Peril

Tony’s voice was completely different than Caruso had ever heard it. He seemed sad and broken and trapped like a rat, like a guy who’d lost the most important thing he had and could find no way to get it back. It was his wife he’d lost, of course, and for a moment Caruso wondered what it must be like to be that close to someone, want them to stay with you that deeply. Then he thought of his father . . . and he knew what Tony was going through. He wanted Sara back because nothing would ever be the same if she didn’t show up again. But so what, he thought, now hardening himself for the job he’d have to do if Tony didn’t get the Old Man to call it off. So what? He’d wanted his father to come back the same way Tony wanted this bitch wife of his to come back. But had he? Fuck, no. Same way with this wife of Tony’s. Just wanting somebody to come back didn’t mean they’d do it. And you were a sap if you thought it would. Tony was a sap, Caruso decided, and Mr. Labriola was right in despising the little prick.

He felt the pistol rustle again, jerked open the door, and got out of the car.

“Let’s get this shit over with,” he said sharply.

They passed through the gate, mounted the stairs, and stood silently together after Tony rapped at the door.

Standing in the darkness of Labriola’s porch, Caruso felt the pistol against his backbone. It seemed rough as bricks, and as the seconds passed, it grew cold and weighty, heavier than the moon and stars, a vast, motionless planet, grim and unlighted, and he yearned for the moment when the job was finished and he could toss it over the Verrazano Bridge and be done with it.

The porch light flicked on, and frozen in its harsh light, Caruso felt utterly exposed, as if he’d already been nabbed by the cops and hauled in for a lineup, eyes watching him from behind the glare, picking him out, sealing his fate. He could almost hear the whispers of the witnesses who’d seen him do it. Yeah, that’s him. I know because of that little mustache. Caruso glanced toward the door, caught his translucent image in the glass. Before the hit, that fucking mustache had to go.

Labriola opened the door, glanced back and forth from Tony to Caruso, his eyes cold and merciless, as if he couldn’t decide which of them he detested most.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked.

“I need to talk to you, Dad,” Tony said.

Labriola’s eyes slithered over to Caruso. “What the fuck is this, Vinnie?”

“I just come along for the ride,” Caruso said. “It ain’t nothing to do with me.”

“I need to talk to you,” Tony insisted.

“Make it fast,” Labriola snorted contemptuously, then strode back into the house.

Caruso followed Tony into the living room. It was cluttered and dingy, the tables and chairs piled with pizza boxes and white containers of half-eaten Chinese food. Beer cans and liquor bottles lay scattered along the length of the sofa, along with stacks of newspapers and magazines.

“Jesus,” Tony said.

“I don’t have a wife to clean up for me,” Labriola said sharply. “But then, you don’t either, do you, Tony?” He laughed mockingly.

Tony’s body stiffened. “We have to talk, Dad.”

“So you already said.” Labriola rubbed his hands together. “A real heart-to-heart. Father and son. I can’t wait.” His eyes narrowed. “Okay, let’s have it.”

“I want to talk to you about Sara,” Tony said grimly.

Labriola waved his hand and slumped down on the sofa. “I thought we settled that.”

“I know you’re still looking for her,” Tony said.

“You don’t know shit.”

“You hired a guy, and I want to know what you hired him to do.”

Labriola glared at Caruso. “You tell him I hired a guy?”

Caruso shook his head.

Labriola’s eyes caught fire. “Don’t you fucking lie to me, Vinnie!” he screamed.

Caruso felt as if he’d been hit by a shotgun blast. “Just that I hired a guy to find her,” he sputtered. “Nothing else.”

Labriola shifted his gaze back to Tony. “So, a guy’s looking for her. So fucking what?”

“I want you to call him off.”

Labriola laughed. “Call him off your fucking self.”

“Call him off, Dad.”

Labriola looked at Tony sneeringly. “And if I don’t?”

Caruso’s eyes shot over to Tony. Now was the moment, he knew. He’d faced it before himself. Now was the moment you either touched gloves or backed out of the ring.

“And if I don’t?” Labriola repeated.

Tony said nothing.

Labriola leaned forward, grabbed a can of beer from the table in front of the sofa, and took a long, slow swig. “I got an idea,” he said. “Why don’t we settle this thing like men?” He rose massively and lifted his fists. “Come on, you fucking pussy, fight me.”

“Sit down, Dad,” Tony said. But he stepped back.

Labriola shifted his weight from one foot to the other, dancing like a boxer and throwing punches in the air. “Fight me, Tony,” he repeated vehemently. “Fight me, goddammit!” He stepped forward and threw a wide punch.

Tony leaped away. “I’m not going to fight you, Dad.”