Peril

CARUSO

Labriola’s Lincoln rested like a huge blue coffin in the driveway of the house. Sitting in his car, Caruso could see the front window, the Old Man pacing back and forth behind it, usually with a can of beer in his fist. He wore a white sleeveless T-shirt, his huge, muscular arms fully exposed. He seemed to shake the house as he moved, and Caruso could not imagine how awesome his physical presence must have been to Tony, and how different from the feeling of utter vacancy Caruso had experienced after his father left, the empty chair at the kitchen table, the car missing, along with the money his mother kept in a shoebox in the closet, everything gone with the old man around that distant corner, the whole idea of Dad.

Briefly he replayed the conversation he’d had with Tony, all that stuff about maybe the Old Man wanting to be stopped, wanting Caruso himself to stop him, the whole thing some kind of bizarre test. He’d let himself believe the whole fucking story for just long enough to say yes to Tony, agree to meet him here, have yet another talk with the Old Man. But now he doubted every word of it. Now it all sounded like bullshit. The Old Man didn’t want to be stopped. The Old Man wanted… What did he want anyway? Sara Labriola dead, that’s what. But why? That was harder to figure out. What good would whacking Sara do? No good, Caruso reasoned, no good at all, to anybody. But maybe that was the point, Caruso thought, that it being good for something had nothing to do with it. The Old Man wanted it, that’s all. He wanted Sara dead. He hated her fucking guts and he wanted her dead. But why? Caruso wondered again briefly, then dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter why. The Old Man wanted her dead. End of story.

Caruso glanced in the rearview mirror. At any moment Tony’s car would pull up behind him, the headlights momentarily illuminating the dark interior where Caruso waited, smoking nervously, now convinced that it was all a bad idea, that he should never have agreed to meet him here. For what good would it do, after all? Labriola had told him what he had to do, given him the assignment he’d waited for all his life. He could feel the heaviness of the thirty-eight, cold and stonelike in his trousers pocket. He drew it out, threw open the cylinder, and stared at the single bullet Labriola had given him and which he’d dutifully inserted. One shot, that was all he had. He knew that this was part of the test, Labriola’s way of making certain that he placed the barrel directly at the back of Sara’s head before he fired. There could be no second attempt, no way to make it good if you fucked up the shot.

But what about all the things that could go wrong? Caruso asked himself. A person could suddenly shift right or left just as you pulled the trigger. A person could stumble and fall right in front of you and you’d be standing there like a complete asshole, the goddamn pistol in your hand and the person already on the ground. Standing there… with one lousy shot to do the job.

Tony’s words sounded in his mind. He’s not right, you know. He’s not right in the head. He decided that Tony had a point. The Old Man’s insistence on his having only one bullet in his piece, the way he’d carved that ugly word on its casing, all of that added up to a nuttiness that even Tony couldn’t guess. Okay, Caruso thought, so, yeah, Labriola has a screw loose, but that was no reason to be nutty yourself. And whacking somebody with only one bullet in your piece is as nutty as a guy could get. Fuck it, he thought, no way. Besides, how would Labriola know if he had just the one bullet or if he brought a fucking rocket launcher, as long as the job was done. With this conclusion, he leaned over, flipped open the glove compartment, grabbed five cartridges, loaded the pistol, then tucked it into the waistband of his trousers.

Tony arrived seven minutes later. From the rearview mirror Caruso watched as he got out of his car, walked over, and tapped at the window.

Caruso rolled it down, and a thick wave of smoke billowed out and up and was instantly torn apart by a sudden gust of wind.

“Thanks again, Vinnie,” Tony said.

Caruso looked at him sternly. “I’ll tell you something, Tony, you better talk to him good, because, you ask me, he ain’t in no mood to change his mind on this thing.”

“He hasn’t told you, has he?” Tony asked.

“Told me what?”

“Told you what that guy he hired is supposed to do once he finds Sara.”

“No,” Caruso said. The tight wad of steel nestled against his back seemed to move suddenly, shift and stir like an animal in its earthen hole. “No, he ain’t told me nothing about that.”

Tony appeared to believe him, though Caruso could not imagine why, since he’d lied and lied about this thing. And not just this thing either. He had lied and lied period. It was his way of life.

“So, anyway,” Tony said. “Thanks.”

Tony’s voice was completely different than Caruso had ever heard it. He seemed sad and broken and trapped like a rat, like a guy who’d lost the most important thing he had and could find no way to get it back. It was his wife he’d lost, of course, and for a moment Caruso wondered what it must be like to be that close to someone, want them to stay with you that deeply. Then he thought of his father… and he knew what Tony was going through. He wanted Sara back because nothing would ever be the same if she didn’t show up again. But so what, he thought, now hardening himself for the job he’d have to do if Tony didn’t get the Old Man to call it off. So what? He’d wanted his father to come back the same way Tony wanted this bitch wife of his to come back. But had he? Fuck, no. Same way with this wife of Tony’s. Just wanting somebody to come back didn’t mean they’d do it. And you were a sap if you thought it would. Tony was a sap, Caruso decided, and Mr. Labriola was right in despising the little prick.

He felt the pistol rustle again, jerked open the door, and got out of the car.

“Let’s get this shit over with,” he said sharply.

They passed through the gate, mounted the stairs, and stood silently together after Tony rapped at the door.

Standing in the darkness of Labriola’s porch, Caruso felt the pistol against his backbone. It seemed rough as bricks, and as the seconds passed, it grew cold and weighty, heavier than the moon and stars, a vast, motionless planet, grim and unlighted, and he yearned for the moment when the job was finished and he could toss it over the Verrazano Bridge and be done with it.

The porch light flicked on, and frozen in its harsh light, Caruso felt utterly exposed, as if he’d already been nabbed by the cops and hauled in for a lineup, eyes watching him from behind the glare, picking him out, sealing his fate. He could almost hear the whispers of the witnesses who’d seen him do it. Yeah, that’s him. I know because of that little mustache. Caruso glanced toward the door, caught his translucent image in the glass. Before the hit, that fucking mustache had to go.

Labriola opened the door, glanced back and forth from Tony to Caruso, his eyes cold and merciless, as if he couldn’t decide which of them he detested most.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked.

“I need to talk to you, Dad,” Tony said.

Labriola’s eyes slithered over to Caruso. “What the fuck is this, Vinnie?”

“I just come along for the ride,” Caruso said. “It ain’t nothing to do with me.”

“I need to talk to you,” Tony insisted.

“Make it fast,” Labriola snorted contemptuously, then strode back into the house.

Caruso followed Tony into the living room. It was cluttered and dingy, the tables and chairs piled with pizza boxes and white containers of half-eaten Chinese food. Beer cans and liquor bottles lay scattered along the length of the sofa, along with stacks of newspapers and magazines.

“Jesus,” Tony said.

“I don’t have a wife to clean up for me,” Labriola said sharply. “But then, you don’t either, do you, Tony?” He laughed mockingly.

Tony’s body stiffened. “We have to talk, Dad.”

“So you already said.” Labriola rubbed his hands together. “A real heart-to-heart. Father and son. I can’t wait.” His eyes narrowed. “Okay, let’s have it.”

“I want to talk to you about Sara,” Tony said grimly.

Labriola waved his hand and slumped down on the sofa. “I thought we settled that.”

“I know you’re still looking for her,” Tony said.

“You don’t know shit.”

“You hired a guy, and I want to know what you hired him to do.”

Labriola glared at Caruso. “You tell him I hired a guy?”

Caruso shook his head.

Labriola’s eyes caught fire. “Don’t you fucking lie to me, Vinnie!” he screamed.

Caruso felt as if he’d been hit by a shotgun blast. “Just that I hired a guy to find her,” he sputtered. “Nothing else.”

Labriola shifted his gaze back to Tony. “So, a guy’s looking for her. So fucking what?”

“I want you to call him off.”

Labriola laughed. “Call him off your fucking self.”

“Call him off, Dad.”

Labriola looked at Tony sneeringly. “And if I don’t?”

Caruso’s eyes shot over to Tony. Now was the moment, he knew. He’d faced it before himself. Now was the moment you either touched gloves or backed out of the ring.

“And if I don’t?” Labriola repeated.

Tony said nothing.

Labriola leaned forward, grabbed a can of beer from the table in front of the sofa, and took a long, slow swig. “I got an idea,” he said. “Why don’t we settle this thing like men?” He rose massively and lifted his fists. “Come on, you fucking pussy, fight me.”

“Sit down, Dad,” Tony said. But he stepped back.

Labriola shifted his weight from one foot to the other, dancing like a boxer and throwing punches in the air. “Fight me, Tony,” he repeated vehemently. “Fight me, goddammit!” He stepped forward and threw a wide punch.

Tony leaped away. “I’m not going to fight you, Dad.”

Labriola stopped and stared at Tony brokenly. “Then fuck you,” he said with a curious sense of defeat. “Fuck everything.” He stepped back and slumped down on the sofa. For a moment he seemed to retire into his own dark cavern. Then abruptly, he threw his head back and a vicious laugh broke from him, so loud and hellish, it seemed to rattle the teardrop crystals of the overhanging chandelier.

“Mr. Labriola?” Caruso asked.

Labriola’s voice broke from him like a smoking belch. “You find her yet?”

“What?” Caruso asked.

“You heard me,” Labriola screamed. “You find her or not?”

Caruso felt a line of sweat form on his upper lip. “Well… I mean… uh…”

Labriola’s eyes were leaping flames. “Yes or no!” he bellowed.

“Yes,” Caruso blurted.

Tony looked at Caruso, astonished. “You know where Sara is?”

Caruso glanced helplessly at the Old Man. “You want me to…”

Labriola laughed madly. “Vinnie found her,” he cried, his gaze now on Tony. “Well, hell, let’s go pay her a little visit.” He snatched a wrinkled blue shirt from the floor and began to put it on. “You’re gonna get your little wife back, Tony.”

Tony’s eyes shot over to Caruso. “Where is she?”

Caruso glanced at Labriola, found no direction there, then returned his gaze to Tony. “The city.”

Labriola suddenly slapped his hands together. “The city,” he shrieked. “The little woman has gone back to the city.” His eyes bore into Caruso. “Where in the city, Vinnie?”

Caruso stared at Labriola and all but shivered. “The Village,” he answered softly. “I got a tip she’s working at some bar there.”

Labriola’s eyes blazed with delight. “Back in the Village, ain’t that nice.” He snatched a sport jacket from the sofa and plowed like a warship toward the door.

Tony didn’t move.

Labriola stopped, turned to face him, and laughed tauntingly. “What’s the matter, Tony? Now’s your chance to get her back.” His eyes shifted over to Caruso. “Ain’t that right, Vinnie?”

Caruso felt the pistol stir lethally, like a creature awakening. “Right,” he said.

Labriola nodded toward the door. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, motioning Tony forward and out the door, then holding back so that Caruso stepped up to his side, the two of them walking together toward the door just as Tony went through it and out onto the porch.

“You bring your piece?” Labriola whispered.

Caruso nodded.

Labriola draped his huge arm over Caruso’s shoulder and tugged him violently to his side. “Good boy,” he said.