Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [45]
“A junkie ain’t no weatherman,” Ray said. “All he cares about is the fix. Shouldn’t have to be tellin’ you that.”
“I remember,” Bobby said.
Bobby and Ray had not talked in the years since the murder, but they were keenly aware of each other’s activities. Bobby watched as Ray grew his drug business, earning thousands a day as he fed the increasing neighborhood demand for cocaine and heroin. For his part, Ray Monte knew enough about Bobby Scarponi to understand he was not the type to let a blood murder sit. He watched him clean up his life, kick his habit, and then wait for his opportunity, patience his only partner.
The day Bobby Scarponi pinned on a policeman’s badge, Ray Monte knew their moment was close enough to touch.
“You here to pick up the payoffs?” the chubby man to Ray’s left asked, laughing through the question. “They always send the new guys for the pickups. Breaks them in good that way.”
“You got it goin’ pretty good, Ray,” Bobby said. “I figure six blocks in the one-sixties, all kickin’ in to you.”
“I eat,” Ray said, shrugging his shoulders, cigar smoke filtering up past the lid of his fedora.
“What happens if you go down?” Bobby asked. “Who moves in on your take?”
“That’s somethin’ I wouldn’t know or care about. Seein’ as I ain’t goin’ any fuckin’ place.”
“I figure Uncle Angie.” Water dripped down from the peak of Bobby’s policeman’s hat. “He’ll give your corners to one of the Jamaican gangs. Walk away from it with a bigger cut than he’s getting from you.”
“By the time that happens, I’ll have enough money to buy Florida,” Ray said, taking the cigar from his mouth and tossing it over his shoulder into a puddle. “And you’ll still be walkin’ in the rain, bustin’ joint-rollers.”
“You still carry that blade?” Bobby asked, moving in closer to Ray, watching the three men by his side stiffen.
“Always,” Ray said. “You wanna see it?”
“I saw it once,” Bobby said. “It’s enough to hold me.”
“When your mother died, she didn’t make a sound,” Ray said. “She just went. Think you’ll go the same?”
“You did her alone,” Bobby said. “Didn’t need anybody else. Now you got three. Maybe all that money makes you scared.”
Ray Monte smiled and looked over at his men. “Go dry off inside and get a drink,” he told them. “Pour me one too. I won’t be long.”
Bobby and Ray stared at one another, waiting as the three men brushed past, heading for the dark warmth of an old bar.
“You gonna draw down on me, Officer Bob?” Ray asked. “I don’t have a gun.”
“She wasn’t carrying anything,” Bobby said, the rain coming down in heavier doses.
“She had her son to protect her.” Ray’s voice was cold, heavy with hate. “Except he didn’t do nothin’ but watch her bleed.”
“I’ve watched her die every day since then,” Bobby said, the blade of a knife slipping down the side of his police jacket. “And every night.”
Ray Monte pulled the switchblade from his pants pocket and snapped it open, its familiar sound echoing like a drum, as it had so often down through the years. All Bobby heard was his laugh.
The knife went in chest deep, past muscle and bone, through vein and artery. Two hands reached for it, holding it tight, burying it deeper into flesh. The two men stared at each other, the rain around them mixing with the thick flow of blood, one set of eyes welled with sadness and tears, the other losing their grasp on life. The two leaned against the rear door of the Mercedes, wet bodies clinging together, low gurgles coming from the throat of the dying man.
“You didn’t make any noise either,” Bobby Scarponi said to Ray Monte, letting his body go, watching it slide down the side of the Mercedes and crumple to the curb, head against a Firestone all-weather tire.
Bobby walked to his squad car, got in, put it in gear, and drove off, heading back to the station house.
His tour of duty done.
• • •
THREE MONTHS AFTER Ray Monte’s death, Bobby Scarponi was transferred out of uniform and assigned to the Brooklyn Decoy Unit. At twenty-five, he was the youngest member of a team that roamed the borough posing as potential