their demise, gave them all the details of how crazy Ettore was, how I could barely stop him from killing Melody, too—but how I was equally to blame, having taken part in the planning and ultimate execution of those federal witnesses.
The Pig and his minions were equally aggravated and uninterested in my story of how a man already in his grave performed these murders. Even more so at this:
CIACCO: “Your father, Anthony Bovaro, ordered these hits?”
ME: “Who knows.”
CIACCO, frustrated: “We’re assuming you do.”
ME: “I was too young. And Ettore was a loose cannon, probably took it upon himself to kill them to impress my father. Did my dad want the McCartneys dead? I don’t know. Did he want them to keep their mouths shut? Absolutely. Do I have proof? Not a lick.”
Now at nine o’clock, as I am falsely confessing to Melody’s murder, the folks around the table are getting more and more excited, their writing suddenly fervent, whispering in each other’s ears, occasionally shooting glances toward the one-way mirror.
Everyone appears to be buying it. I have them all captured, hand them details of murder and disposal and evidence (the blood-spattered dress) that could only be offered up by someone who had lived around it all his life: how to clean up a bloody scene, how to wrap a body to keep the trunk of a car free of evidence, the places on the river where the current’s pull is the strongest. The only person who seems elsewhere is Sean; his eyes are locked on me, I can see him in my peripheral vision. He appears to be the only one in the room who might’ve detected how my retelling of Ettore killing the McCartneys bothered me more than the fictional story of how I murdered Melody.
But after an hour of offering particulars and evidence of so many sorts, it has become incontrovertible; I nearly convince myself. Ciacco could never be ticked at his early arrival after this event. He’s so enamored with the details unfolding that neither he nor his team attempt to refute a single fact. And why would they? What could be better than a mafioso too weak to handle the crime he’s committed? How could it get better than this?
Oh, but it does.
I’ve become so hungry I’m truly getting weak and distracted; acting remorseful for Melody’s murder might be more exhausting than if I’d had to face real remorse. And our proximity to Little Italy, just a few blocks away, has me all the more preoccupied.
After all the questions regarding Melody and the McCartneys have been exhausted, Ciacco immediately starts probing about my family, about what I’m prepared to surrender for a government-paid relocation and the respective protection.
“I need a notepad,” I say, “and a half hour to think. I’m gonna write down every name that will matter to you. I don’t want to forget anybody or anything.”
Ciacco sits up like a kid who’s just been told he’s having pizza for dinner instead of boiled Swiss chard. The implication is that I’ll be offering up every murder that just occurred up and down the East Coast, the full story behind my family’s attempt to preempt Justice’s full-blown takedown of the Bovaros, that I’ll be handing them the ace in the hole that my father would’ve never anticipated.
“Very well,” Ciacco says as he pushes his chair back and stands. “This is a good time to take a break.”
Before he takes a step, I say, “There’s a corner deli in Little Italy that sells fantastic pepper and egg sandwiches. I recommend a dozen of those.” Ciacco slouches, had no intention of pampering. I turn and look at Coffee Guy. “How about you? You like a nice grilled panini?” He does this smile/shrug/nod thing. “Treat yourself to one. I tell you what, I’ll write the address down for you.” I turn back to Ciacco. “Now where’s that pad?”
A big glob of wet scrambled egg falls from my sandwich onto my notepad as I scribble away. Coffee Guy groans a little as he swallows a large mouthful of his snack, a panini pressed together with roasted porchetta, provolone and Locatelli cheeses, and enough basil for a pot of marinara. His bite forces a chunk of tomato out the other side and he quickly scoops it up and shoves it in his mouth like an addict unwilling to waste a single milligram of his drug. This is the quietest the room has been since I arrived here nearly twelve hours earlier.