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.“I don’t know, I don’t know.They just killed them.They did.Downstairs.”“Downstairs where?”“Here!” The shriek from hell.Her heart was on the rack, being pulled apart.“You mean Mr.Tate killed someone.That’s what you mean, don’t you? Your friend Charles—Mr.Tate—he’s the killer.Maybe Sal was there, but Mr.Tate—”“No! It was Sal who shot them.With a gun.Two men.”“Who?”“I don’t know, I don’t know.A little man, a little grumpy man, he never smiled.And another one who came with him.”A little grumpy man? Mr.Mistretta? And Jerry? Cil felt ill.She shut her eyes and pressed her forearm into her stomach, then sank to her knees, supporting herself on the edge of the bed.When she opened her eyes again, that fleshy thing was looking right at her.She turned away and sat back on her heels, clutching her stomach, trying to keep from throwing up.But Donald was right.Everyone was sinning.The whole world was sinning.Mr.Tate—well, he had heathen written all over him.But Sal? Sal, too? Had he been lying to her that much all these years? Was it all true what they said about him? Was he really as bad as the government prosecutors and the FBI made him out to be? Could he have actually killed Mr.Mistretta himself? He did hate Mr.Mistretta—she knew that—and he does have a very nasty temper.But…God in heaven, help us all.Her eyes shot open.She crossed herself quickly, then gripped the pair of pants on the floor next to her and whipped them over the naked body on her bed.“Put your pants on, Donald.We have to pray.”“No! I have to get rid—”“Put those pants on right this minute, mister, and get down on your knees and pray with me”“But—”“NOW!” Her screech made the windows rattle.He dropped the scissors to his side.He looked terrified.“I said, get dressed now.And don’t make me repeat myself.”“Yes, Sister,” he said in a little voice.He lifted one knee and started to put the pants on.She waited for him to zip his zipper.“Now, get down here with me.”He crawled off the bed like a bad dog and got on his knees next to her, folding his hands on top of the bed.Her wimple was still on his head, crooked.“Pray with me, Donald.We have to pray for the souls of all these sinners.”“Yes, Sister.” He started to mumble the Our Father very quietly, his head bowed.She tried to join him, but she couldn’t concentrate.Her mind was on Sal.Sal and his lies.She closed her eyes and bowed her head, forcing herself to say the words of the Our Father.It was Sal’s soul they needed to pray for.He was going to be needing their prayers.A lot of prayers.Donald’s head was bent over his trembling folded hands, eyes shut tight.“‘…and forgive us our trespasses,’” he whispered, “‘now and in the hour of our death.Amen.’”She took the wimple off Donald’s head.“Amen,” she repeated.Chapter 17Tozzi sat on the edge of the couch in Gibbons’s living room, biting a hangnail, staring at the television, thinking about John.On the screen, Sal Immordino paced up and down the sidewalk, shuffling his feet, mumbling to his hands, throwing shadow punches.It was a copy of the video the state police had taken that morning outside Sister Cil’s place in Jersey City.The camera zoomed in on Sal’s face.He kept his eyes down, never looked into the camera, just paced and mumbled, sparring with his invisible partner.Gibbons got out of the armchair and went over to the VCR.“They told me it’s all the same.Two hours of this shit.” He reached over to shut it off.“No, wait,” Tozzi said.“I wanna see a little more.”Tozzi watched Sal, watched his face, waiting for him to slip, waiting for him to glance at the camera, to show that he really was aware of what was going on.But he never did.He was so good at this, so well-practiced.He should be.The bastard’s been doing it long enough.Gibbons was standing there, with his arm on the TV.“You seen enough?”Tozzi sat back and nodded.Gibbons turned off the VCR and Sal disappeared from the screen.The green outfield of Shea Stadium under the lights took his place.“It’s him,” Tozzi said.“I know it.Sal’s the one.Mistretta, Bartolo—it makes sense.John was a mistake.He thought it was me.But Sal’s definitely the one.It has to be.” He checked his fingers for another hangnail to bite.Gibbons changed the channel to a basketball game.The Sixers were playing Boston for the Eastern Conference title.Philly had the ball.Their geeky-looking center, that seven-and-a-half-foot African guy, looped the ball back out to the perimeter to Charles Barkley, who wasted no time shaking Larry Bird on a pick and muscling his way straight to the hoop, scoring over the Celtic center with a finger roll.Gibbons switched back to the Mets game.They were playing the Dodgers.Dwight Gooden was on the mound.Darryl Strawberry was at the plate.“You’re not saying anything, Gib.You don’t think it’s Sal?”Gibbons backed up to the armchair, his eyes on the game.“Sure, I think it’s him.”“And?”Gibbons looked at him sideways.“And nothing.We can’t prove it.He’s got all his bases covered.According to the hospital records, the last time he was out on the street was nineteen months ago.Until yesterday.”“So he hired someone.”“Who?”“I dunno.Somebody from his old crew, maybe a free-lance contractor, I dunno.”“I dunno either.” Gibbons glanced at him, then went back to the game.“But that’s the whole point.We don’t have a shooter we can connect to Immordino, so basically we got nothing.All we can do is what we’re doing right now.Sit tight and let him think you’re dead, so he can go his merry way.If he is making a power play for Mistretta’s old job, maybe he’ll get reckless and we can catch him doing something to implicate himself.If we’re lucky.”“Yeah … if we’re lucky.”On TV, Gooden threw heat.Strawberry swung and missed.Strike three.The side was retired.The crowd at Shea cheered the hometown big-money player for striking out the multimillionaire Mets defector.Tozzi closed his eyes and rubbed his face.He couldn’t stop thinking about John.His wake was tonight.Tozzi hoped it wouldn’t be an open coffin.Goddamn Immordino.Immordino, Immordino.Tozzi wished he could get the bastard out of his head for a little while.The guy was gnawing at his gut, keeping him awake at night, distracting him from everything.There had to be something they could do to nail him.There had to be.Tozzi stared at Gibbons’s profile in the armchair.“Where’s your partner today?”“Huh?” Gibbons was wrapped up in the ball game.“Cummings.Where is she?”Gibbons looked over his shoulder to see if Lorraine was around.“I don’t know and I don’t care.Haven’t been able to watch a game in peace since she got here.I hope she’s lost [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]