Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [127]
• • •
BOOMER STARED AT the crushed photo of Eddie. The blood on it was caked and the felt-tip mark smeared. The rest of the Apaches sat around the circular table, Nunzio pacing behind them.
“He’s your kid, Dead-Eye.” Boomer’s voice was soft with concern. “These are crazy fucks we’re moving on, and killing kids doesn’t seem to upset them all that much. So I’ll let you call the play.”
“Eddie and Grace are taken care of,” Dead-Eye said in a calm, even tone. “Now let’s worry about us. Lucia sent me a message. Sent us all one, really. I think we should send one back.”
Boomer looked around the table, studying each Apache in turn. That felt-tip X scrawled across little Eddie’s photo might as well have been drawn on every one of them. It was a call-out, a street move, a push by a criminal to force a cop to take a step back. Most cops would fade away. A few would stand their ground. But the ones Boomer chose as Apaches knew only one way. To move forward and attack.
“One hour, then,” Boomer said, standing and moving away from the table. “Tenth Street and Avenue A. Nunzio’ll lay out the plan. I’ll see you there.”
“Where are you going?” Mrs. Columbo asked.
“To pick up a wrecking ball,” Boomer said, closing the front door of the restaurant behind him.
• • •
BOOMER AND MRS. Columbo sat in the front seat of a yellow multigear Caterpillar rig. A half-ton wrecking ball hung from an iron hook, swaying lazily in front of them. Both wore white hard hats and heavy construction gloves as the machine slowly inched its way through late morning traffic. Boomer had eased the dozer out of a Lower East Side construction site whose foreman owed Nunzio a few hard favors, grinding gears as he moved the rig past crumbling tenements.
“Are you sure about this?” Mrs. Columbo asked, feeling out of place sitting so high above the traffic.
“You mean letting you ride shotgun? It’s a risk, but worth a roll.”
“Not that, dorko,” Mrs. Columbo said. “I was thinking more about your little idea of demolishing a building in downtown Manhattan in broad daylight.”
“It’s as good as any other idea I’ve had,” Boomer said.
“That sure helps ease my mind,” Mrs. Columbo muttered.
“Besides, it gives you and me a few minutes to talk.” Boomer cranked the shaft back into neutral, looking up past three cars at a red light.
“About what?”
“Your husband.”
“He’s off limits, Boom.”
“He made a wrong move going to Lavetti,” Boomer said. “But he did it for the right reasons. He was worried about you, so he reached out for somebody he thought would help.”
“He could have talked to me.” Mrs. Columbo turned away to watch a small boy bounce a Spauldeen against a red brick wall.
“Well, you ain’t all that easy to talk to sometimes,” Boomer said. “Like most cops.”
“I can talk to you,” Mrs. Columbo said, still looking at the boy and the ball, her voice distant and quiet.
“I’m a cop and your friend,” Boomer said. “That gives me a leg up on a husband.”
“You’re saying I should go back with him?”
“You’ve got a life with him, Mary. And a son.”
“It’s not much of a life,” Mrs. Columbo said. “And I’ll always have my son.”
“Just think about it,” Boomer said. The light turned green and he moved the rig forward. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“It could have been me and you, you know.” Mrs. Columbo still wasn’t looking at him. “It wouldn’t have taken much. To tell you the truth, I’m kind of surprised it never was.”
“I am too.” Boomer glanced over at her. “But you know, sometimes the could-have-been leaves you with a better feeling. We would have had ourselves a few good months, maybe even a couple of years. But we wouldn’t have made it past that.”
“Thank you, Ann Landers,” Mrs. Columbo said.
“You and me, we know each other more than fifteen years now and we can still talk to each other like this. But if we were