Robert and Tony left the room, on the orders of their father, and Mick would have preferred that Jenay left too.  But Charles overruled him.  “She was the one they nearly killed.  Twice,” he added. “She stays put.”

Jenay loved the fact that Charles always stood up for her, even against a man who could be a bully like Mick.  But Charles always viewed Mick as his little brother. And no kid brother of his would ever have more authority than he had.

Mick sat at the head of the table, although that had not been his original seat.  But Charles and Jenay both could see a power play at work.  This man, this Brazzano, was Mick’s peer.  But Mick had to make it clear who was running the show.

Although Brazzano was a much older man than Mick, he seemed to understand.  He sat to the right of the head of the table.  He knew he had no entitlement in Mick’s house.  He was not offended.

“Before you start accusing me of all kinds of horrors,” Brazzano said, “I need you to understand the position I’m in.”

Everybody watched him closely.  Ten of Mick’s men were stationed inside the house, watching him closely too.  But it was only precautionary.  Mick knew Peetie Brazzano from way back.  He knew he would not be foolish enough to launch an attack this brazen.

But that didn’t mean he trusted him.  He didn’t.  Mick, in fact, had his oldest son, his underboss Teddy Sinatra, take his family to a safe house in Philly.  Until this was resolved, they, too, were under around-the-clock guard.

But Brazzano wanted to explain himself.  “Arnie works for me,” he said.  “You and the world know he’s my underboss.  And he has been for many years.  You know this, Michello.  But what you don’t know, because I do not allow this to become public, is that I have many disagreements with him.  He has that tendency to, what do you call it, go rogue whenever he feels the need.  What he did here in Jericho, here in Maine, was not my doing.”

Charles and Jenay looked at Mick.  He knew this character.  Was he buying it?

“I did not sanction this at all,” Brazzano said.  “I respect you, Michello.  I have respected you since the day you stood up to Paulo Gabrini.  I would be digging my own grave, and the graves of my entire family, if I were to attack your brother and his family the way they attacked them.  I knew nothing of this, nothing I tell you, until today.”

“Why would Arnie target mine?” Mick asked.  “I don’t know that piece of shit like that.  Why would he do it?”

Brazzano was already shaking his head.  “I asked everybody who knew him.  Everybody.  What did he have against you or your brother or your brother’s family?  But it was the same answer.  He never said that he did.”

“Who’s Arnie Palmer?” Charles asked.  “What’s his background?  What’s his real name?”

“His background is our background,” Brazzano said.  “Me and Michello’s and wise guys like us.  He ran the streets, just like the rest of us.  His real name is Arnold Habberwell, Junior, so you can imagine he wasn’t about to use that name on the streets.  Back then, he claimed to be Arnie Habb.  But then they started calling him A-rab, although he wasn’t one.  And as he got older, and everybody knew he loved golf, he became Arnie Palmer.  And that name stuck.  But as far as anything strange or different about him, no.  He moved up the ranks in my organization, and became my number two.”

But Jenay wasn’t listening anymore.  “I know that name,” she said.

Everybody looked at her.  “What name?” Charles asked.

“Where did I see that name?”

“What name?” Brazzano asked her.

Then she remembered.  She remembered!  She grabbed Charles’s cellphone, pulled up Lou Fontaine’s obituary online, scrolled down, and that was where she saw it.  “I knew it!” she said.

“Tell us, babe,” Charles said.

“Miss Fontaine is survived by, and they name her sisters and her cousins and some other people.  Then here: and she’s also survived by her longtime butler, Arnold Habberwell, Senior.”

Everything stopped.  Charles snatched the phone from Jenay and looked for himself.   “I’ll be gotdamn!  That old butler of Lou’s is Arnie Palmer’s father?”

“What butler?” Brazzano asked.  “What Lou?”

But Mick knew exactly who they were talking about also.

“But what beef would that old coot have with us?” Mick asked.

“I don’t know,” Charles said, rising, causing everybody else to rise.  “But we’re going to find out.”

  

Mick and Brazzano shook hands at the limo, as Brazzano got in and headed back to his turf in Jersey.  Charles and Mick piled into Charles’s Jaguar, and headed to the big house.

But Charles looked at his brother as they drove away.  Mick looked at him.  “You think that’s wise?” Charles asked.

“Do I think what’s wise?” Mick asked.

“To let him go like that.  What if he’s in on it too?”

“He’s not in on it,” Mick said confidently.   “But in case he is, he’s not going anywhere yet.  My men are driving him to the airport, to his plane, but he and his plane will be detained until they get the all-clear from me.  So, in answer to your question, no, I do not think it’s wise to allow him to just leave like that.”

Charles smiled.  “I should have known better than to ever think you wouldn’t be on your game.”

Mick didn’t show it, but he appreciated the compliment.

 

They knew from general town gossip that Lou Fontaine’s butler had remained as caretaker on the property.  So they knew he lived there.  But what they didn’t know was the reception they were going to get when they arrived there.  Did he know that Arnie Palmer, his son, was dead?  Was he in on the scheme, or was he as in the dark as Brazzano seemed to be?  But one thing was for certain: they needed answers.  And by hook or by crook, they were going to get them.

Charles let Mick out of the Jag a few doors down from the Fontaine property, and Charles drove on to the location.  While he went up to the front door and knocked, Mick went around back, to see what he could see.

He found an opening, an unlocked door, and entered it.  But as he walked through, looking for the butler, he found nothing.  The furniture was all covered with plastic.  The house smelled of mold and mildew.  Nothing seemed amiss.

He unlocked the front door for Charles.

“Anything?” Charles asked as he entered the house, too.

“Nothing so far.  I haven’t been upstairs.”

“I’ll look up,” Charles said.  “You stay down here.”

Mick wasn’t accustomed to being handled, and gave his brother a side eye, but he didn’t argue with him.  Charles checked upstairs.

But he didn’t find anything out of the ordinary up there, either.  If the butler was this mastermind behind his house explosion and Percy’s drive-by attempt, he hid it well.  Not so much as a newspaper clipping could be found.

Charles headed back downstairs.

“Anything?” Mick asked him.

Charles shook his head.  “What about you?”

“Nada down here.”

“There’s a shed out back,” Mick said.  “Let’s take a look.”

They went out back where a small, aluminum shed was sitting away from the main house. When they walked up to it, Mick stood on one side of the shed, and Charles stood on the other side.  Both men had their weapons drawn.

Charles held up three fingers.  And he counted down to the third finger.  And then Mick kicked the shed door open, and they hurried inside.

Other than a few old crates, they found nothing.  It was the most frustrating feeling for Charles.  They get a lead.  A very promising lead.  But it leads nowhere.  He was already bone tired.  His family was already weary.  He didn’t know how much more of this they could take.

“Let’s go,” he said to Mick.

But just as they turned to leave, they heard a muffled cry.

Both men turned back around.  Mick motioned toward a side wall.  The sound sounded as if it was inside the wall.  They frowned, but made their way to the area.

Charles pressed against the aluminum and realized it was retractable.  He slid it, and it slid open.

And behind the wall, to both of their shocks, was the butler: Arnold Habberwell, Senior.  But he was strapped down with explosives.

They both backed up quickly.  “What the fuck?” Charles asked.

“It’s not gonna blow,” the butler said.  “Not yet, anyway.”

“Who did this to you?” Mick asked.

“My daughter,” the butler said.  “She wants revenge.  She won’t stop until she avenges her sister’s, and now her brother’s death.”

“Who’s your daughter?” Charles asked.  He didn’t know that old man had a daughter.

“Becky Hamlisch,” the butler said.

Charles frowned.  “Becky Hamlisch?  Becky?  Who works at the Inn?”

“She’s my daughter.  And her and her brother were cooking up this scheme to get back at your family for what happened.”

“She and her brother?  Arnie Palmer?” Mick asked.

“Arnold, Junior.  My son.  But y’all know him as Arnie Palmer.”

“What happened?” Charles asked, still floored that Becky would be involved.

“They want Mick Sinatra dead for what he did to us.”

Charles looked at Mick.  Did he know what the guy was talking about?

“What am I supposed to have done to you?” Mick asked.

“You killed my child,” the butler said.  “Their sister.”

Charles was confused as hell. “Who’s their sister?” he asked.

The butler looked at Charles.  “She never told you, did she?  That I was her father?”

“Who never told me?”

“Arianna.  Your late ex-wife.  Arianna.”

Charles was floored.  “Arianna?”

“She was my daughter.  They all had different last names.  They all had different mamas.  But Arnold had my name, even though he didn’t use it.”

 “But,” Charles said, still processing what the butler had said, “she told me her father was dead.”

“I was dead to her.  And she was dead to me.  That’s why I wanted no parts of getting revenge for a hateful person like her.  But Beck knew you’d discover the link to me.  She knew you’d eventually come here.  She’s probably watching you right now.  That’s how she is.”

“And what if I didn’t come?”

“She was going to call you and tell you to come.  I’m her bargaining chip.”

Charles frowned.  “Her what?”

“That’s why she strapped this shit on me.  She plans to use me for leverage.  When Arnold found out that it was Mick who killed Arianna, so that you wouldn’t have to,” he added, to Charles, “they started concocting their plans right then and there.”

Charles knew exactly what he was talking about.  Mick had to take Arianna out when she was on her rampage, so that Donald wouldn’t have to witness his father killing his mother the way he and Charles witnessed their father killing their mother.  Charles knew exactly what the butler was talking about.

“But I still don’t get it,” Charles said.  “Becky was working for my wife before that time.”

“I know she was.  She’s started working there after you and your brother had a hand in putting Arianna behind bars.  Or at least they claimed y’all had a hand in it.  Arianna was going to get out of prison soon, so she planted her sister at the Inn as her inside contact for when she got out.  She was going to pull a number on you.  But your brother got in the way.  Mick killed her.  So Becky and Arnold had to change the plan.”

“How would she know about explosives?” Charles asked.

“Her brother taught her.  Don’t let that desk clerk innocent girl act fool you.  Her brother taught her a lot of things.  She knows what she’s doing.”

“What’s the plan now?” Mick asked him.

And as soon as he did, a cellphone began ringing.  It was sitting on the floor beside the butler.

“Don’t answer that,” Mick said to Charles.  “Could be a bomb.”

“It’s not,” the butler assured them.  “It’s her calling.   She’s been calling every hour on the hour since she strapped this on me.  She’s been waiting for y’all to get here.”

Mick hurried outside, to look around.  But he didn’t see anything.

When he went back inside, the phone had stopped ringing.  But then it started right back up again.

“Answer it,” the butler said to Charles.  “It’s her I tell you.”

Charles, instead, went to the phone, looked at the number that was calling, and then dialed that number on his own phone.  After the butler’s phone stopped ringing, Charles’s phone call was answered.

“Hello, Mr. Sinatra.”

Charles would know that annoying voice anywhere.  It was Becky Hamlisch, the front desk clerk at Jericho Inn.  “What do you want?” he asked her.

“You must be with my father.”

“What do you want?” he asked again.

“I want money.  And plenty of it.  You always said I was a gold digger, right?  So let’s meet.  And make a deal.  If the price is right, I won’t blow up my dear old dad, and I’ll stop terrorizing your family.  If the price is wrong, there will be no end to my reign of terror.”

Charles couldn’t believe this shit.  That bitch threatening him?  But the butler made it plain.  Arnie Palmer had taught her a lot of things.  Don’t let the innocent act fool you.  “Meet where?” he asked.

“That open field on Sundae Road.  I’ll be waiting on that bench next to the pond.  You and your brother come alone, or don’t come at all.”

And then she ended the call.

 

They arrived at the field, and they arrived alone.  But there was no sign of Becky.  Not on the bench.  Not by the pond.  What in the world, they wondered, was she up to?

“She’s shitting us,” Charles said.

But Mick stopped him when he was about to get out of the Jag.  “No,” he said.  “Wait.  It could be a trap.”

And when he said it, Charles remembered it.  He remembered what Naughty had said about Arnie Palmer.  He like boobytraps and shit, he’d said.  He liked to target people’s kids, he’d said.  And that was when it hit Charles.

He quickly got out of the car, and began looking around.  He didn’t see anything in front of him, or behind him, or to the right or left of him.

“What it is, Charles?” Mick asked, as he jumped out of the car, too.

And then Charles saw it.  It was through a thick forest of trees.  “Saint Cat’s,” he said.

“What about Saint Catherine’s?” Mick asked.

“It’s over there, through those trees.”  Charles began to run in that direction.

“What about it?” Mick asked, running with him.

“They target kids.  That’s why they went after Junior.  That’s why she picked this place.  They plan to target Saint Cat’s.”

“But Bonita is on lockdown.  She’s not in school today.”

“It doesn’t matter.  She wants us to witness it.  She wants the blood of all those kids on our hands!”

“Geez,” Mick said in horror, as he and Charles ran through the slush and mud of the thick forest like world class athletes.  They ran so fast they could hardly keep their balance.

When they made it on the other side, Charles was right.  Saint Catherine’s private school was in session, and kids were on the playground.  They were still five football fields away, but the school was in view.  Barely, but in view.

But there was no sign of Becky.

They kept running, but they had to also swim through an algae-filled pond.

But even after the swam it, they were still at least three football fields away.  And they still saw no sign of Becky.

Until they looked again, and Charles spotted her coming out of the front office.  “There she is!” he yelled, and they kept running.

“You think she planted a bomb in the school?” Mick asked.

“Yes,” Charles said.  “Hell yes!”

“Dear, Lord,” Mick said, thinking about those children.  “We’ve got to do something!  Call the school.  Alert Sharon!”

But Charles knew it would be too late.  “All she has to do is push a button.  As soon as the school sound the alarm, she’s going to push it.”  Charles stopped running, and exhaled.  Both of them were winded.  “Give me your rifle,” he said, still staring at Becky.

“From this distance, Charles?” Mick asked.

“Give it to me, gotdammit!” Charles yelled, and Mick quickly complied.

Charles stood still, and aimed his weapon.

“If you miss,” Mick said, “those kids are dead, Charles.”

“They’re dead anyway,” Charles said, “if I don’t try.”  He aimed again.  And fired.

He didn’t miss.

He hit Becky, through her gut, and she fell to her knees.  And they began running and he kept firing.  She could still press the button.

And the children were running and screaming now, as they heard the gunfire, and as teachers tried to usher them back into the school.

But Becky was still reaching into her pocket quickly, as if she was reaching for that remote control.

And when she pulled it out, Charles’s heart sank.  But it dropped from her hand.

He stopped running again, and aimed again, and fired just as she picked it up.  But he hit her dead center this time.  Right through the head.

She stopped all movement, and fell backwards, away from the remote control.

By the time Charles handed the rifle back to Mick, and he and Mick ran all the way to the school and up to Becky’s body, it was done.  She was dead.

Charles bent over from physical exertion, and emotional exhaustion.

Mick grabbed the remote control that was just outside of her grasp.  And looked at his big brother.  “Oh, yeah,” he said.  “You’re the boss.”

Charles would have shouted from the rooftops that Mick the Tick actually gave him the family crown.  But he couldn’t even acknowledge it.  He couldn’t speak at all.  This was a call far too close to home, even for his hot blood.