William Lashner - Bitter Truth

“Maybe I should be the one to guard her,” I suggested.

Cressi stared at me for a long moment. “Don’t go weak on me now, Vic. You’re coming. It’s time for you to earn your place in the new order of things. Got it?”

I nodded sheepishly.

“Good,” said Calvi. “Where or whether you stand at the end it’s up to you. Got it?” He turned to face the others. “You boys ready?”

There were nods and more well-oiled clicks.

“Then let’s get it done.”

We stepped into the street and lined up five wide before we started walking toward the cargo ships. Anton Schmidt, with his thick glasses and his porkpie hat cocked low, then Walter Calvi, with his bristly hair and his long black coat, then me, trembling uncontrollably, then Peter Cressi, his Elvisine features tight and his eyes lethal, and then the Cuban, his face impassive and the assault rifle calmly held in front of him like a tennis racket at the ready. Side by side we walked.

“What’s going to happen to the girl?” I said to Calvi as we continued to walk.

“Forget about the girl, we’re taking care of her.”

“It’s over. You don’t need to kill her any more.”

“What are you, an idiot?” he said just as we were about to reach the river. “I told you we was taking care of her, not killing her. Her father is paying us to protect her, which is what the hell we’re doing.”

I didn’t have time to respond to that revelation before we reached the wharf at the river and wheeled about in line to the left so that, still five wide, we were walking now toward Pier Four. I glanced to the side and saw the Lincoln, saw the Cuban leaning against the front fender, watching us go, saw Caroline’s silhouette inside, saw it all before a wall from a warehouse blocked the view. I turned my head and all thoughts about Kingsley Shaw and his pact with Calvi fled as I saw what lay ahead of us.

Aircraft carriers. Two of them. As big and as imposing as anything I had ever seen before. Aircraft carriers. Great gray fortresses sitting heavy and still in the water, their high flat flight decks towering over the pier between them. Aircraft carriers. Jesus. When Anton Schmidt had mentioned two old ships on either side of the pier I had imagined two little gray putt-putts, not aircraft carriers. They loomed ever more huge as we walked closer to the pier and I could make out the names painted on their gray paint. Forrestal, read the one closest to us, its sharp prow and flat deck pointing toward the shore, and the ship docked on the far side of the pier, its bow pointing to the center of the river, was the Saratoga . I seemed to remember something about the supercarrier Forrestal burning off the coast of North Vietnam, killing more than a hundred sailors, and now here it was. The Forrestal and the Saratoga . I was still gawking when we reached the pier and wheeled around once again, this time to our right, maintaining our line as we began our walk onto Pier Four itself.

The two aircraft carriers rose huge on either side of us, their flight decks reaching beyond the cement surface of the pier, and right between them was the massive hammerhead crane, rising twice as high as the carriers’ flight towers, the crane standing between them like a guard, rusted and decrepit, more than twelve stories high with a huge red-and-white trailer on top. Parked before the crane was a white Cadillac, its side turned toward us. And just in front of the car, standing in the shadows of the great naval vessels, four men all in a row, waiting.

We kept walking, straight down the pier, toward the four men and the Cadillac. I looked up at the jutting decks of the aircraft carriers on either side of us. There was nothing to see. Anton Schmidt’s ambush was well hidden. As we moved closer I could identify the four figures before us. Enrico Raffaello stood at the middle of the car, a black cape around the shoulders of his tan suit, leaning on a cane gripped in his left hand, a black leather satchel in his right. On one side of him was Lenny Abromowitz, Raffaello’s driver, sartorially splendid in yellow pants and a green plaid jacket. On the other side of Raffaello, in a black suit, standing erect as a pole and perfectly at ease, was Earl Dante. Beside Earl Dante was his weightlifter bodyguard.

When we were fifteen yards away from Raffaello, Anton Schmidt told us to stop and we did. We stared at them and they stared at us and something ugly hung in the air between us.

“ Buon giorno, Gualtieri, ” said Raffaello in a voice that echoed from the gray metal hulls of the boats surrounding us. “I’m saddened that it is you, old friend, who has betrayed me.”

“You should never have sent me off to Florida,” said Calvi.

“I thought you’d like the ocean,” said Raffaello. “I thought the salt air would act as a balm on your anger.”

“It’s hot. Hot as hell but hotter. And you know when they eat dinner down there? Aaah, forget about it. Don’t get me started on Florida. Is that it in the bag?”

“As I promised.”

“I will care for it with honor and devotion. I want you to know, Enrico, that I have nothing but respect for you.”

“That is why you shoot up my car on the Schuylkill Expressway and start a war against me?”

“It was business, Enrico, only that. Nothing more. Nothing personal.”

Raffaello stared hard at him for a moment and then he shrugged. “Of course. I understand.”

“I knew you would,” said Calvi. “You are a man of honor. Lenny, your performance in the car after that thing on the expressway was exemplary. It would be a privilege to have you drive for me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Calvi,” said Lenny in his thick nasal voice, “but I got granddaughters living in California, not far from Santa Anita. If you’ll allow, I’ll retire along with Mr. Raffaello.”

“As you wish,” said Calvi. “Get the bag, Anton.”

Anton, with his hands in the pockets of his long black leather jacket, walked slowly toward Raffaello. As he approached, the weightlifter, his pinched nose flaring, took a step forward. Dante put a restraining hand on the weightlifter’s arm and he stepped back. Anton halted before Raffaello and stared at him for a moment. Then his gaze dropped with embarrassment. Anton reached down for the black leather satchel in Raffaello’s hand. Raffaello stuck out his jaw and shook his head even as he let go. Anton Schmidt, with bag in hand, backed away a few steps before turning around. He brought the black bag straight to Calvi. Without looking inside, Anton opened it.

Calvi examined the contents for a moment before reaching into the bag and pulling out what at first looked to be a small metallic sculpture two feet high. The metal was dented and scratched but it had been cleaned and polished so that it gleamed even in the morning shadow. The dark wooden base of the object supported a large brass cup atop of which crouched the figure of a man, his front knee bent, his rear leg straight, his right arm hoisting a shiny metal ball. A bowling ball? I realized only then that this was a bowling trophy. Calvi held the trophy high, examining it as if it were a priceless jewel, and his face glowed with a satisfaction as bright as the polished brass. Then he placed the trophy back into the leather bag. Anton closed it. With the black satchel tightly in his grip, Anton regained his position at the end of our line.

Calvi took a cigar and a gold lighter from his inside jacket pocket. He flicked to life a flame and sucked it into the tobacco until a plume of smoke was born. “And so it is done,” he said.

“I have a home in Cape May,” said Raffaello. “I was planning to retire there and spend the last years of my life painting the ocean in all four of its seasons.”