245
Also by Jon F. Merz
The Lawson Vampire Series
THE FIXER
THE INVOKER
THE DESTRUCTOR
THE SYNDICATE
THE KENSEI
THE RIPPER (forthcoming)
THE WRAITH (forthcoming)
THE GUARDIAN (forthcoming)
The Jake Thunder Series
DANGER-CLOSE
DOUBLE-TAP (forthcoming)
DIRECT-ACTION (forthcoming)
Standalone Novels
PARALLAX
VICARIOUS
PREY
Writing as Alex Archer
ROGUE ANGEL: Warrior Spirit
ROGUE ANGEL: Soul Stealer
ROGUE ANGEL: Polar Quest
ROGUE ANGEL: Sacrifice
Non-Fiction
THE COMPLETE IDIOT’S GUIDE TO ULTIMATE FIGHTING
(co-authored with Rich “Ace” Franklin)
LEARNING LATER, LIVING GREATER
(co-authored with Nancy Merz Nordstrom)
Parallax
Jon F. Merz
Parallax
Copyright © 2010 by Jon F. Merz
Smashwords Edition
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Chapter One
Revere, Massachusetts – 6:55PM
The first thing Gia ever said to him was, “You’re Patrisi’s hitter.”
She’d already known. And Frank, still marveling at her blue eyes, brunette hair, and full lips, found himself struck dumb for the first time in his life.
Eventually, he’d found his voice. And things got better from there.
For a time.
The last thing Gia ever said to him was, “It was fun. Sort of.”
Then she was gone.
Movement to his left drew his attention back to the present. The kid sitting next to him had decided he needed a cigarette. Frank’s voice cut through the darkness.
“You don’t smoke when you’re getting ready to kill a man.”
Bobby froze. The cigarette floated in the space halfway to his mouth. “I heard you had to give ‘em up. You turned preacher now?”
Frank watched the red brick-faced bar through the January downpour and frowned. Nasty weather to kill in, he decided. “Health’s got nothing to do with it. A lit butt looks like a flare in the night.”
“So?”
Frank sighed. Don Patrisi asked him to do this favor. But babysitting the transplant from Philadelphia and his cavalier attitude grated on Frank’s nerves. “So, our boy sees a red cinder in a dark idling car across the street, who the hell’s he gonna suppose is out there waiting for him? Not the Publishers Clearinghouse people.”
The cigarette vanished. “You really the best, Frankie?”
“How old are you, kid?”
He could sense Bobby shift in his seat, drawing himself up. Frank never stopped watching the bar.
“I’m twenty-four.”
Barely out of diapers, thought Frank with a smirk. “First off, don’t ever call me Frankie. To you, my name is Frank. Or Mr. Jolino. Never Frankie. We clear on that?”
“Yeah.”
Frank let the silence hang for a few seconds. “Do yourself a favor, don’t ever go through life thinking you’re the best at anything. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because there’s always someone out there been doing it longer and better than you have. Start thinking you’re the best, someone’ll show up and prove you wrong.”
“Okay.”
“Do your business the best you know how. Learn from those you can learn from. Maybe pass on a bit of that knowledge to the next generation. Live humble, kid. The world’s already got enough prima donnas.”
Bobby’s head bounced like an eager puppy. “Yeah, but are you really the best?”
Frank glanced at him, sighed again, and then went back to watching the bar. Another spate of rain sloshed down on the windshield, turning the neon sign across the street into a melting swirl of pink and purple.
He pressed his spine into the seat cushion. Truth was, he wanted a cigarette, too. But he’d dropped them a year ago. Right after the quacks told him to either quit or die within six months from a series of massive heart attacks.
Frank hated kicking the butts to the curb. All his heroes smoked. Mike Hammer, Sam Spade, Nick Ransom, all of them – they all smoked. Of course, in the pages of pulp fiction there weren’t such things as heart attacks and lung cancer. At least not for those guys.
But for Frank? Mr. Myocardial Infarction lived right around the corner. Lung Cancer hung out on the front stoop. And Emphysema had his phone number on speed-dial.
So Frank ditched the tobacco.
In the distance, bloated clouds hugged the Boston skyline pissing down raw January misery. Cold. But not cold enough for snow, thought Frank with a sigh. He liked snow. Its virgin white made him think some things in nature couldn’t be corrupted.
Human nature, though, that was something else entirely.
“Turn the heater on.”
Bobby flipped the switch. As a rule, Frank didn’t keep the engine going. Idling cars ranked just above lit cigarettes on the Stupid Moves Scale. But he made an exception tonight. If they didn’t keep the engine hot, they’d be stepping out every ten minutes to relieve their cold-constricted bladders.
A rush of heat poured from the vents. Frank directed them down at the floor and cracked his window to defog the windshield.
He glanced at the dash clock. Just after seven. Next to him, Bobby tried stretching his legs.
“Stay loose, kid. He won’t be much longer.”
Bobby nodded once. Curt. Sullen.
Kid hates my guts, thought Frank. He grinned. So what? He wasn’t here to make friends. Fear and hatred were the foundation you built respect on – at least in the Family.
Frank waited. Plugging Vito Vespucio wasn’t what he’d wanted to do on a freezing drizzly night like this. Curling up with the old Raymond Chandler first edition he’d bought from an antiques dealer on Beacon Hill sounded a lot better.
But a job was a job.
And to Frank, the job was everything.
Almost.
***
Munich, Germany – The Same Time – 1:55AM
“It’s leukemia.”
Stahl felt the office lurch; its walls billowed like sails and then shrank in toward him, a fist crushing his world. Cancer? Impossible. But he seemed so healthy. He looked so healthy, even.
“What are the options?”
“Treatment, of course. A bone marrow transplant is the best method we have available. But it’s costly. You do have insurance?”
Stahl glanced up, biting back the surge of emotion. “You’re callous enough to ask about money at a time like this?”
“No, no.” The doctor leaned back, hands coming up. “It’s just that if you aren’t able to afford it, there are certain alternatives we could discuss. I wasn’t implying-“
Was it that visible? Could everyone see just how broke Stahl truly was? That his bank account had a grand total of seventy euros in it? That he had electricity and gas bills months overdue? He’d stretched what he had as best he could, but it wasn’t enough. The stress of trying to keep his head above water, of providing a life for his son, it was breaking him.
No.
He didn’t have insurance.
He didn’t have much of anything. Except a broken past. And a handsome son who’d taught him more about love than any woman ever had.
Now this.
Leukemia.
Stahl felt dizzy. He closed his eyes and opened them again, settling his gaze on the doctor. “Schedule the transplant. No matter what it costs.”
“Are you sure?”
Stahl took a breath, steadier now. “My son gets the very best care. He’s all that I have left.”
“Herr Stahl!”
The doctor’s office vanished; its white walls replaced by a frigid darkness that enveloped him.
“What?”
Next to him, a thin rickety man shivered behind the steering wheel. “Herr Stahl…p-p-please, could we turn the heater on?”
Stahl checked the slide on his Beretta. Again. In the darkness, the gun looked longer thanks to the homemade suppressor he’d fashioned earlier. Good for six shots. Plenty more than he’d need.
“No. You don’t want our prize seeing us out here, do you? You don’t want him to get away again, do you?”
“Of course, not. I only thought-“
“I know. It’s cold. It’s freezing, in fact. We might even see some snow.” He nodded outside. “But this man has not eluded capture by being stupid. He will hear us. Maybe he will even smell the car engine. And then he will know. He will know we wait for him.”
“Forgive me, this is…unusual for me.”
Stahl smiled. “Not used to dealing with criminals, are you?”
“Certainly not. Nor am I used to dealing with men like you, Herr Stahl.” He coughed once. “I don’t even know if that is your real name.”
“Does it matter?”
The answer came quick. “No, no. I’d rather not know.”
“Let your anger be your warmth,” said Stahl. He peered at the red brick tenements bordering the alley, towering over the car they sat in. At this time of night, darkness bled from all the windows.
The thin man’s teeth chattered. “This man must not be allowed to live another day.”
“How many?” asked Stahl.
The man frowned. “According to what the Polizei told me, twenty. Most of them between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two.”
“No evidence?”
“None. He is meticulous in his task. The Polizei believe he uses drugs to subdue his victims first,” the older man shuddered and coughed again. “Before he begins.”
“He’s compulsive,” said Stahl. “Addicted to his work – it’s his passion.”
“There is nothing passionate about raping a young woman, Herr Stahl.”
“Of course not. I’m not implying what happened to your daughter was anything but the most heinous of crimes.”
“Thank you.”
“Still, to capture prey, you must first understand them. You must be able to see the world through their eyes. Only when you see their world will you know how to catch them.” He nodded. “And kill them.”
The man pointed at the pistol Stahl held. “You’re sure it will not be heard?”
“If the tubing is fashioned correctly, the washers inside will break up the gases and the wadding will dissipate the noise. This small a caliber doesn’t sound like much more than a firecracker anyway. The tubing will cut the noise down to a vague muffled pop.”
“We must leave as soon as it is done. You understand that?”
Stahl’s eyes narrowed. “I have no intention of staying around.”
***
Frank grunted.
Across the street, the maroon door opened. “Heads up.”
Bobby straightened, alert now. “He’s early tonight, huh?”
“He’s early every night,” said Frank. “He stops by the bar, has a drink, takes that dame up to the Tailwind Hotel on Route One for an hour, bangs her brains out – or as best he can manage – and then heads home to tuck his kids in bed by nine. Real family man, this guy.”
“Not after tonight,” said Bobby with a grin.
Frank watched Vespucio walk through the slush. The blonde ornament clung to his arm like a wet newspaper.
He fixed Bobby with a hard stare. “Wait until I cross the street. When I get behind him, you drive around. Let him hear the engine. See the car. Long as he sees you, he won’t see me. Not ‘til it’s too late.”
Bobby nodded.
Frank stared at him for another second mentally willing the young gun not to screw things up. Then got out of the car. His shoes slid into the muddy slush, sinking two inches into the grime. He ignored the sudden cold biting through his cotton black socks and stinging his feet. He’d learned to shut off discomfort a long time ago. He checked for oncoming traffic and hurried across the street.
Vespucio walked leaning into the blonde. She must have hydraulic jacks for arms, thought Frank, being able to support that much flab.
The parking lot sat twenty yards away, surrounded by a rusty chain link fence that bowed out in certain sections.
Frank closed the distance. Readying his mind.
Vespucio wasn’t a big fish. He was a small-time bookie working for the Patrisi family. But Vespucio thought that since he flew under radar the Don wouldn’t care if he skimmed a few grand from the books.
Vespucio thought wrong.
***
“There. That is he.”
Stahl nodded. He looked just like his photograph. Perhaps forty years of age, thin, balding on top with thick glasses. He didn’t look strong but Stahl knew that appearances deceived. A weak man could explode in strength if the situation called for it. Stahl himself had adopted the guise of a weak nobody many times in the past. And each time such instances had ended terminally for those who had underestimated him.
“This won’t take long,” said Stahl. “Crack your window. As soon as you hear the first shot, start the motor.”
“I thought you said I wouldn’t be able to hear the shots.”
“You’ll hear something, for God’s sake. Not much, but something. Now do as I said.”
Stahl pulled the door handle and slid out of the car.
The cold night air embraced him.
***
Ten yards.
In the zone now, Frank fell into step behind them.
His hand - still in his overcoat pocket - gripped the pistol.
Sights and sounds registered like simple check marks in a type of staccato log.
Bobby’s car engine slid into drive.
Headlights bounced over him.
The engine gunned as Bobby stomped the accelerator.
A loud bump as the car jumped the divider and came down with a scrape.
Ahead of Frank, Vespucio turned.
The headlights drew parallel with the sidewalk.
Frank walked faster.
Vespucio looked at the car.
Frowned.
He knows, thought Frank. He knows it’s on.
Vespucio turned.
And saw Frank.
Frank drew his hand from his pocket, already thumbing the safety off and leveling it on Vespucio’s head.
Vespucio’s eyes went white.
Blood sank out of his face.
The blonde screamed when she saw the gun.
But Frank didn’t care about her. He only cared about Vespucio.
He took a deep breath and exhaled it slow, starting to squeeze the trigger.
***
Stahl covered the distance quickly. He bounced into the side of the alley, stumbling as he walked. He giggled.
The man looked up, suddenly hurrying to open his door. He fumbled with his keys.
“Excuse me,” said Stahl. “Is there a pub around here that’s open at this ungodly hour? I need a drink in the very worst way.”
The man looked up. Stahl could see the tension in his face.
But Stahl kept smiling. Always smiling. He was just an innocent drunk after all. Just a foolish man who’d had a few too many and wanted a few more before calling it a night.
The man hesitated but then grinned. “I think there’s a place around the corner.”
Stahl put his hand out to the man’s shoulder. “I cannot thank you enough, my friend.”
And then he shoved him back against the doorjamb, twisting the man’s body as he did so. His keys skittered to the ground.
Stahl’s hand came up aiming the Beretta between the man’s eyes.
***
Frank squeezed the trigger.
Stahl squeezed the trigger.
Again.
Again.
Even as their bullets found the heads of their respective targets – something rocked both Frank and Stahl. An explosion of pain surged through their skulls; a roar like standing next to a jet engine filled their ears; their vision blurred and then blackened.
Then the roar faded.
Frank opened his eyes. A dead bald guy with two entry wounds in his skull looked up at him with vacant eyes. Blood and bits of brain splattered the nearby doorjamb.
Where the hell am I?
Stahl opened his eyes. He saw the fat man dead at his feet, blood already mixing with the cold rain that coursed along the gutter. Next to the body, a scantily dressed blonde screamed.
In…English?
Stahl frowned.
He was in Germany – wasn’t he?
Another explosion roared in their heads; another wave of pain crashed down.
Frank’s eyesight clouded.
Stahl grabbed his head.
***
It cleared then. Frank saw the terrified tart on the sidewalk before him.
He saw Vespucio.
Dead.
Two tiny holes punctured his forehead.
Frank took a shaky breath and trained his .22 on the blonde. “You know me?”
She shook her head like a rattle. “N-n-no.”
“If you ever do, I’ll find you.” He stared at her once more for effect.
He pocketed the gun and slid into the car.
Next to him, Bobby whooped and jumped on the gas pedal. “Wow!”
The car shot away from the curb. Frank took a breath. “Slow down. I don’t want any cops pulling us over for speeding for crying out loud.”
The pain in his head lingered, but diminished quickly.
In the rearview mirror, he could still see the blonde screaming for help. Vespucio’s body filled a large portion of the mirror, but it kept getting smaller. Like the pain.
Bobby took a corner and the image vanished.
What the hell happened to me back there?
***
Stahl’s vision cleared. He was back in the alley. The rapist lay dead at his feet, a long trail of red blood scarred the white entryway. The bullets had exited the rear of the man’s skull, jetting bits of gray matter about. Odd that the .22 rounds had exited the skull. They usually stayed inside and danced around the cavity. No matter, the rapist was dead.
He heard the car come up.
Stahl turned and slid into the front seat. The pain in his head subsided. He nodded at the older man. “Let’s go.”
“He’s dead?”
“He won’t be raping any more children in this lifetime,” said Stahl.
He glanced at the doorway one last time.
That pain. Those images. That roar.
What had just happened to him?
Chapter Two
Don Patrisi welcomed him with a bear hug. “Nice piece of work, Frankie.”
He smiled and gave the old man a kiss on each cheek. “You know you’re the only person I let call me that, don’t you?”
The Don pulled back and spread his arms. “Sure I do. Why ya think I call you that?” The old man laughed and sipped his red wine from the imported crystal glass in front of him. Years of drinking the imported Sicilian wine he adored had left his liver in rough shape. Frank could count the skin blotches creeping up from the collar of the old man’s hand-tailored silk shirts. Patrisi’s face always seemed a dull shade of yellow. Dark deep circles underscored his bright blue eyes. But the cirrhosis hadn’t robbed Patrisi of his ability to mete out harsh punishment to those he saw fit to receive it.
“That piece of crap Vespucio. Thought he could steal from me? And get away with it?” He coughed and a sputter of phlegm dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. “About time we did that worthless freak.”
Frank said nothing. He didn’t much care for the justification speech that happened anytime he whacked someone for the old man. Frank did his job and that was that. But he let the old man talk. He could tell Patrisi missed being out with the action. The most excitement he got these days was wondering if the Feds would ever gather enough evidence on him to force the racketeering charges to stick.
“Bobby says you gave him a hard time about him smoking his butts.”
“He wants to smoke ‘em, that’s fine with me.” Frank shrugged. “But not when we’re doing a job. Kid needed a little lesson in not sticking out. Vespucio would have seen a cigarette in the dark. He would have ran. I would have had to chase him.” He smiled. “And I hate running.”
Don Patrisi nodded. “Moe.” He said the name with a lot of respect. Frank appreciated that. “That guy, he taught you right, didn’t he?”
“Yes sir.”
Patrisi took another sip of wine. “How many people you killed for me, Frank?”
“I don’t keep count, Mr. Patrisi. I just do my job.”
“And you do it damned well.” He reached into his suit coat and removed a letter-sized envelope. “This is for you. It’s your usual…plus a small bonus.”
Frank took the envelope without looking into it. He knew Don Patrisi wouldn’t stiff him. Over the years, other families had tried to lure Frank away through intermediaries. Frank stayed loyal to Patrisi. In Frank’s mind, not enough people stayed loyal to anything or anyone nowadays.
He slid the envelope into his jacket. “Thank you.”
The Don regarded him. “Everything go all right, tonight?”
“What do you mean?”
Patrisi shrugged. “You know, it’s just the kid there, he says you did Vespucio and then sorta stood there not looking like yourself for a second.”
“Kid really talked your ear off, huh?”
“I talked to him while you were in the can. No big.”
“I had a headache is all,” said Frank. “Damned migraine, you know? Been kicking my ass all night. It’s nothing a couple of Excedrins can’t whip.”
“Probably right.” He stifled a yawn with one hand. “Bobby says you also let Vespucio’s bitch walk.”
“She wasn’t part of the equation. You know my standards.”
“Yeah, I know ‘em. No innocents. No extra hit. Just the assigned target. That’s it.”
“I’m not a rolling slaughterhouse, Don. I do the job you ask and I go home. It ain’t much, but it’s me.”
Patrisi snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared out of nowhere and refilled the Don’s glass. “I never known a hitter like you, Frankie, you know that?”
“You knew Moe.”
“Yeah. Good ol’ Moe.” He smiled and sipped some more wine. “We had some times that guy and me. Couldn’t have asked for a better teacher, huh kid?”
Frank smiled. “Moe was the best.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the best now. Moe made sure of that.”
Frank inclined his head. “You mind if I get going now? Kinda anxious to pop some meds for this headache.”
The smile disappeared. Frank watched the stress of leading an organized crime syndicate creep back into the old man’s face. “I got something for you, Frankie.”
“Yeah?”
“I got another one for you.”
Frank paused. “Busy week.”
“These freaking things come outa the woodwork, I ain’t lying to you. First one, then another. Then the whole blessed place is overrun with ‘em.”
“Who’s the target?”
Don Patrisi finished his wine in two gulps and set the glass back down on the table. “Before I tell you, I gotta have your word that you won’t flip out.”
“Why should I flip out? A job’s a job.”
“Yeah.” Don Patrisi slid a photograph over to Frank. “I figured you’d say that.”
Frank looked down and felt his stomach lurch. He looked up. “Are you kidding me?”
“No.” He glanced around for the waiter. “I want her dead, Frank.”
“What for?”
“What for – what the hell do you mean?”
“I mean what’s she done that she needs to be whacked for?”
“That really any of your concern? Do you really need to know why? It’s a job, Frank. Like you just said. Am I right?”
Frank could argue it. He had the clout. But he chose not to. “You know we got a history, her and me.”
“Yeah, I heard that. I heard she used to yell at you like you were some kind of little puppy dog she could crap all over, too.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Whatever it was,” said the Don, “it’s in the past. The past, Frank. What we need to talk about is her future. Or rather, the lack thereof.”
“She’s your niece, for crying out loud.”
“She’s my long-lost niece, Frank. Cripes, I never even knew she existed until she showed up two years ago.” He took a long drag on the glass. “How soon can you do the job?”
Frank looked at him and saw no indecision in the old man’s face. Inside, he grimaced. Moe had warned him this day would come. The day when you got a hit that you knew. But Moe hadn’t said anything about getting a hit that you used to love.
Used to love. He almost smiled. Frank wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself. He still loved her as much as he ever had. Even with all the crap she’d heaped on him. Even with all the grief.
Gia.
He looked right into the Don’s eyes. Moe had always insisted on eye contact.
“Gimme a week.”
***
Frank climbed five flights to his apartment overlooking Prince Street. He checked the top of his doorjamb for the single hair he always slid in as his cheap burglar alarm. The hair was still in place. Right where it should have been.
Good. The last thing Frank wanted was to have to shoot someone else tonight. He slid his key in and heard the door behind him open. He sighed. Not now. For the love of God, not now.
“Hi, Frank.”
He turned around and forced a smile. “Hello, Mrs. Morello.”
The squat older woman with gray hair tied back in a bun smiled. She held a covered pink casserole dish in her hands. “I baked you a nice lasagna, dear. You take it. It’s late, you must be starved.”
“Thanks.” Frank held the casserole dish and waited. He’d been through this enough times to know what was coming next.
“My niece is still available, you know that? You should really give her a call. You two would be good together.”
Frank shook his head. “Mrs. Morello, you know I don’t have time for a girlfriend.”
His neighbor scowled. “What? No time? What man doesn’t have time for a nice girl who knows how to cook and clean and treat her man with some respect? I should fall down dead if you don’t have time for a nice young woman in your life.”
Frank grinned. “That kind of talk will get you into all sorts of trouble with the feminists, Mrs. Morello.”
“Bah, feminism. What is that? An excuse to not shave your legs and your pits and walk around like you got a set of big ones between your legs? I’d rather have it the way we did back when.” She stood back. “Now take my niece, for example. She knows how to treat a man.”
Unfortunately she looks like a baboon, thought Frank. “Mrs. Morello, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not looking for a girlfriend just now.”
“Well, how about a one-night stand then?”
“Mrs. Morello.” Frank almost fell over laughing.
“What? Not for her. For me.” She winked at Frank. “I could make your eyes spin around like a slot machine, you know.”
“I don’t doubt it. But I’m afraid the answer’s still no.”
Mrs. Morello sighed. “Can’t blame an old gal for trying.”
Frank hefted the plate. “Thanks for the lasagna. I’ll give you the dish back tomorrow, okay?”
“Whenever you finish, dear.” She disappeared back into her apartment. Frank walked into his.
Gumshoe came running. Frank stooped and patted her coat of brown and white fur. His hand came away with a large tuft of hair entwined in his fingers. He rubbed them together and the hair fluttered to the ground. Gumshoe pounced on it and started eating it.
Frank shook his head. “No wonder you get hairballs.”
He walked to the kitchen and placed Mrs. Morello’s lasagna down on the counter.Frank whistled. Gumshoe came running into the kitchen, the tuft of cat hair still sticking out of her mouth.
“Gimme that.” Frank grabbed it. Then he opened a can of cat food and set it in the bowl. Gumshoe tore into it.
Frank peeled back the foil and sniffed the lasagna. Mrs. Morello had made sure to pile on the cheese. He shrugged. May as well not waste such a fine meal. He got a serving spoon and heaped a slice onto a plate, then took it into the living room.
He switched on the television. It was too early yet for the eleven o’clock news. Frank could eat, maybe catch the last part of the Bruins game and then make sure he hadn’t left any loose threads on the hit.
He fished a bottle of Sam Adams Winter Lager out of his fridge. He loved the beer. Every year he swore he’d stock up enough cases of the seasonal brew to see him through the months when it wasn’t available.
Every year he forgot.
He poured the bottle into a tall glass and sat down just as the Bruins scored their first goal. He bit into the lasagna and felt the stress of the hit melt into the floor. Something else filled the hole left behind.
Gia.
He chewed, swallowed, and sipped his beer. Christ, he wished he could just forget about her once and for all. She was too much emotional baggage. She was too much of a pain in the ass. She was too much of a bitch.
But damn he loved her.
And now the Don wanted her dead.
Figures.
He finished his first bottle of Sam Adams and went back for a second.
How many times, he thought, how many times has it happened this way? Go out, take care of some business and then come back to the apartment, have dinner, a few brews and spend the night decompressing.
A good life.
Wasn’t it?
He pushed his plate away but kept the Sam Adams in his left hand. Gumshoe materialized at his feet and reached up, stretching her paws to his lap. She jumped without a sound and snuggled into him. Frank stroked her fur while he nursed the beer and watched the Mapleleafs attempt a comeback.
Back when he was ten, Frank would have killed for this kind of life. Well, he smirked, he had killed.
Growing up in the North End meant one of two things: you either hooked up with a gang or you moved out. Rumbles with the kids across the bridge, the Townies of Charlestown, meant Frank learned early on how to hold his own in a fight.
But even he couldn’t have predicted what happened that day.
Everyone knew Tony Giani was Don Giani’s son. That was back before the Patrisi family had taken over. Nobody messed with Tony, but he didn’t abuse the power. He earned the respect of the neighborhood kids – family notwithstanding. Frank liked him from the start and they became close friends.
That fateful night just after the St. Anthony’s festival they were walking down by the ice rink, close to the bridge that separated the neighborhoods. Just before they turned back onto Commercial Street, a gang of Townies jumped them.
Six on two wasn’t considered fair, but that didn’t matter. The Queensbury Rules had been chucked out years before. When you fought then, it was tougher. Clubs, chains, and knives weren’t uncommon.
Frank took a shot in his jaw. He felt his back molar break and he spat blood and white tooth. But two sacked Tony at the same time. The Townies knew him. Nothing would have made them happier than busting the Don’s son into a million pieces.
Frank put his attackers down by stomping a shinbone into dust and breaking another boy’s arm. He turned to see Tony elbow another kid in the face, drawing a fountain of blood that gushed down the kid’s shirt.
Then the fourth kid pulled a knife.
Frank would later try to figure out why exactly he’d jumped in front of Tony at that instant. Maybe it was because Tony was the Don’s son. Maybe it was because Frank didn’t value his own life all that much – not with a mother addicted to heroin and a father who’d left when Frank was still wearing diapers.
Or maybe it was because Tony was his friend.
Whatever the reason, Frank took a slash across the back of his forearm.
Even now he could remember how it felt when the steel bit into his arm, when it tore through flesh and muscle, and when the blood flowed.
But something happened then.
The pain shut off.
And Frank felt a tidal surge of anger well up inside of him pushing at the dam he’d built to contain all the pain his young life had forced him to endure.
It burst.
Without thinking, he ripped the knife away from the Townie, reversed the blade and jammed it into the boy’s larynx, sawing from side to side. When the blood pouring over them both made the knife too slippery to hold, Frank jerked it out, wiped the handle on his jeans and tossed it into the nearby harbor.
The Townie slumped to the ground. Dead.
The other thugs ran.
Tony grabbed him and they hightailed it home. Ducking into an empty courtyard, they considered their options. Tony dragged Frank down to the back door of his father’s bar and knocked three times.
In those days, Big Sal always manned the back door. When he opened it and saw the two boys, the cigar he always chomped froze in mid-greeting.
“Jesus freaking Christ. You two get your asses in here.”
Big Sal got Tony’s father. Mr. Giani took one look at the boys and ordered three shots of whiskey. He gave one to Tony, one to Frank, and one for himself. They downed them.
“What the hell happened?”
Tony did the talking. Tony always did the talking. Throughout, Frank could smell the drying blood on his shirt. His wound hurt when Big Sal wrapped it with a big towel from the kitchen.
But Frank wasn’t thinking about his wound. He thought about what it felt like to plunge the knife into the Townie’s throat. He saw it all in slow motion. He remembered when the Townie’s eyes rolled white as Death came for him.
While Tony talked, the Don kept shooting glances at Frank. Finally Tony finished. Mr. Giani laid a hand on Frank’s shoulder.
“You saved my son’s life tonight. I can’t ever thank you enough.”
Frank shrugged. What could he say?
But Tony’s father took care of everything from there. First they got some new clothes. And Frank knew Mr. Giani sent men down to dispose of the kid’s body. There might have been hell to pay, but Mr. Giani called in a marker and the Winter Hill Gang that ran Charlestown never collected on the revenge card.
When Tony died a few years later in a car crash, Frank felt like half of his life had died with him.
Frank stood, displacing Gumshoe. He walked to the window. Down on Hanover Street, the evening crowd lingered. Tourists mostly. They came to the North End for a taste of Italian Boston. And they got it. Frank could circulate in their midst and they’d never guess what he really did. Frank stayed low.
And he stayed alive.
The night’s events ran through his mind again. He’d fired his gun and the whole scene had changed. He was someplace else, looking at someone else. And he had no clue what had happened. Or even why it had happened.
And that pain – so much pain in his head – had absolutely frozen him.
Was the stress getting to him? Frank frowned. Bullcrap. He did what he did and he was good at it. Stress was something created by degree-packing academics to justify their existence and over-the-top hourly fees.
Frank rubbed his head. Damn that headache.
But was it really even a headache at all? He’d said it back at Patrisi’s club because he knew the Don would accept the answer. Moe had told him a long time ago that if you ever showed weakness, you stopped being an asset and you became a liability.
Deception at all costs.
The only way to survive.
But something else had happened tonight. Something other than taking Vespucio out. Something more than learning that he had to kill his ex-girlfriend.
Something else entirely.
And Frank didn’t have a clue what it was.
Chapter Three
Germany
Stahl woke at the same time he did every day.
6AM.
Despite the fact that he’d been up late, Stahl never deviated from his personal daily routine. He’d been that way since the early 1980s.
He slid out of bed and dropped to the floor. He locked his arms, positioned himself and then launched into the push-ups.
When he reached two hundred, he stopped.
On to his back. Stahl began a series of crunch exercises starting with his upper abdominals and descending from there. He extended his legs, locked them out suspended six inches off the floor. He did scissors kicks slow to a count of four, the way they did in special operations units around the world.
He stood and took a series of deep breaths that flooded his system with oxygen. He shifted into a strenuous martial arts routine consisting of leg exercises, first to limber and then to strengthen. He kicked and punched in the same four feet of space for fifteen minutes.
Sweat poured off his naked body, funneled through the sharp crevices between his muscle bellies. At forty-two, Stahl was in better shape than men half his age.
He smiled.
Half a lifetime ago, he’d been disillusioned. Disaffected. And cast out of his aristocratic house because he’d embraced the teachings of Marx and Lenin. His father unable to cope with the pro-Communist leanings of his son, cut him off from an annual allowance of five million US dollars.
Stahl left one Wednesday afternoon in March when the rains still fell cold and harsh against his skin. He’d walked out of their ancestral family home in Northern Germany and never once looked back.
He’d found a home in the underground. The splinter groups that once made up the radical terrorist groups like Baader-Meinhof and Red Army welcomed him with open arms.
And Stahl found a new family.
A better family, he’d thought back then.
Now he knew better.
Stahl knew what real family was. Even if it that meant only him and his son.
He sighed, padded to the shower and turned the faucet to scalding hot. He rinsed the accumulated sweat off his body and lathered his face for a shave. Shaving blind was a trait he’d acquired during his training in the Libyan desert. Mirrors weren’t allowed.
Stahl switched the water to ice cold to snap his pores shut and stepped out into the steam. He toweled quickly, dressed and eased out of his apartment by seven-fifteen.
Downstairs in the garage, he pulled the green tarp off his Saab Turbo. The car was fast enough without being too showy. And on the Autobahn, it was one of a thousand such vehicles.
Anonymous.
Undetectable.
He drove fast, concerned only with bad drivers. But on the Autobahn, bad drivers stuck to the far right lane with the other autophobes.
Stahl zoomed past them. He switched the radio to a classical music station and found some Wagner. He whistled along.
He pulled off twenty minutes later. At the nameless town, he cruised into the square, past a statue of a once-famous statesman. Someone Stahl knew nothing about.
He found the address quickly enough and parked five streets over. Meandering down the cobblestoned streets, Stahl triple-backed on himself to make sure he didn’t have any surveillance. At exactly eight o’clock, he entered the doorway of the dark gray brick building. A single buzzer with no nameplate hung next to the doorjamb. Stahl pressed it once.
The door clicked open.
He hoped they had video cameras hidden somewhere. Simply buzzing him through struck him as incredibly stupid. That was the second instance of stupidity. The first had been them contacting him in the first place.
He climbed to the third floor on carpeted steps. Down the hall with old peeling yellow wallpaper. The door at the end opened.
A man stood in the doorway, blocking out the light behind him. Hired muscle.
Stahl sighed.
He stopped six feet from the door. The man glared at him.
Stahl looked right through him.
From inside the room, he heard the voice of an old man call out to the muscle. “I wouldn’t hassle our friend, Hans. He’ll kill you without so much as a an ounce of effort.”
The big man moved obediently out of the way. Smart lad, thought Stahl as he entered the room.
The old man stood by the window. He aged even more since Stahl had seen him last. A few stray hairs still poked out of his skull, long white and springy. His eyes had sunk even further into their sockets. Another chin had added itself to the jowls hanging like heavy drapes.
The old man smiled. “You’re right on time.”
“I’m always on time,” said Stahl. He sat in the chair with its back to the wall and kept his hands folded in his lap.
The old man pointed at a newspaper on the nearby coffee table. The front page carried an account of the previous night’s shooting. “Did you see that?”
Stahl looked. “What about it?”
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
“What if it was?”
The old man sighed. “It is important, I think, that you confine your activities given the nature of what I will propose shortly.”
“I didn’t say I had anything to do with that murder.”
“I know your…proclivity toward vigilante justice,” said the old man. “It carries all the hallmarks of your particular skill set. The .22 caliber bullets, the isolated location, time of night.”
“A lot of people have .22 caliber pistols.”
The old man shrugged. “Even if you don’t confirm it, I’ll simply assume it was you.”
“One more shooting to my credit doesn’t stroke my ego.”
“Whatever the case, we need to talk.” He glanced at the bodyguard. “Go fetch us some coffee.”
The muscle frowned. The old man sighed. “Go already. Stahl won’t let anything happen to me, at least not while I have the lure of money over him.” He waited until the bodyguard had backed out of the room and then sat across from Stahl on a simple couch.
“I have a problem.”
“Most of the world does, too.”
“Indeed. This problem, however, can be rectified. Solved. But only by a man with your particular talents.”
Stahl shrugged. “I’m out of that game now. You know that.”
“You were a part of it for too long to simply walk away.”
Stahl leaned forward. “I walk away from anything. Anytime I damn well please. I paid my dues. And I’ve certainly demonstrated my preferences for being left alone.”
The old man snorted. “Killing Rudolph was hardly necessary. I only sent him to deliver a message.”
“And I had him deliver a message of my own,” said Stahl. “It is only out of courtesy I am even here this morning. Say what you need to say and then let me be on my way.”
“I’m offering you a job,” said the old man.
“I don’t want one.”
“You make this difficult.”
“Not at all. It’s very simple. I don’t want to be bothered. I don’t want a job. I don’t-“
“Your son is dying, Ernst.”
Stahl kept his breathing in check. He’d found out. Somehow he’d found out. He always did.
The old man continued. “I believe a transplant is the only thing that will guarantee the young lad lives beyond the next few weeks. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes. Although that’s none of your concern.”
“I’m not implying a threat, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Stahl said nothing.
“Merely,” continued the old man, “that I am aware of the decidedly formidable financial aspects of such a procedure.”
“There’s insurance for such things.”
“And you have none,” said the old man. “After all, ‘retired assassin’ isn’t exactly the sort of thing you can use to get a normal job nowadays, is it?”
“Make your point.”
“I made it already,” said the old man. “I want to hire you.”
Muscle returned with three coffees and handed them out. Stahl sipped his slowly. He detested the taste but he’d never let on to that fact. “I’m still here,” he said.
The old man directed Stahl’s attention to the television set in the corner of the room. The screen came alive with images. The old man pointed. “The gentleman in the white lab coat…can you kill him?”
Stahl watched the screen memorizing the details of the man’s face and then looked at the old man. “I wouldn’t be here if you had any doubts.”
“Indeed.”
“So then,” continued Stahl, “the question is not if I ‘can,’ but rather if I will.”
“I think your son’s health may well be reason enough. Don’t you?”
Stahl studied the screen. “Who is he?”
“A former employee.”
“That’s not a lot of information.”
The old man shrugged. “He worked for us. He…did things. Then he had a conscience shift. He got morals. He found his work unacceptable and went over to the intelligence services.”
“And he’s got some dirty little secrets, has he?”
“Several, in fact. One the world is already familiar with. And one that I want kept a secret until the time of my choosing.”
“You’re being deliberately obtuse.”
“You don’t need to know that much.”
“I need to know more than you’re sharing right now.”
The old man coughed. “Are you certain you wish to know?”
Stahl frowned. “Games don’t amuse me. Tell me what I need to know about this target.”
“Very well.” The old man leaned forward and spoke quietly for a few seconds. Then he leaned back and waited.
Stahl pondered the information. “It’s a big job.”
“Not big in terms of size, but it is extremely important.”
“Messy.”
The old man nodded. “Use explosives. I don’t want you simply shooting this man. It has to be done with a bomb.”
“What’s the timeframe?”
“As soon as possible,” said the old man. “I’d like the target eliminated within a week.”
“That’s not a lot of time.”
“Risky. Isn’t it?”
“He’ll have security with him if he’s gone over. Yes, it’s risky. It might even be suicidal.”
“I feel certain you are up to the challenge.”
Stahl sipped his coffee. “I haven’t heard anything yet to make me accept the mission.”
“The sooner you acquire the necessary money for the transplant, the sooner your boy gets better. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes.”
“Take the job,” said the old man. “Take the job and your son gets his transplant and the best medical care German hospitals can provide. He will be alive and well.”
“Twenty million dollars,” said Stahl. “US currency.”
The old man laughed. “Ridiculous. Even for you. Even for your abilities, such a price is completely outrageous.”
“You came to me, remember?” Stahl shrugged. “I know what you like to dabble in. I have a fairly decent idea of what he made for you. And I know that you’ll sell what he made for top dollar. If I take the assignment, I get top dollar as well.”
Silence hung in the room. Stahl watched the television screen, focusing on the face.
The old man cleared his throat. “Very well.”
“US,” said Stahl. “I don’t want any of those silly Euros. And I’ll need ten million up front.”
The old man shook his head. “You’ll get the entire amount upon completion of the job.”
“Out of the question.”
“I’d have no assurances you’d do the job. You could walk out of here and be ten million dollars richer without ever starting the mission.”
“You’d have my word,” said Stahl. “That used to mean something.”
“Times change,” said the old man. “You’ve got seventy thousand dollars still in your checking account,” he smiled, “I did some checking. That’s more than enough to finance your mission. Once you complete the assignment, I’ll release the money.”
“My son doesn’t have that much time,” said Stahl.
“I’m told that he has at least one month before his condition deteriorates to the point where even a transplant won’t help him. Take a week and complete your mission. Then you get to come home, see your son get his life back, and the two of you can go on with your lives, albeit much richer.”
Stahl looked at the bodyguard and then the old man. “If I do this job and you don’t pay me, I will make it my life’s mission to hunt you down. I will introduce you to a world of agony unlike anything you’ve ever known.”
The old man waved his hand. “Yes, I’m sure of that, Herr Stahl. Now, is there anything else?”
“I’ll need a contact. Someone sterile.”
“I have someone in mind. Call me when you reach your destination. One of my helpers will give you the necessary information.”
“Where am I going?”
“To the States. Boston, Massachusetts. Your target is scheduled to address a conference there in seven days. Make sure he never utters word.”
“You’ve got excellent information.”
“Money buys everything.”
Stahl ignored him. “One more thing: after today, I don’t exist anymore. No more jobs, no more phone calls, no more dead drops. This is the end of our relationship.”
The old man held his gaze and then nodded.
Stahl stood. “Don’t double-cross me.”
“I won’t.”
Stahl stared at him a second longer. Then he turned and walked out.
Chapter Four
Frank hated mornings.
Years ago he’d enjoyed sleeping late. Preferably until noon. His mother didn’t care. How could she? Doped up on heroin, she spent most of her days locked in her bedroom. Frank would wake, eat, and then get out of the tiny apartment. He found solace on the streets. Right up until his mother’s overdose and subsequent death.
He was eighteen then and old enough to care for himself. Pretty much what he’d been doing all along anyway.
Then he met Moe.
Already sixty years old, Moe was back in town on a job and had stopped by the Giani bar for a drink. Don Giani introduced Frank.
Moe’s cold gray eyes looked him up and down. “You out of school?”
Frank nodded.
“Going to college?”
He’d almost laughed. Getting out of high school had been tough enough. The last thing Frank wanted to see was another textbook. He said as much.
“You need a job,” said Moe. “You can’t just loaf around all day.”
Frank felt his anger rise. “Well, what do you do?”
Moe took a sip of brandy, savoring the way the liquor rolled over his taste buds, as if he had all the time in the world. “I kill people.”
The way he looked when he said the three words set Frank’s blood cold. He attached nothing to words. No pride. No ego. No…nothing. And it was that lack of anything that made Frank a believer.
Moe offered a hand to Frank. Frank shook it, but Moe held on, adding pressure to the grip, slowly squeezing the bones in Frank’s hand together. Frank stared at him while he did so, determined not to show any pain.
Thirty seconds passed like a century and then Moe let his hand go. A small smile peeked out on his face. “You’ve got guts, kid.”
Frank said nothing. Somewhere deep down inside he had a sense of what was coming next. “How about you and me have ourselves a talk? If it goes well, I might just have a way for you to earn a living.” He smirked. “But it ain’t gonna be easy.”
They’d talked. And soon enough Frank had packed up his belongings and moved into a giant warehouse down on the waterfront. There, among a million other things, the aging assassin rooted out Frank’s affection for sleeping late.
Everyday for six months, Moe woke Frank at 5:00AM with a variety of noise. Some days he’d use a loudspeaker that played the 1812 Overture. Other days Moe would rig improvised training explosives that boomed off the soundproofed walls. Still other days belonged to the sound of fully automatic machine gun fire.
Twenty-four weeks after it started, Frank knew he’d never be able to sleep past sunrise ever again.
Not that he ever grew to enjoy it. But then again, Moe had told him he didn’t have to ever like it. He just had to do it.
It came down to Moe’s favorite subject: discipline. Moe would always chomp his cigar and grunt, “without discipline, you ain’t got crap.” Frank had noticed early on that Moe’s casual method of speech betrayed the man’s youth in Brooklyn. But Moe could sound as polished as a diamond if he wanted. He taught Frank how to do that also.
And Frank got up early.
He rolled out of bed and did a series of breathing exercises designed to pump his blood full of oxygen. Next he stretched for about five minutes. Then he stepped into sweat pants, a hooded sweatshirt, and sneakers. He strapped on a small caliber Walther .380 just behind his right hip, locked the door behind him and descended the stairs. As he walked, the thick aged carpeting absorbed his footfalls.
Outside, the January air greeted him like a slap to the face. Cold and wet, it stung his skin. Frank flapped his arms once more and then began a slow trot down Commercial Street toward the waterfront.
Office workers, neighborhood folks, and assorted merchants already crowded the streets. Frank slid through them all, a fin through the swells of people.
He banked left at the Big Dig construction project and threaded his way past the Aquarium. Finally he reached the park by the harbor and increased his speed. Few people barred his way now.
As he ran, he felt his heartbeat even out. His lungs relaxed as he found his stride. He felt a line of perspiration begin at the back of his neck and work its way down his back.
Why Gia?
The question had plagued him all night long. Even Moe’s sure-fire sleeping techniques had failed to send Frank off to Sleepyville. Frank had wrestled with the possibilities and failed to find one that made sense.
Don Patrisi didn’t have to tell Frank why he wanted Gia plugged. Especially since the Don knew that Frank and Gia had a past. But Frank wanted to know.
He needed to know.
Was it a test? Was the Don testing him, trying to see if he was truly loyal to the Family? Frank frowned. He’d proven himself so many times in the past, such tests were unnecessary.
And almost insulting.
He dodged a gaggle of lawyers on their way to legal maneuverings and ducked under the archway of the Boston Harbor Hotel. He crossed onto Northern Avenue and ran towards Black Falcon Terminal.
Frank increased his speed.
As his sneakers grabbed pavement, he knew what he’d have to do.
If Don Patrisi wouldn’t tell him why Gia needed to be killed, Frank would have to find out for himself.
That meant a visit to Gia.
As he ran, he worked out the logistics. Moe once told him that exercise cleared the mind. It enabled a man to think about what he needed to do and how he would do it. Moe was right. Frank always ran when he needed to sort things through.
Would the Don have Gia under surveillance? Possibly, he thought, but not likely. Maybe he has me under surveillance, he thought grinning. Make sure I don’t warn her and let the chick fly the coop.
That didn’t make sense, either. Maybe for someone else. But not Frank. The Don wouldn’t risk pissing him off like that.
He reached Black Falcon Terminal and spotted the ever-present State Police cruiser idling by the gate. He waved. The cop, probably earning about sixty bucks an hour for drinking coffee, frowned.
Well, freak you, Mr. Cheery.
Frank kept jogging.
And he kept sweating.
Gia.
Frank had seen her the first night after he’d come back in from a job. She’d been sitting at a cocktail table wearing a short skirt that showed probably too much thigh. But it was nice full thigh, the kind Frank preferred. She didn’t look like any of the anorexic waifs that strutted their bones up and down the fashion runways of the world. Gia was woman - old-style 1950’s buxom brunette with long lashes, stocking and garters,; a big busted all-American full-on pulse-racing woman.
And damned if Frank didn’t think she was probably the best-looking babe he’d ever laid eyes on. Straight out of his private eye novels – the damsel in distress. The kind who needed a guy like Frank in her life.
Patrisi had done him the favor of introducing them. Frank had sat down when she’d offered him a chair next to her. He could feel the body heat coming off her in waves that seemed to reach right through his clothes and nuzzle his skin. The hairs on his forearms had jumped to attention.
And every man who walked through the place sucked in an eyeful of memories. Gia must have had sex at least fifty times that night – if only in the minds of the men who saw her.
She tuned in right away to Frank, though. Seemed almost overly interested in him. When she asked him what he did for Patrisi, Frank had sipped his beer and said that he simply did boring work for the Don.
It was partly the truth.
Killing people wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Sure, there was the tension of setting up a clean hit – Moe had always taught him the importance of proper preparation and planning. “Any fool can kill,” he’d said. “But it takes a real pro to kill again and again without getting his ass landed in jail.”
So, once you got beyond the setting up, the rest of it was sort of boring. There’s the target, walk over, pull the trigger. Two rounds in the skull to be sure. Add more if necessary. Walk away. Get in car. Leave area. Collect pay.