Tom Piccirilli - The Last Kind Words

“Leave the dog outside, all right, Terry?” Wes asked.

“He comes with me,” I said.

Wes groaned but let it slide. “Well, wait here for a minute, okay? Will you at least do that?”

“Sure.”

It gave me time to take in the rhythm of the old place again.

I glanced at the photos on the walls. Big Dan with various celebrities, politicians, sports heroes. Some of the pictures of the old crews had been changed out, probably because so many wiseguys had flipped over the years. Big Dan once told me he’d never pulled the trigger himself unless he was shooting a rat. He said it the way my mother had said she hated Collie like poison. A thing to be mentioned, understood, held on to, then put away.

I’d had my first drink of hard liquor, seen my first thousand-dollar bill, and had my first woman here at the Amendment, all on the same day. In the back room they held private card games, where some of the waitresses earned extra cash by taking the major hitters to the private lounge. When I turned fourteen, Big Dan had invited me in and shown me the delights of that back room, all on his ticket, the same way he’d shown Danny a few weeks earlier on his birthday.

I couldn’t help grinning thinking about it again.

Now Danny Thompson sat at his father’s station, holding court at the corner table where all the real business got done. He was surrounded by a crew of five. I didn’t recognize any of them. All the old-timers had either kicked off, been sent to the bin, or retired when Danny rose up to take over. I wondered what that said about the way Danny handled the operation now.

He was giving hell to one of his captains. I picked up a few words here and there. It sounded drug-related. Danny talked loud, much too loud for discussing business. His father had never raised his voice, not even when he was furious.

Danny hadn’t aged well the last five years. He’d put on thirty pounds and looked uncomfortable as he shifted in his seat, packed into a suit a couple sizes too small for him. I could see the sweat gleaming on his face. His silky blond hair had started to recede and he had a nervous habit of brushing the back of his thumb across his prominent widow’s peak. I could imagine what it must be like for him, sitting in that chair and seeing his father everywhere he looked. He should’ve sold the place and set up shop somewhere else.

The meeting broke up and a couple of Danny’s boys walked past. The one who’d been under the gun was flushed from the berating he’d received. He had no idea who I was but he couldn’t meet my eyes. He rattled way too easy. If he was in charge of the drug trade, I could see why there were problems.

Danny looked up from the table and waved me over with two fingers, the way Big Dan used to allow passage to his corner. His son couldn’t even make that his own. I wanted to tell him, Wave someone over with one finger, with three, use your chin, your left hand, anything except the same thing your dad did .

JFK heeled at my left leg as we crossed the bar. I got to the table, put out my hand, and said, “Hello, Danny.”

He tightened up. First words out of my mouth and I’d already made a mistake with him. I wondered what it would cost. His eyes clouded and then immediately cleared, and he let his lips hitch into a thin smile.

He shook my hand. “Terry. You look tan. Sit down.”

Again with the fucking tan. Like Long Island didn’t have two hundred miles of shoreline beaches.

I slid into the choulinto the air across from him. JFK dropped at my feet. Wes stood nearby, ready to take orders. The rest of Danny’s men headed to the back room. The door was open and I could see the remnants of a big game, a lot of beer bottles, and a woman sleeping on one of the sofas.

“Sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thanks for saying so, even if you don’t mean it.”

Except that I did mean it, and it surprised me that Danny would think I didn’t. I’d always liked Big Dan, even if I didn’t agree with some of his practices. He scooped up a lot of my family’s goods and cut a few side deals along the way, sending me after certain specific items he wanted from rivals and occasionally even associates. He knew I could keep my mouth shut.

In all the time I knew him, I’d gone up against him only once. Chub had tuned the getaway car for a crew that had taken down a massage parlor that Big Dan fronted. The heisters blew town with fifty large, and Big Dan thought Chub ought to pay back with cash, his garage, or his legs. I asked Dan to let it slide, explaining that Chub had known nothing about the heist beforehand, even though I was certain he had. Big Dan didn’t like my asking and gave me a chance to change my mind. I didn’t. I put my hand on his wrist and asked him to let it go.

He ordered four of his men to kick the shit out of me in the parking lot. He added that if I fought back, they should break my arms.

I didn’t fight back.

But Big Dan had let Chub slide anyway, as a favor to me. It was two weeks before I stopped pissing blood, but I didn’t take any of it personally. He had to save face and had to make sure that back talk didn’t become an everyday occurrence. He knew I was a pro and that I’d understand, and afterward we continued our amiable relationship right up until I left.

But somehow Danny didn’t realize it. He thought I harbored resentment against his old man. That showed me he was still a piker even though he ran the show now.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” he said.

“Do we?”

“Sure, old friends. We’ve got some years to cover.”

He looked at JFK and beckoned the dog by patting his gut. JFK stood and planted his big head on Danny’s thigh. Danny made good-doggie noises, scratching JFK’s ears and jowls. He kissed the dog and the dog licked him back.

“Jesus, I think I can still smell Bernie’s cologne on his breath.”

The death of Bernie Wagner was an open secret, one I didn’t like being reminded of. Bernie had been a two-bit hood turned meth-mouth tweaker who thought it would be a good idea to score a house full of thieves one night. Everyone was asleep except for me and my father. We were out in the garage, putting a new starter in his car. Oddly enough, everything from the car to the parts to the tools had been bought and paid for.

JFK had never so much as growled at anyone. He didn’t even growl when Bernie sneaked around the side of the house and put a.22 to the back of my father’s head. “Your stash, I want all of-”

In an instant, JFK lunged and champed his fangs in Bernie’s throat and with a small wag of his head tore out Bernie’s windpipe. My old man made the effort of trying to wrap the spurting wound with his own shirt and he even performed mouth-to-mouth as Bernie’s life ran down his chest. There was nothinis was nothg that could be done. It was already over. JFK sat there whining, his muzzle soaked with bloody foam.

My uncles packed Bernie up and drove him to the emergency room and dropped his corpse off at the curb. It was cold but there wasn’t much else that could be done, and no matter how you looked at it Bernie Wagner had called the play.

Turned out Bernie had told a lot of people that he was going to try to boost the Rand house. Even though Gilmore and a few other cops had come around, no one could make anything stick.

Danny said, “Wes, go in back and get the prince of Camelot here a couple of burgers.”

Wes did as he was told but I could see where some of his stress was coming from. He’d been promoted but was still stuck flipping hamburgers. And for a dog.

“So, Terry,” Danny said, trying to look hurt. “You never said goodbye to me.”

“I never said goodbye to anyone, Danny.”

“You needed out that bad?”