But no deafening explosion. No brain-splattering gunshot. Then there was powerful silence, like in a church.
“Someday,” he told his father. “Not today, but when you least expect it. One day when you don’t want to die, I’m going to kill you. You’re gonna have a hard death, too, Kevin. And not with a pop gun like this one.”
Then he walked out of the butcher shop, and he became the Butcher of Sligo. Three days before Christmas of his eighteenth year, he came back and killed his father. As he’d promised, not with a gun. He used one of the old man’s boning knives, and he took several Polaroid shots as a keepsake.
Chapter 58
OUT IN MARYLAND, where he lived nowadays, Michael Sullivan shouldered a baseball bat. Not just any bat, either, a vintage Louisville Slugger, a 1986 Yankees game bat, to be exact. Screw collector’s items, though, this solid piece of ash was meant to be used.
“All right,” Sullivan called out to the pitcher’s mound. “Let’s see what you can do, big man. I’m shaking in my boots here. Let’s see what you got.”
It was hard to believe that Mike Junior was old enough to have a windup this fluid and good, but he did. And his changeup was a small masterpiece. Sullivan only recognized it coming because he’d taught the pitch to the boy himself.
Still, he wasn’t handing his eldest son any charity. That would be an insult to the boy. He gave the pitch the extra fraction of a second it needed, then swung hard and connected with a satisfying crack of the bat. He pretended the ball was the head of John Maggione.
“And she’s out of here!” he crowed. He ran the bases for show while Seamus, his youngest, scrambled over the ballpark’s chain-link fence to retrieve the home-run ball. “Good one, Dad!” he screamed, holding up the scuffed ball where it had landed.
“Dad, we should go.” His middle son, Jimmy, already had his catcher’s mitt and face mask off. “We’ve got to leave the house by six
thirty. Remember, Dad?”
After Sullivan himself, Jimmy was the most excited about tonight. Sullivan had gotten them tickets to see U2’s Vertigo tour at the 1st Mariner Arena in Baltimore. It was going to be a fine night, the kind of family activity he could tolerate.
On the ride to the concert, Sullivan sang along with the car stereo until his boys started to groan and make jokes in the backseat.
“You see, boys,” Caitlin said, “your father thinks he’s another Bono. But he sounds more like . . . Ringo Starr?”
“Your mother’s just jealous,” Sullivan said, laughing. “You kids and I have rich Irish blood running in our veins. She’s got nothing but Sicilian.”
“Oh, right. One question: Which would you rather eat—Italian or Irish? Case closed.”
The boys howled and high-fived one for their mom.
“Hey, what’s this, Mom?” Seamus asked.
Caitlin looked; then she pulled a small silver flip phone from under the front seat. Sullivan saw it, and his stomach heaved.
It was Benny Fontana’s cell phone. Sullivan had taken it with him the night he’d visited Benny and had been looking for it ever since. Talk about mistakes.
And mistakes will kill you.
He kept his face in perfect control. “I’ll bet that’s Steve Bowen’s phone,” he lied.
“Who?” Caitlin asked.
“Steve Bowen. My client? I gave him a ride to the airport when he was in town.”
Caitlin looked puzzled. “Why hasn’t he tried to get it back?”
Because he doesn’t exist.
“Probably because he’s in London.” Sullivan kept improvising. “Just stick it in the glove compartment.”
Now that he had the cell phone, though, he knew what he wanted to do with it. In fact, he couldn’t wait. He drove the family as close to the arena as he could get, then pulled over to the curb.
“Here you go—door-to-door service. Can’t beat it. I’ll park this buggy and meet you inside.”
It didn’t take him long to find a parking garage with vacancies. He drove all the way to the top for some added privacy and a good signal. The number he wanted was right there in the phone’s address book. He punched it in. This should be good. Now just let the bastard scum be there.