Don’t Blink

Chapter 100

“DARK SIDE OF the Moon or Wish You Were Here?” asked A

Ruth Kreindler, the frick to A

“The way this is shaping up,” said Ruth, shaking her head, “we’ll hear both albums and some of The Wall as well. Al and his Pink Floyd.”

“Hey – he’s good, and he’s fun to work with.”

The two women, both in their early forties, were done with their pre-op checklist, even twice testing the suction machines as they’d been clogging as of late. All in all, it was business as usual, although they both knew that the man on the table, unconscious and breathing oxygen, was no ordinary patient.

“Do you believe all people deserve to be saved?” A

Ruth looked over her shoulder to make sure the two of them were still alone with the infamous mob boss. They were. “Are you speaking medically or spiritually?” she asked. “It might make a difference in my answer.”

A

“I know what you’re saying, but a hospital isn’t a court-room. Know what I mean?”

“I do. Still.”

Ruth glanced down at D’zorio. “I’ll put it to you this way,” she said. “A guy like this puts my faith to the test. It’s righteous anger versus forgiveness.”

“Who wins?” asked A

“Forgiveness, I suppose. Spiritually, all people can be saved.”

A

“What did you say?” asked Ruth.

A

But she’d heard it, too. Someone had said something in the operating room.

Simultaneously, they both looked down at D’zorio on the table. His thin, bluish lips were moving. He was mumbling.

“What did he say?” asked A

“I’m not sure,” said Ruth, leaning down toward his mouth. A

“Sorr -” said D’zorio, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sorry.”

At least, that’s what the two heard.

“He’s confessing his sins,” said A

“Or trying to,” said Ruth, walking over to the phone on the wall.

She called down to the staff chaplain’s office to see if D’zorio’s priest had arrived yet. They had been told he was on his way to administer the anointing of the sick, otherwise known as the mob boss’s last rites.

Apparently, D’zorio was starting without him.

Ruth was still waiting for someone in the chaplain’s office to pick up when the heart monitor alarm sounded.

“Oh, Christ!” said A

Ruth hung up the phone and ran out to where Dr. Sassoon had just finished scrubbing.

But it was too late. There would be no Pink Floyd played in the OR that afternoon. Joseph D’zorio had receded into death.

Like a distant ship’s smoke on the horizon.

Chapter 101

BRUNO TORENZI WAS steamrolling his way through the brush and branches, his hands clearing the way forward while his ears listened for anyone coming up behind him.

He was waiting for the explosion back on the train tracks, and with a quick glance at his watch he knew it wouldn’t be much longer. Any second now, really. It was so close to happening, he could practically hear the entire sequence in his head – a symphony of sounds, from the initial thunderous clap to the seemingly endless echo to the relentless squawking of every bird knocked off its perch within a square mile.

Finally, it came. The bomb, the echo, the birds… everything. Almost exactly as he’d imagined it would be.

But Torenzi didn’t stop and look back, not for a second. He had no interest in taking it all in. He didn’t feel the need.

He didn’t feel anything.

There was no glee, no satisfaction, and certainly no remorse – not even the slightest twinge of guilt over the i

As for the Rambo who’d crashed the party on the train, Torenzi still had no idea who he was. In hindsight, though, the guy must have known Daniels was wearing a bulletproof vest. There was no way his aim was that bad, the two shots he tagged Torenzi with being evidence of some skill on his part.

Speaking of not feeling anything…

Torenzi had yanked the black leather belt from his pants, making a tourniquet and cutting off the circulation directly below his shoulder. For now, his arm was as numb as rubber in December. Later, he’d tend to it. He’d dig out the bullets with the stiletto blade he kept strapped to his shin and then stitch himself up with a dime-store needle and thread, leaving two more scars on a body littered with them. No big deal. Just another day at the office.

As Hyman Roth said to Michael Corleone in The Godfather: Part II, “This is the business we’ve chosen.”

Now Torenzi’s business was done. Once again, he had won the game.

Finally, he emerged from the trees and saw the car waiting for him. Perfect timing. Things were going his way again – as they always did.

“Is he dead?” he heard as he approached the white Volvo S40.

Torenzi leaned down into the open window of the front passenger side. He smirked. “What do you think? You heard the explosion, didn’t you?”

Ian LaGrange smiled wide, his overly large mouth almost cartoonish. “Indeed I did,” he said. “Get in.”

The Volvo was parked on a deserted dead-end road, the only sign of life being two half-finished spec homes that were destined to stay that way because the builder had gone belly-up when the housing market had collapsed.

Torenzi yanked open the car door and stepped in. “Let’s go,” he said.

LaGrange motioned to Torenzi’s arm, the belt, and his bloodstained shirt beneath his jacket. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked.

“It’s nothing. There was someone else on the train.”

“Who?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m the head of the Organized Crime Task Force,” said LaGrange. “What do you think?”

“He was most likely FBI.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No, but the bomb surely did,” said Torenzi. “What about D’zorio?”

“He didn’t make it.”

“Lucky break for you.”

LaGrange chuckled. “Better to be lucky than good.”

“Even better to be both,” said Torenzi, meaning every word of it. “You got the rest of my money?”

“Of course I do. In the trunk,” he answered with a throw of his head. “Gave you a little extra for all your troubles. You did a fine job.”

Torenzi didn’t say thank you. Instead, he was wondering why LaGrange still had the car in park.

“What are we waiting for?” he asked.

“There’s one other piece of business we need to take care of.”

“What’s that?”

“Me,” said the man outside the open car window.

How do you say revenge in Russian?