Laura Lippman - The Sugar House

Nicola sighed. “I had to protect my boys. Henry was restless, he was going to start talking about their part in it if we couldn’t get him out. They were innocent, to hear them tell it.” She looked at them. “To hear them tell it. I believed them then. Now I don’t know.”

The boys looked incredulous. “You can’t make us do this, Gee-gee,” said Pete. “She’s got no proof.”

“You’ll do it,” Nicola said. “We’ll get Arnie Vasso to represent you, and he’ll cut a deal. You’ll still be young men when you get out. Besides, prison will get you clean.”

It was, Tess realized, the same rationalization Ruthie Dembrow had used when she watched Henry go off to Hagerstown.

“You can’t make us do anything, you can’t make us confess when they got nothin’ on us-” Pete began, but Nicola silenced him with a look.

“Go ahead, try to deny everything,” Tess said. “Spike’s assistant, the guy behind the bar? It’s homicide detective Martin Tull, and he had permission from the state’s attorney to tape this meeting. The whole place is bugged.”

Tull put down the bar rag long enough to show his badge and his 9 mm.

Nicola looked at Spike, disappointment keen in her face. “You lied to me.”

“I vouched he was helping me out, and he was. I never seen the place so clean. I wish I could get him to work here full time.”

She shook her head. “That ain’t right, Spike. That goes against all the rules. Our mutual friends are going to make it very hard for you to do business.”

“I’m out of business,” Spike said complacently. “I sold this place to Tess’s father and aunt this morning. They’re gonna do a complete rehab, sell those five-dollar beers that taste like piss, serve finger foods. Ferns and live music on Franklintown Road. Never thought I’d see that day, but they gave me a good price, and I’m ready to retire. You oughta think about doing the same, Nickie. We’re old, to be in this game.”

Flashing red and blue lights shone through the windows.

“Gentlemen,” Tull said to Pete and Repete, “your ride is here. Let’s go.”

“I won’t .” It was Repete, who so seldom said anything first. “I’m not gonna take the rap for anything, or plead out, or let Arnie Vasso serve me up on a fuckin’ platter. We deserve to be rewarded for what we done, not punished. ’Specially me. I’m the one who had to get cozy with the fat chick.”

The last two words hung in the air. Tess turned to look at Repete. Even in his fury, he had a smirk for her.

“You’re”-she dug for the name-“Paul. Sukey’s boyfriend.”

“Paul’s my given name, but I wasn’t her boyfriend. I hung around, got her to tell me all about her boring life, which included what you’d been doing in Locust Point, who you’d been talking to. She couldn’t wait to tell me how you were playing with the phones the very day you were there.”

“But how did you know about Sukey?” Even as she asked the question, Tess knew the answer, saw herself before the television, bragging about how she had identified Gwen Schiller, dropping the girl’s name.

“Yeah, you all but told us how to find her. And you were the one who said you’d been to Philadelphia, so Gene zeroed in on that number when it came up on the phone logs. But man, that was hard work, pretending to be interested in old fatty. Pete here had it easy, compared to what I had to do. He just had to put a bullet in the big foreign lady.”

“Shut up,” Pete said. “You’re making it worse.”

“Sukey’s only fifteen,” Tess said.

“He didn’t really do her,” Pete said. “He just fooled around a little. Nothing major.”

Repete-Paul-shrugged off his uncle’s defense.

“I’ve had younger,” he said. “Prettier, for sure. She had big tits, I’ll give her that much. But you know what they say-big tits don’t count on a fat chick.”

Later, Spike and Tull told Tess what happened, as if it were a movie and she had ducked out for popcorn during a crucial scene. But she was there for every minute of it. She simply didn’t remember walking around the table and yanking Paul’s chair backward, so he landed on his back, hitting his head hard on the wooden floor.

“Hey, you could break someone’s spine that way,” Pete said. Paul didn’t have the breath to object as Tess grabbed him by the hair and dragged him halfway across the barroom floor.

She had a vague memory of straddling him so his arms were pinned. Leverage, she was thinking, everything is leverage. She could pound his head on the floor, until it cracked as Gwen Schiller’s skull had. She could wrap her hands around his throat, squeeze until all the air was out of him, tie a bow around his neck in an imitation of the sick joke he had played on Gwen’s body, tying Henry’s tube around her neck to ensure the cops fingered him. So many possibilities.

Something hard pressed into her left leg, and she reached into his jacket pocket, extracted the knife he had pressed into her back. She thought of Gwen, of Sukey, of Devon, of monkey-face Sarah, of all the girls who had to live in a world where such men existed. Men who reduced them to their parts, men who used and discarded them, men who failed to love them, when that was all they ever wanted.

“Tess-” it was Tull’s voice, gentle but insistent. He put a hand on her shoulder, but he didn’t pull her away.

She looked into Paul’s face. Fear was there, but something else as well-something evil and ecstatic. It was almost as if he was welcoming her to his world, grinning and nodding, saying “Come on in.” Maybe it was simply that he’d rather die than go to prison. Nicola’s assurances notwithstanding, he was going to be a very old man before he got out. Tess could kill him now, even with Tull standing there, and there was a certain power in that.

But there was a greater power in letting him live. She stood up and walked over to the bar, where she put down Repete’s knife and poured herself a Rolling Rock from the tap. The officers came through the door, guns drawn, handcuffs ready. Tull told them to leave the old woman alone, it was just the boys who were going to Central lockup.

“How’d the one on the floor get that goose egg on his head?” one officer asked.

“Fell out of his chair,” Tull said.

ON THE FRIDAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS, TESS SAT AT HER desk in the winter twilight, looking at the envelope that had come in that day’s mail, an envelope with two tickets to a $1,000-per-person fund-raiser for Sen. Kenneth Dahlgren. There was no return address, and she didn’t recognize the handwriting on the unsigned note, which said simply: “Be my guest.” Her name had been written on one ticket, while the other bore the name of Herman Peters. She felt a small shiver down her spine. Even now, it was unsettling to be reminded of how closely she had been watched these past few weeks. She pulled Peters’s business card from her desk and punched in the beeper number, happy to give him a small jolt at waist level.

Her phone rang almost the moment she placed it back in the cradle.

“Peters here.”

“Monaghan here.” It was hard not to mimic him. “That big story I promised you is here, just in time for Christmas.”

“If you mean the confession in Gene Fulton’s murder, I got it on my own, and it wasn’t such a big story. It didn’t even make metro front. Sorry.”

“Come with me to Martin’s West tonight, and I’ll make sure you get a page-one story, with enough fallout to keep you on page one every day through Christmas.”

“Martin’s West? What is it, some fund-raiser?”

“What else?”

“When did a fund-raiser ever make news?”

“Make a leap of faith, Herman. And wear a tie. We should look like the paying guests we’re not, at least for a little while.”