28 — In the Moment
October 29, 1938
Dwight adjusted the mask again. Damn thing itched, but the eye holes were big enough to see out of, barely. The costume as a whole didn't fit him ideally, but then, he wasn't here for comfort.
He was here for work.
So far, none of the guests seemed any more suspicious than they might. Of course, all of them were attending a party held by a pillar of the criminal underworld, so that made them questionable in Dwight's eyes. He'd even spotted Sergeant Henratty entering, dressed as a London cop.
Damn. He'd thought Henratty might be one of the clean ones.
Adjusting the mask again, Dwight let his fingers run over it. Skull. He was the Red Death. Carmine Tamburo had, upon their meeting when Dwight arrived, seemed to find that inutterably funny, nearly falling to the floor in his mirth.
"Careful," Dwight had muttered.
"You'll strain your damn arm."
The Tamburos were all over at the far end of the room, laughing it up. Family. They were just a family. Sure, the father and the older sons, along with a boatload of more distant relatives, were mixed up in all sorts of nasty rackets, but still, they were just people.
At least, Dwight supposed they were people.
Sighing, Dwight once more adjusted his mask and attempted to mingle.
"You see anyone acting funny?" Renato asked.
"Nope," Carmine said, and waved to an old college friend across the room.
"Look, little brother, you sure you told me everything?"
Carmine nodded.
"Told you all I know," he lied, and felt the little kick of pain in his gut that followed every particularly smooth falsehood.
Maybe Rico had been wrong. Maybe Dom wasn't that stupid. Anyway, none of the Farinos had put in an appearance. That was a good sign in Carmine's eyes.
The P.I. Carmine had hired was making his way through the crowd, blending pretty well. Now and then he would sort of meet Carmine's gaze, shake his head, and move on. Once, he almost got bowled over by Modesto, who had made a game out of darting in and out between the guests, sidling through the crowd here, plowing past people there.
Mama had tried to round her youngest up, but of course she'd had no luck.
"Shouldn't you be gathering up with your family?" Pauline breathed.
"If it's tradition..."
"I can get there right as Papa starts talking," Nunzia assured her, " and no one will really care."
They had snuck off into this little alcove to "talk" around ten minutes ago, once Nunzia had managed to extricate herself from one of her mother's many attempts to "matchmake."
"First there was a linguist," she had recounted, "then a minister, then some guy who seems real bitter no one listened to him about the crash..."
Eventually her cataloguing of the men her mother threw her at had given way to simply putting some very gentle, but very definite, moves on Pauline. Not that there was any complaint. Even if they didn't last much past this month, Pauline would always happily fall back on memories of the way Nunzia made her feel.
"What was that?" Pauline murmured suddenly, and Nunzia looked up from kissing the side of her neck.
There had been a small cracking sound out in the midst of the party. Now, two more followed it, and suddenly Pauline knew it wasn't just something breaking.
"Shit," Nunzia breathed, and ducked away from her.
"Stay there."
It happened too quickly. Carmine had spotted Modesto running up to Frankie Manahan, who either wasn't in costume or, in his dark suit, was dressed as a banker.
It was really the recognition that something looked funny about Frankie's jacket buttons that got Carmine's attention, as well as the way the older boy ignored Modesto and lurched, like a half-drunk bum, toward the table the Tamburos were gathered by.
Modesto tried more than once to get his older friend's attention. He ended up grabbing at Frankie's sleeve, and when at last Frankie turned to look at him, there was a nasty, dull crack.
From the corner of his eye, Carmine saw someone approaching them from the left. Someone approaching and raising a gun, much bigger than the one Frankie had just used on Modesto.
Carmine turned, grabbed Renato's shoulder, and dragged them both to the floor. Mama was screaming — a lot of people were screaming — and now guns were going off right and left. Renato had shaken Carmine's grip and crawled under the table. Good. Good. He was hiding.
No.
He wasn't.
He was crawling out under the far side of the table, crawling on his belly, desperately trying to get to Modesto. Carmine reached for his foot, but it was just out of reach.
Like a fool, Carmine stood, but dropped back to sit on the floor just as suddenly when he felt the sear of hot lead graze his good shoulder just beside the knot of the sling.
Dwight had noted the kid, maybe fifteen or so years old, dressed in a black suit, making his way through the party. He hadn't thought much of it, but for the slight awkward swing of the boy's arms.
Modesto Tamburo approached the boy, tried to talk to him, and in a flash, was shot for his trouble. Dwight had started pushing through the crowd then, had gotten close enough to tackle the shooter and pin him to the floor.
The boy looked shocked, staring up at Dwight, a spatter of blood on his cheek. Not his, but his victim's.
"I... I... I just..." he stammered.
The buttons of his jacket, black of course, were oddly sewn on with twisted red-and-gray... No, red-and-lavender thread.
"Why the fuck did you do that?" Dwight shouted.
"He... Oh, Jesus, OH, SWEET JESUS HE WAS IN MY W..."
The kid went silent as someone slid, on their knees, to his side and sent a bullet through his brain. Dwight looked over and saw Renato Tamburo gently put the gun on the floor, then scoop up Modesto Tamburo and cradle him like an overgrown baby.
This guy, this hardened killing machine, was bawling his eyes out as his kid brother's blood soaked into his costume and bullets flew around him.
The table went over with a thud, and Carmine saw Dom, like an animal, leap over and go tearing toward another gunman. Dom produced a gun from somewhere, but the other guy was too fast, and now it was Dom who went over, bleeding.
Carmine felt woozy. He'd crawled half out into the midst of the guests — he could hear Renato wailing. Someone, a woman, was trying to get Carmine to sit still, was pressing a bit of gauzy black fabric to his wound. He looked at her, saw a face looking back at him that seemed familiar, and just managed to place her as some writer whose latest book Burt had started reading yesterday. She'd been in the papers lately, visiting the city, and Papa had invited her because she was "classy".
Carmine thought she was sort of beautiful.
Then he passed out.
Posted Oct 28, 2019, 11:11 AM UTC · edited