The Reunion (20 page)
Manny hit the eject button on the VCR and shook his head wearily. Just three days before the primary election, the man the newspapers had once called the “Teflon candidate” now found himself sizzling on the grill. It took the
Providence Journal
just twelve hours to make a connection between the FBI's wild, speculative murder-for-hire theory and the Vocatura campaign. Not to be outdone, the local TV stations followed up with a vengeance. An aide had edited a compilation of the local news stories from the past twenty-four hours. WJAR was the most brutal, stopping just short of speculating whether his grandmother was ever a card-carrying member of the Nazi party. There were three messages from a
Dateline
producer on his desk.
When the story broke, Manny immediately fled to the spot where he always found solace, Block Island. He slipped out the back door of the Westerly campaign headquarters and drove as fast as he could to Point Judith, barely making it aboard the final ferry. He stood silently next to the helmsmen of the
M.V. Sara Jean
for the better part of an hour, letting the sea spray fill his lungs and renew him like no medicine could. Only when the burning orange and red sunset had faded did Manny's blood pressure return to normal.
He checked into the National Hotel under an assumed name, took a hot shower, and settled in for fourteen uninterrupted hours of deep, dreamless sleep. He awoke to a surprising sense of calm that was immediately shattered the moment he stepped outside his hotel room door. At his feet was a stack of newspapers with his picture plastered on the front pages. He was top-of-the-fold news, with banner headlines he hoped his children would never have to see.
He flipped through the articles and shivered slightly. He had been beating himself up all morning, questioning everything he always took as fact about his family's long and colorful history. Could his grandparents have actually been spies? It was an absurd notion to even entertain. Sure, his grandfather, of whom he only had the vaguest of recollections, had worked for a time at Electric Boat, but so had twenty-five thousand other local men.
No, it couldn't be.
Nana's house was filled with pictures of his larger-than-life grandfather clasping hands with nobility and presidents. Wings of hospitals and cornerstones at Catholic churches throughout the diocese bore his name.
The phone rang. Startled, Manny picked it up.
The voice was crisp and direct. “We're downstairs on the front porch. I ordered you the chowder. Be down in five minutes, before it gets cold.”
Manny hung up the phone without speaking. He hadn't told anyone where he was, not even his wife, yet, instinctively, Vinny knew where to look. He loved his little brother. After their parents died and the boys moved in with Nana, they were constantly in the company of old people. Young mothers with small children didn't travel in Mary Vocatura's circle of friends. In fact, there weren't even other kids to play with in the neighborhood. Manny and Vinny learned to depend on each other, and through the years nothing had changed. Vinny was the only other human being Manny could trust, and now he wondered if that were still true.
Manny wore dark glasses, a Red Sox ball cap, jeans, and a URI tee shirt. He made his way through the lunch crowd to the outdoor table where his brother and godfather, Senator DaSilva, had started lunch without him.
Vinny gave him the once-over. An ever-broadening smirk played across his face. “What's with the glasses and hat? Are you incognito or something?” he asked.
He forced a chuckle. “Fuck you, Vinny.”
DaSilva raised an eyebrow, giving them that “don't start” look, just as he'd done when he had to separate them as boys. “Our double-digit lead has shrunk to seven points. At least that's what the
Providence Journal
says.
The Westerly Sun
is kinder,” the senator informed his godson.
Vinny cleared his throat. “We're in the home stretch. We knew the race would tighten up.” He propped himself on his elbows and leaned in toward his brother so no one else could hear. “Now is not the time to go into a crisis mode. I don't want you running off like that again,” he scolded. “Hold your head up high. This FBI business won't be fatal,” he insisted.
Manny's face turned hard. “It's not true, is it Vinny?”
He scoffed. “I never should have approved those nostalgia spots,” he said, avoiding a direct answer. “That whole thing about calling attention to our family's past was a mistake. I let that damn consultant talk me into it.”
Manny's flesh crawled. He reached across the table, forcefully grabbed his brother's shoulders, and stared into his eyes. “Answer me, goddamn it! Tell me if it's true!”
“How could you ask me that? Of course it's not true. It's all bullshit, every word.”
Manny released his grip. His head was down as he mumbled an apology. The proud candidate seemed to deflate in his chair.
DaSilva had been nonchalantly enjoying his lunch, but enough was enough. He looked up from his chowder and slammed his fist on the table. He glanced back and forth between the brothers. “This shit ends now. You hear me?” he stated forcefully, as if wishing it away would make it so. “I'm not going to waste any effort with this. It's out there, and it's absurd.”
“We can't ignore this. It's not going to go away,” Manny replied.
The senator grimaced and then shot Manny a look that made the candidate's blood run cold. “Boy, you weren't raised to be a pussy. You buck up right now, goddamn it.”
The Vocatura brothers exchanged a look that communicated their fear. They had never heard their godfather use such rough language. Manny started to open his mouth, but thought better of it.
DaSilva wiped the chowder from his beard and said, “We're taking the next ferry off this godforsaken little rock. I will be
demanding
that the FBI agent in charge of this investigation be brought up on charges. We want an apology from the director of the FBI and a Justice Department investigation into possible election tampering. And we will win by a double-digit margin. Are we clear, boys?”
Manny didn't answer. He bravely stared down the old man. “Tell me my grandfather was a good man.”
The seriousness on the younger man's face brought a spurt of laughter from the senator. “Manny, son, think about this for a minute. Let's say it's all true. Now, consider our options. For the hell of it, let's say I wanted someone dead.” He paused a moment. “No, check that. I want a room full of people, old men, all killed.” The senator held up his palms. “You with me so far?”
The boys looked at each other and nodded.
“Other than your grandmother, I'm the only one who was alive at the time this act of treason would have taken place. So, naturally, I'd be the only one high up in the campaign that would know anything about it. Your grandmother's not capable of such violence, but I might be. Make sense?” They nodded again.
“Am I going to hire a fucking bag boy from one of your family stores? Is the word âidiot' tattooed across my forehead? We're all third-generation Italian at this table, for Christ's sake! We wouldn't hire a goddamned bag boy. We'd do it right!”
The relief was visible and immediate as it spilled over the brothers. The very thought of it now made Manny burst into laughter. Soon, his brother and godfather joined in.
“You've got a point,” said Vinny, wiping away a tear of laughter. “I'm sure we've got a dozen people on our contributor rolls who do that kind of thing for a living.”
That thought now had DaSilva doubled over in laughter. “I'd only have to make one phone call.” The senator held up his thumb and forefinger, pointing the mock weapon at nobody. “Bang! One call and it would be all over!”
The laughter subsided. Manny placed his hand on his godfather's arm. “Edmund, my grandfather didn't do anything that might be considered⦔
The senator cut him off. “Not a chance. The man was a patriot. Not a chance.”
***
The prostitute wouldn't leave. Joey had no trouble finding her. He let his fingers do the walking through the Greater Hartford-New Haven yellow pages. It was as easy as ordering a pizza. Within ninety minutes she was banging on his motel door. But now, he just wanted her to go. He left the money on the nightstand, fully expecting her to be gone by the time he finished his shower.
He watched her as he stood in the doorframe of the bathroom toweling himself off. She was propped up on two pillows, the sheet pulled up almost to her chin, watching Jerry Springer. He could tell she was still nude under the covers. The whore was probably no more than twenty-five years old, but she looked forty.
He went back into the bathroom, retrieved something from under the sink, and then darted back into the room, taking a running leap onto the bed. She laughed at his playfulness. He was naked, on his stomach, on top of the comforter with his hands tucked underneath him. He buried his face in her neck and started licking.
He worked his way down to her breast. It was a pitiful, empty pocket of flesh that was saggy and scarred by stretch marks from breast-feeding a child she earlier insisted she never had; yet Joey knew from experience that whores could never tell the truth. He circled her right nipple with the tip of his tongue. It instantly became hard.
She moaned. “Keep that up and you're going to have to make another trip to the ATM machine,” she giggled.
He ignored her as he continued to work his tongue on her flesh. He eased back up to her neck and whispered something softly in her ear.
She didn't hear him. She took her hand and rolled her left nipple between her thumb and forefinger. She was getting into the sex; the cuddly ones were her favorite.
His tongue was now in her ear. He said it again.
“What's that, baby?” she purred.
“Paper or plastic?”
Her brow furrowed, but before she had time to think the plastic bag was already over her head. He swung one leg over her stomach, pulled himself up on top of her, and firmly planted both hands around her neck. She fought, but not as hard as he hoped. His erection was waning. Carolyn wouldn't have given up so easily. She would be next. As the prostitute's wiggling subsided, he yanked the bag from her head.
She gasped for air, too frightened to scream. Even if she did, she knew no one would save her at this fleabag motel. He looked different now, disconnected from the man who had cuddled her. His features were rigid, his eyes intense, and his facial muscles were clenched in hatred.
He squeezed her throat, pinching deeply into her flesh. “I'm gonna ask you some questions now,” he said, smiling. “I have two rules. If you lie you die. And I'll know if you're lying. Rule number two: if you scream you die. Do we have an understanding?”
She was terrified. She slowly nodded her head, careful not to make any sudden motion that would be misconstrued as an escape attempt.
“Now, tell me the truth this time. None of this horse shit that you've never had a kid. How old is your baby?”
He loosened his grip. “She's almost two.”
“What's her name?”
“Emma.”
“Does Emma know her ma's a whore?”
She looked away. “No.”
“Tell me who the father is, and don't make up some crazy whore bullshit! I'm gonna take your driver's license and write down your name and social security number. If I find out you've lied to me, I swear to God, you won't be able to hide. I'll track you down and kill you and your little girl. Do you believe me?”
She nodded her head. “The daddy is an old boyfriend back home.”
“Where's home?”
“Salisbury, Maryland. Nothin' much there but a chicken processing plant. That's why I left,” she sniffled. “I wanted something better.”
He still straddled her stomach, but his grip on her throat had loosened considerably. “And you think this is something better? You fuck guys you don't know, and you're not even sure if the next one is gonna slit your throat?”
She started to cry. “It's not like that! My boyfriend looks out for me.”
He smacked her hard across the face, his eyes blazing. “Well, where is he now? You stupid little bitch! He's not your boyfriend, he's your pimp!”
Her crying was more deliberate now, and her chest heaved. “Are you gonna kill me?”
He looked at her suspiciously. “I coulda killed you already, but I didn't. You wanna know why?”
“Why?”
“Because today is your lucky fuckin' day. We're gonna get dressed, check out of this shithole, jump in that red Mustang out front, and go pick up your kid.”
Her eyes widened. “No, no! Please don't hurt my baby.”
He raised his hand to smack her again, but stopped. “I'm not gonna hurt your baby, bitch. You hurt your babyânot me. We're gonna pick up the kid, and I'm gonna give you five hundred dollars. Then you're gonna drop me off downtown.”
“I don't understand.”
He shook her violently. “Listen to me! You're gonna drive my Mustang to Baltimore and drop it off at the bus station. Just leave it there. You and the kid buy a bus ticket back home to Chickenville, wherever the fuck it is. I want you to go home and never come back to New Haven again, you got me?”
She nodded her head, not sure whether to believe him.
He climbed off her and began to dress. “It's time to start your miserable life over. And if you don't, I'm gonna know. I'll track down your bony ass and run a knife through you if you don't. We got a deal?”
She nodded again.
He leaned over her. She flinched as he lowered his lips to her neck and kissed his way up to her ear. “Like I told you,” he sneered in a venomous whisper, “this is your lucky fuckin' day.”
There was no air conditioning at the Watch Hill Motor Court. Even though it wasn't especially hot, the stillness and stale smell kept him on the fringe of sleep for two hours and eventually drove him out into the night air. He slipped on some baggy Bermudas and a tee shirt and headed for the openness of the courtyard. He eased into an old wrought iron lounge chair and fired up a drugstore cigar.
The courtyard faced Bay Street, which, at this hour of night, was void of both people and cars. Dunlevy wasn't the only one awake after midnight. He could faintly hear the crack of billiard balls slam-dancing on a slate table somewhere nearby. A television must have been on next door at the Narragansett Inn. It was awfully late, but it sounded like a baseball game.
Maybe the Red Sox are on a West Coast road trip,
he thought.
Across the street, the summer toys of the rich and famous gently bobbed on a benevolent ocean serenaded by a chorus of small swells lapping at their bows. Beyond the boats, the red and white lights of Stonington glistened brightly, etched against an otherwise black landscape. It was a beautiful spot. He made the decision right then and there to spend the night in the creaky old lounge.
He was dead tired but sleep wouldn't come. Had he made the right choice bringing Carolyn and Kenny along with him? He wouldn't be able to live with himself if anything happened to them. And why was there cat hair on DeMichael's windbreaker? Maybe DeMichael did own a cat of his own, but a thought kept nagging at him. He had a vivid picture in his mind of Mary Vocatura pushing a large white cat from her lap as she pulled herself out of the chair to greet him.
He stood and turned his back to the bay to catch a glimpse of the few lights still burning in the mansion on the hill. The old woman did say DeMichael had done some work for her at the house. He stooped and pressed the ashen tip of his cheap cigar into the sand. A thought came to him, and he almost sprinted back to the room to get to a phone.
The phone rang eleven times before a groggy and agitated voice answered. “Yes?”
“Ida, it's me.”
“Me fuckin' who?”
“Marty.”
She groaned. “Marty?” She was starting to get her bearings. “I don't do phone sex. And if you're at a crime scene with bodies, I'm not the girl on call. So goodnight!”
“Ida! Don't hang up,” he begged. “I'm in Rhode Island.”
“And that means what to me?”
He talked fast, not giving her time to interrupt. “I had the FBI crime lab do a DNA analysis of some hair we recovered on the lining of a jacket. We found this windbreaker in a truck loaded with fingerprints of my number-one bomber suspect.”
He had her interest. “Go ahead. Two minutes.”
“The hair we recovered turned out to be from a cat,” he said with audible embarrassment.
“Is this a fuckin' joke?” she yelled into the receiver. “You son-of-a-bitch. You've been drinking, haven't you?”
“Ida, calm down. You'll wake your neighbors. I'm serious. Give me a break here. I need advice.”
“Okay, okay. What's the question?”
“I think I know where the perp came in contact with the cat. If it's the same cat I think it is, it means I'm following the right lead. Here's the question: If I get another hair sample, can we do another DNA test and match them?”
Ida rubbed her brow, trying to get her wits about her. “I'm not a fuckin' vet, Marty,” she grumbled, the frustration clear in her voice. “They're havin' a drive-by shooting special in Durham this week. Kill two crack-heads, shoot a third free. I'm up to my ass in autopsies, and I've got an eight-thirty meeting tomorrow morning at the state capitol. Goodnight!”
“You're the only one I knew to call,” he said pitifully. “Sorry.”
“Don't try that pouty little boy shit on me. Okay, here's an answer. Your stupid little plan won't work. Happy now?”
He ignored the sarcasm. “Why not?”
“Because cats aren't like people; they don't have one baby at a time. A mother cat could have a litter of ten. They all won't be identical, but two or three could be. No DNA analyst worth a shit would get on the stand and honestly tell a jury he's one hundred percent positive two separate hair samples found in different states came from the same cat. You'd need blood.”
“I could match the hair with a DNA blood analysis?”
“What? There's an echo in Rhode Island? That's what I saidâblood, asshole!”
“If I overnight a blood sample and have the FBI lab send their DNA work-up on the hair, could you match them for me?”
His audacity silenced her for a moment. “You're a crazy fucker. And I'm just as crazy for saying yes. Send it, and I'll see what I can do.”
He beamed into the phone. “I love you, you know.”
“And I love cherry pie, but I don't want it wakin' my ass up at one in the morning!” she replied before slamming down the phone.
He held the receiver in his hand for a moment and smiled. Thank God for Ida.