MURDER TAKES TIME

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Confession

Wilmington—25 Years Ago

It was the summer before second grade, and we were worried about something that wouldn’t happen until springtime—confession. It loomed larger than the shadows and noises that followed us when we took shortcuts through the woods at night. None of us said we’d tell the truth, but nobody was brave enough to say they’d lie to a priest either. In the absence of a solution, we didn’t talk about it. 

During the last week of August, we made lots of trips to the smoke shop. This was where the important people in the neighborhood went. The guys who dressed nice, drove Caddies, and laughed as if the world were a great ball of fun. The smoke shop was full of colorful characters: Mikey the Face, Patsy the Whale, Tommy Tucks, Charlie Knuckles, Nicky the Nose, Paulie Shoes, and a host of others. It was run by Doggs Caputo, a tough little bastard who never smiled and always sported a five-o’clock beard. Doggs also had a thing about nicknames—everybody had to have one. If he gave you one, it normally stuck. 

On Thursday, the week before school started, Tony and I went to buy cigarettes. While we waited, Doggs came out. He shoved the frames of Coke-bottle glasses through wiry hair that should have been cut a month ago. Should have been combed, too. “What are you kids doing here?”

“Just hanging out,” Tony said. 

“What’s your name?”

“Tony—” 

I kicked him before he got out the rest. 

He finished the sentence with, “Nothin’.”

I stared at Doggs. “What difference does it make?” 

Doggs swaggered over, flipped his cigarette at my head. I ducked, glared at him. 

“So, we got Tony fuckin’ Nothin’ and Mr. fuckin’ Nobody, huh?” 

At times it seemed as if every word out of Doggs’ mouth was an “f.” And he was clever in how he used the word; he used it as a verb, a noun, an adjective, even tacked on some letters and managed to use it as an adverb. When he got really pissed, he strung them together in the same sentence. He stared at Tony and me, lit another cigarette, then laughed. It was such an unusual occurrence that the Whale rushed outside. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Patsy’s voice rolled down the street, rumbling like a bowling ball down a lane. Whenever he talked I expected to hear pins shatter at the end of the sentence. 

“Go back inside,” Doggs said. “I’m having a conversation with my new friends.” He tousled the hair on both our heads and started to walk away, then turned back, staring at me, then Tony. “What the hell, you two brothers?” 

“Just friends, why?”

“You look like brothers.”

“Yeah, we hear that all the time,” Tony said.

Doggs squinted as he looked at me. “You the kid Moynihan couldn’t bust at the station?” He bent down, looked closer. “Look at me, kid.” When he stood again, his head was bobbing. “Yeah, I thought so. You’re Dante’s boy all right. Got those same eyes.” He opened the door to the shop. “Patsy, get a couple packs of Winstons. One for Tony Nothin’ and one for Nicky the Rat.” He turned back to look at me. “It is Nicky, isn’t it?”

“I ain’t no rat.”

“That’s right, boy. And that’s why you’re getting the name. Not many kids your age keep their mouth shut. Got good blood, though. Guess I’m not surprised.” He grabbed the cigarettes from Patsy, tossed a pack to each of us. “See me next summer. Maybe I’ll put you to work.”