* * *
When we arriveat Our Lady, I make Angelo pull around to the side block. I can't see any suspicious cars or loitering heavies, but there’s no way Sam Fuscone rocked up on his own. Or maybe, it occurs to me,maybehe considers himself so safe in this city now that he could parade naked up and down outside my townhouse on Fifth Avenue without fear.
There's been no further word from Marco, but I wouldn’t expect him to give me a blow-by-blow. His number one priority is Finch, so either Marco is dead or he’s currently doing his job. Either way, the rest of us need to be careful in our approach.
“You want me to call for backup?” asks Frank.
“No. We go in light.” If you want a job done right, do it yourself.
“And if there's a bunch of Fuscones and Clemenzas waiting in there?” Frank asks.
“Then we’re dead anyway, and there's no point calling more men to get massacred.” I glance across at Hudson, sitting in the back with me. “You got a gun, kid?” He shakes his head, skin the color of milk. “Angelo?”
Angelo shifts in his seat and passes back a spare handgun.
“You know how to use one of these?” he asks Hudson, who nods.
“I’ve been teaching him,” Frank says proudly.
That’s something, at least. “Angelo, you and the kid round the back.”
Angelo gives me a reproachful look, but nods.
“Frank and I will enter the front.”
“Don’t like that,” Angelo says at once.
“There are no Fuscones or Clemenzas out here in the street,” I say. “So if there are any, they’re waiting out back.”
“Idon’t like that,” Hudson whispers, and I give him a cold glance.
“You’re the one who wanted to prove yourself.” Then I relent. “Listen, just do what Angelo tells you. I’m sending you with him because he’ll keep you alive better than either of us can. You’d just get in our way if you came with us; Frank and I have our own rhythms.”
“Those Damn D’Amato Brothers,” Frank crows, nodding his head.
He really loves that nickname.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I tell Hudson. “And don’t shoot a fucking priest. The last thing I need is God Almighty as an enemy.”
* * *
For a big man,Frank can move fast and quiet when he chooses. We step quickly and lightly up to the large bronze doors of the church entrance, trying not to look suspicious to any casual passersby—or watching enemies. The doors are shut, and Frank tests one of them on his shoulder. There are no creaks, and so he leans against it to open it, and we slip inside as inconspicuously as possible when sliding through a cracked-open door.
Inside, the church is empty and silent as we slide into the baptistry behind the nearest pillar. The baptismal font is still full of holy water, and when Frank ducks around the pillar to scope the church again, he also dips his hand and blesses himself as he presses back into hiding. He shakes his head at me—no one there. I give him the nod and he goes silently to the other side of the church and hides behind the pillar there.
Maybe it’s superstitious of me, but I reach for the holy water and bless myself as well. If Finch is in danger, I want the Lord on my side.
In tandem, Frank and I begin making our way down each side of the church, the light strangely yellowed as it bounces around the vaulted ceiling. I know from Finch’s description that the Friday afternoon activities happen in the adjoining community hall rather than in the church proper, but the silence in here is disconcerting. Not even any prayerful old ladies or candle-lighters are in here right now.
I prowl past statues and stained-glass representations of the saints, silently asking for their help and protection. And then I come to a hallway that leads off to the right of the church, with several other doors along the way. On the other side of the church, Frank has come to a similar hallway, and is waiting for my instruction.
Go alone? Or go together?
I give Frank a hand signal and he replies with a single nod.
Split up.
As I creep down the narrow hall, I have a vision of nuns and priests sweeping out of all these doors, and have to quell the urge to run as fast as I can. Tino’s gravelly voice whispers in my ear:Make haste, not speed, Luciano…
