Chapter 58
O UT 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.
And let him have caller ID.
John Maggione answered himself. “Who’s this?” he asked, and sounded bent out of shape already.
Bingo! The man himself. They’d hated each other since Maggione’s father had let Sullivan do some jobs for him.
“Take a guess, Junior.”
“I have no f*cking idea. How’d you get this number? Whoever you are, you’re a dead man.”
“Then I guess we’ve got something in common.”
Adrenaline raced through Sullivan’s system. He felt unstoppable right now. He was the best around at this kind of thing: setting up a target, playing with a mark.
“That’s right, Junior. The hunter becomes the hunted. It’s Michael Sullivan. Remember me? And you know what? I’m coming for you next.”
“The Butcher? Is that you, punk? I was going to kill you anyway, but now I’m going to make you pay for what you did to Benny. You piece of shit, I’m gonna hurt you so bad.”
“What I did to Benny is nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you. I’m going to cut you in two with a butcher saw, and send half to your mother, and the other half to your wife. I’ll let Connie see it just before I f*ck her in front of your kids. What do you think of that?”
Maggione exploded. “You are dead! You are so dead! Everything you ever cared about is
dead. I’m coming after you, Sullivan.”
“Yeah, well, take a number.”
He flipped the phone closed, then looked at his watch. That felt good ? talking to Maggione like that. Seven fifty. He wouldn’t even miss U2’s opening number.