Peaches said . . . nothing. Because he was already living in the future. Lester Aquafreddo and his five friends were dead. He’d need to get rid of their bodies. And then he’d see where they ended up. He might just travel with their bodies himself. Get some answers about how the fuck Ronnie Cupertine’s wife and children ended up in Portland when they should have been in the ground.
His nephew was becoming a liability. Chasing after those Gambino fucks like a puppy dog. He was probably eating their shit straight from their asses.
In the meantime, he now had a wonderful new partnership to celebrate with Lori, who he thought he might have an off chance of sleeping with if he played things just right. Maybe give her a baby, too, and then, of course, he’d need to take care of her husband, after saving his ass. That was a future he couldn’t see clearly yet, but the outlines looked promising.
“Tell me, Lori,” he said, “your beautiful cheekbones. All yours, or did you have some work?”
Lori blushed. “I guess you could say I got a new paint job.”
“Who did the work? Someone local?”
“One of our own,” she said. “Stayed local and opened up a small office. Very discreet.”
“I see,” Peaches said.
Lonzo tapped him on the shoulder, handed him his cell phone. “Bossman,” he said, “you need to take this. Big Kirk got a problem.”
TEN
TUESDAY, APRIL 16, 2002
LAS VEGAS, NV
BEST BUY DROPPED OFF THE COMPUTER RABBI DAVID COHEN ORDERED JUST before five on Tuesday night, David paying extra for them to hook it up inside his three-car garage, in the wedge of space in front of a sailboat, the one used in the murder of his predecessor, Rabbi Gottlieb. David had turned the wedge—intended to be golf cart parking inside the three-car garage—into a working space away from the cameras inside the house, Bennie not smart enough to install cameras in the garage, or maybe he didn’t think anyone would intentionally sit inside the sweatbox. The heat wave made the garage unbearable during the day, but at night, when the sun fell behind the Red Rocks, it cooled down to mildly uncomfortable.
Poor Rabbi Gottlieb. David heard nothing but hagiography since he’d come to Temple Beth Israel, but living in his house taught David a few things about the good rabbi’s secrets. There was the porn stash behind the dresser and the monthly deliveries of Omaha Steaks, which always included at least one precooked pork chop dinner, neither meal exactly kosher. Plus the man was a bit of a hoarder. When David was gone, he’d figure out a way to get word to the Gottlieb family. They should know what really happened to their son. It was a shanda that they believed their son had been drunk when he drowned.
By 7 p.m., David built, essentially, a false wall around his new computer room, stacking coolers, his portable lathe, moving boxes, stacks of towels, and green garbage bags filled with Rabbi Gottlieb’s old paperbacks to the roof, leaving a small opening in the rear. He then locked the house, turned on all the alarms, made sure his guns were secure—he had a hidden place in every room for a firearm; he could be anywhere when the Marshals showed up—and fired up the laptop to do what he’d been doing every night that week: seeking out his wife on the internet.
Tonight, he was reading the stories about the explosion that turned his house into nothing but a charred foundation, how the fire could be seen from miles away, how it ended up destroying gas and plumbing lines down the entire block, the explosion’s power so significant the local fire department originally thought a plane crashed into the street. The Tribune ran photos that included MapQuest’s satellite view compared to the denuded new reality. It was shocking to see, but then David realized something far more interesting, which is that MapQuest had satellite photos going back over the last two years, once every few months.
In the first photos, all he could see was the roof and the general outline of the house, though he could still make out bits of himself, too: the towering blue ash tree in the front yard, where he hung a tire swing for William; the brick driveway, Jennifer’s dream, which he laid over the course of a long weekend; the backyard built-in grill, which he’d bought after his first substantial hit—Gil Lomontoli, a city councilman snitching to a cop on the take, the dumbfuck—and which he loved. But it was the third photo from space he couldn’t stop staring at.
There was a figure standing on the driveway. Even from outer space, he could recognize his wife. The closer he zoomed in, the blurrier everything got, but still he could see she had her hand to her mouth, another on her hip, and she was staring down the block.
He pulled back on the photo, and there, on the corner, by the Sandersons’ house, was William, on a bike, a blur of a boy. On either side of the street is what must have kept Jennifer’s equal attention: a police cruiser and a black Escalade, neither of which made sense, unless they were both waiting for Sal Cupertine to come home.
How he would like to walk down the middle of that block, gun in hand. Dare the cops or the feds to say one word to him.
Or anyone.
If he came back to Chicago, he’d be the king of the streets.
But . . . no.
He knew better. What was the point of revenge now? Everyone who mattered was dead or dying. What was he going to do? Peel Lemonhead’s cap back? For what? Taking orders like a dumbfuck? Same with Sugar Lopiparno, who the papers said was running half of Chicago, what with Ronnie Cupertine rarely being seen these days . . .
To be the king of his own backyard would be enough.
He clicked through the photos again, loaded the latest satellite photo, checked the date: March 1, 2002. Six weeks ago. No realtor sign. No new construction, either. No weeds. Just . . . land. Someone was taking care of it. That meant they were being paid. He supposed the FBI was used to this sort of thing . . . but why hadn’t they sold it yet?
Before David could give it much thought, the home phone rang. He looked at the clock. It was nearly 11 p.m. Had he really been sitting there staring at photos of his wife and child from outer space all night long? He got into the kitchen just as the eighth ring was echoing throughout the house.
“Rabbi Cohen. Oh, thank god.” It was Jerry Ford, the owner of LifeCore, the Temple and the mortuary’s business partner in their limbs, skin, and body-parts business, legal and otherwise. He was breathless. “I didn’t know if you were back yet. I’ve got a problem.” David clicked on his CCTV. Jerry Ford was parked on the other side of his front gate, in his butter-yellow Mercedes. He zoomed in. Was that . . . blood on his sweat suit?
“I’m here,” David said. “I can see you on my camera. I feel like you’ve encountered a problem best left to Mr. Savone.”
“He’ll kill me.”
David should have hung up, walked outside with his gun, and shot Jerry Ford in the face, tossed him in the freezer, stolen his car, and driven as fast and as far as he could.
But for fuck’s sake, he’d been the guy on the other end of this same phone call and it upended his life. Maybe he was the prophet Ezekiel. Maybe all of this was foretold. Maybe he lived this life one million times to get to this existential conundrum. A man covered in blood shows up at your home and asks for help. What do you do?
“Mr. Ford,” David said, thinking of all the possible people, agencies, and crime bureaus who might be listening in, “why don’t you come inside. Have a cup of tea. We’ll talk through whatever it is you’re feeling.”
“I don’t think you want me in your house in my condition.”
“It’s fine,” David said. He zoomed in as close as possible. Was he . . . crying? Motherfucker. “Please, come in.”
David hung up.
He stuffed a nine in his waistband, grabbed a towel, walked outside, sprayed his hose on the towel, hit a button on his key fob, opened the gate. Let Jerry pull up his driveway. Put a hand up to stop him from driving any further. David slid into the Mercedes. Jerry was covered in blood. The soles of his shoes to his forehead. He looked like he been slaughtering cows all day. David took the nine from his waistband, since it was uncomfortable to sit that way, set it on his lap. Handed him the towel.
Jerry wiped his face, his hands, his neck. It didn’t look like Jerry had murdered someone. Rather, it looked like he’d gone for a swim in a pool of dead bodies. He also smelled like a combination of decomposition—like if lamb chops were left in the sun and a dog shit iodine on them—chlorine, and dried blood. A wave of nausea passed over David. The blood was everywhere, so David said, “Drive. We can’t stay here. You never know who is watching.”
“Which way?”
“Are we going to the police station to turn you in?”
