Death Of A Dream Maker (38 page)

“I promise, Pop. But what can I do?”

“I'm going to leave it up to you,” his father told
him in a fading voice. “I'll tell you what I know and then you can
decide what the family should do.”

“Me?” Seth asked. “Why me? Being a lawyer doesn't
mean I have any answers.”

“I'm choosing you because you're my only remaining
son,” Abe told him. “Not because you're a lawyer.”

“You have Jake,” Seth said, the name bitter in his
mouth.

“No. He's not my son anymore. I know he killed
Davy.”

“How do you know that?” Seth asked, interpreting
Auntie Lil's frantic hand movements correctly.

“I heard them talking the night Max died. They were
downstairs shouting. No one thinks I can hear anymore. They think
because I can't breathe, that I can't hear either.” He smiled
thinly, but the smile faded quickly.

“Tell me what you heard,” Seth asked softly. “Who was
arguing? Who was downstairs?”

“Your mother,” he began. “She answered the door. At
first I couldn't tell if it was Davy or Jake. But I figured out it
was Davy, later, when Jake arrived. When they're together, I can
tell their voices apart.”

“What were they shouting about?” Seth asked. “How
much could you hear?”

Abe suffered a coughing fit and they waited quietly
until he had regained his breath. “Davy was shouting at Jake,
saying that he had ‘killed him.’ Later, I knew he meant Max. Jake
shouted back, saying that he'd had nothing to do with it. That Davy
knew damn well the bomb had been intended for him. That it was all
Davy's fault for borrowing money from the wrong people.”

“But why do you think that it was Jake who killed
Davy?” Seth asked.

“Davy was shouting that Jake would never get a penny
of Max's money. That he would make sure Jake never saw a dime. It
went on, it got uglier, your mother began shouting. She could not
make either one of them stop.”

Seth looked up, appealing to Auntie Lil for help. She
stepped to the side of the bed. “It's me,” she told Abe softly.
“Lillian Hubbert.”

“I know,” he said. “I felt you standing by the
door.”

“You don't mind that I'm here?” she asked.

“No, not anymore. I want you to help my son decide
what to do. I know you'll do the right thing. You always had more
common sense than the rest of us put together.”

“Don't talk so much,” she said. She plumped the
pillow behind his head and helped him sip from a glass of water. “I
know that this is all very hard on you.”

Abe nodded. “I deserve it. My hate was contagious,
you know.”

“I know.” Auntie Lil stood looking down at his frail
body. “I’m afraid hate always is. But we can stop it now. Why do
you think that Jake killed Davy? It must be more than the
fight.”

Abe sighed and gripped his son's hand tightly. “I
heard Davy walking toward the door. Jake tried to stop him from
leaving and they had a fistfight in the lower hallway. I heard the
thumping. I think a vase fell over and broke. Abby was screaming.
Then the front door slammed and Davy drove away fast. It wasn't his
usual car. I know the sound of his car. But it wasn't Jake's
either. Jake drives a slower sedan.”

“And then Jake followed him,” Auntie Lil said. “And
no one ever saw Davy alive again?”

Abe nodded. “The front door slammed again as Jake ran
after Davy. My wife was crying. Jake's car drove away. He was in a
hurry.”

“But where was Davy going?” Auntie Lil asked. “Was it
to get the police?”

“I don't know,” Abe admitted.

Auntie Lil thought she knew where Davy had gone, but
she kept her suspicions to herself. “And because Davy ran off, you
knew that he was innocent in Max's death?” she prompted.

Abe nodded. “Yes. He'd never have threatened to tell
the police about the bomb unless he was innocent.”

“But what makes you so sure that it was Jake who
killed Davy?” she asked.

“Because he's my son and I know him,” came Abe's
reply.

“He's not your son,” an angry voice shouted from
behind them. “Not anymore. You've betrayed him.” Abby stood in the
doorway, outlined in the light from the hall. Her hair frizzed out
from her head in a wild golden nimbus that framed a face contorted
in anger. “He's my son. I gave birth to him, I raised him, I loved
him. You never even looked at him. You were too busy running after
those cheap tramps you worked with. We should have had it all—the
houses, the cars, the company. But you didn't want it bad enough.
You kept everything from me, everything that I deserved. But you're
not taking my son. Jake is my son and no one is taking him away.”
She glared, her eyes dismissing Seth as if she didn't know him. Her
fists trembled at her sides.

“You can't do anything about it, Mother,” Seth said.
“Too many people know.”

“Don't you call me ‘mother,’” she ordered, moving
into the room with surprising speed. “Jake is the only son I have
left, and no one is taking him away from me. I'll kill all of you
myself if I have to.” She glared with hatred at Auntie Lil and
pushed her away from the bed as she reached toward the bedside
table. Abby yanked the drawer open, hands groping inside, searching
for the gun that Abe kept hidden there.

“Stop her,” Abe croaked, and Auntie Lil threw herself
against Abby, pinning her to the corner of the bedside table. Abby
screamed and clutched at her side with both hands.

“You won't find the gun there,” a commanding voice
said from the doorway. Rebecca Rosenbloom stepped into the room.
Her head was held high and her hands were firmly wrapped around the
handle of an old brown revolver. “You really must think me quite
stupid, Abby. Do you think that I would sleep in your home without
protection? After what's happened to my brother and my nephew?”

Abby stared at her sister-in-law, breathing heavily.
Blood seeped through her blouse where she clutched at her side.
“You wouldn't use that thing,” she said. “You haven't got the
nerve.”

Rebecca looked down at the gun with a thoughtful
expression on her face. Then she turned her gaze to the tableau
before her. “You make me sick,” she told Abby. “You knew who killed
my brother and you never did a thing about it. You let your own son
be killed.” She shook her head in disgust and looked at the gun
again. She seemed fascinated by its shape and weight. The others
stared at her, mute.

“I'm not afraid of you,” Abby said. Her eyes blazed
with contempt.

“That could be a mistake,” Rebecca said calmly. She
pointed the gun carefully at Abby and moved the barrel upward,
squeezing the trigger at the same time.

The explosion was heart stopping. Auntie Lil threw
herself down on the rug and covered her head with her hands. Seth
shielded his father's body with his own. Only Abby still stood,
eyes wide in disbelief, as dust showered from the ceiling onto her
hair.

“What were you saying about me not using this gun?”
Rebecca asked. “Because I have four more bullets left.”

Abby opened her mouth, considered her options, then
closed it without speaking. She darted her tongue along her lips
and looked around at the others. Auntie Lil sat up and struggled
back to her feet. Seth unfolded his body from his father's and
looked silently at his mother. He stared, head cocked to one side,
as if trying to decipher a curious stranger.

“Well, Abby?” Rebecca demanded. “Don't you have
anything more to say?”

“I'm not saying anything until I get a lawyer.”

“You may not need one.” Rebecca aimed the pistol
again.

“Don't do it,” Auntie Lil commanded. “There's been
enough killing.” She stared at Abby. Blood had gathered at the hem
of her blouse and was dripping to the rug. “Lift up your shirt,”
Auntie Lil told her.

“What?” Abby asked.

“Lift up your blouse,” Auntie Lil said, louder. She
took a step toward Abby.

“Do what she says,” Rebecca commanded, steadying her
aim.

“What’s going on?” Seth asked, bewildered.

“I know it was you,” Auntie Lil said as she stepped
closer. Abby did not move.

“Put your hands up,” Auntie Lil ordered. Abby raised
both hands slowly in the air.

Auntie Lil hooked the hem of Abby's blouse with a
finger, then carefully peeled it upward to reveal an expanse of
bloody skin. A jagged scar marred the left side of Abby's stomach.
It was six inches long and ineffectually bandaged with a mound of
gauze anchored by Band-Aids beginning to peel away from the flesh.
Dried blood had formed a crust around the outer edges of the gauze
and fresh blood seeped from under the border.

“You tried to kill me,” Auntie Lil said quietly.

“Just scare you,” Abby whispered back. “I had to
protect my son.”

“Oh, Abby,” Abe moaned from the bed.

Abby began to cry. She folded her hands over her
stomach and sank to the rug, her sobs rising in the silence. Her
cries grew in volume and she struggled for breath, the rasping
wails growing louder until they turned into a terrifying keening.
The others stared, horrified, as her anguish grew in intensity.
Blood ran from between her fingers and pooled on the pale blue
carpet beneath her.

“Oh, Abby,” Abe whispered again as he shut his eyes.
Seth grabbed his hand and held on tight.

“Shut up, Abby,” Rebecca commanded. “It's too late
for tears.” But her heart was not in her harsh words. The gun
trembled in her hands.

Downstairs, a horrible pounding ensued. The thumps
echoed through the house.

“Let them in,” Auntie Lil ordered Seth. He let go of
his father's hand and inched his way along the bedroom wall,
keeping as far away from his mother and aunt as he could. He
reached the safety of the doorway and dashed down the steps. Within
seconds, Grady burst into the bedroom, T.S. and Herbert right
behind.

“Was that a gunshot?” Grady asked. The big Irishman
took one look at the scene and stopped. He held out a huge hand.
“It would take more than one bullet to stop me,” he told Rebecca
calmly. “I'd have you before you got me.”

“I have no intention of harming you,” Rebecca said
with dignity. “I am simply protecting my remaining brother's life.”
She handed the gun over to Grady, who held it as if he had not
expected such an easy victory and did not quite know what to do
with the spoils. Rebecca suffered no such paralysis. She serenely
stepped around Abby to reach her brother's side. She patted Abe's
free hand reassuringly. “Are you okay?” she asked him.

“Yes,” came the faint reply. “Is Abby going to
die?”

“No,” Rebecca said. “The dying is over. But I'm going
to take care of you from now on.”

“What should we do?” T.S. asked, staring at the
disarray of the crowded bedroom.

“Call Lieutenant Abromowitz,” Auntie Lil decided.
“This time, he's earned the glory.”

Two days later Auntie Lil sat with T.S. at
his dining room table eating fresh bagels slathered with more cream
cheese than was healthy for either one of them. The cats milled
about their feet, hoping to nab any stray bits that fell their
way.

Mahmoud had delivered the morning papers, folded, for
their perusal. The doorman's dark eyes burned with unsatisfied
curiosity, betraying his conviction that T.S. and his aunt were a
permanent cabal as far as he was concerned.

Neither one of them planned to look at the headlines
until they had their breakfast laid out before them. They wanted to
make a ceremony out of reading about their triumph and intended to
savor every word and photograph.

“I'll take
Newsday,”
Auntie Lil said, holding
out a hand.

“That's not fair. You know the
Times
will bury
it somewhere in Metro.” T.S. held the newspapers out of her
reach.

“For heaven's sake, Theodore. Don't be a prig.”
Auntie Lil snatched the newspaper from him.

By regular standards, the solving of Max Rosenbloom's
murder would have been front-page news. There was money involved,
plus a cast of greedy family members to feed to the media for
weeks.

But there was no mention of Max's murder anywhere in
the newspapers. And it was all Auntie Lil's fault.

“Theodore,” she said. “Are you reading what I'm
reading?”

“I am,” came the incredulous reply.

There it was, emblazoned across the top of even the
staid New York Times: Joseph Galvano had been indicted by a federal
grand jury on forty-one felony counts, the most serious being the
murder of “Boom Boom” Fernando Galvez, whose mutilated body had
been found crushed inside the wreck of an old auto at a Jersey City
junkyard belonging to one of Galvano's known associates, Edward
“Fat Eddie” Santucci. According to an unnamed source, it had taken
authorities a week to locate the body using the highest-tech
equipment available. But they had done it. Joey “the Snake” Galvano
was finally going down.

“Listen to this,” T.S. said. “It mentions you. He
read an obscure paragraph toward the end of the story:
“‘Authorities allegedly received their first big break in the case
when an unnamed, wired informant elicited information from Joseph
Galvano that led federal investigators to believe that the body had
been hidden in Santucci's junkyard. This information was used to
leverage more complete information from a highly placed second
informant, who eventually led authorities to the body in exchange
for immunity. The identity of this informant is being withheld by
court order until the trial.’”

“Frankie Five Alarm,” Auntie Lil said. “The man in
the hospital. He's telling O'Conner everything he knows.”

“Aunt Lil, do you know what you've done?” T.S. asked.
“You've helped bring down a man who single-handedly added hundreds
of dollars to what we pay to live in New York each year. All those
bribes and kickbacks and extortion and labor manipulation. I'll
probably pay five hundred a year less in taxes, thanks to you.” He
smiled fondly and refilled her coffee cup.