[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
dash, and the lady was almost as ugly as the dying driver. The Butcher
couldn't have cared less about the incidental murder. He felt nothing for the
stranger, and truthfully, everyone was a stranger to him, even his own family
most of the time.
"Hey, you okay back there?" he called over the rumbling, rattling noise of
the truck.
No answer, nothing from the back.
"I thought so, buddy. Don't worry about it the mail and whatnot must go
through. Rain, snow, sleet, death, whatever."
He pulled the big brown delivery truck up in front of a medium-size ranch
house in Roslyn. Then he grabbed a couple of bulky delivery boxes off the
metal shelf behind the driver's seat. He headed to the front door, walking
fast, hurrying like the Boys in Brown always do on TV, even whistling a happy
tune.
The Butcher pressed the doorbell. Waited. Still whistling. Playing the part
perfectly, he thought.
A man's voice came over the intercom. "What? Who's there? Who is it?"
"UPS. Package."
Page 118
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"Just leave it."
"Need a signature, sir."
"I said, leave it, okay. Signature's not a problem. Leave the package.
Bye-bye."
"Sorry, sir, I can't do that. Real sorry. Just doing my job here."
Then nothing more over the intercom. Thirty seconds went by, forty-five.
Might need a plan B here.
Finally, a very large man in a black Nike sweatsuit came to the door. He was
physically impressive, which made sense since he'd once played football for
the New York Jets and Miami Dolphins.
"Are you hard of hearing?" he asked. "I told you to leave the package on the
porch. Capisce?"
"No, sir, I'm Irish American actually. I just can't leave these valuable
packages without a signature."
The Butcher handed over the electronic pad, and the big ex-footballer angrily
scrawled a name with the marker.
The Butcher checked it Paul Mosconi , who just happened to be a mob soldier
married to John Maggione's little sister. This wasso against the rules, but
you know what, were there really any rules anymore? In the mob, government,
churches, the whole messed-up society?
"Nothing against you personally," said the Butcher.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
"You're dead, Paul Mosconi. And the big boss is going to be really pissed at
me. By the way, I used to be a Jets fan. Now I go for New England."
Then the Butcher stooped down and slashed the dead man's face over and over
again with his scalpel. Then he cut his throat, crisscross, right on the
Adam's apple.
A woman popped her head into the living room, dark hair still in curlers, and
she started to scream. "Pauli! Pauli, oh my God! Oh, Pauli, oh, Pauli! No, no,
no!"
The Butcher did his best little bow for the distraught widow.
"Say hello to your brother for me. He did this to you. Your big brother
killed Pauli, not me." He started to turn away, then spun around. "Hey, sorry
for your loss."
And he took another little bow.
Page 119
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Chapter 95
THIS COULD BE IT. The end of a long and winding road after Maria's murder.
Sampson and I took the Long Island Expressway to the Northern State, all the
way out to the tip of Long Island. We followed Route 27 and finally found the
village of Montauk, which until that moment was just a name I'd heard and
occasionally read about. But this was where Michael Sullivan and his family
were hiding out according to Anthony Mullino. Supposedly they had just moved
here today.
We found the house after twenty minutes of searching unfamiliar back roads.
When we arrived at the address we'd been given, two boys were tossing a
bloated-looking football on a small patch of front lawn. Blond, Irish-looking
kids. Pretty good athletes, especially the littlest guy. The presence of kids
could make this a lot more complicated for us though.
"You think he's staying out here?" Sampson asked as he turned off the engine.
We were at least a hundred yards away from the house, and pretty much out of
sight now, playing it safe.
"Mullino says he's been moving around a lot. Says he's here now for sure. The
kids are the right age. There's an older boy too, Michael Jr."
I squinted to see better. "Car in the driveway has Maryland plates."
"Probably not a coincidence there. Sullivan was supposed to be living
somewhere in Maryland before he and his family made their latest run. Makes
sense that he was close to DC. Explains the rapes there. The pieces are
starting to fall together."
"His kids haven't seen us yet. Hopefully Sullivan hasn't, either. Let's keep
it that way, John."
We moved, and Sampson parked two streets away; then we got shotguns and
pistols out of the trunk. We hiked into the woods behind a row of modest
homes, though still with a view of the ocean. The place where the Sullivans
were staying was dark inside, and we hadn't spotted anybody else so far.
No Caitlin Sullivan, no Michael Sullivan, or if they were in the house, they
were staying back from the windows. That made sense. Plus, I knew that
Sullivan was a good shot with a rifle.
I sat down with my back against a tree, huddled against the cold with a gun
in my lap. I started thinking through the problem of taking down Sullivan
without harming his family.
For one thing, could it be done? After a while, I began to think about Maria
again. Was I finally close to clearing her murder? I didn't know for sure, but
it felt like it. Or was that just wishful thinking?
I took out my wallet and slid an old picture from a plastic sleeve. I still
missed her every day. Maria would always be thirty years old in my mind,
wouldn't she? Such a waste of a life.
But now she'd brought me here, hadn't she? Why else would Sampson and I have
come alone to get the Butcher?
Because we didn't want anybody to know what we were going to do with him.
Page 120
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Chapter 96
THE BUTCHER WAS SEEING RED, and that usually wasn't good for the world's
population numbers. In fact, he was getting more pissed off by the minute.
Make that by the second. Damn it, he hated John Maggione.
Distractions helped some. The old neighborhood wasn't much like Sullivan
remembered it. He hadn't liked it then, and he cared for it even less now.
Feeling a little bit of deja vu, he followed Avenue P, then took a left onto
Bay Parkway.
As far as he knew, this general area was still the main shopping hub of
Bensonhurst. Block after block of redbrick buildings, with stores on the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl akte20.pev.pl
dash, and the lady was almost as ugly as the dying driver. The Butcher
couldn't have cared less about the incidental murder. He felt nothing for the
stranger, and truthfully, everyone was a stranger to him, even his own family
most of the time.
"Hey, you okay back there?" he called over the rumbling, rattling noise of
the truck.
No answer, nothing from the back.
"I thought so, buddy. Don't worry about it the mail and whatnot must go
through. Rain, snow, sleet, death, whatever."
He pulled the big brown delivery truck up in front of a medium-size ranch
house in Roslyn. Then he grabbed a couple of bulky delivery boxes off the
metal shelf behind the driver's seat. He headed to the front door, walking
fast, hurrying like the Boys in Brown always do on TV, even whistling a happy
tune.
The Butcher pressed the doorbell. Waited. Still whistling. Playing the part
perfectly, he thought.
A man's voice came over the intercom. "What? Who's there? Who is it?"
"UPS. Package."
Page 118
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"Just leave it."
"Need a signature, sir."
"I said, leave it, okay. Signature's not a problem. Leave the package.
Bye-bye."
"Sorry, sir, I can't do that. Real sorry. Just doing my job here."
Then nothing more over the intercom. Thirty seconds went by, forty-five.
Might need a plan B here.
Finally, a very large man in a black Nike sweatsuit came to the door. He was
physically impressive, which made sense since he'd once played football for
the New York Jets and Miami Dolphins.
"Are you hard of hearing?" he asked. "I told you to leave the package on the
porch. Capisce?"
"No, sir, I'm Irish American actually. I just can't leave these valuable
packages without a signature."
The Butcher handed over the electronic pad, and the big ex-footballer angrily
scrawled a name with the marker.
The Butcher checked it Paul Mosconi , who just happened to be a mob soldier
married to John Maggione's little sister. This wasso against the rules, but
you know what, were there really any rules anymore? In the mob, government,
churches, the whole messed-up society?
"Nothing against you personally," said the Butcher.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
"You're dead, Paul Mosconi. And the big boss is going to be really pissed at
me. By the way, I used to be a Jets fan. Now I go for New England."
Then the Butcher stooped down and slashed the dead man's face over and over
again with his scalpel. Then he cut his throat, crisscross, right on the
Adam's apple.
A woman popped her head into the living room, dark hair still in curlers, and
she started to scream. "Pauli! Pauli, oh my God! Oh, Pauli, oh, Pauli! No, no,
no!"
The Butcher did his best little bow for the distraught widow.
"Say hello to your brother for me. He did this to you. Your big brother
killed Pauli, not me." He started to turn away, then spun around. "Hey, sorry
for your loss."
And he took another little bow.
Page 119
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Chapter 95
THIS COULD BE IT. The end of a long and winding road after Maria's murder.
Sampson and I took the Long Island Expressway to the Northern State, all the
way out to the tip of Long Island. We followed Route 27 and finally found the
village of Montauk, which until that moment was just a name I'd heard and
occasionally read about. But this was where Michael Sullivan and his family
were hiding out according to Anthony Mullino. Supposedly they had just moved
here today.
We found the house after twenty minutes of searching unfamiliar back roads.
When we arrived at the address we'd been given, two boys were tossing a
bloated-looking football on a small patch of front lawn. Blond, Irish-looking
kids. Pretty good athletes, especially the littlest guy. The presence of kids
could make this a lot more complicated for us though.
"You think he's staying out here?" Sampson asked as he turned off the engine.
We were at least a hundred yards away from the house, and pretty much out of
sight now, playing it safe.
"Mullino says he's been moving around a lot. Says he's here now for sure. The
kids are the right age. There's an older boy too, Michael Jr."
I squinted to see better. "Car in the driveway has Maryland plates."
"Probably not a coincidence there. Sullivan was supposed to be living
somewhere in Maryland before he and his family made their latest run. Makes
sense that he was close to DC. Explains the rapes there. The pieces are
starting to fall together."
"His kids haven't seen us yet. Hopefully Sullivan hasn't, either. Let's keep
it that way, John."
We moved, and Sampson parked two streets away; then we got shotguns and
pistols out of the trunk. We hiked into the woods behind a row of modest
homes, though still with a view of the ocean. The place where the Sullivans
were staying was dark inside, and we hadn't spotted anybody else so far.
No Caitlin Sullivan, no Michael Sullivan, or if they were in the house, they
were staying back from the windows. That made sense. Plus, I knew that
Sullivan was a good shot with a rifle.
I sat down with my back against a tree, huddled against the cold with a gun
in my lap. I started thinking through the problem of taking down Sullivan
without harming his family.
For one thing, could it be done? After a while, I began to think about Maria
again. Was I finally close to clearing her murder? I didn't know for sure, but
it felt like it. Or was that just wishful thinking?
I took out my wallet and slid an old picture from a plastic sleeve. I still
missed her every day. Maria would always be thirty years old in my mind,
wouldn't she? Such a waste of a life.
But now she'd brought me here, hadn't she? Why else would Sampson and I have
come alone to get the Butcher?
Because we didn't want anybody to know what we were going to do with him.
Page 120
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Chapter 96
THE BUTCHER WAS SEEING RED, and that usually wasn't good for the world's
population numbers. In fact, he was getting more pissed off by the minute.
Make that by the second. Damn it, he hated John Maggione.
Distractions helped some. The old neighborhood wasn't much like Sullivan
remembered it. He hadn't liked it then, and he cared for it even less now.
Feeling a little bit of deja vu, he followed Avenue P, then took a left onto
Bay Parkway.
As far as he knew, this general area was still the main shopping hub of
Bensonhurst. Block after block of redbrick buildings, with stores on the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]