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  She stomped to the other side of the house. Jay crept out carefully, peering out the door. The head of the tomahawk hooked the toilet lid, and it slammed with a hollow thunk.

  “Dammit!” She doubled back.

  Jay padded into the kitchen and cellar steps, pulling the door shut. She slammed the lid up again and headed back to the parlor. Jay took a deep breath and leaned against the damp concrete wall.

  He used an upended bucket as a stool to squeeze out the cellar window. The casement fell in with a crash as he scrabbled out onto the grass.

  “Hello?” echoed from the cellar.

  Jay ran rabbit over the fence without looking back.

  He left the tomahawk on the passenger seat as the Hammerhead choogled back to Tony’s. He gripped its smooth wooden handle like he was squeezing Papa Andre’s hand.

  He would find them. But he wanted answers first.

  Tony had fired him like a hate-seeking missile. Jay homed in on the big man’s office and mechanics skipped out of his way. Tony slouched over his desk staring at an invitation card with a chocolate frosted donut stuck in his mouth.

  Jay slammed the door behind him. Yellow invoices twirled off the desktop.

  Tony coughed out the donut, choked, and reached for his coffee. “Don’t you fucking knock?”

  Jay gripped a handful of Tony’s work shirt and sat on the edge of the desk. Tony wheezed donut crumbs and squirmed in his chair. His donut hit the floor and rolled behind a filing cabinet.

  “Saw Ramona,” Jay said. “Imagine my surprise, she’s married to someone we know. You didn’t think to tell me?”

  “I’m sorry,” Tony coughed. Jay leaned in as he tried to muscle out of his grip. “Gimme some coffee. Please.”

  Jay pushed the chair away and plucked a chocolate frosted from the box of Entenmann’s donuts. It was ice cold.

  Tony coughed into his sleeve and gulped the coffee, winced at the burn, and coughed some more.

  Jay bit through the donut’s chocolate shell. “That was a real jag-off move.”

  “I said I’m sorry,” Tony said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “You want coffee? No, you don’t like my coffee.”

  “Talk, Tony.” Jay crunched his donut. “Talk real good.”

  “I wanted you to punch Matt’s face in,” Tony said. “Like he deserves.” He grinned and reached for another donut.

  Jay slapped his hand. “Thought you were on a diet.”

  Tony glared.

  “You trying to get me back in prison for assault?”

  “Ramona won’t let him press charges on you. I want him to get what’s his, like you said.”

  “I don’t like being used. Next time clue me in.”

  Tony sighed and sank into his chair. “I’m taking a damn donut.” He took one from the box and bit a quarter off in one bite, before it could be snatched away. “They’re so good straight from the fridge,” he said, chewing beneath Jay withering glare. “When you were gone, Ramona was all upset. I wanted to help. You know, to like watch over her for you.”

  “Right.”

  “But she was too good for us. Then in college, I blew up like a whale,” Tony said, and took another bite. “The dorms were stocked with Doritos and Mountain Dew. We stayed up all night coding and playing Quake. When Uncle Sal died, rest his soul, Ma had a fit at his funeral. Said I was gonna break her heart and die before she did. She stopped cooking for me. You believe that? An Italian mother, not feeding her only son.” He threw his hands up, and sent crumbs flying.

  “So I lost the weight. No pasta, no bread. It was murder,” Tony said. “I hit Gold’s gym, beefed up, and now I’m looking good. The skanks who never had time for me start smiling at me. I’m thinking, if I ever had a shot, it’ll be now. So I ask around. Then I hear Ramona’s with the guy who squeezed me out right before he made millions.”

  “And helped put your buddy in jail.”

  “Yeah, that too.” Tony sipped his coffee, wrinkled his nose, and tossed the half-empty cup into the trash. “It hurt, you know?”

  Jay rubbed chocolate off his fingers. “My heart bleeds. Ramona described things differently. Said you left Matt’s firm in a huff, when she starting seeing him.”

  “Yeah, well maybe. Why should he get her? He already has everything.” Tony held a stack of invoices for Challenger parts. “You like pulling the blood brother act when it suits you. I think you can spare a little sympathy.”

  “Another old friend of mine said, ‘sympathy’s in the dictionary between shit and syphilis.’ Don’t ever set me up like that. You try and use my temper, you’ll find it cuts both ways.”

  “Okay. Said I was sorry.”

  Jay took the invitation Tony had been looking at. “What’s this?”

  “The big reunion.”

  Jay read the card. A silhouette of a boy in a tux and a girl in a prom dress, with Save the Date! 25 years, Class of ’89! in garish neon. The date to be saved was a few weeks away.

  “You going?”

  “Fuck no.”

  The reunion was at the Umbria Americana Pavilion, with an ’80s motif and cover band. Wear a swimsuit under your dress or tux! The pool is open!

  Jay tossed the card on the desk. “Leo Zee found me at my old house. He said some things I need to check out. Whatever happened to his partner?”

  “Officer Stanley? He retired. Heard he got divorced. He was a crossing guard awhile, but you know.” He wiggled an imaginary bottle by his lips.

  “You got any spare toggle switches, and a couple hydraulic cylinders, like for a hatchback?”

  “Sure,” Tony said, and plucked another donut from the package. “Right next to the money tree. Take all you want.”

  Chapter 10

  The Hammerhead rolled onto the grass beneath the power lines a hair above idle, the double-baffled mufflers puffing a muted bass note. Headlights out, Jay flipped the new toggle he’d installed that cut the brake lamps and interior dome light. He killed the engine and popped another switch. The rear cushions rose on silent hydraulic cylinders, revealing a hidden compartment.

  Andre’s tomahawk sat inside atop a duffel bag full of kit. A big screwdriver from Tony’s shop, a slim jim for car doors, duct tape, WD-40, a pack of nitrile gloves and another of hairnets, a cheap pair of flip-flops.

  He sat in the dark with the door open while he taped a pair of flip flops over the soles of his work boots to mask the tread, then wrapped a pair of plastic shopping bags over them and tied them around his ankles. Pulled on a hairnet, put a trucker cap over it. Slid Andre’s tomahawk handle in the back of his pants.

  He disappeared into the suburban jungle behind the rows of houses, following a jogging path until he came upon the backyard of retired police officer Stanley Carnahan. A daylight creep of the house had shown no sign of a dog or security system, only the faded Pontiac in the driveway and multiple entrances shielded from view. Jay slipped around front, hidden by a weary mimosa tree. A television throbbed inside, lights splashing over closed curtains.

  He raised the screwdriver to pry the door open, paused, and tried the doorknob first. Okie always said never do more work than you have to.

  The knob turned and the door pushed in.

  Okie also said that cops had the worst security.

  Jay eased the door open. He breathed his four fours before padding into the kitchen. The house was one of Strick’s cookie cutter jobs, a mirror of Jay’s own. He eased toward the doorway, pausing as the television flickered over a figure curled on the couch like a baby.

  Stanley Carnahan. A beefy, red-faced Irishman, with a quick smile, good with kids. The good cop to Leo’s iceman. The one who said it would all be over when Jay’s younger self signed the confession, that he could go home with his folks.

  Jay had never seen them again.

  He slow-stepped onto the dull brown carpet and peered at the man. A spray of broken blood vessels across his face, the nose cratered from hard drinking. A sour smell caught in the back of Jay’s throat. The
man looked to have his thumb in his mouth.

  He felt a wave of embarrassment for the man. On closer inspection, the thumb was nickel plated steel. The twin of Leo’s revolver. The muzzle between his lips.

  Stanley’s eyes popped open. He pointed the revolver at Jay and cracked the hammer back.

  Jay stood still as stone.

  “Boy, did you pick the wrong house,” Stanley said, licking dry lips. Squinted at Jay’s hairnet. “Sit your ass in the love seat, Paco.”

  Jay did as he was told.

  Stanley winced as he hunched on the edge of the couch. The once-handsome man had melted into a haggard golem of his former self, but the gun never wavered.

  “You a junkie?” He studied Jay’s silent face, and his slick lower lip quivered. “Oh, God. It’s you.”

  Jay flexed his thighs and triceps. No way he could launch out of the mushy old cushions with any speed.

  “Leo told me you were getting out,” Stanley said. “Said he’d take care of it. He likes to take care of things. Not gonna put the blame on him, though. I went along, and you’re right to be here. Turned you into a damn predator in there, didn’t they? You came for the weakest first.”

  Jay slouched a notch, head lowered. A practiced motion that had inspired pity in many soft hacks and the occasional social worker. He drew his gaze back to scan the room for makeshift weapons. Spotted a half-empty bottle of Tullamore Dew standing sentry on the end table.

  “You can talk, kid.” Stanley winced. “Guess you’re no kid anymore. Say something.”

  “Why,” Jay said.

  “Come on. You said you did it.” A dry laugh. “Even if you had help. A poor kid from out of town? None of them were gonna pay when you were there to burn.”

  Jay chewed his lip.

  “You did what we should have. Bello’s kid was a damn monster, or close enough. We should have put him away. Or put him down. They gave the little bastard a memorial, did you see that? Across from the police station. Had to see that every damn day.” Stanley thrust out his chin. “Leo, he liked riding high, being the town hero. And Brendan had been through plenty already. A trial…he’d been through enough.”

  His eyes went rheumy.

  “You ever been a hero? I guess not. It feels real good.” He rested his elbow on his knee, held the gun steady over the opposite wrist. “That poor dumb ghetto kid thought we were gonna arrest him. Held up his hands like it was some teevee show.”

  The story went that the carjacker had a gun. Kids pointed out the gouge in the chestnut tree where his shot went wild.

  “Leo shot first. That’s how I remember it, but your mind does that kind of thing to help you live with it. We emptied into him. We’d run a mile through the trees. Panting. Firing after that, it was like…coming.”

  He ran his free hand through his hair.

  “Captain Rasp shows up, says ‘where’s the weapon.’ Leo said it must be in the water. Cap says ‘keep looking,’ and drove away. We kicked some leaves around, started to shit our pants. Then the captain comes back. Lo and behold, they bagged the weapon.”

  He picked at the revolver’s hammer with his thumbnail. “He paid my wife a visit in the hospital that night, the good captain. She wasn’t my wife yet. She isn’t now, either.” His lip curled with a twinge of pain. “Rasp made sure she was on the same page. That the boy had a gun.

  “It felt good, that’s the worst part. Like it was right, pulling that trigger,” he said. “How dare he come to our town. Now anytime I feel good I see that kid’s face coming apart as he slides into the water. But not his eyes. Not his eyes. They’re always there.”

  Stanley licked his lips. “You ever see the Bello kid?”

  “All the time,” Jay lied. He eased his hand along the arm of the couch, toward the bottle. No, Jay didn’t see Joey Bello. He saw himself. Hacking apart the monster he was terrified he might become.

  “So, who had it worse. Him or you?”

  Jay tilted his head.

  Stanley raised the revolver a hair. “Talk.”

  “Reckon he did,” Jay said. “I’m still kicking.”

  “For now,” Stanley said, with a huff of abbreviated laughter. “So how bad was it? My brother’s a CO in Riker’s. He says they’re a bunch of animals in there.”

  Some were, but so were some of the hacks. “You watch your step, you get along,” Jay said. “Can’t show weakness. But that’s the same anywhere.”

  “You said it,” Stanley said. “Look at me. Did my twenty without another promotion. All because I wouldn’t kiss Mayor Bello’s ass. Think that’ll cover my tab with Saint Peter?”

  Stanley Carnahan had signed the confession as witness, but didn’t testify at Jay’s trial like Leo had. Jay stretched as he breathed. Watching the black third eye of the gun barrel.

  “No, didn’t think you would.” Stanley grimaced and leveled his aim on Jay’s heart. “I should pull this trigger, shouldn’t I? You’re not gonna let this go. You’re here to give us what we deserve.”

  “I came to talk,” Jay said. “Your door was open.”

  “I saw your face,” Stanley laughed. “If you wanted to talk, you should’ve brought a six pack. No, you had other plans.”

  “I’m looking for my family,” Jay said. “Thought you’d know something.”

  Stanley grinned. “If I knew a damn thing we wouldn’t be talking here. I’d have moved to Carolina, like she wanted.” He gestured at a picture of him and a curly-haired woman on the table. “No, you didn’t come to talk. You came because we let Joey use that school like his own private torture chamber. I mean, when we shot that stupid joyriding kid, Leo said that he would’ve killed somebody eventually. That all we did was nip the bad in the bud. But that’s not for us to do.” Stanley jabbed with the revolver. “That’s for God to do. Right?”

  “My mama said everyone should get what they got coming to them in this world,” Jay said. “Just in case they’re good at lawyering come judgment day.”

  “Trust me, we get what we have coming. A lot of cops eat their guns.” Stanley licked at his teeth, looking at the photo of him and his former wife. “Playing God leaves a bad taste in your mouth.” He turned to Jay, his face gone blank. A killing face.

  “Before you do whatever you have to do,” Jay said, “Tell me what happened to my folks.”

  “They weren’t your folks,” Stanley laughed, flicked his eyes down. “They were using you—”

  Jay leaped with a roar and the couch rocked with the impact. Stanley shuddered beneath the assault. They traded grunts and screams as Jay wrenched the revolver inch by inch until he jammed the barrel into Stanley’s right eye socket.

  A groan bubbled past Stanley’s lips as Jay curled his thumb over his trigger finger. Jay stared with two nailhead eyes.

  “You go to hell,” Jay said.

  The report slapped him in both ears. Hot splatter blew back his hair. Stanley’s body clenched and his head bobbed like a baby’s, thick red pabulum pulsing out the mouth. His skull out of shape like a hardboiled egg that had rolled off the countertop.

  Jay exhaled slow. Wiped his face on his sleeve, and washed away the tang of blood and gunsmoke with a slug of whiskey. His ears rang like the hearing tests they used to give at school. He wiped off the bottle on his shirt and left Carnahan twitching as the room filled with the earthy stink of his bowels letting go.

  PART TWO

  PROBLEM CHILD

  Chapter 11

  After the pool closed, Jay and Tony would fish for bullhead catfish in the creeks or play Atari with the twins, killing pixelated purple spiders until their mothers shooed them outside to ride their bikes. They met at the Lyndhurst bridge to watch Latino men fish for eels and carp in the brown slick of the Passaic. No one caught anything, so they rode through the jungle of the Avionics grounds until they came to the gates of the town dump.

  Humps of mulched leaves rolled from one end of the fenced lot to the other. They rode through the maze, jumping their bikes over the hilloc
ks. Battered old appliances stood in a row, stripped of parts. At the labyrinth’s end was a sheltered spot overlooking the treetops of a valley below. A small campground littered with teenage artifacts. Crunched beer cans, condom wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty packs of e-z widers.

  Tony and Billy toed at the detritus with a sort of reverence. Brendan wrinkled his nose. Jay was about to ask if they wanted to ride to the arcade when they heard voices from around the next curve.

  “I bet some girl’s getting nailed,” Billy whispered. Tony nodded, and they rolled their bikes forward. Jay and Brendan followed.

  A large woman’s bra, yellowed with sweat, had been strung in the limbs of a sumac tree like a double-barreled slingshot. A pack of seventh-grade boys stood around the tree, passing around a pair of frilled women’s panties.

  A freckle-faced boy with broad shoulders shuffled from foot to foot, holding the pink triangle of fabric to the sun, stretching the elastic. Peering through the stain which blossomed across its crotch. After a moment’s study he pressed the garment over his nose and mouth and breathed in deep as if chloroforming himself.

  Their bikes skidded to a stop, sneakers dragging in the dirt. “That’s Joey Bello,” Brendan whispered, hunching behind his brother. Jay had seem him in school, ice blue eyes with flat black river stones for pupils, knobby little fingers with nails chewed short, always wrapped with Band-Aids from where he’d had his warts frozen off.

  “That’s good pussy,” Joey Bello said with a knowing nod. He held out the panties to skinny Greg Kuhn, who wore his baseball cap pulled down low.

  “Whatchu looking at, faggots,” Bobby Algieri said. Sluggo crew cut, cheeks pocked with early acne. “Sixth graders. Think you’re big shit. When middle school starts, you ain’t nothing.” The boys huddled and grinned, a mass of sneers beefed up by an extra year of growth.

  “You little virgins ever smell pussy?” Bello held out the panties. “Buck for a sniff.”

  “You’re sniffing on dirty drawers?” Jay said, and wrinkled his nose.