Class Act

“Good morning, Johnny,” the elderly, well-dressed man beside him said.

“Good morning, Don Antonio,” he replied. “To what do I owe this, ah, invitation?”

“It is time for us to speak,” the Don said, lapsing into his native Sicilian dialect. “Much has happened, much has changed. I know of your part in these changes.”

Jack didn’t bother asking how he knew. “I see,” he said.

“Most of these changes had to be done, in any case, but you were useful in implementing them, particularly the departure of Salvatore.”

“I didn’t send him the girl,” Jack said.

“Please,” the Don said, “lying between us is offensive. Let us be frank with each other.”

“As you wish, Don Antonio.”

“I admire the manner in which you have caused yourself to disappear.”

Jack said nothing.

“I might not have known, had it not been for Michael O’Brien, and you, very kindly, arranging for him to disappear into the city morgue.”

Jack kept quiet.

“It is time for a new beginning,” the Don said. “I am old, and if I am careful and fortunate, I will live, perhaps another two years — or possibly, less, according to the Mayo Clinic, where I have recently undergone a complete evaluation. I could, perhaps, stretch that for another year or two, but it would require major surgery. And the recovery time could be weeks, perhaps even months, and I would be incapacitated for much of that time. I prefer to live out my natural life with my wits about me. I hope you can understand that.”

“Of course,” Jack replied. “It is what I would wish for myself.”

“Because of recent events a vacancy exists in my family which cannot be filled from inside it, because of a lack of suitable talent. I invite you to become a member of my family, and to fill that vacancy, recently occupied by Salvatore.”

Jack became hyper alert. If he did not manage the next couple of minutes well, his body might never be found. Certainly, a resting place for it had already been found and awaited him.

He reflected in a space of seconds that this was the man who had kept him in prison long after he could have been paroled, just so that his sister’s son could serve his time in safety.

“You honor me, Don Antonio,” Jack said finally. “I gratefully accept your invitation.”

The Don let out a long breath, as if he had been holding it. He pressed a button, and the partition between the passengers and the driver lowered a few inches. The Don began rattling off directions to the driver. The car slid to a stop, and Jack could see ahead of them. The car was on an empty street on the West Side, a block from the Hudson.

“And after that,” the Don said, then continued with his instructions.

Jack crossed his legs and hoisted his left trouser leg. He pulled down his sock, and a .22 semiautomatic pistol fell into his hand. He reached out and shot the driver twice in the head, then he swiveled toward the Don. “I lied,” he said. Then he shot the man once in the head, causing him to fall sideways, then fired a second shot.

Jack opened the car door, got out, and walked downhill toward the river, fighting the urge to hurry. There was a car wash to his left, on Twelfth Avenue, and a taxi pulled out of it. Jack flagged him down and got in, noting that there was no chase car behind the Don’s vehicle. “Central Park and Fifty-Ninth Street,” he said to the driver, then settled back for the ride, his mind racing.

Gradually, he relaxed. There had been no entourage to witness his departure from the park or the Don’s car. The Don had been that confident of him.

“Let me out at the Plaza,” he said to the driver. When they arrived there, he paid the man, got out of the cab, and walked into the hotel lobby. He spent a couple of minutes window-shopping the little boutiques, then, satisfied that no one was following him, left the hotel in the direction of the fountain, then walked for another half hour before he felt confident that he was still alone. He reduced the small pistol to its parts and threw them into dumpsters along his route, then he took a taxi further downtown.