Lola on Fire Page 16

  Lola Bear had fucked with him, however, and only the Latzo strength had kept his heart beating. Jimmy had no recollection of the three months he’d spent in a coma, or the sixteen months on life support. He didn’t remember the trauma surgeon tweezering the 9mm round from his left kidney, or sawing a window into his skull to relieve the pressure on his swelling brain. His upper body had been slathered with silicone fluid, wrapped in gauze. Healthy skin had been removed from his legs and grafted to his face and shoulders. A machine had breathed for him. He had no memory of this.

  The nightmares arrived soon after. Oil-like, narrow, confined. Lola Bear followed him. Sometimes she was a nimble panther that materialized out of the darkness and clawed. More often she spewed flames from her small ruby mouth and engulfed the world.

  In one dream Jimmy caught the panther and slit its throat and pulled its surprised, beautiful head from its body.

  It was three and a half years before he could speak, and the first words out of his cracked larynx were, “Where is she?”

  He screamed the first time he looked in the mirror.

  * * *

  The doctors predicted a loss of motor coordination, impaired speech, and post-traumatic amnesia. Jimmy mixed gasoline with the nightmares and they fueled him. He hit the gym in 1997, four years after Lola tried to kill him. He curled three-pound wrist weights that first session—the kind of weights Beverly Hills housewives jogged with. After a month he was bench-pressing thirty pounds. After two months he was up to fifty. His arms and chest tightened with muscle.

  Reinventing his body was one thing, but Lola had destroyed his reputation, too. Don Esposito had been good to Jimmy during his long convalescence. He supplied money, care, and protection in case that bitch returned to finish the job. He also provided a temporary residence when Jimmy got out of the hospital, seeing as Jimmy’s house had been burned all the way to the fucking basement. But the Don giveth, and the Don taketh away, and he demoted Jimmy—fucking excommunicated him—when it became apparent that he was not going to die. From caporegime to civilian, just like that. Jimmy was pissed off, but he understood; Don Esposito was all about appearances, and Jimmy was weak back then, difficult to look at.

  He was also a determined son of a bitch, and hell-bent on recuperating everything he’d lost. By the spring of 1998, he was able to form complete sentences and to speak without slurring too much. Duly emboldened, he donned three thousand dollars’ worth of Italian finery and met with Hunch Calloway at the Tuscan Gourmet in Carver City—the clothes, the location, very much informing that it was business as usual.

  Jimmy made no effort to hide his scars. A specialist in New York City had recommended a prosthetic mask that moved with his face, allowing some small expression. Jimmy declined. He despised his appearance, but the scars were a part of him, a reminder to everyone that it would take more than bullets and fire to put him in the ground. He thought regularly, fondly, of the cat he’d seen behind Sicily Pizza. Nobody fucks with you. Even dogs run away. This was precisely the message he wanted to present.

  “What’s the matter, Hunch? Can’t look an old friend in the eye?”

  “Jesus Christ, Jimmy. I can, it’s just . . .”

  “Look at me, Hunch.”

  “They said you were going to die.”

  “They were wrong.”

  Hunch Calloway had eyes and ears on every street corner from Pittsburgh to Providence. In the past, Jimmy had used him to procure the names of witnesses, jury members, and criminal informants. Hunch would turn CI himself ten months later, and would be executed for this foolish betrayal by Mykyta Dević, an enforcer for the Odessa Mafia.

  “Where is she?” Jimmy asked.

  “Lola?”

  “Yes, Lola. Of course, fucking Lola.”

  “Nobody knows, Jimmy. She took off after . . . you know, after . . .”

  “After she tried to kill me?”

  “Right.”

  “And nobody knows nothing?”

  “Right.”

  “What about Dane Greene, Johnny the Grease, Lucky Manzarek—those two-faced pricks she always kicked around with?”

  “They’ve all gone, too. I heard Lucky went into witness protection, but I’m not sure.” Hunch drank his water. He couldn’t look at Jimmy for long. “Everything’s changed, Jimmy. Guys are cutting deals and cutting loose. Don Esposito is keeping his head above water—he’s got good people around him—but rumor is the sharks are circling. Not just the Feds. The fucking Ukrainians, the blacks, the spics. There’s business to be done and they all want a piece.”

  Jimmy told Hunch to keep his ear close to the ground. “Catch a sniff of that cunt, and I want to be the first to know.” He knew tracking Lola down wouldn’t be quick or easy, but that was just as well; he needed time to prepare, physically and mentally.

  Things were looking up, though. His lawyers had already secured investments with commercial real estate and land development companies in western Pennsylvania, with designs on obtaining majority ownership—by whatever means—within eighteen months. Jimmy was on his way to reestablishing ties with commerce and community: the foundation from which to expand.

  At the gym, he was bench-pressing one hundred pounds, curling twenty-five. Kid weights, but it was a start.

  “Nobody fucks with you.”

  The Italian Cat was coming back.

  * * *

  The criminal landscape changed over the next ten years. By 2008, Don Esposito had lost ground in western Pennsylvania, but remained a key player. He’d opened his doors to new enterprises, and maintained a profitable relationship with Jimmy, although the prospect of bringing him back into the family and reinstating him as caporegime was never considered. Don Esposito had his reasons for this, and had shared them with Jimmy during a golfing weekend at Mar-a-Lago.

  “You’re doing great, Jimmy. You don’t make that disgusting rattling sound when you breathe anymore, and your hands don’t tremble as much. You’ve come a long way.” Don Esposito was seventy-three but could get around Trump’s course in eighty or better. There was nothing wrong with his eye, or his judgment. “You’ve still got a long way to go, though. And times have changed. The glory days . . . fuck, they died when Little Nicky went down.”

  “I know that, Don.”

  “You don’t know shit. You’ve been out of it too long.” Don Esposito hit a fifty-yard pitch shot and landed inches from the pin. “Ow, sweet. You like that, Jimmy?”

  “A great fucking shot, Don.”

  “You need to appreciate that everything is different now. We’re dealing with multiple business interests. It’s volatile as fuck.” Unlike the late Hunch Calloway, Don Esposito had no problem looking Jimmy in the eye. “This is a time for politics, patience, and diplomacy. Your short fucking fuse could undo a lot of good work.”

  Jimmy tightened his jaw. A vein at the back of his skull ticked arythmically.

  “And let’s not forget the other thing,” Don Esposito continued. “The big thing: You were taken down—almost taken out—by a woman. One fucking woman.”

  “No ordinary woman,” Jimmy said.

  “That may be so, but you can see how a detail like this could reflect badly on me.”

  “I’m going to find that bitch, Don, and I’m going to kill her.” Jimmy said this, trying to keep his voice from shaking with rage. “In the meantime, I respect your decision.”

  “Of course you do. Now hand me my putter and shut the fuck up.”

  * * *

  He dreamed about Lola every night. She was sinuous and rotten. He hated and loved her. “I’m coming for you, Lola. I’ll catch you outside of a dream. I swear to you.” And there were not many daylight hours when she didn’t cross his mind. He might see her in the black reflection of his TV or cell phone, or in the heat haze above Donegal Steelworks. She fueled every dollar he earned, every soldier he hired. “You’ve become my ambition. My purpose. And I will give you the glorious death you deserve. I’ll catch every slow drop of blood in
my mouth, and let the birds take your skin.”

  * * *

  Jimmy finished his workout the same as always: with a line of Peruvian flake, snorted off the seat of his weight bench. He prowled the gym until his eyes grew as large as tulips.

  The door opened. Blair stepped in.

  “You can’t fucking knock?” Jimmy snapped.

  “I did knock.” Blair pointed at the ceiling. “The goddamn music’s too loud.”

  Jimmy turned down the volume and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, removing any excess coke. “What do you want?”

  “I have news.”

  Blair had surpassed his expectations regarding adeptness and cold-bloodedness. He once saw her kill a man with a nail file after he’d roofied her margarita. It happened in a moment. He, the man, was surprised to find himself bleeding so magnificently. Blair also enjoyed chess, world cinema, and Filipino knife fighting.

  “News?”

  “Actually, it can wait until you’ve come down.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “No.”

  Men underestimated her. They disarmed themselves. Blair used this to her advantage. Lola had been the same. How many of their victims had fallen because they had surrendered the first—and only—shot? Jimmy maintained that Blair wasn’t a replacement for Lola, but they were the same in so many ways.

  Blair was more ruthless, however. More patient. This patience infuriated Jimmy sometimes. He needed it, though. It was the white to his black.

  She caught up with him later, after he’d showered and his eyes were back to normal size.

  “The latest from Eddie the Smoke,” she said. “Brody and Molly have arrived in Bloomington, Indiana.”

  “Bloomington . . . ?”

  “It’s where Renée Giordano lives.”

  Jimmy pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek and searched his memory, running through countless faces and acquaintances. People he’d worked with. People he’d hurt. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

  “Renée Gior—”

  “I asked around,” Blair cut in, seeing him struggle. “Drew blanks, until Joey Cabrini told me that she’s Lola Bear’s cousin.”

  “Her cousin?” Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “And did we get to her?” Then he shrugged, as if the question required no response. “I mean, of course we got to her.”

  “You had Karl Janko rough her up back in ’97,” Blair said dryly. “You were recovering at the time. Still too frail to do it yourself.”

  “Karl fucking Janko?” Jimmy’s eyes went from squinted pencil lines to wide, bright circles. “But he was working with Lola.”

  “You didn’t know that then.”

  Jimmy blinked. He looked like he’d been slapped. “And have we got to the cousin since?”

  Blair shook her head. “You crossed her off the list.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “It’s an oversight, Jimmy, but put it out of your head. It’s history.” Blair paused, allowing Jimmy a moment to refocus. “Something we need to consider, though: Renée Giordano knows who you are, and almost certainly knows your history with Lola. The fact that you’re now hunting Brody will seem like too great a coincidence.”

  “She’ll know it’s a setup.” The glimmer in Jimmy’s eyes shifted from ire to hunger. “So is it time to do it my way?”

  “No. We hang tight.” Blair stood rock-still and held Jimmy’s gaze with impressive confidence. “If the cousin knows where Lola is, there’s every chance she’ll share that information with Brody.”

  “She won’t share a damn thing,” Jimmy snapped, “if she suspects it’s a setup.”

  “I think she will,” Blair said. “She has Brody and Molly to consider now. How else will she get them out of your crosshairs?”

  Jimmy had been opposed to this bullshit cat-and-mouse since the moment Blair had proposed it. He’d acquiesced, though—soft touch that he was—and had spent six months on the sidelines with nothing to get excited about. He was ready to go back to doing it old school, but Blair’s last two sentences had stirred something inside him. A maybe. A hopefulness. A morsel of enthusiasm no larger than a berry.

  He didn’t realize how tense he was until the muscles across his shoulders dropped a full two inches.

  “Okay,” he said. “How do you see this playing out?”

  “The only way it can play out.” Blair linked her fingers. Her nails were still streaked with the pink varnish she’d applied on the night she met Brody at Rocky T’s. “Brody is about to realize he’s been drawn into a war. He knows the cops can’t help him—not that he’d risk turning himself in. Running is not a long-term solution. Leading you to his badass mom—who brought you down once before—is his only hope of survival.”

  Jimmy considered the likelihood of this. He paced his office, tongue lodged into his cheek. His heart fluttered, but that might have been the last of the cocaine.

  “How—” he began, then that morsel of enthusiasm expanded greatly. It surged from his chest into his throat, tasting both vinegary and delightful. “How do you know the way things will play out? The way people will act?”

  “It’s human instinct, Jimmy.” Blair spoke with the same detachment she’d adopted when opening Mr. Roofie’s throat with a nail file. “In the face of an insurmountable threat, we seek security.”

  “Even so . . . you’re exceptional.”

  Blair nodded. Her patience was only outgunned by her confidence.

  Jimmy stopped pacing. He sat on the couch and dared a tiny smile.

  “I think we’re close,” Blair said. “I really do.”

  “Maybe,” Jimmy allowed.

  “After so long . . . how does it feel?”

  Jimmy closed his eyes to better isolate the feeling, but slipped instead into a post-cocaine, post-workout sleep, where many fires burned but their flames were lighter, comforting.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brody had indulged in fantasy, knowing it would lead to disappointment, but unable to help himself. After scuttling from one flea-pit motel to the next, and living with Tyrese before that, he needed to believe that some degree of comfort was forthcoming. He’d imagined fragrant, bouncy towels, a bed with a memory-foam mattress, drinking freshly ground coffee, and watching Netflix originals with newly discovered family. Wonderful, nourishing things, when really, a comfortable sofa in a warm, safe home would have sufficed.

  Renée Giordano’s home was comfortable, in a way, and welcoming. Brody got the sofa, the freshly ground coffee, but he also got more.

  He got truths, understanding, despair.

  More than he could ever have imagined.

  * * *

  The bus rides from Decatur to Bloomington consumed thirteen long hours, including a four-hour layover in Indianapolis. Brody reflected that it would have taken three and a half in a car, and thought wistfully of his little Pontiac Shitbox, wondering if it was still parked behind the cattle shed on the outskirts of Bayonet. He liked to think it had been put to good use. Maybe a family of red wolves had appropriated it, a mother on the backseat nursing her litter. Or maybe some dusty vagrant had made it his own, the contents of his shopping cart distributed across the front seats and dash. One man’s shitbox is another man’s palace.

  They arrived in Bloomington at 12:20 p.m. Molly immediately went to work. Brody went to Starbucks. He ordered a grande latte, dropped into one of the lounge-style chairs, and sipped it while flipping through the Indy Star’s sports pages. He then ordered a chai tea to go—for Molly—and by the time he’d walked to the public library downtown, she had located their second cousin.

  “Not that it matters,” she said, “but to give you a heads-up, Renée became a wheelchair user five years ago.”

  “Oh shit. What happened?”

  “Motorcycle accident.” Molly had her notes in one hand and her chai tea in the other. “Hit some wet leaves, lost control, got smoked by a Chevy Tahoe.”

  “Christ,” Brody said, and swallowed a sour
lump in his throat. “So how did you find her?”

  “She’s unlisted, of course, because nothing is easy.”

  “Right.”

  Molly sipped her tea. “I tried the usual social media suspects first. Nothing. Then I Googled ‘Renée Giordano Indianapolis Colts.’ It brought up, among other things, a newspaper article from 2014, about a charity fun run to raise money for Renée. It was organized by her friend, a woman named”—Molly consulted her notes—“Beth Livingstone. They’d worked together at the Colts. The run raised forty-six thousand dollars. Tony Dungy took part.”

  “Way to go, Tony.”

  “Now, Renée doesn’t have a Facebook page, because, as you know, nothing is easy, but Beth Livingstone does. So I checked it out.” Molly swept hair from her brow and took another sip of tea. “It’s the usual shitshow of dog photos and Bible quotes, but I scrolled back to 2014 and found photos of the charity run. Renée is in quite a few of them. Then I jumped forward a few months and found a photograph of Renée behind the wheel of her new custom disability van, paid for, in part, with money from the run.”

  “Okay,” Brody said.

  “It’s a red Honda Odyssey, a little Colts pennant in the rear window. But the most telling thing about the photo is the street sign in the background.” Molly looked at her notes again. “Terracotta Avenue. So then I jumped onto Google Maps, took a virtual stroll down Terracotta Avenue, and there’s the red Honda Odyssey with the Colts pennant in the back, parked in the driveway of number 1516.”

  “You should have been a private detective,” Brody said, looking at his sister with something close to awe. “You’re amazing.”

  Molly smiled sweetly. “Only on days that end with a y.”

  The library hummed around them, the sound of whispering, footsteps, pages turning. Children laughed in an adjacent room, full of color.

  “Terracotta Avenue is a twenty-five-minute walk from here. So . . .” Molly finished her tea and grabbed her crutches. “Do you want to go meet our second cousin?”

  Brody said, “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  The midafternoon sun broke through a webbing of cloud. It never got summer-day hot, but Brody’s shoulders slumped and Molly pushed out every breath. Her crutches dragged.