Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov
40
As much as he wanted to, Jack didn’t call Sal. First, the man would have his hands full waging his war, and neither of them should be distracted now. Second, because of the first reason, this wasn’t the moment to ask him to clarify their relationship—whether they even had one. But all it took was closing his eyes to feel the echo of Sal’s touches on his skin. How many people knew Sal was both cruel and kind, both controlling and relinquishing of everything? Maybe that was the message—despite the circumstances, Sal had let Jack into his mind, his body—and had shared moments of intimacy outside of sex.
Jack kept a low profile, making sure nobody could spot him from the street while he was sitting in a café. As always, he had the phone close, pondering the right moment to raise the matter of Andrea’s disappearance. How to best respond when people began calling him to tell him that somebody was picking off Andrea’s capos and soldiers. Spadaro might show up and put a bullet through his head. Or the cops would catch a whiff of the killing happening under the skin of the city and pretend for a little while to give a damn about it.
Without leadership, all the capos were flailing limbs, and all their signals were directed to a brain that no longer responded. Jack focused on plausible deniability. Everybody knew Andrea was erratic. Jack was no longer running a crew. People would try to reach Andrea first if Jack didn’t pick up the phone.
He finished his coffee, picked up the phone and dialed Vic Decesare’s number.
“Yes?”
“It’s Jack. Barsanti. Listen, is there any way I can meet you? I need your advice.”
“Business?”
“Yes.”
“Not sure how much I can be of help, but feel free to come around. I don’t have anything else on my calendar.”
“Appreciate it.”
“You know the room?”
Yes, he did. He’d already sent flowers and a hamper with everything that Vic Decesare liked to that same hospital, along with a hand-written card with measured words of appreciation. “I’ll be there in less than an hour. Do you want me to bring anything?”
“A good bottle of wine.”
“Consider it done.”
After the call, Jack selected a bottle from the specialist dealership down the road. He tried to listen to music to take his mind off everything that had happened, but mostly everything that was about to happen.
The private hospital was the best in the state, and from the outside, it could have been a country club or an exclusive spa.
Jack was on the list of “guests”, so they let him pass through, and nobody commented on the bottle of wine he carried.
Ah, yes, Mr. Barsanti, please follow me,” a nurse said.
Last visit, Vic had received him in what looked like a living room, complete with a flatscreen TV, carpets, and antique furniture. Vic had worn what he’d have worn outside on a good day—formal trousers, a shirt and a woolen sweater, top button of his formal shirt open underneath. So seeing him lying in bed in pajamas jarred Jack, especially with a thin plastic tube snaking into his nose.
Vic wasn’t a year over sixty-five, but he looked twenty years older. His hair had come back after multiple courses of chemo- and radiotherapy, but it was wispy and colorless, and his dark brown eyes seemed washed out, the white yellowed like antique ivory. Jack could see the lines of his skull clearly under the thinning skin.
Jack stepped up to the bed and set the bottle down next to a bunch of fresh flowers that didn’t have a card attached. “I should have come by weeks ago.”
“Ah, no. Sit down.” Vic gestured toward a chair. “It’ll be a nice distraction. How are you doing, son? Who’s beaten you up?”
Jack gave an embarrassed laugh he’d practiced enough by now. “Caught my foot getting out of the Jacuzzi. In my defense, I was drunk.”
Vic’s face lit up with amusement, “You need to come up with a better story.” Jack’s heart skipped a painful beat. “That’s no way to boast about a war wound. You’re always too honest.”
“Andrea said I needed a story about a sparring match gone wrong.” Because in the reality where he was not a traitor, that was what he’d have said. Not that it mattered anymore that Vic believed him.
“Yes, that sounds a lot better.” Vic settled back on his pillow, then clicked some kind of remote control and the head part of the bed rose with an electric hum. “Andrea’s been riding you hard?”
So Vic apparently hadn’t heard anything yet. “Andrea is … Andrea.” Jack shrugged. “He hasn’t been so bad lately, so …” He looked around the room. “I don’t think you’ve told us about the situation here.”
“No point.” Vic looked around with a weak snarl of distaste. “Take a man’s guts out, everything follows. Slice by slice. There’s more of me in the incinerator than left in the bed. Told them they can’t have any more, so they can stop milking my insurance for more money. Fucking vampires.”
“Last doc I met was a drug pusher,” Jack agreed. “But if you need anything …”
“Eh.” The disgust was palpable. “No. Tell me, what do you need?”
“I know we’ve already talked about it, years ago, but I have some questions about Salvatore Rausa. I met him at the Prizzi wedding and something about him makes me nervous. But I haven’t dealt with him much, so I was hoping you have more.”
“Shown himself in public, has he?” Vic Decesare looked down at his hands which were resting on the covers. “Yeah, I have stories. When the War got bad, Sal Rausa went out and killed his uncle who’d groomed him as his underboss. When the pressure on the Rausa got so bad that they were near breaking, he turned against his own, because Mike Rausa disagreed with him on the direction of the family.”
“That’s reckless.”
“Old Mike wasn’t the most effective leader the Rausa have ever had—he was too confident, for one, and thought he was cleverer than he was.” Vic Decesare made a “what can you do” gesture. “That could have worked to our advantage, but it didn’t. Not at first.”
“Please explain?”
“With their leadership in the state it was—young boss just taken over, patriarch sleeping with the fishes—I decided it might be worth it to take out Salvatore too. Have them rip each other apart trying to fill the void, so we could focus on the Dommarco.”
“It didn’t work, though.”
“No. The shooter took out the wife. She was driving Rausa’s car.” Vic seemed to weigh thoughts or memories. “The shooter called before pulling the trigger and told Andrea the wife was driving. Andrea was in charge, and he was agitated, flushed, pacing. We’d been sitting in the office, waiting for the call.”
“So Andrea gave the order?”
“Kind of. He shouted, ‘I don’t care, we kill him next!’ and hung up. Then he turned to me all, ‘Can you believe it? This bitch is asking me whether I fucking mean it. I do fucking mean it.’” Vittorio shrugged. “And that was that.”
“Wow.” Jack swallowed. “How did he have time to call when she was moving?”
“Oh, winding roads. Multiple opportunities for the kill. It’s why we’d chosen the spot.”
“And I always thought it was an accident.”
“Sadly, we never got a shot at Rausa after that, because the War didn’t go our way, and by the time we had spare capacities to deal with him, he’d practically vanished.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“It’s hearsay, but my best guess is, he spent the time weeding out everybody who was loyal to Mike. Some people vanished, so they probably got walked into a room.”
Jack remembered a quip from his previous capo that it was only the Cosa Nostra where “a man was walked into a room” wasn’t the first line of a Dad joke.
“Rausa’s a hard man,” Vic continued.
For what it’s worth, I think you broke his heart.
“He needs to be.” Jack kept his voice level and flat. “Considering he clawed his way to the top. Andrea didn’t have to.”
“Neither did you. Timing worked in your favor, Jack. When you got out, you carried less baggage than any of the others.”
“I’m aware.” All of it was moot now, though. His role was no longer set, the shackles had fallen away. There was something liberating in chaos and destruction. “I’ve played defense so long, shifting to offense will take some getting used to.”
“What makes you think it’ll be necessary?”
“I approached him at the wedding. Cassaro was there too. Rausa told me to fuck off. He’s definitely holding a grudge.”
“Might be a good time to revisit the idea of taking him out. Can’t imagine you’d even have to talk to the Dommarco about it, though I’d call Cassaro at least. As a courtesy, if nothing else.” Vic Decesare groaned as he shifted his weight in bed. “I swear, humans are just made of guts and shit. Never get old.”
Some humans. Jack gave him a slight smile. “You’ve given me some stuff to think about.” He rose, hesitantly and lingered near the bed. “When we deal with Rausa, there might be some poetic justice if we use the same shooter. Care to share the name?”
Vic smiled with some real humor. “I like your thinking, but he’s currently not available. Unlike you, he wasn’t exactly a model prisoner, so he should be out in twenty years or so.”
Ralphie Galante. He was the only one that fit the description. He’d been a trusted button man for Andrea’s father and a noticeable loss when the jury had quite rightly put him away for a long time. Jack hadn’t paid a lot of attention to him, except to back him up with lawyers and money. He’d been too busy sweating over the peace treaty with Cassaro.
“That’s too bad.” Jack checked his phone for the time. “Will they at least let you drink the wine?”
“They didn’t keep me from drinking the others.” Vic raised his chin in defiance, and Jack assumed some nurses may have decided to indulge a man whose room was crowded with the ghosts of the men he’d killed. “But when you deal with Rausa, do it quickly and decisively. I’m almost glad he’ll be your problem now.”
“Yeah, agreed.” Jack took a few steps back. “If you like that one, I’ll have a case delivered for you.”
“You’re a good man, Jack, thanks.”
Appropriate respects paid, he left the room and caught the eye of a doctor making the rounds. “How’s he doing?”
“Are you a member of Mr. Decesare’s family?”
“Yes, of course. Jack Barsanti. I’m on the guest list.”
“You need to understand the care we’re providing now is purely palliative.”
“I do, thanks. How long does he have left? That might sound harsh, but he has family all over and I’d like to make sure they can all make the appropriate arrangements.”
She eyed him but didn’t seem unduly alarmed. “I understand Mr. Decesare is making arrangements to be moved to his own home, where a team of nurses will look after him over the next few months.”
Even better.“Of course. Gives him unlimited access to his wine cellar. Thanks, doctor.” At least that meant that Spadaro wouldn’t show up here to terrorize staff, if that was what Sal decided.
What had Spadaro called him? Last man standing. Little by little, Jack was feeding his past, his contacts, his former allies to the fire. Vic Decesare still had respect, could still call on people, but the man he’d seen was mostly used up. He could still do damage, but if he did, it was nothing but spite. He wouldn’t be able to lead an effective counter-attack, and that was the only thing that mattered.