The Inside Ring. Mike Lawson

DeMarco said.

      Donnelly smiled. His teeth were small and sharp. ‘Your job requires a security clearance, smart ass. Guess what agency does the background checks to provide that clearance? Now beat it.’

      DeMarco stepped from the limo and closed the door quietly. As he watched the taillights of the limo disappear up the block, he stood quietly in the center of the street, feeling the sweat go cold on his arms and legs.

      So Donnelly knew about his father.

       12

      A woman answered Emma’s phone; she sounded like Emma, the same low voice, the same inflections, but the speaker wasn’t Emma. The woman, whoever she was, passed the phone to Emma who said, ‘If you’re a telemarketer, I’m going to hunt you down, burn your house, and kill your dog.’ She sounded serious.

      ‘It’s Joe, Emma. And wouldn’t it be easier to get on one of those do-not-call lists?’

      ‘Those lists are unconstitutional.’

      ‘And house burning and dog killing aren’t?’

      ‘Why are you calling at such an ungodly hour?’

      ‘Emma, it’s only nine.’

      ‘Oh. So what do you want?’

      ‘Patrick Donnelly just came to my house and threatened me. The other day, when we listened to your friend, the cello player, you seemed to know something about him. I’d like to know what you know.’

      ‘He came to your house?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      Emma hesitated then said, ‘All right. Come on over.’

      Her voice sounded strange. She sounded … worried. DeMarco had rarely known Emma to be worried about anything.

      Emma answered her door wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a blue smock smeared with paint. DeMarco didn’t know she painted; just one more thing about her he’d discovered accidentally. She took DeMarco into a living room that could have made the cover of House Beautiful and poured them whiskeys. She slugged hers down and immediately poured herself another.

      Before DeMarco could say anything a young woman entered the living room. He was immediately struck by her resemblance to Emma. She was tall like Emma and had Emma’s nose and Emma’s chin, but her hair was dark and her eyes were brown. The young woman looked over at DeMarco, her expression wary.

      ‘Julie, this is Joe DeMarco. A friend of mine.’

      No smart-ass cracks tonight, like DeMarco being a bagman. Emma was definitely not herself.

      The young woman nodded at Joe then turned back toward Emma.

      ‘I’m tired. Jet lag, I guess. I’m going to hit the sack,’ Julie said.

      I’m tired, Mom. That’s what it sounded like to DeMarco. He was sure the young woman was Emma’s daughter.

      ‘That’s a good idea, hon,’ Emma said. ‘We’ll sort this out in the morning.’

      And Emma, DeMarco thought, sounded absolutely, unbelievably maternal. A maternal Emma seemed stranger to DeMarco than snakes cuddling.

      After Julie left the room, DeMarco said, ‘Is everything okay, Emma?’

      Emma shook her head, dismissing DeMarco’s question.

      ‘Tell me what Donnelly said to you,’ she said.

      DeMarco relayed the gist of his one-sided conversation with Donnelly.

      ‘I knew about your father,’ Emma said.

      DeMarco nodded, not the least surprised. ‘I know this is going to sound strange,’ he said, ‘but he wasn’t a bad guy.’

      Emma didn’t say anything but her eyes widened momentarily in amazement.

      ‘Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: he was a killer. How could he not have been a bad guy. But from my perspective, as his son, he was okay. He was a quiet man, not some Mafia big mouth always trying to prove how tough he was. And when my dad wasn’t, uh, working, we had dinner together like other families and most of the conversation centered around me, his only child. What I was doing in school, how I was doing at sports, why my grades weren’t better. That sorta thing. He was good to my mom and he was good to me. He and I used to go see the Yankees play almost every Saturday they were in town, and Sundays he always made breakfast – pancakes and sausage.’

      DeMarco was silent a moment, remembering his father, how he sat in the bleachers with him at Yankee Stadium, an old flat cap on his head, an unlit cigar in his mouth, not cheering much, mostly just watching DeMarco enjoy himself. And he remembered his mother when they got home from the games and how she’d rail at his dad for feeding him so much junk, and his dad standing there, this big guy with arms that could bend rebar, his head hanging contritely while his cap hid the pleasure in his eyes. DeMarco knew one thing for sure: his mother had never feared his father.

      ‘I really didn’t know what he did until I was about fifteen,’ DeMarco said, ‘and even then I had a hard time believing it. I just couldn’t imagine him taking some guy out to a marsh in Jersey and putting one into the back of his head.’