Well, he was in the pocket too, the Butcher was thinking to himself. Perfect protection for the play, all the time he needed to execute it. And he hated these bastards inside the club. Always had. They'd never really let him inside their little society, not to this day He'd always been on the outside.
He set his highly combustible bomb next to a wooden wall in an alleyway that looked out to the street. Through the alley, he spotted a couple of Maggione's soldiers posted across the way. They were leaning against the hood of a black Escalade.
He could see them, but they couldn't see him in the darkened alley.
He backed away into the alley and took shelter behind a Dempsey Dumpster that stunk like rotting fish.
An American Airlines jet roared overhead, heading into LaGuardia, making a noise like thunder shaking the sky. The timing was excellent for what came next.
The roar of the plane was nothing compared to the ear-splitting explosion against the rear wall of the social club; then came the screams and cursing of men inside.
And fire! Jesus! The flames were dancing out of control in a hurry.
The rear door burst open, and two soldiers, Maggione's personal bodyguards, had the boss in their grasp like he was the president of the United States and they were the Secret Service, hurrying him to safety. The bodyguards were bleeding, coughing from the smoke, but they were moving forward, heading toward the boss's Lincoln. They tried to clear smoke from their eyes with their shirtsleeves.
Sullivan stepped out from behind the Dumpster and said, "Hey there, assholes! You guys suck." He fired four shots. The bodyguards fell to the pavement, side by side, dead before they hit the cement. The checkered sports jacket of one of them was still on fire.
Then he ran up to Junior Maggione, whose face was cut and burned. He stuck his gun barrel up against Maggione's cheek.
"I remember you when you were just a little kid, Junior. Uptight, spoiled little fuck back then. Nothing's changed, huh? Get in the car or I'll shoot you dead right here in the back alley. Shoot you between the eyes, then cut them out, stick 'em in your ears. Get in the car before I lose it!"
And that's when he showed Junior Maggione the scalpel.
"Get in, before I use it."
Chapter 100
SULLIVAN DROVE THE MOB boss along the familiar streets of Brooklyn – New Utrecht Avenue, then Eighty-sixth Street – riding in the don's own car, loving every minute of this.
"Trip down memory lane for me." He gave a running commentary as he proceeded. "Who says you can't go home again? Know who said that, Junior? Ever read any books? You should have. Too late now."
He pulled into the Dunkin' Donuts on Eighty-sixth and transferred Maggione into the rented Ford Taurus, which was basically a piece of shit, but at least it wouldn't be noticed on the street. Then he put handcuffs on Junior. Tight ones, police-issue.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Maggione snarled as the cuffs bit into his wrists.
Sullivan wasn't sure what Junior meant – the changing of the cars, the fire-bombing, the next half hour or so? What?
"You came after me, remember? You started this whole thing. Tell you what, I'm here to finish it. I should have done this when we were both kids."
The don got red-faced and looked ready to have a major coronary in the car. "You're crazy! You're a lunatic!" he screamed as they pulled out of the lot.
Sullivan almost stopped the car in the middle of the street. Was Junior really screaming at him like he was hired help?
"Hey, I'm not going to argue with you about the state of my mental health. I'm a contract killer, so presumably I'm a little crazy. I'm supposed to be crazy, right? I killed fifty-eight people so far."
"You chop people up into little pieces," said Maggione. "You're a loose cannon, a madman. You killed a friend of mine. Remember that?"
"I fulfill my contracts on time, every time. Maybe I'm a little too high-profile for some tastes. But hold that thought – about chopping bodies into little pieces."
"What the hell are you talking about? You're not that crazy. Nobody's that crazy."
Amazing to see how Maggione's mind worked, or didn't work. Still, Junior was a stone-cold killer, so he had to be careful. No mistakes now.
"Just so I'm clear on this part," Michael Sullivan said, "we're headed to a pier I know on the Hudson River. Once we get there, I'm going to take some art photos for all your goombah pals to see. I'm going to give them a clear warning I hope they'll understand about leaving me and my family alone."
Then Sullivan put his finger to his lips. "Don't talk anymore," he said. "I'm almost starting to feel a little sorry for you, Junior, and I don't want to feel like that."
"What do I care what you feel like, ahhh," said Maggione, on account of Sullivan had stuck him in the belly with a switchblade knife, stuck it in to the hilt, then pulled it out slowly.
"Just for starters," he said in a weird, whispery voice. "I'm just getting warmed up."
Then the Butcher took a little half bow. "I am that crazy."
Chapter 101
SAMPSON AND I WERE BACK inside his car waiting for the Butcher to return to the house in Montauk. We were down to counting the minutes. Sooner or later he had to come back; only it hadn't happened yet, and Sampson and I were tired, cold, and, frankly, disappointed.
A pizza delivery guy from Papa John's showed up at around seven thirty. But no Sullivan, no Butcher, no relief in sight, and no pizza for us, either.
"Let's talk about something," said Sampson. "Keep our minds off food. And the cold."
"Been thinking about Maria again while I'm sitting here freezing my ass off," I said as we watched the long-haired pizza guy come and go. The thought had crossed my mind that Sullivan might use a delivery like this to get his wife a message. Had that just happened? Nothing we could do about it. But had it just happened?
"Not surprising, sugar," said Sampson.
"What happened the last couple months dredged up a lot of the past for me. I figured I'd grieved enough. Maybe not though. Therapist seems to think not."
"You had two babies to take care of back then. Maybe you were a little too busy to mourn as much as you needed. I remember I used to come over the house some nights. You never seemed to sleep. Working homicide cases. Trying to be a daddy. Remember the Bell's palsy?"
"Now that you mention it."
I'd had a disconcerting facial twitch for a while after Maria died. A neurologist at Johns Hopkins told me that it might go away or go on for years. It lasted a little more than two weeks, and it was kind of an effective tool on the job. Scared the hell out of perps I had to question in the cage.
"At the time, you wanted to catch Maria's killer so bad, Alex. Then you started obsessing over other murder cases. That's when you became a really good detective. In my opinion anyway. It's when you became focused. How you got to be the Dragon Slayer."
I felt like I was in the confessional. John Sampson was my priest. So what was new?
"I didn't want to think about her all the time, so I guess I had to throw myself into something else. There were the kids, and there was work."
"So did you grieve enough, Alex? This time? Is it over? Close to being over?"