think she would lie about this?”
I say nothing.
“Yes, I spoke to the doctors, too. She is pregnant.”
“And you have forgiven her.”
“We do not pick our family. You know this.”
“Maybe we don’t.” My hand is too firm on the phone. I keep thinking about that security footage, Benjamin Sweeney and my woman, the way they looked at each other, like I look at Emily, a bond that can’t be broken no matter how twisted he is. “But we choose when we tell the truth and when we lie. She chose to lie.”
Mother tuts, sighs, and then, after making a noise like she’s about to say something, just hangs up the phone.
I grind my teeth as I turn to the early morning. New York flows past my window. I try not to see Hazel in the shadows between storefronts. I try not to imagine her sitting in front of her easel, paint flecking her cheeks like fresh freckles, her belly bulging under her apron with the life we made together.
I have work to do tonight.
Some jobs are tense, violent affairs. Some jobs are just like in the movies, where there’s always a life on the line, where everything goes wrong.
But the first two jobs of the night are not like that at all.
After going home and organizing everything with Nario, ten bloodthirsty Italians meet at the docks and drive away in two separate vans.
Durante and I head to two bars first. It’s easy. We toss Molotov cocktails through the windows and then watch as the Irish come spilling out, hands on their guns. There are only three at the first bar and we gun them down. The second bar is empty. We watch it burn in the rearview mirror.
Durante nods at me in the van as we head to the laundromat.
“Good?” he grunts.
“Good.” I busy myself checking my weapons.
The van comes to a slow stop a few blocks down from the laundromat. I look at the men, into their eyes one by one, not having to say anything. We all know the details of the plan: attack, burn, send a clear fucking message. “Let’s go.”
Durante and I approach from the front with our rifles at our sides, sticking to the shadows. The streets are dead at this time of night, especially this far out in the city, the only sounds coming from a few apartments. People screwing, yelling, watching TV. The laundromat is quiet and, as we expected, deserted. Durante places his bag on the floor and starts getting the cocktails ready.
I reach my hand out for one, already going for the lighter. Then, behind us, somebody coughs.
Durante and I turn.
There are three Irishmen there, standing in the shadows, one of them with a needle sticking out of his arm as he slumps against the graffiti-covered wall. The other two look at him like hungry junkies. I wonder if that’s how I look when I’m staring at Hazel. Addicted to her. Thinking of her even now, when three armed Irishmen—they’re always armed—are staring at us in the middle of the night. Colleen, I tell myself. I have to start calling her Colleen.
We all just stare at each other for a second, maybe lost in the absurdity of it, that we would randomly cross paths on this night of all nights. Then I curse and go for my gun. I made a mistake, putting it down to light the Molotov. The injected Irishman is useless, just smiling dumbly as he slumps down. But the other two spring up.
Durante made the same mistake I did, dropping the lighter and going for his gun. The Irishman pulls his gun so fast it’s like we’re in an old Western, the kind Father would sometimes watch when I was really young, with me sitting between his feet on the floor.
With a bang that seems unrealistically loud, the bullet thumps into Durante’s belly. The big man roars and, instead of falling like the shooter expects, throws himself at the Irishman.
That distraction gives me the time I need. The other man squeals and turns his pistol on me. He’s at least fifty and the squeal sounds out of place. He’s bald except for a few curls of gray hair. Snot clings to his upper lip, making him look like an overgrown infant.
I duck just before he fires. The bullet whizzes past somewhere above my head. The junkie is trying to stand, looking around half aware of what’s going on. I aim and fire, catching the gray-haired bastard in the