Beat the Reaper: A Novel by Josh Bazell Read Free Book Online

dollars.”
    Around the middle of December 1992, Mrs. Locano said, “Pietro, what do you want for Christmas?” and I decided to make my move. We were all at dinner.
    “I’m Jewish,” I said.
    “Oh please.”
    “The only thing I ever think about wanting,” I said, staring at David Locano, “is to know who killed my grandparents.”
    Everyone fell silent. I thought: All this. And I’ve fucked it up.
    And when it seemed to just blow over, I was grateful.
    But a few days later David Locano called me and asked if I would come with him to Big 5 Sporting Goods to find a Christmas present for Skinflick. He’d come pick me up.
    We went. He got Skinflick a speed bag, which was ridiculous—Skinflick couldn’t hold his hands above his head for ten minutes without having to punch something at the same time— but Locano didn’t really seem to want my advice.
    In the car on the way home, he said, “How serious are you about getting the scumbags who killed your grandparents?”
    It surprised the shit out of me so badly I couldn’t say anything for about a minute.
    “That’s pretty much why I’m alive,” I finally said.
    “That is so fucking stupid,” he said. “I know it’s why you went to Sandhurst, * and why you became friends with Adam. But it’s bullshit. You can back off of it. You should back off it. And I know you want to.”
    “What happens to me if I don’t?”
    Locano swerved to the side of the street we were on and slammed on the brakes.
    “Cut the tough guy crap,” he said. “I don’t threaten people. I’m a lawyer, for fuck’s sake. And if I did threaten people, I wouldn’t threaten you.”
    “Okay,” I said.
    “I’m just telling you—you’ve got a lot to live for. And to stay out of trouble for. Adam loves you. He respects you. You should listen to that.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Are you hearing me?”
    “Yes.”
    I was, but I was still stunned.
    “And you’re stuck to this thing?”
    “Yes.”
    He sighed. Nodded. “All right, then.” He reached into his jacket.
    I almost stopped him. I was thirteen months into eight hours a day of martial arts training. It would have been easy to block his gun arm, push his chin till his neck broke.
    “Relax yourself,” he said. He pulled out his appointment book and a pen. “I’m gonna see if I can get you a contract.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’ll see if I can hook it up for someone to pay you to do this.”
    “I won’t take money for it.”
    He looked at me. “Yes you will. Otherwise you’re a rogue, and they’ll put you down like a dog. We’ll start a rumor that whoever these scumbags are, they’re talking too much—bringing down more heat than they’re worth. Maybe they’re someone’s nephew’s nephews or something, but it shouldn’t take too much. Are you understanding this?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Good. Are you gonna need a gun?”
    They were brothers. Joe and Mike Virzi. Like the cops had thought, they’d done it to get jumped into the mob.
    I didn’t just take Locano’s word for it. For one thing I followed them, for weeks.
    The Virzi brothers were a pair of violent dicks who got crazed with boredom pretty much nightly, then took it out on whoever they could find. They’d pull some poor schmuck out of a nightclub or a pool hall or whatever by the hair, telling everybody else to shut the fuck up, this was mob business, then leave the guy in a puddle of teeth and blood out in the alley. Sometimes they’d beat the guy to the point where it looked like he was going to get maimed or killed, or they’d pick a woman, and I’d have to anonymously call the cops.
    Here’s the weird part: I watched them get made. I was following them pretty much every night, but it still surprised me when it happened.
    It was in a Temple of St. Anthony, in the basement of the activities building attached to a church in Paramus. You could see in through the bars of the sunken window, which was open to let the heat out. There were