.
... Tommy Roccaforte stood in
the meager shade of an acacia tree and watched as the movers across the
street carried his brand new furniture up to his brand new apartment.
An entire household, packed flat in cardboard boxes. When he thought
of the heavy oak and Italian leather with which he’d furnished his
home on Staten Island it made him want to weep.
... He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
... The movers made one last trip up the
stairs and down again, packed their dolly and their mats and ropes, and
waved as they climbed into the truck. Tommy stood there, hands on
hips, and watched them go.
... As the truck pulled out of the parking
lot a car slowed and turned in. It was a few years old, dinged and
dented but well-maintained. A fleet unit – a company car or
a rental. Someone in town on business.
... The driver’s door swung open and
a chubby man in a gray suit stepped out. In his right hand the man held
a paper bag, about the size of the brown lunch bags Tommy had carried
to school back when he was a kid.
... It looked heavy.
... The man glanced down at a piece of paper
in his other hand, then up at the numbers on the side of the building.
After a moment he nodded to himself, slammed the door, and headed up the
stairwell.
... Tommy flipped away the cigarette and
strolled across the street as casually as he could, what with the adrenaline
putting an extra hop in his step. Probably it was nothing, but even the
prospect of some action had his heart thudding against the inside of his
chest.
... He paused at the base of the stairs.
The other man’s heavy footfalls echoed from above, proceeding steadily.
Tommy trailed behind him, step by silent step.
... At the second-floor landing Tommy knelt
and risked a peek around the corner. Sure enough, the man, his back turned,
was there in front of the door to Tommy’s new home. He reached for
the doorbell, hesitated, finally reached into the bag instead.
... Tommy surged to his feet. Two quick strides,
then his foot swung in a tight arc, like a soccer striker’s, that
ended at the side of the man’s knee.
... The man howled and fell writhing to the
concrete. Another kick and the bag went flying. As the man rolled over
Tommy raised a foot to stomp a hole in his face.
... Then he lowered it. “Barton,”
he said.
... Barton sat up, rubbing his leg and chuckling.
“Don’t you know assaulting a federal officer is a crime, son?”
... “What are you doing out here?”
... “Oh, just keeping an eye on you,
making sure everything’s okay. It is my job after all. How you like
Tucson so far?”
... Tommy shrugged. “New York has potholes
bigger than this dump.”
... Barton got to his feet with a groan and
retrieved the bag. “Well, maybe this will lift your spirits. I brought
you a present, and some good news.”
... From the bag he pulled a gift-wrapped
package, about the size of a hardback book.
... Tommy peeled away the wrapping paper
and let it fall to the ground. Inside was a cheap drugstore picture frame.
He turned it over to see his own face staring back at him in black and
white.
... His lip was swollen; blood crusted the
edges of his nostrils. Eyes glaring at something out of frame to the left,
mouth half open ready to unload another obscenity. The heavy black lines
painted on the wall behind him gave his height as six feet even.
... His booking photo.
... “What the fuck, Barton?” he
said.
... “Oh, just a reminder,” said
Barton. “You’re not out here because of all the crimes you pulled,
all the people you hurt. You’re out here you were stupid enough to
get caught. Remember that and you’ll stay out of trouble.”
... Tommy turned and flung the picture against
the wall, where it burst in a shower of glass and debris, and started
back downstairs.
... “Go ahead, Tommy, keep on walking,”
said Barton. “All the way back to New York. Think you’d get
a warm welcome there?”
... His steps slowed, then stopped. “No,”
said Tommy. “No. I can’t go back.”
... “Then get back here and clean up
this mess.”
... When he was done, when he’d picked
up every shard of glass and scrap of wood, Barton said, “Now for
the good news – I found you a job.”
... “What job?” said Tommy.
... Barton laughed. “You ran the book
for Salazar, right?”
...
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