Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [122]
Pins could hear Nunzio’s voice straining to stay firm.
“They were only ten minutes into the walk,” Nunzio said. “It was a clear night and they were holding hands, the baby asleep in the carriage. And then, in a little less than five minutes, everybody’s world got a lot smaller.”
“They were mugged?” Pins said, hoping the answer was that easy.
“Two guys were standin’ in front of them before they even knew it,” Nunzio said. “They forced them over into some tree cover. They beat Frankie, beat him bad, lookin’ to leave him for dead. And they did things to Sandy I don’t need to tell you about.”
“What about the baby?” Pins asked, his mouth dry, one hand bunched into a fist.
“Theresa?” Nunzio said. He blinked his eyes twice. He would not let tears fall down the front of his face. “They took her right outta her carriage.”
“Jesus Christ!” Pins said. “I’m sorry, Nunzio. I’m so sorry.”
“It changed everything, that night,” Nunzio said. “Took years to put Sandy back together, bring her to a place where she could come close to leadin’ a normal life. And Frankie … he never came out of it. Stuck around for a few months and then one morning, got up, got dressed, and got out.”
“Where to?”
“Don’t know,” Nunzio said. “Don’t need to know. We all handle our wars in different ways. He’s handling his the only way he can.”
“They ever get Theresa back?”
“No,” Nunzio said. “All my wise-guy contacts. All my cop friends. We all came up empty.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothin’ to say,” Nunzio said. “Years go by, you bury it, but you never forget it. And then Boomer comes in here and tells me about Lucia. Now, I know Lucia had nothin’ at all to do with takin’ my little Theresa away from us. But you know what?”
“Tell me,” Pins said.
“She might as well have been the one,” Nunzio said. “That’s why I’m in. It’s why we’re all in. To get a taste of even. In our way of lookin’ at things, it’s as good as you can hope for. You can’t ever get back what you lost, so you make somebody pay for it.”
Pins stared at Nunzio, his eyes moist, his throat dry.
“I’m just like the rest of the crew,” Nunzio said. “And so are you, Pins. Our hearts been carved out by different people in different ways. It’s only the taste of gettin’ even that keeps us all going forward.”
They sat across from each other, sun filtering in through the large front windows, the silence between them welcome and relaxing.
“I’m going over to the bowling alley,” Pins said. “Roll a few games. Helps clear my head. Wouldn’t mind having company if you’re interested.”
“You as good as they say you are?” Nunzio asked, the hardness back in his face and voice.
“Probably better,” Pins said, smiling.
“What will you spot me?” Nunzio asked.
“I’ll give you twenty,” Pins said. “We play three games, that’s a sixty spot. Highest total wins.”
“How much we playin’ for?”
“I don’t want your money, Nunzio,” Pins said.
“You ain’t gettin’ my money,” Nunzio said, walking out from behind the bar. “Now, how much?”
“Ten bucks a game,” Pins said. “Twenty if you sweep the three.”
“Deal,” Nunzio said, rolling down his sleeves and putting on a black leather jacket.
“You ain’t a ringer, are you?” Pins said, walking behind Nunzio toward the front door.
“You’ll know in a couple of hours.” Nunzio shrugged his shoulders and walked out, leaving Pins to lock the door.
• • •
BOOMER AND DR. Carolyn Bartlett walked quietly side by side down the south end of Thirty-sixth Street between Park and Madison. It was late on a warm Tuesday night, a cloudless spring night, a mild wind brushing against their backs. Boomer glanced over at her unlined face lit by an overhead streetlight, struck by the simplicity of her beauty and still surprised she