Benny & Ray 47

Zuko

Friday May 4, 2001

9:17 A.M.

“What?!!” Ray yelled over the wall.

“Yeah,” Doyle called back to his partner.  “That’s what I heard in the canteen.”

Ray and Doyle sat in their respective cubicles, separated by a metal and fabric partition.  The squad room’s overhaul had recently been completed, so they now sat at new built-in desks and worked on new computers.     

“Nah, can’t be!” Ray said. “Jack Huey? Promoted? I got seniority over him. That should have been my job!” Ray crossed over to Doyle’s cubicle and perched one hip on Micky’s desk. “You sure you heard right?”

“Yeah, Ray, I’m sure.  But if it’s any consolation, I heard it’s gonna be second shift; lousy hours, and the perps in that neighborhood are nothing but the lowest scum of the earth.  He’ll have his hands full.”

“Yeah, but they don’t keep the new sergeants in one place too long.  In a year, it’ll be first shift in The Loop, where the worst crime they’ll have to prosecute will be jaywalking. You know, I can’t believe this. I’m gonna go see the lieu. This ain’t right!”

Ray burst into Lt. Welsh’s office with no preamble.  “Lieu!” Ray began, and shut his mouth.

Captain Sherry Miller sat in the guest chair across from Welsh.  Every since the squad room got renovated, the Captain spent much more time on this floor.  The third floor, where all the upper command dwelled, had been in much better condition than the original second floor squad room, so it had not been budgeted for rehab like the bullpen. Welsh’s office now was much more luxurious than Miller’s, so she used every excuse to help herself to Welsh’s office.

Both Welsh and the blonde turned at Ray’s outburst. 

“Uh…sorry!” Ray said.  He turned to go.

“Something on your mind, Vecchio?” Welsh called.

Ray glanced at Miller self-consciously.  He had a way of sticking his foot in his mouth when she was around, so he was reluctant to speak freely in front of her.

“Uh…I can come back if you’re busy,” Ray said. 

“Have a seat, Vecchio,” Miller said.

“What’s up, Detective?” Welsh asked in an avuncular way.

“Well, sir…we just heard that Huey just got promoted to sergeant.”

“Yes, that’s true. Remarkable how information flies around this place so fast.  It just came down and the whole place knows already?  Captain Miller and I were just discussing it. Huey and Dewey are out on a run, so we haven’t even had a chance to inform Huey yet.”

“Look, Lieu…how come Jack got it?  I mean, I’ve got two years seniority on him.  I’ve got a better conviction rate…I don’t get it.”

Miller and Welsh exchanged glances, but remained silent, each silently urging the other to answer.  Welsh cleared his throat.

Ray didn’t miss the look. “Look, if this has something to do with my and Benny’s relationship…well, there’s laws against that, sir. And if I need to get a lawyer involved in this, with all due respect sir…”

“This has nothing to do with Fraser, Ray.  I promise you.”

“Then what?”

The two officers exchanged glances again. Miller spoke.

“Detective Vecchio, it has nothing to do with your lover and everything to do with your multiple investigations by IA.”

Ray hung his head in consternation.  “Listen! Those clowns—

Miller cut him off.  “‘Those clowns’ have come pretty close to nailing you quite a few times, and each time you’ve managed to wriggle out of it, Detective, and clear your name, but the fact is, we’ve got a pattern here.”

Ray raised his hands in protest.  “Captain—

“Detective! You’ve displayed marginal behavior again and again.  Do you have any idea how many times you were almost fired?  On my watch alone, three times!  What saved your ass was working with Fraser all that time.”

“Yeah, but sir, I haven’t worked with Fraser going on two years now. What about my record since then? Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Miller sighed. 

Welsh tried. “Vecchio.  It’s like this.  We just don’t think you’re quite ready yet.”

“Well, whadda I have to do to get ready? Christ! I been a cop for fifteen years!” He thumped the Lieutenant’s desk in frustration.

“Alright,” Welsh soothed, “Easy, easy, easy. Vecchio…Ray, I’m sorry, but---

Welsh’s phone rang, and he picked up before the first ring ended, glad for the distraction.

His eyes narrowed and tilted his head. Listening intently.  “Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. We’ll get someone over there in fifteen minutes.  Yep.”  He hung up the phone.  “Well, today just got very interesting,” he said to Miller.  He turned his attention back to Ray.  “Vecchio, get Doyle and saddle up.  Get over to the Zuko compound.  Frank Zuko’s been shot to death.”

9:46 A.M.

Ray crouched over the dead body of Frank Zuko, careful not to touch the body or disturb the surroundings.  He tucked his notepad in his inside breast pocket, and stood. Then he peeled off his latex gloves, tucking them into his back pocket.  Micky Doyle circled around the body, snapping away on his camera.

Whoever shot Frank Zuko had a lot of anger towards him, which pretty much meant it could have been anyone in Chicago.  Frank had been beaten up before he was shot execution-style; his hands tied behind his back and a single gunshot at close range above his left ear.  The bullet had shattered the right side of the skull in its exit, and had embedded in a wall behind a bookcase; it had almost broken though the wall in the next room, it has been so forceful.  Just a simple .38, most likely a Smith and Wesson .38 Special or a Davis P-380; there were a couple of new arms dealers in town, and they had been flooding the streets with cheap .38’s.  Seemed like everybody and their grandmother carried a piece these days. It was going to be tough to figure out who did this.  There were a hundred people who wanted Frank Zuko dead, including himself.  Tough case.

Ray never thought he’d be in this house again.  After that last time.  After Irene.  A sudden wave of grief hit him fresh, like it just happened.  With a chill, he remembered himself yelling Oh my God! Oh my God! Call an ambulance!

He jerked his head toward Doyle, and the two of them moved away so that the ME’s office could bag the body.

Doyle spoke.  “I just talked to the first officer on the scene, Officer Price.  She’s combed the perimeter of the house.  No signs of forced entry.”

“Whoever did this, he knew them,” Ray commented, wheels already turning.

“She and her partner Reid got here at 8:50 and got the scene locked down pretty quickly.  Nobody in the house at the time of the incident, apparently.  One of the neighbors said the chauffeur usually takes the kids to school at 7:40.  The maid discovered the body.  She went out after cleaning up breakfast, around 8:00 and went to the supermarket.  She got back at 9:00 and called 911. Patrol Supervisor Powers arrived at 9:15 to assist Officers Price and Reid.”

“Did the maid say if Frankie was expecting any visitors?”

“She said as far as she knew, he wasn’t, but it wasn’t unusual for him not to tell her ahead of time.  Usually he only told her if they were staying for dinner or staying overnight.”

Ray mulled over the situation, searching for a starting point.  He sighed.  “All right,” he said.  “I wanna go talk to the maid a little more.  And we need to track down the chauffeur.  The kids’ll need to be questioned once they’ve been informed.  His oldest daughter Ann-Marie goes to Northwestern. I’ll track her down and let her know what’s going on first.  Can you have a squad car sent for the little kids at school?  I’m going to finish up with the maid and then go find the chauffeur before I talk to the daughter.  Then I gotta go find his consigliore and his bodyguard, see what’s up.  You stay here and wrap the scene up.  I’ll catch up with you later.”

10:42 a.m.

Ray sat across from a shaking Ann-Marie Zuko.  Her red face was smeared with tears and a thin stream of mucus slipped from her nose.  Ray reached for a box of tissues for her from where he sat across from her on her roommate’s bed.

Ray hated this part.  More than anything, he hated this part. Telling a family member they’d lost someone.  It was hard to tell a young girl she’d lost her daddy, even though it was Frank Zuko.  Ann-Marie had the same dark hair and eyes, and the same youthful, almost boyish body that her Aunt Irene had.  Ann-Marie sobbed.  “He’s was supposed to see me graduate next weekend.  The first Zuko to graduate college. He used to tell me he was so proud!  We were supposed to go to dinner tonight, and car shopping tomorrow.  My graduation present, you know?”

Ray nodded.

“Ann-Marie.  I need to ask you,” Ray said gently.  “Do you know what your father did?  For a living, I mean.”

“Course I knew.  I figured it out years ago.  For a long time, I pretended not to understand. It was easier that way.  But by the time I got in high school—well, that’s harder to do.  You see your dad have “business meetings” at ten o’clock at night.  See him arrested a couple times a year, and back home in time for dinner.  I knew what that meant.”

“Did he know that you knew?”

“Yeah.  But we didn’t discuss it. Oh my God.  Do Jessica and Rachel know yet?”  Her young sisters. 

“We sent a car out to pick them up from school and bring them home.  There’s a social worker and grief counselor on the scene waiting to break the news to them.  Is there somebody we can call to look after them? Family?”

Ann-Marie smiled sadly.  “My mom moved back to Seattle after the divorce.  As far as the Zuko side of the family went, we weren’t exactly on speaking terms with a lot of them.  After Daddy shot Aunt Irene….”

“I understand.”

“I’m twenty-one.  Will they release the kids to my care? I can look after them,” she said, a little pride shining through, despite the circumstances.

Ray peered at this little girl.  Little Irene.  “Yeah.  We can do that,” he said.

“I need to pack,” she said.

“Fine, and while you’re doing that, I need to ask you a few more questions.”

“OK,” she said. 

Ray took out his notebook and patted his pockets for a pen. 

The girl hadn’t moved to pack, but instead sat gazing at him, eyes searching his face.  “I remember you, you know?”  She seemed to look right into his soul.  It made him uncomfortable, like conversing with the dead.

“What?”

“I remember you. You climbed up to Aunt Irene’s room that night.  You threw pebbles on the window.  That was you, right?”

“Yeah,” Ray said sadly, remembering.

“She was leaving the house because of you.  She was going to go and look for you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“You kept your promise to me, Ray. You did end it that night.”

“What?  What’d you say?”

“I…just asked you if you were alright.” Ann-Marie looked at him, puzzled.

“You’d better pack,” was all Ray said, clearing the lump in his throat, clicking his pen.

6:30 p.m.

Ray was glad it was Benny’s night to cook.  He was exhausted.  His feet were throbbing. He was forty years old and too old for this shit. 

He put slid his key in and wearily turned the knob.  Ray was immediately hit with the smell of pasta fagioli.  Mmmm. Exactly what he needed; Benny made it just like Ma taught him.

“Hey!” Benny called from the kitchen. 

“Hey!” Ray called back. 

A blur of white fur flashed in front of his face. Pearson launched herself against Ray, desperately nuzzling for his hands.  “Hey, Furface,” Ray said, rubbing her head.  He squatted and permitted the dog to give his face a lick before he stood again.  Pearson followed him as he left the living room.

He went to the bedroom and removed this jacket and tie, and then went to the bathroom and scrubbed his hands and underneath his nails.  The dog had loyally trailed behind him, tail wagging.  She looked up at him with adoring eyes, muzzle perched on the pedestal sink.  “Awww, quit sucking up” Ray murmured. “You just want a treat.”  Ray chuckled when the husky whined.  She was a good dog, no question, and was a lot like old Dief in many ways.

The hot sudsy water felt good on Ray’s hands.  He rinsed and scrubbed again because it felt so pleasant.  Ray toed off his shoes in the hallway, on the way to the kitchen.  Pearson curiously sniffed his shoes and then continued on with Ray.

Benny was bent over the stove, pulling thick, buttered Texas toast out of the oven when he got to the kitchen.  Ray reached out and grasped the lush derrière, pinching a bit, and Benny closed the oven, chuckled and straightened.

Ray embraced him from behind.

“You feed this dog today, babe?”

“Of course I did,” he murmured.  “She just finished her supper.  And I gave her a treat.”

Ben turned in Ray’s arms as a waft of heat from the oven gently diffused around them. They stayed that way for a long moment, swaying just a little.

Ray squeezed Benny and buried his face in his shoulder.  “Frank Zuko’s been murdered,” he said tiredly. His voice muffled in Benny’s shoulder.

“Oh dear!”  Ben said, squeezing Ray tight.

10:00 p.m.

“Tell me what else is bothering you, Ray.”  Ben had listened to Ray toss and turn for the past half hour.  Ben moved Ray into his arms to quell the restlessness.  

Ray stroked Benny’s arm with lazy movement after settling his head on his chest.

“This thing with Zuko.  It’s freaking me out.  He was my age; we grew up together.  It was like I was seeing me, lying there on the floor instead of him.  It made me wonder how I’m gonna die.  You ever think about dying, Benny?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you think there’s really an afterlife?”

“I know there is. My father.”

“Benny…ah…your talking to your father.  Do you really believe that was real?”

“It felt like it was, Ray.”

“But that doesn’t mean that is was.”

“Well, then, what else do I have to go by, really, to determine if something’s real or not?”

“Benny, what do you think it’s like? Being dead?” Ray whispered.

“I think…I think it will be like you are asleep and forever dreaming.  Bits of your life replaying for you.”

“I’m scared of it, Benny.  I’m so scared of dying! I don’t ever want to leave here, and miss this. Miss us.”

“Shhhh,” Ben soothed.  “It’s not going to be for another sixty years, Ray, another lifetime from now.”

“Benny?”

“Mmmm?”

“We’ll always be together, won’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And you won’t leave me?”

“No, love. Never.”

“Promise me, Benny. Promise me forever.”

Ben squeezed the man in his arms as tightly as he could.  “I promise I will be with you in this life and after, Ray. I promise you that.”

“Thank you, Benny.” 

Satisfied, Ray fell asleep, and dreamed.  And in his dream, he tumbled from the sky.

Monday May 5

5 a.m.

Ray had spent the weekend, running down some leads, running through a list of Zuko’s associates; Ginaldo Ianuccilli from the north side, Tommy Patrillo from the west side, Big Al Moreno, Pauly Lazio, Gino Messina, Reggie Rimini.  Nobody was talking. And who said that Omerta was dead? 

Doyle had tracked down Charlie “The Greek” Greco in Pensacola, but he’d been there for two years, one of the few to make it to a peaceful retirement.  Charlie gave Micky a few names of men who would dearly love to see Frankie dead, but half of them were dead themselves, already having fallen victim to Zuko’s ambitions of wiping out all his enemies and known threats.

Ray sat in a borrowed motor pool car, a few doors down from the home of one Jimmy “Roastbeef” Rossi. He’d been staked out since ten last night, waiting for him to come home.  Turns out that right after Frankie was offed, Jimmy had conveniently disappeared.

Ray saw headlights in his side view mirror. He scooched down in his seat as a big black Caddy darted by him, and slid into the Rossi driveway.  Ray moved.  But as he walked toward a surprised Jimmy Roastbeef, he knew that Jimmy wasn’t the perp.  It would have been too easy, and this case was going to be nothing but hard.

12:30 p.m.

Jimmy had fingered Michael Sorrento, who he claimed was running his operation from jail.  Not surprisingly, Sorrento said it was Jimmy, free on the outside to do whatever he wanted.  The two capos had been rivals for years, vying for Frank’s good graces, hoping to be the next in line for head of the family.

Sorrento sat at a table in the holding cell being hammered by Ray as Doyle circled around, observing Sorrento for signs of nervousness, lying. Sorrento had been pretty unflappable so far.

Ray paced in front of Sorrento. “Everybody knows you and Frank had a falling out years ago, after you bombed my car, killed my friend, and tried to blame it on the Dario brothers.  You had major beef.  You moved out of the neighborhood and started your own thing.”

“Look.  Me and Frankie had our differences, but we left each other alone.”

“Word on the street is that you been try to steal the whole West Side out from under him for years. He was gonna have you whacked as soon as you get out of jail.  But you got to him first, didn’t you?”

“Look…the guy was a friend of mine, alright? We grew up together.  Why would I want him dead?”

“Why would you want him dead? I’ll tell you why you’d want him dead. Millions and millions of dollars in protection money, drugs, guns, prostitution, you name it.”

“I hadn’t spoke to Frank in years!”

“You didn’t have to.  You been using Jimmy Leonardo to go after him, or sending Joey Bats, or Luigi Porkchops or any of your other goons to keep the pressure up.”

“I’m in jail, man! I got no power over anybody.”

“Jimmy Roastbeef said it was you.”

“Jimmy don’t know nuttin’! He can suck it!” Sorrento spat.

“Who’d you send after Frank, Mikey?”

“I got nuttin’ else to say to you,” Sorrento said, clamming up.

“Was it somebody else?  Cuz if it was, and you know who it was, it’d be in your best interest to tell me.  You might find your probation hearing coming up a lot sooner than you think.”  Not a chance in hell of that, but Ray figured he had nothing to lose with the empty promise.

Sorrento said nothing, staring ahead at nothing.

“Alright.  Have it your way.  See you in thirty years, if you’re still alive.  Doyle, let’s go.” Ray signaled the guard to release him and his partner from the holding cell.  He left frustrated and wondering if he was losing his edge.  Time ago, he would have broken anybody down in record time with his ‘in your face’ method of interrogation.  He was too old for this.

8:30 p.m.

Ray lay sprawled across their bed, on his stomach, as Benny sat astride him, and gave him a deep tissue massage.  Benny pushed deep to ease the tensed, knotted muscles. 

“Benny, what would you think of me if I left the force?”

Benny was so surprised, he paused in his ministrations.  He resumed after a moment, gentler this time, caressing.  “What would you do, Ray?”

Ray inhaled and sighed deeply.  “I dunno, Benny.  Just a thought.”

“What’s on your mind, Ray?”

“It’s just that….it’s just that I feel like I’m shoveling against the tide these last couple of years.  I mean, is the world any better for me taking a few thugs off the street?”

“Of course it is, Ray,” Ben assured him.  “Think of the people whose lives you’ve kept out of danger, or whose lives you’ve saved because you kept a dangerous criminal off the street.”

“It just seems like for every thug I take off the street, there’s three more, ready to take his place.”

“Ray, policing is in your blood.  I know you believe in the essential goodness of people, and that protecting the good and the innocent is of the utmost importance.”

“Is that what I believe, Benny?”

“Yes, Ray, you do.”

Ray was silent for long moments.  Enjoying the feeling of his lover digging into the hard knots in his shoulders, back and neck.  He let his mind drift, and sighed.  Finally he said, “I can’t believe they picked Jack Huey over me. It isn’t fair.”

“Your time will come.”

“When, Benny?”

“When the time is right for you, Ray.”*

Tuesday May 6

3:30 a.m.

Ray stared up at the ceiling, reliving his day. He had been back at the Zuko house after leaving Sorrento.  He had spoken very candidly to Ann-Marie Zuko again. The young woman’s face was tear-streaked, and she was clearly exhausted, but her mouth was set in a purposeful way, resolved. Tomorrow there would be no Mass of Christian Burial for Thomas-Franco David Zuko.  The church would not permit it, given Frank’s “occupation”.  But she made sure that he would be buried in his family’s section of the St. Donatus Cemetery, near his parents and his sister. 

Ray remembered visiting Irene there.  It took him a year to gather the courage to face seeing her headstone.  What he felt mostly, staring down at the gleaming pink granite, was anger and frustration.  He had felt lonely and afraid. 

As he left the cemetery, a man in a funny hat and a white wolf waited just outside the entrance. Ray’s spirits were instantly lifted.  He had reached out and hugged Benny in sheer gratitude, squeezing his shoulders hard.  Benny had squeezed him back.  Ray never did figure out just how Benny and Dief knew where to find him.  He hadn’t told anybody where he was going; it was a though Benny appeared from nowhere exactly when he was needed.

In bed now with his best friend, Ray listened to Benny breathe.   He turned to his side and watched Benny. Watched his chest rise and fall.  His lips were parted. Ray smiled with love, before turning back to the face the ceiling. 

He wondered how long Benny had to live, how long any of them had.  Ray contemplated his final view of Frank’s face, lying on his Turkish carpet, face bloodied, cut, battered. There were odd marks on his face, a couple of perfect circles with a vertical line down the center. The coroner concluded that it was a ring.  The blows had been delivered to Frankie’s right cheekbone, cracking the zygoma, just below the eye.

Ray just realized something.  The man who killed Frank was left-handed. Ray’s heart began to race at the epiphany.

That narrowed the list down significantly.  Glancing at the sleeping Benny, Ray gently climbed out of bed.  He went into the study, and impatiently waited for his laptop to power up. 

Ray tapped into the CPD and FBI database, searching for all known living associates of the late Frank Zuko.

7:00 p.m.

Ray had Doyle haul them into the station for handwriting samples, one by one. It wasn’t the handwriting they were after, but in which hand they held the pen.  There were three southpaws:   “Smooth” Bobby Ruffino, Frances “The Nose” Della Penna, and Petey “The Hammer” Ianucci.

He and Doyle sat in Doyle’s cubicle, examining the coroner’s report, diagrams and photographs,  searching for insight.  Doyle puzzled over a marked up line-drawing of a human face, indicated the size and location of every bruise and laceration of Frank’s face.

“The ring,” Micky said.

“What about it?”

Ray was tired, and irritable.  He was missing dinner with Benny. His eyes were grainy.

“It’s not a line, Ray.  It’s an ‘I’.” 

“Let me see that,” Ray said, grabbing the diagram.  Mort’s assistant had precisely copied the circular marks on Frank’s face, perhaps not realizing the significance.  Like in the photographs, the vertical line distinctly did not touch the circle that made up the ring’s edge.  It was an “I” all right.

Wednesday May 7

7:48 a.m.

Petey Ianucci was cornered in an alley off Diversey, Ray in front of him, and Micky behind him. He thought of making a break of it, but he couldn’t run so much these days.  

“So I roughed him up a little,” The Hammer said.  “Is that a crime?”

“Funny thing is, yeah, it is,” Ray said.

“Those wounds were fresh when half of Frank’s head was blown away. You gonna tell us it was just a coincidence that he had been beaten up right about the same time?”  Doyle said, incredulously.

“You’re going down for this one, Petey, murder 1,” Ray snarled.  Petey made a break for it and Ray reached out to grab his collar, to halt him.  Before the action was completed, a shot rang out, echoing through the narrow alley.

Ray and Micky ducked, and Petey dropped with a thud.  The two detectives exchanged glances.

The reverb died, and the alley was silent again.  They stayed low, both drawing their guns.  By gestures, Ray indicated to Doyle go toward the back of the alley.  The shot had come from behind Micky.  Micky darted off.

Ray glanced down at Petey, amazed neither he nor Micky had gotten shot too.  Lucky them. Ray then noticed the perfect hole in the back of Petey’s head, and rolled him over.  A clean shot.  Petey Ianucci was dead. Ray called for backup.

10:23 a.m.

The coroner’s van had already driven off with its cargo, and the police ‘caution’ tape had been removed. Ray went back to his car, started it up, and turned it in the direction of the station.

He met his partner there. Doyle had already apprehended the man who fired the shot after a short foot chase.

Ray pushed his way into room one.  And came to an abrupt halt when he saw the assailant.  Well, wasn’t this a shocker but maybe it shouldn’t have been.  It was old ‘whats his name”.  Richie Greco.  Irene’s ex-husband.

12:20 p.m.

After two hours of hard questioning, Richie Greco had revealed that Ianucci had double-crossed him on a couple of business deals.  Richie was out of a million plus. 

Richie didn’t know a thing about Petey beating up or killing Frankie, or what his motivation might have been.  And even if he did, he assured Ray he wouldn’t snitch anyway.  He was on old school kind of a guy.  His father brought him up right.

Richie had called his father down in Pensacola, and Charlie in turn had called the family attorney, bail was posted, and he was free until his trial.

Ray and Doyle had come to a dead end with Ianucci dead.  And nobody else was talking.  People hated Frank.  Whoever took him out did everybody a favor.  The code of silence descended on Little Italy.

Friday June 29

3 p.m.

Ray Vecchio stood over the fresh grave of Frank Zuko, pondering.  So there it was.  Another lifetime come and gone.  Ray thought of that old proverb about reaping what you sowed.

This morning, he had quietly closed the case file for the murder of Frank Zuko.  He sent the file to storage in County Cook Records. 

With Frank out of the picture, Jimmy Roastbeef had taken over the business dealings. And everybody knew Jimmy was just a thug and didn’t have the business acumen to keep things together.  The West Side “empire” would fizzle out within a matter of years.

The Zuko family was straight at last.

Brothers Carlito and Matteo Zuko** had come to power in 1931, partnering up with The Purple Gang out of Detroit to bring the booze out of Canada and to open dozens of speak-easies all over town.  From there, they had branched into book-making, prostitution and opium-trafficking.  Even so, they were known as gentlemen, respectful to women and gentle with children. They always kept their word in business dealings, only resorting to violence to enforce the rules, to keep the peace.

But the world had changed greatly between 1931 and 1983, when Carl’s son Frank had taken over the family business.  Frank was a bully, a coward, and a double crosser. In a matter of years, Frank had also blown through of millions of dollars.  There wasn’t much left for Ann-Marie and his other children besides the house and furnishings.   And what little was left, Ann-Marie was determined to purge the family of the blood money.

Ann-Marie had moved into the house, her house now, and was looking after the kids.  As soon as the school year ended, the girls were being flown out to Seattle to live with their mother.  Ray had heard through Elaine Besbriss-Franklin who heard through Angie Miller who heard from Ann-Marie’s aunt on her mother’s side that Ann-Marie had joined with the Italian Social Club to create a charitable trust fund for deserving and impoverished kids in the neighborhood, to put things right.

Standing there at Frank’s grave, Ray cast his mind back over thirty years, remembering.

Frank was the cool guy in the class, quick-witted, funny, a flashy dresser.  The family was rich, and everybody knew why.  To be considered a friend of Frankie Zuko meant you were in the know, and that you were somebody.

Ray was one of the four or five guys that constantly orbited Frankie, hoping to be declared His Best Friend. 

He and Frankie often traded lunches, or hung out at each other’s houses after school doing (or not doing) homework.  They used to sit at the back of math of class and make smart remarks about the girls in class, their burgeoning little breasts, or stare at Miss Romano’s long legs emerging from her polyester mini skirt, and bet which one was going to end up marrying her.

He and Frankie and the other guys used to stay after school on Fridays and play basketball.

They chose up sides and Marco Matroni*** ended up on Frankie’s team, and he kept screwing up.  Marco couldn’t play basketball worth a damn.  He didn’t even care about basketball. All he cared about was hanging out with the guys, and staying away from home as much as possible.  Marco hated being at home.  He was afraid of his father, but nobody knew exactly why. There were some things going on in the Matroni home that the adults, and later the children whispered about in the dark, but never spoke of during the day.  Marco was someone that everyone pitied.

Except for Frankie.  Frankie lost it one day, furious at Marco because they were losing an easy game by twenty points. Marco only laughed at Frankie; he didn’t care about winning or losing. And Frankie went nuts.  He punched Marco, who dropped like wet sand.  Marco stayed down, and Frankie pounded him, first with his fists, and then with the basketball while Paul Francesco and Jackie Cirillo held him down.

The rest of the guys were all so shocked that nobody moved, just kind of stood there dumbly, each looking to the other to see if the other would help.  Nobody came to Marco’s rescue.  Ray remembered the look of terror on Marco’s face as they briefly made eye contact.  Ray looked away.

Frankie finally stopped after Marco passed out, his face a bloody pulp. They left him there, all but Ray.  After the guys left, Ray ran down the halls of West Side Jr. High, yelling for help.  Mr. Masella, who was working late grading papers, came out to see what the matter was.  Ray told him what happened, shaking like a leaf.

And on Monday morning, Frank was suspended. Little Ray Vecchio and Frankie Zuko became sworn enemies from that moment on.

Marco Matroni always vowed revenge, but he never got any.  Despite everything, Marco didn’t have a violent bone in his body.  Ray and Marco became friends.  Marco never, ever held it against Ray that Ray didn’t stop Frankie.  He understood.

Ray wondered where Marco was after all these years, and if he’d heard about Frankie’s murder.  After Marco’s father had died, the family had buried him and moved out of state within a month of the funeral.  Marco’s mother had moved back home and had taken his younger sisters back to Staten Island to live with her parents.  Marco didn’t go with them.  He was out of high school, and got an apartment, working as a mechanic.  He drifted around from place to place for a few years before completely disappearing.

Who knows? For all he knew, it was Marco that did the job on Frankie, Ray mused.  Who’s to say he wasn’t still in Chicago?  It was a big city and people disappeared in it all the time.

Ray turned to go, saying good-bye to the Zuko’s forever.  He walked down the short winding path lined with blooming azalea bushes.   Under Ray’s feet crunched a fine crushed gravel that echoed throughout the nearly empty cemetery. He jammed his hands into his pants pockets.

Ray moved to a wide brick path, the main entry way that lead to the tree-lined, shady street.

Near the entranceway waited a good-looking man in a red suit and a funny hat, accompanied by a white dog with inquisitive eyes, tongue hanging from her open mouth.  The dog yipped.  Ray smiled, left the memory of Frank Zuko and Marco Matroni behind, and walked into the outstretched arms of his lover.