Free House Reckoning by Mike Lawson Page B

entered the room. He was in his forties, tall and skinny, and his dark hair was receding rapidly. His face was sallow and the whites of his eyes had a yellowish tinge, and Quinn’s first impression was: junkie.
    “Good,” the man said, “you’re awake.”
    “Where am I?” Quinn asked.
    “My house in Queens. You’re going to be all right. The bullet didn’t hit anything important but you’re going to need therapy to regain full use of your arm. Since I’m guessing you don’t want to go to your regular doctor, you’re going to have to come back here and see me a couple of times to make sure you’re healing properly. I’m not a therapist but I know enough to help you and I’ll do what I can, but don’t be surprised if you lose some range of motion. I’ll put your arm in a sling and you can tell people you fucked up your shoulder doing something, a fall, whatever.”
    Quinn wasn’t worried about what he’d tell the people at work. He wouldn’t take off his shirt in front of them and he could explain the sling like the doctor had said, by claiming he’d done something at home that had dislocated his shoulder. His wife was the problem. The night he killed Jerry Kennedy he’d told her he was on an undercover assignment working directly for the chief of D’s, something really hush-hush that could be a big break for his career. He’d told her the same story tonight when he left the apartment to head down to Red Hook, that he was pulling a double shift because of the same undercover assignment. To explain the bandage on his shoulder, he could tell her that he had to sneak into an abandoned building to watch some criminals and he ran into a jagged piece of rebar or sheet metal. He’d say it wasn’t a serious injury and that he’d been treated by a doc at the emergency room, but that she couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Hmm. He’d give it some more thought, but that would probably work.
    “I’m going to call Carmine now,” the doctor said, “and you and he can decide how to get you home.”
    “Do you know who I am?” Quinn asked.
    “No, and I don’t want to know.”

10
    Joe was in bed, asleep, and the doorbell ringing woke him up. Irritated, he wondered who could be calling so early; it wasn’t even seven. A moment later, he heard his mother scream.
    A man in a suit and a uniformed cop were standing in the doorway. His mother was sitting on the floor, her knees up against her chest, sobbing into her hands.
    “What did you do to my mother?” Joe said.
    The man in the suit said, “Son, my name’s Detective Lynch. I’m sorry to tell you this, but your father’s dead. He was shot and killed last night.”
    His mother had been expecting this to happen all her life, but when it finally did, she fell apart. Joe’s Aunt Connie had to take care of all the funeral arrangements because Maureen DeMarco couldn’t even get out of bed. Joe was simply numb. It felt like there was a cold, empty place inside his chest and it felt like the place would remain empty the rest of his life.
    The cops had no idea who’d shot his father, and Joe could tell they weren’t trying all that hard to find the killer. They figured, just like everybody else figured, that Gino DeMarco’s death was connected in some way to Carmine Taliaferro’s criminal operations. One gangster killing another wasn’t exactly at the top of the NYPD’s priority list.
    His mother didn’t want to have a viewing or a wake for her husband. There was a simple funeral mass at the church and Joe was surprised by how many people came. Half of them were neighbors and relatives; the other half was a bunch of shifty-looking guys dressed in cheap suits. There was one large floral arrangement near the casket, an expensive wreath about three feet in diameter made from roses. None of the neighbors could have afforded the wreath. The priest made an announcement at the end of the mass saying that the family would be going alone to the