’t go.”

She pointed at the largest suitcase. “Would you bring this down for me? I think I just heard the cab. I’m taking a shuttle up to Boston.”

“I’ll take you to the airport. We could talk.”

“I’m all talked out, Nick. Listen, will you take care of Woof? And Cat. But if you want someone else to …”

“That’s fine.”

“The other dogs, they’re adjusting to new homes. I’ll be at my sister’s for a while. Until I get located. You have her number?”

He nodded. When the cab driver honked, he helped her to the car with the luggage.

He embraced his wife, but after a quick light kiss she pulled back, and without looking at him again, she ducked into the cab.

“Kathy,” he said softly to the retreating cab, “Jesus Christ, Kathy, don’t do this to me.”

E
DDIE DIDN’T SEE OR
hear from Nick for more than two weeks. He didn’t answer his phone; his car wasn’t in the driveway. Ed figured Nick was up in Boston, trying to work things out with his wife.

As he drove past Nick’s house at the beginning of the third week, Ed spotted the old yellow dog sitting slumped against a tree at the side of the house.

“Hey, Woof, you guys just got home, huh?”

The dog moved sluggishly, rubbed his face against Ed’s leg. The front door opened a few inches and a ragged voice called the dog, who turned and trotted into the house.

“Hey, Nick. You’re home.” The door slammed shut. He peered through the windows into the living room through the slit left open between the drawn drapes. He went around to the back and tried to see into the kitchen. After about twenty minutes, no response came from inside the house; no answer to his phone calls. Eddie Manganaro put in a call to Inspector Frank O’Hara.

Frank pounded on the door with his heavy fist, then shoved his weight against the kitchen door, nearly breaking the frame. The first thing he did was to cough against the stale air. He kicked his way through the kitchen, knocking empty bottles, pizza boxes, hamburger wrappers, and chunks of food out of the way.

It was worse in the living room. The smell of spilled Scotch and spoiled food filled the air. Woof let out a soft greeting, came toward Frank, limping. One of his paws was bleeding from a cut and he had what seemed to be sauce of some kind around his mouth.

“Jesus jumping Christ A’mighty. Nick? Nick, where the fuck are you, goddamn it?”

He heard a sound from upstairs and walked carefully through the cluttered hallway, tripped over a fallen lamp. When he switched on the overhead light, he stared in disbelief at the mess. He had seen crack houses that looked like this.

The dog limped after him, followed him to Peter’s room, which was bare, clean, untouched. Then he heard a low, hoarse voice coming from the bedroom.

Frank stopped in the doorway and froze. There were bundles of dirty clothes, linens, glasses, bottles all around. Nick was slumped on an upholstered chair, his feet on an upturned wastebasket.