The Plan

Chapter 36.

CHARLIE "SIX FINGERS" ROMANO HAD MADE THIRTEEN Weeks see Mickey personally to explain how he'd fucked up the job on Ryan Bolt.

He met with Mickey at the gangster's home in New Jersey, just a few days before Joseph Alo died. Thirteen Weeks sat on a carved wood chair in the entry hall, his nose still taped together, hoping that Mickey wouldn't go apeshit and do something crazy. He was facing an oil portrait of a beautiful girl who looked a lot like the one who had hit him on the head with the ashtray. He walked over and looked at the painting more closely.

"That's my sister Lucinda," Mickey said, coming out of the den behind him. "You're Johnny Furie?"

Thirteen Weeks bowed his head as if he were standing before the Blessed Father.

"Don Alo, I apologize for making a mess of this…"

"Did Ryan do that to your face?" Mickey said, amazed that Bolt could inflict such damage on a professional hitter.

"Uh… well, he's real quick." Thirteen Weeks cursed himself for blowing the first assignment Mickey Alo had ever given him. "Don Alo, I pray that you would allo w m e a second chance. I wish to make amends for this terrible mistake I have made," he said, sounding like a courtier in front of a feudal lord, but he wanted desperately to convey his respect for the Alos and his shame at his own failing.

"Don Alo, if you would give me the honor of a second chance, sir, I will finish the job and put Bolt away. I ask no payment, only that I be allowed to redeem this loss."

Mickey remembered the few times he and Ryan had fought as kids. He'd been surprised at Ryan's quickness. He also remembered watching a televised game in college. Ryan had caught four passes right in front of an all-American D-back from Ohio State, had burned him all afternoon with his speed and quick moves. It was this thought that allowed him to go easy on the bone-breaker standing humbly in front of him. Finally, Mickey nodded his head.

"Maybe I'll give you another chance. Leave your number and stick around close."

When Thirteen Weeks left the house, his knees were shaking. He stood on the Alos' huge porch, waiting for his car to be brought up by the stocky Sicilian greaseball who parked it. He made the sign of the cross. "Bella fortuna," the Irish bruiser murmured in Italian. He'd been spared. It wasn't until he was standing on the porch that he remembered the painting and the fact that he'd failed to tell Mickey that his sister was with Ryan Bolt. Then he thought, Don't get into it, Johnny… You're in enough trouble as it is.

Five days later, he got the call. A man he didn't know told him to call Mickey from a pay phone. He ran to the pay phone across the street and got through to Mickey, who was waiting at another pay phone in Trenton.

"You on a secure phone?" the gangster asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You know who this is? Don't use my name." "Yes, sir."

"One-six-seven Hamilton Boulevard, Rye, New York.

He's headed there. Get the tapes and then finish the job." And the line went dead.

Thirteen Weeks knew if he could pull this off, he'd get back into Mickey's good graces. He sprinted back across the street and grabbed the Beretta out of his suitcase along with two boxes of shells, ran out the door, and jumped into his rented LeBaron. His heart was pounding. "It's payback time," he murmured to himself as he floored the car.

Ryan found Carson Harris in the Rye phone book and called. Carson's wife told him that her brother-in-law was living there and would be back at five. Instead of calling later, Ryan decided to go there immediately. He wrote down the address: 167 Hamilton Boulevard.

He and Lucinda got back in the Mercedes station wagon and headed for Rye. Lucinda was behind the wheel.

Ryan put his head back and rested as she drove. His leg was throbbing. They arrived an hour later at Carson Harris's house on Hamilton Boulevard. It was five-thirty. The house was in the middle of a tree-lined block of one-story wood-frame houses.

Lucinda parked in the narrow driveway and came around to help Ryan out of the car. He grabbed his crutches and the two of them moved slowly toward the house. Neither of them had any reason to take notice of the LeBaron parked across the street.

When they reached the porch, Ryan saw that the front door was ajar. He rang the doorbell and a woman's voice called from inside.

"Come on in, door's open."

Ryan looked at Lucinda. She shrugged and Ryan pushed the door open, then hiked himself over the doorjamb on his crutches and into the front room of the house.

They were in a small living room furnished in Early American with colonial wood spindle chairs. Over the fireplace, two sabers were crossed over a painting of a white-haired man in a Union officer's uniform. The brass plaqu e o n the bottom of the frame said: COL. RUTHERFORD B. HARRIS.

"Hello… Mrs. Harris?" Ryan called out.

"I'm in the back," a woman's voice answered. Something tingled on the back of Ryan's neck. The woman sounded friendly, but Ryan was suddenly filled with apprehension.

"Get outta here," he whispered to Lucinda. He pushed her with his hand.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Call the cops." He tossed her the cell phone. "Go!" She turned and moved out of the house.

"Mrs. Harris, it's Ryan Bolt. I talked to you on the phone," he called.

"I've got my hands full," the woman's voice called back. "I'm in the kitchen."

Now he could detect some tightness in her voice. He looked around the room for something to defend himself with, then took the two sabers from the hooks above the portrait. Neither was very sharp, but he picked the better of the two and hooked it into the back of his belt by the hilt. With the sword banging the back of his right leg, he hobbled on his crutches down the narrow hallway through the small dining room to the kitchen.

The kitchen was small, painted white with blue trim on the cabinets.

A plump thirty-year-old woman with shoulder-length brown hair was by the sink with both hands in the dishwater and a terrified look on her face. Suddenly, the pantry door to his right swung open, and the man he'd fought in the Savoy Hotel was standing there with a large automatic aimed at Ryan's chest.

"Good things come to them that waits," Thirteen Weeks said inanely, his mouth grinning under his taped-up nose.

"He forced me," Bea Harris said, her voice tiny. Ryan could see now that she had tears running down her cheeks.

"Old business first," Thirteen Weeks said. "Yougot a few videotapes I need. Where are they?"

"In a locker at the bus station."

"Whatta you going to do with me?" Mrs. Harris said. "We all go to the bus station. Then we'll see."

Ryan didn't think there was much chance that this monster was going to leave either of them alive.

"Car's out in front. Let's go." Ryan knew if he turned around, the antique sword would be visible. It was his only weapon, even though he didn't think it would do him much good.

"I said, let's go."

Ryan stood in the door, leaning on his crutches, looking for an opening. Johnny Furie moved closer, holding the gun steady, aiming it at the center of Ryan's chest. His smile remained steady as he kicked the bandage on Ryan's bad leg. Ryan screamed in pain and spun to his right. As he went down, he swung wildly with his crutch and hit Thirteen Weeks a grazing, but futile, blow across his cheek with the rubber tip. Johnny jerked his head back and fired the gun, missing Ryan who was now on the floor. Ryan's reflexes took over and he scrambled to his feet. He could feel stitches popping like buttons flying off a ripped shirt. As he lunged to his left, his wounded leg collapsed under him and he landed on his knees. Pain shot up his left side and he almost lost consciousness. Mrs. Harris screamed and ran out the back door. Johnny turned and fired at her. The slug blew a hole in the doorjamb by her head as she fled into the yard.

Ryan pulled the sword off his belt and Thirteen Weeks sensed this movement and spun back toward him. Ryan swung the saber with both hands in a vicious, but careless arc, his vision a blur from the pain.

Johnny Furie was pivoting forward, firing the automatic in front of him.

The sword flashed, hitting Johnny's right wrist with tremendous force.

He screamed as they both heard the sound of his wrist bone snapping.

Johnny watched in disbelief as his severed right hand with the gun still in it hit the floor at his feet. The gun fired once as the fingers convulsed and the recoil caused the hand to skid across the waxed linoleum toward Ryan. Johnny looked on in horror as the stump on the end of his right arm sprayed red blood from the severed artery all over the freshly painted kitchen.

Johnny let out another chilling scream.

Then the back door slammed and Cole Harris ran into the kitchen. He was a Jewish-Italian mixture with blue eyes and black hair slicked back. He looked in amazement at Thirteen Weeks who was now holding the bloody stump in his left hand, screaming, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" in fright and shock.

Ryan tied to get up but his leg was useless.

"Ryan?" Cole Harris said, pulling up the name from memory as his eyes darted back to the 250-pound monster who was hosing down the walls with arterial spurts.

Thirteen Weeks let go of his stump long enough to grab for his gun hand, but Ryan used his good leg to kick the hand across the kitchen. It wedged under the dishwasher, the gun still gripped in the fingers. Thirteen Weeks let out a howl, then turned and ran out the back door.

The sound of sirens approaching could be heard in the distance.

"Cole, I need help. Get me outta here."

"Who was that guy?"

"I can't go to the hospital. They'll kill me." He could feel himself going into shock. Cole helped him up. Ryan's leg was bleeding badly. He leaned on Cole and they headed out of the house through the front door.

Lucinda was across the street and ran to help them as Cole loaded Ryan into the back of a VW van parked in the driveway.

"I called the police." She looked at his leg. "What happened?"

"Gotta get outta here," Ryan said, dully, as the sirens got louder. "Follow us. Don't leave your car."

Lucinda tailed the VW van. They turned the corner at the end of the street seconds before two police cars squealed onto Hamilton Boulevard.

The police found Thirteen Weeks's gun hand wedged under the dishwasher. A rookie patrolman gingerly kicked it out and stared at it dumbly. They followed the trail of blood out the back gate and found Thirteen Weeks in the alley a block away, almost dead from loss of blood. They pulled him into the squad car, retrieved his gun from the kitchen floor, and went code-three to the Rye General Hospital.

Johnny Furie was immediately put on the critical list. The bewildered cops stood around, drank machine-brewed coffee, and wondered out loud how Johnny's gun hand had ended up under the dishwasher.

While Thirteen Weeks was being cross-typed for a blood transfusion and pumped full of plasma, Ryan was shivering in the back of Cole Harris's speeding van.

Lucinda had Kaz on the cell phone and told him what had happened.

"Don't take him back to the Blue Rainbow Hotel," Kaz said. "Find a place, but not on a busy street. Get a room in the back and call me with the address."

They picked a downscale motel off the main drag in Rye.

Kaz arrived with Dr. Jazz at nine-thirty. Lucinda couldn't believe they had been waiting two hours for the gold-toothed man, who came jiving and bopping through the door, carrying a medical bag. His bald head was shining, his Adam's apple tromboning up and down in his stringbean neck whenever he spoke.

Kaz tried to get Lucinda to go to the restaurant across the street with Cole Harris, but she refused. She spun on him.

"I've had it with your orders and your attitude," she said, venting all her frustration, fear, and worry about Ryan, in a counterattack on the rumpled ex-fed.

"Hold it, lady." He tried to slow her down.

"No, you hold it. I'm not leaving and I'm not taking any more of your shit!"

Kaz knew she meant business. He finally smiled and put out his hand. "Nice to finally meet ya, Miss Alo," he said, laconically. She shook his hand, but didn't smile back.

Dr. Jazz was examining Ryan's leg. "He very sick. He pulled out de stitches, he ripped de veins. He in mighty bad shape," the doctor said, shaking his head, too concerned about Ryan to rhyme. He opened his medical bag, filled a syringe, and injected Ryan with antibiotics for infection. Then he gave him an Adrenalin shot to keep his heartbeat up. He took a blood sample in a syringe, twisted the needle valve shut, and put it in his medical bag. He cleaned the wound and resewed it, then bandaged it carefully. The entire procedure took him almost two hours. Dr. Jazz left the motel at some time past midnight.

Ryan slept fitfully while Lucinda held his hand.

He finally drifted slowly down into a deep sleep, where he dreamed of Lucinda, backlit and gorgeous. They were standing on opposite sides of a raging river, yelling to each other. "Don't come across," he screamed in the dream, but she didn't hear him and started to ford the treacherous water. Falling, she was swept away, arms flailing in the bubbling turbulence. He saw Kaz for a moment, drowning in the current, hideous in his green and yellow Hawaiian shirt, going down the stream with her, tumbling, rolling, his face appearing for a moment, the cigar soggy, still clamped in smiling teeth. And then he was on a deserted beach at sunset. He started walking, not knowing where he was going, until he saw Matt and Terry. They were sitting together on the beach, looking out to sea. Ryan came up and stood behind them.

"Can you forgive me?" he said to the two dead boys. They turned and looked at him. "It was never your fault," they said in unison. And for the first time, still deep in the delirious dream, he believed it.

While Ryan was dreaming and Lucinda was praying, Thirteen Weeks was dying.

Charles Romano was his employer of record and the hospital insurance administrator called him for verification of employment. Charlie Six Fingers called Mickey and told him that Thirteen Weeks was in the Rye hospital, that somebody had cut off his right hand. Mickey and Pula-cargo Depaulo drove up to Rye and arrived at eleven o'clock. They found the back service stairs at the hospital and climbed to the second floor where Charlie Six Fingers had said Johnny Furie was recuperating. Mickey was resolute. A guy didn't get multiple chances to screw up. He wanted the word to go out… You better not fuck up if you were working for Mickey Alo. Some time shortly after midnight, as the medical shift was changing, Mickey slipped into Thirteen Weeks's room and looked down at the huge accounts receivable specialist. Johnny's right hand was now a heavily bandaged stump.

"Hey, paisan," Mickey said, touching him on the side of the neck. When he didn't wake up, Mickey grabbed the bandaged stump and squeezed hard. Thirteen Weeks moaned and opened his eyes.

"Talk to me," Mickey said to the hitter.

"Cut off my hand," he stated the obvious.

"Where is Bolt?"

"Don't know. He cut off my hand," he said again. "This fucking guy can't be working alone," Mickey said softly.

"I saw him coming into the house, through the front window, with the girl in the picture."

"What picture? Whatta you talkin' about?"

"The painting in your house."

Mickey's disgust at Lucinda turned his insides cold and his face empty.

Thirteen Weeks saw the expression and knew he was looking into the eyes of the devil. It was the last thing he saw.

Mickey ripped the pillow out from under Johnny's head, put it firmly over his face, and held it. Thirteen Weeks struggled to get the suffocating softness off his nose and mouth. His stumpy wrist pawed helplessly, trying to grab the pillow with remembered fingers. In a few brief moments, he stopped fighting. Like a light going out, he plunged into blackness.