Sleepers. Part 28

"Let's go, Nokes," he said. "Stop wastin' time. Let's give 'em what they want."

Nokes pushed us both back against the wall, one of his hands holding my face to the scene before me.

"Go to it," Nokes said, his eyes, his breath, his body on me. "Make it party time."

They tore at my friends, attacked them as if they were animals freed from a cage. The cries, the screams, the shrieks, were all a valued part of their beastly game. I sat there, sweat running down my body and onto the sheet beneath me, and watched three boys be ripped apart, living playthings lost in a garden filled with evil intent.

"You gonna think about this when you're gone," Nokes said, rubbing his arms over my body. "Ain't ya, you little f.u.c.k? Ain't ya?"

Nokes leaned over and pushed me facedown on my cot. His hands tore at the few clothes I was wearing, stripping me naked, my arms still bound by the nylon cord. He undid the belt around my legs, folded it, and began to lash at my back and rear with it.

"You're gonna remember this little party, all right," Nokes said as he continued to hit at me with the thick edges of the belt. "You gonna remember but good. I'm gonna see to that. Don't worry, f.u.c.ker. I'm gonna see to that."

Nokes tossed the belt to the floor and lowered his pants, his breath coming in heavy waves, sweat slicing down off his body. His mouth rested against my ear, his teeth chewing on the lobe.

"This is so you don't forget me," he said again, the weight of his body now on top of mine. "Can't let you do that, sweet thing. You gotta remember me like you gotta remember this night. Forever."

I heard John cry, pitiful moans coming from a well deep inside his soul. I saw Tommy's head bounce like a rubber ball against the cement floor, blood flowing from dual streams above his forehead, his eyes blank, the corners of his mouth washed in foam. I saw Michael's left arm bend across the side of his back until the bones in the joint snapped, the pain strong enough to strip the life from his body.

I felt Nokes pulling at me, hitting me with two closed fists, his mouth biting my shoulders and neck, drawing blood. The front of his head b.u.t.ted against the back of mine with every painful thrust, my nose and cheeks sc.r.a.ping the sharp edges of my cot. One of his knees, the pointy end of his belt now wrapped around it, was wedged against the fleshy part of my thigh, stabbing into it, blood coming out in spurts.

A part of all of us was left in that room that night. A night now far removed by the pa.s.sage of time. A night that will never be removed from my mind.

The night of July 24, 1968.

The summer of love.

My last night at the Wilkinson Home for Boys.

BOOK THREE.

"Lazzaro erased with his hand anything Billy Pilgrim might be about to say. 'Just forget about it, kid,' he said. 'Enjoy life while you can. Nothing's gonna happen for maybe five, ten, fifteen, twenty years. But lemme give you a piece of advice: Whenever the doorbell rings, have somebody else answer the door.'"-Kurt Vonnegut,Slaughterhouse-Five

Fall 1979

1.

h.e.l.l'S K KITCHEN HAD changed. The streets were no longer swept daily and graffiti marred many of the buildings. A scattering of low-income high-rises had replaced stretches of run-down tenements, and storefronts now needed riot gates to guard against the night. Many of the Irish and Italian tenants had left the area, heading for the safer havens of Queens and Long Island, and the Eastern Europeans had deserted the neighborhood altogether, moving to Brooklyn and New Jersey. Replacing them were a larger number of Hispanics and a mixture of uptown blacks and recent island immigrants. In addition to these groups, young middle-cla.s.s couples flush with money arrived, buying and renovating a string of tenements. The young and rich even set about changing the neighborhood's name. Now they called it Clinton. changed. The streets were no longer swept daily and graffiti marred many of the buildings. A scattering of low-income high-rises had replaced stretches of run-down tenements, and storefronts now needed riot gates to guard against the night. Many of the Irish and Italian tenants had left the area, heading for the safer havens of Queens and Long Island, and the Eastern Europeans had deserted the neighborhood altogether, moving to Brooklyn and New Jersey. Replacing them were a larger number of Hispanics and a mixture of uptown blacks and recent island immigrants. In addition to these groups, young middle-cla.s.s couples flush with money arrived, buying and renovating a string of tenements. The young and rich even set about changing the neighborhood's name. Now they called it Clinton.

The old order was in turmoil, guns and drugs replacing gambling and stolen goods as a criminal's best route to a fast dollar. Cocaine use was rampant and dealers dotted the area, openly selling on corners and out of parked cars. Residents fell asleep most nights to the sounds of police sirens. There were many gangs, but the deadliest was Irish and numbered close to forty sworn members.

They called themselves the West Side Boys and they controlled the h.e.l.l's Kitchen drug trade. The deadliest gang to invade the neighborhood since the Pug Uglies, the West Side Boys would do anything for money, both within the area and beyond. They hired themselves out to the Italian mob as a.s.sa.s.sins; they hijacked trucks and fenced the stolen goods; they shook down shopkeepers for protection money; they swapped cocaine and heroin with uptown dealers for cash, and then returned to shoot the dealers dead and reclaim their money. Heavily fueled by drugs and drink, the West Side Boys considered no crime beyond their scope.

They even had their own style of dress-black leather jackets, black s.h.i.+rts, and jeans. In winter they wore black woolen gloves with the tips cut off. They also left their signature on every body they discarded: bullets through the head, heart, hands, and legs. Those they didn't want found were hacked up and scattered throughout the five boroughs of New York City.

[image]

h.e.l.l'S K KITCHEN WAS not alone in the changes affecting its streets. Similar sounds were being heard in cities and neighborhoods throughout the country and the world. In Atlanta, a serial killer was on the loose, preying on young black children. Eleven people were crushed to death at a Who concert in Cincinnati. Sony introduced the Walkman. The first test tube baby, Louise Brown, was born in a London Hospital. The Camp David Peace Accord was signed and England's Lord Mountbatten was killed by IRA terrorists. Chrysler was saved from bankruptcy by an act of Congress and John Wayne died of cancer. not alone in the changes affecting its streets. Similar sounds were being heard in cities and neighborhoods throughout the country and the world. In Atlanta, a serial killer was on the loose, preying on young black children. Eleven people were crushed to death at a Who concert in Cincinnati. Sony introduced the Walkman. The first test tube baby, Louise Brown, was born in a London Hospital. The Camp David Peace Accord was signed and England's Lord Mountbatten was killed by IRA terrorists. Chrysler was saved from bankruptcy by an act of Congress and John Wayne died of cancer.

During all these changes, a few familiar faces remained. King Benny still ran a piece of h.e.l.l's Kitchen, working out of the same dark room where I first met him. He openly ignored the drug and gun trade, content with his profits from less violent, if equally illegal, enterprises. He was older, a little wiser, and still as dangerous as ever. Even the West Side Boys conceded him his turf.

Time had not mellowed Fat Mancho either. He still stood in front of his bodega, snarling and screaming at all who pa.s.sed. But time had also brought him another wife, a new social security number, one more apartment, and another monthly disability check.

Bars and restaurants still dotted the neighborhood, though many were new, designed to draw an uptown clientele. But the best establishments were old and frayed, and among them, the Shamrock Pub on West 48th Street, with the sweetest Irish soda bread in town, was the finest place to eat in h.e.l.l's Kitchen. It was a joint that kept true to the past, where a local could run a tab, place a bet, and even spend the night on a cot in the back. It was also a place where a secret could still be kept.

The Shamrock Pub was unusually crowded for a late Wednesday night. Two men in outdated suits, ties undone, sat at the center of a wooden bar that ran the length of the restaurant, each clutching a sweaty Rob Roy, arguing about the economic policies of President Jimmy Carter. An old, raw-faced Irishman in a heavy wool coat sat at the far end of the bar, nursing his third beer, pointedly ignoring their conversation.

Five leather booths faced the bar, each positioned next to a window and lit by lanterns hanging overhead. Four circular tables draped with white tablecloths lined the rear wall. Framed photos of champion race horses hung above them, along with tranquil Irish settings and a color portrait of the restaurant's original owner, a sour-looking Dubliner named Dusty McTweed.

The Shamrock Pub was a neighborhood inst.i.tution known to all who lived or worked on the West Side. It catered to an odd a.s.sortment of locals, publis.h.i.+ng types with a taste for ale, beat cops with a thirst, tourists, and, in recent years, to the volatile members of the West Side Boys.

A young couple sat at one of the tables, their backs to the bar, holding hands, a half-empty bottle of white wine between them. Another couple, older, more friends than lovers, sat in a front booth, their attention fixed on their well-done lamb chops and second basket of Irish soda bread.

Two waitresses in their early twenties, wearing short black skirts and white blouses, stood against a side wall, smoking and talking in whispers. They were actresses and roommates, earning enough in tips to pay the rent on a third-floor Chelsea walk-up. One was divorced, the other had a relations.h.i.+p with a long-haul trucker with a drinking problem.

There was one other customer in the restaurant.

A chunky man in his late thirties sat in the last booth. He smoked a cigarette and drank a gla.s.s of beer while the meal in front of him cooled. He had ordered the day's special-meat loaf and brown gravy, mashed potatoes, and steamed spinach. He had asked for a side order of pasta, which was served with canned tomato sauce. On top of the sauce he had placed two pats of b.u.t.ter, turning the overcooked strands until the b.u.t.ter melted.

The man had long, thick blond hair that covered his ears and touched the collar of his frayed blue work s.h.i.+rt. His face was sharp and unlined, his eyes blue and distant. The s.h.i.+rt of his uniform was partly hidden by a blue zippered jacket with Randall Security patches on both arms. A .357 Magnum revolver was shoved into his gun belt. A small pinky ring decorated his right hand.

Putting out the cigarette in an ashtray lodged between the gla.s.s salt shaker and a tin sugar canister, he picked up his fork, cut into his meat loaf, and stared at the television screen above the bar. The New York Knicks and the Atlanta Hawks were playing their way through a dreary second quarter on the soundless screen.

Outside, a crisp fall wind rattled the windows. The overhead sky threatened rain.

It was eight-fifteen in the evening.

At eight twenty-five P.M P.M., two young men walked through the gla.s.s and wood doors. They were both dressed in black leather jackets, black crew s.h.i.+rts, and black jeans. One was bone-thin, with dark curly hair framing his wide, handsome face. He wore black gloves, the fingers on each cut to the knuckle, and a pork-pie hat with the brim curved up. He had a half-pint of bourbon stuffed in one back pocket of his jeans and three grams of c.o.ke in a cigarette case in the other. He was smoking a Vantage and was the first one through the door.

The second young man was heftier, his black jeans tight around his waist, the open black leather jacket revealing the bulk of his neck and shoulders. His mouth was hard at work on a wad of chewing tobacco. He wore a longsh.o.r.eman's watch cap atop his light brown hair. His calf-length black boots had a fresh spit s.h.i.+ne, and he walked into the tavern favoring his right leg, damaged in childhood.

The bartender nodded in their direction. He knew their faces as well as most of the neighborhood knew their names. They were two of the founding members of the West Side Boys. They were also its deadliest. The thinner man had been in and out of jail since he was a teenager. He robbed and killed at will or on command and was currently a suspect in four unsolved homicides. He was an alcoholic and a cocaine abuser with a fast temper and a faster trigger. He once shot a mechanic dead for moving ahead of him on a movie line.

The second man was equally deadly and had committed his first murder at the age of seventeen. In return, he was paid fifty dollars. He drank and did drugs and had a wife he never saw living somewhere in Queens.

They walked past the old man and the couple in the first booth and nodded at the waitresses, who eagerly smiled back. They sat down three stools from the businessmen and tapped the wood bar with their knuckles. The bartender, Jerry, an affable middle-aged man with a wife, two kids, and his first steady job in six years, poured them each a large shot of Wild Turkey with beer chasers and left the bottle.

The thinner man downed the shot and lit a fresh cigarette. He nodded toward the bartender and asked what the two men in suits were discussing. He didn't change expression when he was told of the Carter debate. He leaned closer to the bar, his eyes on the young couple at the table in the rear of the pub, and poured himself and his friend another double shot. He told the bartender to bring the two men in suits a drink and to run it on his tab. He also told Jerry to tell them that Republicans were not welcome in h.e.l.l's Kitchen and that either a political conversion or a change in conversation was in order.

The chubby man checked his watch and nudged his friend in the ribs. They were running late for an appointment. A dealer named Raoul Reynoso was holed up at the Holiday Inn three blocks away, expecting to complete a drug deal with them no later than nine P.M. P.M. Reynoso was looking to buy two kilos of cocaine and was ready to hand off $25,000 as payment. The two men had other plans. They were going to take his money, put four bullets in his heart, cut off Reynoso's head, and leave it in an ice bucket next to the television set in his room. Reynoso was looking to buy two kilos of cocaine and was ready to hand off $25,000 as payment. The two men had other plans. They were going to take his money, put four bullets in his heart, cut off Reynoso's head, and leave it in an ice bucket next to the television set in his room.

The thin man reached over the bar, grabbed a menu, looked at his friend, and shrugged his shoulders. He hated to kill anybody anybody on an empty stomach. He gave the menu to his friend and asked him to order for them both. He needed to use the bathroom. The chubby man took the menu and smiled. He had known the thin man all his life, they had grown up together, gone to the same schools, served time in the same prisons, slept with the same women, and put bullets in the same bodies. In all those years, the thin man, without fail, on an empty stomach. He gave the menu to his friend and asked him to order for them both. He needed to use the bathroom. The chubby man took the menu and smiled. He had known the thin man all his life, they had grown up together, gone to the same schools, served time in the same prisons, slept with the same women, and put bullets in the same bodies. In all those years, the thin man, without fail, always always had to use a bathroom before a meal. had to use a bathroom before a meal.

The thin man stood up from his stool and finished off his beer. He then turned and walked down the narrow strip of floor separating booths from bar stools, his hands at his sides, his face turned to the street outside. At the end of the bar, across from the rear booth, his eyes moved from the pa.s.sing traffic and met those of the man eating the meat-loaf special. Both men held the look for a number of seconds, one set of eyes registering recognition, the other filled with annoyance.

"I help you with somethin', chief?" the man in the booth said, his mouth crammed with mashed potatoes.

"Not right now," the thin man said, heading to the back. He smiled down at the man in the booth and told him to enjoy the rest of his meal.

He stumbled into the men's room and ran the cold water in the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. He looked much older than his twenty-seven years, the drugs and drink taking a toll on an Irish face still handsome enough to coax a smile from a reluctant woman. He took off his gloves and checked his hands, calm and steady, the skin raw, the scars across both sets of knuckles white and clear. He put the gloves back on and stepped over to the urinal.

"Reynoso, you're one lucky f.u.c.ker," he thought to himself. "This p.i.s.s saved your life."

He walked out of the men's room and past the man in the back booth. He took his seat next to his friend, put a cigarette in his mouth, and poured himself a refill.

"I ordered brisket on a roll," his friend said. "With fries. And two baskets of soda bread. I know you like that s.h.i.+t. That okay by you?"

The thin man's eyes were on the small mirror above the bar, riveted on the man in the uniform finis.h.i.+ng his meat-loaf dinner.

"C'mon," his friend said, tapping him on the shoulder. "Let's take the booth behind us. We can spread out all we want."

The thin man turned to face his friend. He asked him to take a look at the last booth in the pub. To take a good look and study the face of the man sitting in it.

His friend turned in his stool and stared at the man in the zippered jacket. His face stayed blank for the few moments it took to link the man to memory, but his eyes betrayed his swirling emotions.

"You sure it's him?" he asked, his voice harsh, his upper lip twitching. "You sure it's really him?"

"You know me," the thin man said. "I never forget a friend."

They stayed at the bar long enough to release the safeties on the guns hidden beneath their jackets. They stood up together and walked toward the booth at the back of the pub, the thin man leading the way.

"h.e.l.lo," the thin man said, pulling up a chair. "It's been a long time."

"Who the f.u.c.k are you guys?" the man in the booth demanded. He didn't seem particularly afraid, merely annoyed at the intrusion. "And who the f.u.c.k asked you to sit down?"

"I thought you'd be happy to see us," the chubby man said. "Guess I was wrong."

"I always thought you would do better," the thin man said, looking at the patches on the sleeves of the jacket. "All that training, all that time you put in, just to guard somebody else's money. Seems like a waste."

"I'm askin' you for the last time," the man said, his temper as hot as his coffee. "What the f.u.c.k do you want?"

The thin man took off his gloves and put them in the front pocket of his leather jacket. He laid his hand flat on the table, the tips of his fingers nudging the sides of the security guard's empty beer gla.s.s.

"See the scars?" he asked. "Look at them. Take your time. It'll come to you."

The guard stared at the thin man's hands, his upper lip wet with sweat, his body tense, sensing danger, feeling cornered.

Then he knew.

The knowledge fell across his face like a cold cloth. He sat back, his head resting against the top of the leather booth. He tried to speak but couldn't. His mouth went dry as his hands gripped the edge of the table.

"I can see how you would forget us," the thin man said softly. "We were just somethin' for you and your friends to play with."

"It's a little harder for us to forget," the chubby one said. "You gave us so much more to remember."

"That was a long time ago," the security guard said, the words coming out in a struggle. "We were just kids."

"We're not kids now," the thin man said.

"Whatta ya want me to say?" the security guard asked, anger returning to his voice. "That I'm sorry? Is that what you want? An apology?"

"No," the thin man said, moving his hands off the table and onto his lap. "I know know you're not sorry and hearin' you say it won't change a f.u.c.kin' thing." you're not sorry and hearin' you say it won't change a f.u.c.kin' thing."

"Then what?" what?" the security guard asked, leaning over his empty platter. "What do you want?" the security guard asked, leaning over his empty platter. "What do you want?"

"What I've always always wanted, Nokes," the thin man said. "To watch you die." wanted, Nokes," the thin man said. "To watch you die."

The thin man, John Reilly, and his chubby friend, Tommy "b.u.t.ter" Marcano, were on their feet, a gun in each hand. All movement in the pub ceased. The young woman at the back table took her hand off her boyfriend and clasped it over her mouth.

The bartender clicked off the Knicks game.

The two waitresses slipped into the kitchen.

Sean Nokes, thirty-seven, was a security guard with a gambling problem. He was two months behind on his rent and his wife was threatening to leave him and take their daughter home to her mother. He had not fared well since his years at Wilkinson, moving from job to job, small town to small town. He was hoping he had finally turned the corner, working a Manhattan job that paid decent money. He had come to h.e.l.l's Kitchen to pay off a debt and stopped into the pub for dinner before heading home to his wife, hopeful of landing one more chance at a reconciliation. He never planned on a Wilkinson reunion.

"Too bad you ordered the meat loaf," Tommy said. "The brisket's real good here. Only you'll never know it."

"You were scared little p.r.i.c.ks," Nokes said. "Both of you. All All of you. Scared s.h.i.+tless. I tried to make you tough, make you hard. But it was a waste of time." of you. Scared s.h.i.+tless. I tried to make you tough, make you hard. But it was a waste of time."

"I had you all wrong, then," Tommy said. "All this time I just figured you liked f.u.c.kin' and beatin' up little boys."

"You are gonna burn in h.e.l.l!" Sean Nokes said. "You hear me! You two motherf.u.c.kers! You are gonna burn in h.e.l.l!"

"After you," John said.

The first bullet came out the back of Nokes's head, the second went through his right eye, and the third creased his temple. Nokes rested with his head back and his hands spread, mouth twisted into an almost comical grimace. Tommy stepped out of the booth and walked over to Nokes's side. He put a bullet into each of his legs and one into each hand. John stood his ground and pumped three slugs into Nokes's chest, waiting for the body jerks to stop each time before pulling the trigger again.

The bartender closed his eyes until the gunfire stopped.

The young couple fell to the ground, hovering for cover under their table.

The couple in the first booth sat frozen with fear, staring at each other, still holding their knives and forks.

The two businessmen never turned their heads. One of them, the pretzels in his hand crushed to crumbs, had wet his pants.