Hardway, page 11
“Don’t be an asshole, Dad.”
“Takes one to know one, kid.”
It was loud outside. The highway nearby provided a chorus of cars speeding and honking—the occasional baying of an eighteen-wheeler. Fantine walked Jae around the King’s Harbor building a few times before sitting on a bench.
“It’s cloudy,” Jae complained.
“The air will be good for you.” Fantine stretched her arms out across the bench.
Jae snorted. “At least I have my jacket.”
“I brought lunch.” Fantine rooted through her backpack and fished out two baggies with hero sandwiches inside. “Your favorite from that place on Buhre Avenue. I made a quick stop before I got here. Hopefully it’s good. They changed owners.”
Jae nodded his mood visibly brighter. “Ham, Swiss, and mustard on semolina?”
Fantine slipped a half of sandwich out of the bag and handed it over. Then she fished out a soda. “I figured an early visit deserved a treat.”
“Thanks,” Jae said between bites. “You know there’s no will or money, right?”
Fantine laughed. “You know me, always trying to get my hands on that Park fortune.” She pulled a half a sandwich out of her own bag. Unscrewed the cap of a water bottle and took a long pull.
“Is that water?” Jae arched an eyebrow.
“I’ve behaved for six weeks.” Fantine took a bite of her sandwich.
Her father put his hand out. “Give me a sip.”
She handed him the water bottle.
Jae unscrewed the cap, lifted the bottle to his nose, and then took a sip. “Good.”
“You should try trusting me sometime.”
“I trust you, Fan; the problem is I know you too well.”
A black Escalade parked in front of the building. Two immense men in sweat suits stepped out and wandered over to the front entrance. They both wore sunglasses and had their hair slicked back. Had the appearance of gym rat twins. They stopped in their tracks when one spotted Fantine and slapped the beefy arm of the other. He jabbed a fat finger at her.
“Miss Park?” His accent was strong—voice heavy with bass.
Fantine sighed. “I didn’t do it.”
They both laughed. “No. Someone would like to speak with you.”
She stayed seated. Looked to her father. “I’m a little busy right now.”
One of the twins turned to Jae. “Do you mind?”
Jae frowned. He craned his neck to take a long look at the car. “Old business?”
They nodded.
Fantine watched the exchange. What did her father know about this?
“Fan, go with them.” Jae rolled backwards and edged to the entrance of the home. “I can get upstairs on my own. Don’t make any trouble—you should know these people live to make trouble over nothing.” Someone held the door open for him and he waved a goodbye.
Fantine watched her father roll inside. Took another bite of her sandwich and stared at one of the twins. “You mind giving me a how or why before I blindly follow your asses into a car I don’t know?”
The twins turned to each other then back to her. They both shook their heads in unison.
Fantine finished her sandwich, collected the garbage, and tossed it in the trash. Took her time getting to her feet. She wiped her hands on her pants. “Alright, let’s go.”
One of the twins tried to take Fantine by the arm. She shrugged away with a frown and gestured to them to go ahead of her. They walked in silence to the SUV. The rear driver side door swung open slowly. Fantine slid in—almost went too far on the rich leather upholstery. She clung to the seat with one hand while pulling the door closed.
There was a man to her left. Aleksei Uryevich. Fantine knew him from childhood, but the last time they’d spoke was in front of her mother’s casket as he shoved a wrinkled envelope with twenties into her hand. That wasn’t as long ago as she pretended, but she found herself surprised at the differences seven years marked on him. He was older—wider. Still looked as if he was artlessly sculpted of rock—stereotypically Russian—a craggy face and a sour frown. This was a man who strangled his joy away lifetimes ago. He turned to look at Fantine, stared at her for a long hard time.
“Congratulations on the first day of true freedom,” Aleksei said. The car began to move. He stared at her with a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “You always look exactly like her when you are angry.”
Fantine scowled. Her was mom—a subject that she didn’t need to jump head-first into today. “Is this some kind of weird catch up visit?” She stared out the window and ran a nail over the leather interior. “I wouldn’t mind talking about any money you may have owed her.”
Aleksei chuckled. “No, not visit.” He leaned over, his face darkening. “Now that you are nice and clean, I have a job for you. One I think only you can do. One that you owe me.”
Back to TOC
Here is a preview from Envy the Dead, a Hitman with a Soul novel by Robert J. Randisi…
PROLOGUE
Philadelphia, PA
3 years ago
“Father Patrick?”
“Yes?”
“The Monsignor is ready for you now.”
Father Patrick looked up at the huge crucifix above the altar, unclasped his hands, hastily crossed himself and stood.
He followed the younger priest from the church to the rectory, and to Monsignor Genova’s office.
William opened the door, but did not go in. Instead, he stood aside and said, “I’m sorry, Father.”
“Wha—” Father Patrick started, but young William hastily walked away, head down and eyes averted.
“Father Patrick?” the Monsignor’s voice called from inside. “Are you coming in?”
“Yes, Monsignor.” He entered the room, wondering exactly what William was sorry for.
“Have a seat, Father.”
The Right Reverend Monsignor Vincent Genova sat behind his desk, his bald head gleaming in the light from the overhead fixture. He was wearing his black hassock with red buttons down the center.
“Monsignor,” Patrick said, “what did Father William mean—”
“William was supposed to tell you I was ready for you,” Monsignor Genova said, “and that was all. Did he say something more?”
“Well, no—”
“You young priests,” the older cleric said, shaking his head.
Patrick did not lump himself in with William as a “young” priest, since he was a full ten years older and William was literally a year out of seminary.
“He said nothing, Monsignor.”
“Yes, well,” Monsignor said, sitting back in his chair. He made a steeple of the fingers of both hands. Patrick always expected the man to recite that old, “this is the church, this is the steeple, open the door and see the people,” nursery rhyme when he did that. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Father.”
Patrick was afraid of this. He closed his eyes and waited.
“Bobby Abbatello committed suicide last night.”
Patrick’s eyes popped open. That was not quite the bad news he’d been expecting.
“Wha—but, how?”
“He leaped from his family’s twelfth-floor balcony.”
“Sweet Jesus!”
He expected Monsignor to take him to task for that, but the older man showed some uncharacteristic understanding of the situation.
“Are they sure—”
“It was suicide?” Monsignor asked. “Yes, the young man left a note.”
“A note?”
“Yes,” Monsignor said. “The note absolved you of any culpability, Father…of any kind.”
Patrick covered his face with his hands.
“Did you hear what I said, Father?”
“I heard you, Monsignor.”
“Well, you don’t seem at all relieved to be absolved—”
“Relieved?” Patrick snapped, cutting the older man off abruptly. “Should I be relieved that a twelve-year-old boy has taken his own life, Monsignor?”
“Well, uh, no, of course not,” Monsignor said, “but by the same token there will be no charges against you—”
“I couldn’t care less about that!” Patrick snapped. “That poor boy. My God, that poor family!”
“That poor family, Father,” Monsignor said, “was ready to string you up by your entrails.”
“They thought they had cause,” Patrick said.
“And now they know they had none,” Monsignor said, “but that doesn’t seem to have appeased them.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“According to the police,” Monsignor said, “they still want your head, Father.”
“Well…” Patrick said, but his mouth was too dry to continue.
“And since the Abbatello family is still the largest crime family in Philadelphia, the Diocese thinks it only prudent to move you…”
ONE
Sangster was sitting on the porch of his house in Algiers Point, Louisiana, ruminating on two problems.
The first was on the chessboard in front of him. He was deep in a game with his neighbor, the ex-sheriff of Jefferson Parish, Ken Burke, only Ken had to leave in the middle of it.
“It’ll give you time to consider your position,” Burke had said, “which is pretty well—ah, kind of hopeless—oh, let’s just say you’re pretty well fucked. But you figure it out. I’ll be back later.”
Burke left, and Sangster stared at the board.
But at the moment he was thinking about his other problem: should he stay in New Orleans? It had taken him a few years to establish himself here, find his house and make friends with Ken Burke. But on a couple of occasions he’d been found by people who knew him from his old life, when he made his living as a hitman. It’s what he was before he woke up one morning and discovered he suddenly had a soul.
He didn’t really want to have to move on and find a new home. But he also didn’t want to bring any more death to New Orleans. So if he stayed, he’d have to make sure nobody ever found him, again. That meant keeping low—very, very low.
He looked up from the board and saw a man coming up the walk. He wore a leather bomber jacket, a black shirt, jeans, and the collar of a Catholic priest.
”Hello, Patrick.”
“Sangster.”
Patrick mounted the porch. Sangster pointed to the chair usually inhabited by Burke. On occasion, though, since he became friends with Patrick a few months earlier, the priest would also come around for a game. Or a beer.
“Blackened Voodoo in the fridge,” Sangster said. “Get two?”
“I’ll be right back,” Patrick said, and went into the house.
When he came out, he sat in the chair across from Sangster and handed him one of the beers. Then he looked down at the board.
“Wow,” he said.
“Yeah, I know,” Sangster said. “I’m fucked.”
Patrick took a swig from his bottle.
“Got a minute?”
“I’ve got several,” Sangster said, sitting back. He welcomed the respite from thinking about his two problems. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’d like to tell you a story.”
“To what end?”
“I may be askin’ you for your help,” Father Patrick said. “And I mean, the kind of help you can offer with your special skills.”
Sangster had killed a rival hitman inside the Holy Name of St. Mary’s Catholic Church, right in front of Patrick, several months earlier, so the priest knew all about his “special skills.”
“Okay, then,” Sangster said. “Tell me a story…”
“It goes back three years, when I was at St. Paul’s in Philadelphia…”
Sangster listened intently, didn’t ask any questions, and didn’t speak until Father Patrick stopped talking.
“We need more beer,” he said. He held a hand out to Patrick, “I’ll get them.”
He went inside to the fridge, collected two more bottles of Blackened Voodoo and took them outside. Patrick knew all of Sangster’s sins, so Sangster was not prepared to judge the man in any way. Besides, if everything Patrick had told him was true, he was innocent.
“Okay,” he said, sitting back down.
“What, no questions?”
“What should I ask you, Patrick? If you had an illicit sexual liaison with a twelve-year-old boy? I believe you did not. Let’s move on.”
“Thanks,” Patrick said, “but obviously his family doesn’t feel the same.”
“Why are you worried about his family?” Sangster asked. “Mafia crime families have fallen by the wayside. It’s all Russian and Columbians now.”
“That may be the case,” Patrick said, “but Bobby’s father isn’t the type to give up so easily.”
“Are we talking about getting his family back in control in Philadelphia, or getting revenge for his son?”
“Probably both, but I’m more worried about the second.”
“You think he’s coming after you?” Sangster asked.
“I don’t think he’s forgotten about me in three years,” Patrick said. “This is my third post in that time, tryin’ to stay ahead of Abbatello and his family.”
“Excuse the question, Father,” Sangster said, “but why not change professions if you were going into hiding?”
“I can’t give up my vocation, Sangster,” Patrick said. Although Sangster used the name “Richard Stark” while living in Algiers, both Ken Burke and Father Patrick had found themselves in a position to learn his real name, although neither still didn’t know exactly what he used to do.
“Not even if it gets you killed?”
“I think I’d rather die than not be a priest anymore,” Patrick said.
Sangster stared at the man. Patrick was in his late thirties, and Sangster had the feeling that he was a latecomer to the priesthood. He wondered what Patrick had done before entering the seminary, but he had never asked.
“If you’re going to be that stubborn about it,” the ex-hitman said, “it might turn out that way.”
TWO
“Why are you telling me this?” Sangster asked.
“I was in the French Quarter yesterday. I went to Jackson Square; I wanted to see the St. Louis Cathedral.”
“You’ve been here a few months,” Sangster observed. “You haven’t seen the Cathedral yet?”
“I was staying away from it,” Patrick said. “I thought—well, I didn’t want to be recognized.”
“In Jackson Square?” Sangster said. “All you had to do was wear some silver make-up and a Day-Glo jacket you would’ve blended right in.”
“I wish I’d thought of that.”
“You’re not telling me…”
“I think I recognized somebody I know,” Patrick said, “but I don’t know if he saw me.”
“Who was it?”
“A guy named Vincent Napoli—they called him Vinny Nap.”
“Was he in the Abbatello family?”
“He was a hanger on,” Patrick said. “Always tryin’ to get in, you know?”
“What was he doing when you saw him?”
“He was watchin’ this little black boy tap dance,” Patrick said, “and sippin’ somethin’ from a cup through a straw.”
“Probably one of those stupid-flavored margarita drinks. So what are you thinking, Patrick?”
“I think Vinny might have been sent here to look for me and got distracted by the kid dancin’,” Patrick said. “Or he’s here because he’s on the run from somebody, and if he saw me he’d see it as an opportunity to get back in. Either way, I’m fucked.”
Sangster knew Patrick was upset because, in the short time they’d been friends, the only time he’d heard him use profanity was when he wasn’t wearing his clerical collar.
“What do you want me to do, Patrick?”
“I know I don’t have the right to ask you to do anything, Sangster,” Patrick said.
“Just spit it out, man.”
“I need to know if Vinny saw me,” Patrick said. “If he’s even still in New Orleans.”
“And if he did and he is?”
Patrick shrugged.
“I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it,” he said.
“So that’s all you want?”
“Yes. Oh, I see. You thought I was going to ask you to kill him?”
Sangster shrugged and stared at the chessboard.
“I know you don’t do that, anymore,” Patrick said, “just like I—” He stopped short.
Sangster looked at him.
“Look. All I need is to know what Vinny Nap knows.”
“I’m not a detective,” Sangster said.
“You know people,” Patrick said, “and you know how to get things done. You can find him.”
“How will I know what he looks like?”
Patrick reached into his pocket and brought an old newspaper clipping.
“That’s him, in the background.”
Sangster accepted the picture. Whatever the article was about, it wasn’t included, only the picture.
“This Jimmy Abbatello?” Sangster asked, indicating the man in the forefront of the photo.
“That’s him.”
Further back Vinny Napoli was looking on, probably hoping he’d get into the photo somehow. As it turned out, he did.
“Do you have more photos than just this one?” Sangster asked.
“I do,” Patrick said. “In fact, I have quite a collection of the Abbatello family.”
“Why?”
Patrick shrugged. “Just keepin’ track, I guess.”
“No better photos of this guy Vinny?”
“No,” Patrick said, “but I could go with you to the Quarter and point him out.”
“No offense, Patrick, but I think you better stay away from there for a while.” He indicated the newspaper photo, which was still in the priest’s hand. “That is, at least until we know what’s going on with this guy.”
“Then you’ll help me?”
“I’ll take a look at this guy and see what I can see,” Sangster said, “but no promises after that.”
“Okay.”
Patrick put his empty beer bottle down and stood up.
