Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [0]
Lorenzo Carcaterra
and APACHES
Apaches “makes The Silence of the Lambs seem a bit of an Aesop fable. … Carcaterra makes us rethink our notions of American culture. … Nobody makes you root more for the Dirty Harrys. … And nobody leaves you wondering more about that line—so very thin indeed in Carcaterra land—between revenge and justice.”
—The Atlanta Journal & Constitution
“Darkly atmospheric … Carcaterra’s novel succeeds admirably in describing a hostile, unforgiving world in which a life can be snuffed out ‘in a New York minute’ and where good and evil frequently intermingle. … A fervent cry for justice and a tribute to crime’s courageous avengers.”
—The Hartford Courant
“Carcaterra is an excellent writer, changing the pace here and there but never letting the reader go.”
—The Denver Post
“Consistently hard-hitting … Savage … Wrenching.”
—Daytona News-Journal
“A gritty revelation of the underbelly of life … A story that grabs you from the beginning and just doesn’t let go.”
—Affaire de Coeur
By Lorenzo Carcaterra
A SAFE PLACE:
The True Story of a Father, a Son, a Murder
SLEEPERS
APACHES
GANGSTER
STREET BOYS
PARADISE CITY
CHASERS
For the fallen.
Acknowledgments
None of what follows would have happened without the help and guidance of many. Here are a few:
Peter Gethers, who proved once again to be a great editor and, as I learned with the writing of this book, a patient one. The jokes aren’t bad either. No writer could hope to have a better publisher or friend than Clare Ferraro. A tip of the hat to the rest of my Ballantine gang: Linda Grey, Alberto Vitale, Sally Marvin (no more Big Macs), Liz Williams, and Nate Penn.
Loretta Fidel has always had my respect and this time around, she earned her stripes; Amy Schiffman, Rob Carlson, and Carol Yumkas are great agents and good friends. A big thank-you also to Arnold Rifkin. Thanks to Jake Bloom and Robert Offer for taking me along for the ride. And to Barry Kingham for being there.
A warm thanks to Jerry Bruckheimer, Susan Lyne, Jordi Ros, Donald De Line, and Joe Roth for their passion. And to Christy Callahan and Christian McLaughlin for their help.
To John Manniel for all he did for my family. A heartfelt thank-you to Steve Collura. I’ll see you at Toscana’s. And to Sonny Grosso, the best cop ever to pin on an NYPD badge and a friend for life. The next Fernet’s on me.
To my phone circle: Liz Wagner, Leah Rozen, William Diehl, Stan Pottinger, Mr. G., Brother Anthony, Hank Gallo, and Joe Lisi. Thanks for listening.
To Vincent, Ida, and Anthony—for the great meals and the happy nights.
To Susan, who makes what I write read better than it should. In return, I can only give my heart. And to my two best accomplishments: Kate, who lets me steal her great plot ideas without complaints, and Nick, who keeps me laughing.
They have taught me how to love.
PROLOGUE
My mother groan’d, my father wept,
Into the dangerous world I leapt;
Helpless, naked, piping loud,
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
—William Blake,
“Infant Sorrow”
February 18, 1982
CARLO AND ANNE Santori wanted nothing more than to be alone.
They had planned this weekend getaway for six months, their first one in fifteen years. No kids, no phones, no work, nothing but music, dance, and a little bit of romance at the Jersey shore.
They left behind their fifteen-year-old son, Anthony, to care for the house and his twelve-year-old sister, Jennifer. They felt that both children were old enough to be trusted, allowing them to enjoy a short respite from the daily grind of parental responsibility. Carlo handed Anthony the house keys and three simple instructions—don’t stray from the neighborhood, set the burglar alarm and lock the house, and never let Jennifer out of your sight. The boy stared at his father and swore to obey all three.
Anthony, however, had his own plans for the weekend.
His parents were no less than ten minutes out of the driveway when Anthony woke Jennifer from a sound sleep, yelling for her to get ready. They had two hours