The Accidental Pallbearer Page 14

  5:30. He hasn’t eaten all day, but has no appetite. An hour early, carrying a shopping bag, Rintrona arrives. They sit in the kitchen. Conte has prepared a sandwich of salami and provolone for Rintrona, who had announced his hunger upon arrival. Conte sips a cup of his favorite tea.

  “This is the craziest operation I’ve been involved in. Great salami! You think this guy is going to cough up something that’ll crack the triple assassination? Don’t we already have the obvious suspect in mind? This Kinter. He’s the fuckin’ doer, got to be. Why do we do a job on this Coca?”

  Conte tells him what Castellano has uncovered and Rintrona replies, “So, okay, let’s come down on Kinter and forget about Coca.”

  “We can’t forget Coca – he might be the key to a conspiracy of some breadth. Who killed DePellaccio? Ronald Sheehan? Nelson Thomas? Who killed Janice McPherson?”

  “Kinter is the leading and probably only candidate, all due respect. Sheehan? Thomas? On those two you might be talking out of your et cetera, all due respect. Accidental more likely with those two. McFarlane? A sex killer. Kinter is a sex killer on top of everything else? You working on a bad movie? DePellaccio? Okay, I buy DePellaccio, if Kinter gave him the bribe. But only if. We add them up on your theory, Kinter did seven since he came to Utica to open a slaughterhouse, for Chrissake.”

  “I have a feeling that seven is accurate.”

  “You have a feeling? From what part of your body does it emanate?”

  “I take your point, Bobby.”

  “On the basis of your feeling, let’s say you’re right. Okay. Kinter’s paid to do three hits on three Mafia heavies. That we can take to the bank. What’s the motivation to do the others? Mafia hitmen do not hit civilians. In the history of these scumbags, I know of no deliberate civilian hits. Maybe here and there an accidental innocent bystander.”

  “Unless there’s something involved that’s not Mafia-related. Mafia plus X.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Raymond Patriarca, Mr. Detective Conte, got what he wanted with the elimination of Aristarco. The Barbones were gravy, as we discussed. Okay. DePellaccio maybe could identify the hitman, okay, if the hitter did the bribe personally, which I doubt because doing bribes is entrusted to non-hitters, like lawyers usually. I don’t buy your theory. Your theory doesn’t touch facts. So where are we, paesan?”

  “We put the squeeze on Coca and do whatever we need to do to Kinter’s body, but without crossing the line, and see what that yields.”

  “In this kind of event, Eliot, it’s good to bring the equalizer. I’m packing a .38 special. What d’you have?”

  “.357 Magnum.”

  “A blessing upon you. You carrying it to the festivities?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can only pray to our Virgin Mother that one of us gets pushed over the edge. I forecast you.”

  6:00. Conte and Rintrona in street clothes drive in the car with the changed plate to the house on Sherman Drive. The street is deserted. Rintrona gets out, walks rapidly to the front door, knocks. No answer. Rings doorbell. No answer. Presses bell repeatedly, finally leaning on it. Nothing. Walks behind front hedge and peers in. Turns to Conte, who’s still in the car, and smiles, then returns to tell him that a man with an obvious toupee is stretched out on the couch. A glass on the floor beside him, turned over. Conte sneer-smiles. Seeing that the street is still deserted, Conte and Rintrona, each carrying a shopping bag, walk rapidly in the full dark to the back door and enter.

  6:23. Rintrona closes the door, pulls the drapes, turns off all lighting in the house with the exception of a small, low-wattage lamp, which he places on the coffee table fronting the couch, where the man known with scorn as Michael C lies in profound sleep. Conte and Rintrona proceed carefully to haul the man to the floor. Blindfold him with a black cloth. Strip him naked. Handcuff him wrists to ankles. And, last, with the utmost of delicate precision, do something to the man with a lubricated dildo of modest size.

  Thinking of himself as a priest conducting a baptismal ceremony, Rintrona pours a glass of cold water on the head of Michael C, who groans but does not come to. A second glass. Again he groans, awakes, falls back asleep. A handkerchief soaked in ammonia, pressed to the nostrils. Violent head snap – he awakes, screaming, but will not be heard because Pavarotti at high volume is singing “Di quella pira,” the heroic call to arms from Il Trovatore. A voice close to Coca’s ear. The voice says the music must be turned off for purposes of “penetrating conversation,” and should Coca scream in the ensuing quietude “feel this against your cheek?”

  “Yes.”

  Music off.

  “Open your mouth.” The cold barrel of a .38 inserted.

  “Close your mouth. Good. Feel good? Answer me, darling.”

  Coca nods, whimpers.

  “Do we understand one another?”

  Coca nods.

  “How the fuck could it feel good, asshole, to have a .38 in your mouth? You cunt. But I really do understand why you’d think it wise to nod in the affirmative. I really do. Can’t be too careful with our answers, can we, sweetheart? Don’t answer. Good. This’ll go easily for everybody, especially for your honorable guests, and perhaps you, as well, depending. Depending. Feel something firm in your – I can’t say the word because my mother, may she rest in peace, will wash my mouth out with soap. She’ll pierce my naughty tongue with a hot needle. How could you not appreciate what you feel in your?” Rintrona laughs quietly. “Stupid question? Yes? Be careful. Answer with maximum care. Because I’m sick of your lies. Prepared for a viewing?”

  Coca nods.

  “Goody! Goody goody gumdrops! When I remove the blindfold keep your eyes shut tight until I tell you to open them. Be a good bitch and the chances of survival are fifty-fifty. Suppress the urge to scream when I tell you to open those peepers or your chances of survival are one in forty-three point three. Open your eyes.”

  Michael C in a mental scream: Mouth open wide without sound. Standing about five feet away, a short rotund man, in a happy-face rubber clown mask that covers his skull, naked except for a pair of jockey shorts artfully stuffed with three pair of socks. A .38 in his right hand, barrel in mouth. Surgical gloves. About ten feet back, in shadow, a figure of impressive size. Black coat to the ankles. Black watch cap low over the forehead and covering his ears. A black cloth covering his face, with eye holes, fluttering with every exhale. White tennis shoes, red laces. Surgical gloves.

  Clown mask walks over to the man in black, points to the face covering, says, “Do you know what this is?” Coca shakes his head. “The Minister’s Black Veil, dummy. Do you know who he is?” Coca shakes his head. “The Man of the Crowd.” From the pocket of his long coat, the man in black removes a dildo of epic proportions, a fork with sharpened tines protruding from its tip. “Oh, God, please!” Clown mask says, “You blaspheme. I am not God. That, dear Mikey, is your unlubricated destiny, should you not truthfully cooperate. Do you know the meaning of home?” Coca stares. “Home is the place, when you have to go there, they have to take you in. We have come to take you in.”

  The Man of the Crowd, enforked dildo in hand, walks behind Michael C, kneels, slowly withdraws the secret fantasy of all stout-hearted men, the smaller dildo, then presses his instrument against, but not within. Clown mask says, “Do you renounce Satan and the glamour of evil, from this day forth?” Coca replies, “I won’t bother Antonio Robinson from this day forth.” Clown mask says, “You bet your bloody ass you won’t.” Coca in a torrent, “On the van that day, you want me to tell you about the van that day when the light was red and the running nigger had the light in his favor and was going to cross in front of the van when the light was red, and Robinson what he did I’ll tell you about that, you want me to tell you about that when Robinson who is driving sees the running nigger he’s going to cross in front of the van because he has the light in his favor and Robinson stiff-arms out the window like a traffic cop, w
hich is all he ever deserved to be, except Big Daddy, he stiff-arms to the running nigger like you stop traffic and the nigger doesn’t cross even though he has the light in his favor and Robinson even though the light is red floors it across the intersection and broadsides the bus, you want me to tell you about that he did it on purpose, the driving nigger didn’t want to kill the running nigger because even though the running nigger had the light the driving nigger knew he was going to run it, we never get to the cemetery to protect, they were shot, you want me to tell you about that and I won’t bother Robinson from this day forth? Do you want me to?” Clown mask says, “This is your last chance. Do you, or do you not, renounce Satan and the glamour of evil?” Coca passes out. Ammonia. He revives. Eagerly swallows the Campari they hold to his mouth in greedy gulps. Goes under.

  Rintrona and Conte haul him to bed. Remove cuffs, empty the remaining contents of the bottle of Campari, remove their costumes, turn off the small lamp, return it to its original place and leave. In the car, Conte calls Castellano to tell him that he’s on the way.

  Castellano replies, “Don’t rush. He’s safe.”

  Rintrona says, “Kinter now?”

  “Appears so.”

  “How did I do, Eliot?”

  “Your improvisational powers are considerable. I hardly recognized you, Bobby.”

  “My work at Troy Little Theater.”

  “You’re an actor?”

  “More fun than a barrel of monkeys.”

  “We won’t need costumes for the next one.”

  “Kinter?”

  “Jed.”

  In civvies, and packing heat, Conte and Rintrona are greeted before they can knock by Castellano holding a glass of red wine. He urges them to make themselves comfortable in the front room, then goes to the kitchen and carries back two glasses and the bottle.

  Conte stands, says, in irritation, “You cannot be serious. Where is he, Tom?”

  “Who would you be referring to, Detective?”

  “Cut it out, Tom.”

  “Stop fucking with us, Mr. Castellano.”

  “I thought we’d relax first.”

  Conte and Rintrona shoot him lethal looks.

  Tom says, “Okay, okay.”

  They follow him into the kitchen where they find what Conte assumes to be Jed Kinter on the floor, feet tied together and hands tied behind his back, with a pillowcase, stained with what appears to be blood, tied around the head. The body lies motionless.

  Conte is speechless, Rintrona says “Christ!” Tom says, “Book ’em, Danno.” Rintrona pokes the body with his foot. No response. Conte, with rising anger, says, “What have you goddamn done?”

  Rintrona kicks the body with some force. No response. “Guy is really out.”

  “Tom?”

  “Like I told you, Detective. I invited him to dinner. He comes down around 5:30. I offer him a glass of wine. I tell him, like you said, I might be coming down with something or it’s my fuckin’ allergies. That’s how I said it, my fuckin’ allergies, to relax him. He goes, I suffer from allergies too. I sympathize, Mr. Castellano. He’s very polite with me, as usual. I say, I’m going to start the sausage and peppers. I had already browned the sausage before he came, to save time for the main event. I say, Make yourself at home, and give him a bottle of wine and the O.D. I say all this, like you said, in a bored voice. He starts reading about that woman who was murdered, he must’ve been, because he says, Too bad about that woman on Chestnut Street, I used to live in that neighborhood. I say, This town is getting worse and worse. He says nothing. We’re pretty quiet after that. He uses the bathroom. When he gets back, after a long time I gotta say, he must have a gut problem, I serve the sausage and peppers. He compliments me excessively. Says his mother and wife can’t cook a damn and that’s why he has a second-rate stomach. I say, But I can, Jed. He looks at me in a way that’s almost sad. Fuck you, I think. How about a second helping, son, I say. I work the father-son angle. He says, I’d love it. Now picture how I arranged him with his back to the stove. That’s the crucial detail. I take his dish over. I put a second helping on his plate. I bring him the plate. I go back to the stove with my plate, he’ll think I’m going for a second. The frying pan. You can test it out. It’s giving me tendinitis over the years. It’s a heavy fuckin’ thing. Badda BOOM!!! With everything I got over the head. I tie him up good, as you observe. The bastard bleeds from the ears on my nice tile floor, which I paid through the nose for, so I get the pillow-case from the dirty laundry basket and that’s about it. He’s all yours, fellas, though I’m happy to lend a further hand.”

  Conte removes the pillowcase. Rintrona asks for ammonia and a rag. Castellano responds, “My pleasure.” When Kinter starts to come to, Rintrona asks, “Now what, Eliot?” Conte tells him he’ll pull into the driveway so they can put him into the trunk unobserved.

  “Can I come with you and your friend, who I have yet to be introduced to?”

  “From here on, Tom, you need to be insulated from the facts.”

  “Are you and your mysterious friend pleased with my work?”

  “Anyone know you invited him for dinner?”

  “Besides you and your unknown friend?”

  “Right.”

  “No.”

  “Let’s keep it that way.”

  Conte replaces the pillow-case as Kinter begins to babble meaninglessly. Before driving away, he calls Robinson, tells him about the photos, what Castellano found in the attic, the McPherson connection, that they have Kinter secured and are bringing him to the Savage Arms. They drive off. Thumping sounds from the trunk.

  Rintrona says, “I thought for a minute he actually killed him, which would be okay except we’d have a problem with the body. What now, Eliot?”

  Conte tells him they’re going to a parking lot behind an abandoned factory on the edge of the city, where the chief of police will meet them. Rintrona says, “This is beginning to make me feel like a criminal. I’m thinking I should bow out.”

  “Want me to take you to your car?”

  “Under no circumstances.”

  Conte parks behind the Savage Arms. Robinson is already there. The only light from a full moon. Robinson wants to know who the third party is. Conte tells him a “friend with experience, who shall remain nameless. Totally to be trusted.”

  “So where is he?”

  Conte and Rintrona haul Kinter onto the broken pavement of weeds and broken glass, used condoms here and there, Kinter twisting and kicking his bound feet. Robinson says, “Keep the bag over his head. Let’s have some privacy.” They walk away, out of earshot. Robinson tells Conte that a video was forwarded to him that afternoon showing the plate of Conte’s car and Conte himself entering the McPherson residence at the wrong time. A video taken by Kinter, “who must have tailed you there, and who obviously killed her.”

  “And who was too stupid,” Eliot says, “to know that his address could not be hidden?”

  “Not necessarily stupid, El.”

  “In the end,” Rintrona adds, “it’s their stupidity that’s the nail in their coffin. Even the smartest of the worst of them are stupid in the end.”

  “Not necessarily. Your friend going to assist us tonight with speeches?”

  “What are you implying, Robby?”

  “I’m saying ever since that train incident your judgment is off. You’re too emotional. What do we have? We have exactly nothing. The photos can’t conclusively identify him as the substitute pallbearer. The platform shoes and revolver any shrewd lawyer will demonstrate can’t be linked conclusively to Kinter. Maybe they were planted. Maybe Castellano was the substitute pallbearer, which is why they ended up in his attic. You get the picture? This is what I’m saying.”

  “But the DNA from the semen will definitively tie him to the murder. No lawyer can explain it away.”

  “Oh, yeah? The lawyer puts him on the stand and he testifies that he went over to say hello to his ex-landlady, who in fact invited him over, they got frie
ndly, she fucked him, he leaves and you come into the picture. Capeesh? The video is used to nail you, which Kinter admittedly took because he feared for her when he’s in the car and sees you pull up and enter – you, he testifies, who terrorized him violently on a train several days ago. You’re a violent person. He sends me the video because he’s a responsible citizen. Where does that leave us, El? Up shit creek without a paddle.”

  Rintrona speaks: “Mr. Robinson has it right. The son of a bitch walks.”

  Kinter thrashes on the broken pavement. Bleeds from both ears. Yelling.

  “He kills Aristarco,” Eliot says, “the Barbones, no doubt DePellaccio. And Nelson Thomas and –”

  “He didn’t kill Thomas. A witness got a partial on a plate. It was another drunken college kid. We brought him in and he confessed.”

  “Kinter kills Janice McPherson and walks? He does five murders, the first four I don’t give a damn, nobody really does, but Janice McPherson I give a damn. He trailed me there. I brought him there, and he walks?”

  “Just a second, gentleman,” Robinson says, “I think I can fix the situation, but before I do, did you deal well with Michael C?”

  “You’re safe now.”

  Robinson goes over to Kinter, still thrashing, but quietly now. Robinson’s back to Conte and Rintrona. Robinson crouches at Kinter’s head. Can be heard speaking, softly, indistinctly. Kinter says, loudly, “Since when did you grow a pair?” Robinson fires four times through the pillowcase and through Kinter’s brain. He stands, turns to Conte and Rintrona: “He doesn’t walk. Satisfied, El? Satisfy your violent streak?”

  Robinson removes two dropcloths from his trunk, wraps the body and drags it to the trunk. Says, “Hope your friend here is safe, El. Or else. I’ll take care of the rest,” drives off.

  Rintrona says, “You can take me to my car now.”

  Conte says nothing.

  “Your friend going to do me next?”