mattered.
Faces flashed by, cheering wildly on either side. His eyes were glazed now, fixed on the golden shirt weaving a few yards in front of him.
Someone threw water all over him and the wetness felt wonderful. The dousing relieved the fire inside. Only for a few seconds, but that was okay. He still had his wind.
It was like he’d said to his father—he was coming back now. That was why the race was important. Stefanovitch was coming back from the dead.
Both his arms were petrified stone, but the lightweight chair was flying. His stroke couldn’t have been better.
His arms and his stroke were one fluid motion. All the torturous sessions at the Sports Center were finally paying a dividend.
He had almost caught Pierce. Almost, but not quite.
It was exactly the way he’d dreamed about this race while he trained every night in New York. Except that he couldn’t pull away from the other man.
He and Pierce were streaking toward the winner’s line and the largest part of the cheering crowd. They were almost even. Both were yards ahead of the third and fourth racers.
He couldn’t take Pierce, though. He couldn’t get ahead of Pierce Oates. He couldn’t do it.
He wouldn’t let Pierce take him either. He couldn’t let that happen now.
“Your hand… Your goddamn hand! ” Pierce was suddenly screaming at him.
Stefanovitch didn’t understand—then he did.
He reached out his hand, finally touching Pierce, connecting with him.
The two of them sailed across the finish line together, clutching each other’s hands like teammates. Christ, they were teammates. The wheelchair boys.
Stefanovitch’s brain was screaming. He hadn’t felt anything like this since before Long Beach, before the shootings.
He saw his brother and father in the crowd. He spotted his father, and the old man was smiling, but he was crying, too. In their thirty-five years together, he’d never once seen his father cry, not for family weddings, christenings, or funerals. Not once before right now.
Pierce Oates was hugging him, too. Everything was going to be all right somehow. For one night, anyhow, Stefanovitch was back.
19
Isiah Parker; The East Side
IT WAS A little past nine-thirty and traffic on Third Avenue was getting noticeably lighter, moving at a steady pace. Isiah Parker and Jimmy Burke waited in front of a closed, darkened Doubleday bookstore on the corner of Fiftieth Street.
Both men were dressed in beige linen suits. They looked like any of the businessmen still slouching out of high-rise offices on the midtown avenue. Isiah Parker had often speculated that a mugger or thief who dressed like a successful businessman in Manhattan would probably never get caught, never be stopped and questioned by most street cops, anyway.
When he finally saw the Caddie limo approaching the fancy awning in front of the Smith & Wollensky Steak House on Third, his mind went blank. He concentrated on nothing except what had to be accomplished in the next ninety seconds.
“Let’s walk,” he whispered to Burke, standing at his side. “We’re East Side businessmen. We’ve had a nice supper for ourselves. We do this right, nobody will remember us. We’re invisible men. ”
John Traficante and the consigliére James O’Toole were feeling full of the good life after two Steak Wollenskys and several cocktails inside the East Side restaurant. Traficante, a first underboss in the New York Mafia, was also known in the underworld as Johnny Angel, the Angel of Death. This presumably had to do with the number of murders he had committed since growing up in the mob-spawning grounds of Howard Beach and later Canarsie, in Brooklyn. Traficante had been the favored hit man inside the Lucchese family. He had remained “hands-on” as he rose all the way up through the ranks. His murder victims included a federal judge, several New York policemen, a newspaper writer, and potential witnesses, including women, and two young children on Long
Faces flashed by, cheering wildly on either side. His eyes were glazed now, fixed on the golden shirt weaving a few yards in front of him.
Someone threw water all over him and the wetness felt wonderful. The dousing relieved the fire inside. Only for a few seconds, but that was okay. He still had his wind.
It was like he’d said to his father—he was coming back now. That was why the race was important. Stefanovitch was coming back from the dead.
Both his arms were petrified stone, but the lightweight chair was flying. His stroke couldn’t have been better.
His arms and his stroke were one fluid motion. All the torturous sessions at the Sports Center were finally paying a dividend.
He had almost caught Pierce. Almost, but not quite.
It was exactly the way he’d dreamed about this race while he trained every night in New York. Except that he couldn’t pull away from the other man.
He and Pierce were streaking toward the winner’s line and the largest part of the cheering crowd. They were almost even. Both were yards ahead of the third and fourth racers.
He couldn’t take Pierce, though. He couldn’t get ahead of Pierce Oates. He couldn’t do it.
He wouldn’t let Pierce take him either. He couldn’t let that happen now.
“Your hand… Your goddamn hand! ” Pierce was suddenly screaming at him.
Stefanovitch didn’t understand—then he did.
He reached out his hand, finally touching Pierce, connecting with him.
The two of them sailed across the finish line together, clutching each other’s hands like teammates. Christ, they were teammates. The wheelchair boys.
Stefanovitch’s brain was screaming. He hadn’t felt anything like this since before Long Beach, before the shootings.
He saw his brother and father in the crowd. He spotted his father, and the old man was smiling, but he was crying, too. In their thirty-five years together, he’d never once seen his father cry, not for family weddings, christenings, or funerals. Not once before right now.
Pierce Oates was hugging him, too. Everything was going to be all right somehow. For one night, anyhow, Stefanovitch was back.
19
Isiah Parker; The East Side
IT WAS A little past nine-thirty and traffic on Third Avenue was getting noticeably lighter, moving at a steady pace. Isiah Parker and Jimmy Burke waited in front of a closed, darkened Doubleday bookstore on the corner of Fiftieth Street.
Both men were dressed in beige linen suits. They looked like any of the businessmen still slouching out of high-rise offices on the midtown avenue. Isiah Parker had often speculated that a mugger or thief who dressed like a successful businessman in Manhattan would probably never get caught, never be stopped and questioned by most street cops, anyway.
When he finally saw the Caddie limo approaching the fancy awning in front of the Smith & Wollensky Steak House on Third, his mind went blank. He concentrated on nothing except what had to be accomplished in the next ninety seconds.
“Let’s walk,” he whispered to Burke, standing at his side. “We’re East Side businessmen. We’ve had a nice supper for ourselves. We do this right, nobody will remember us. We’re invisible men. ”
John Traficante and the consigliére James O’Toole were feeling full of the good life after two Steak Wollenskys and several cocktails inside the East Side restaurant. Traficante, a first underboss in the New York Mafia, was also known in the underworld as Johnny Angel, the Angel of Death. This presumably had to do with the number of murders he had committed since growing up in the mob-spawning grounds of Howard Beach and later Canarsie, in Brooklyn. Traficante had been the favored hit man inside the Lucchese family. He had remained “hands-on” as he rose all the way up through the ranks. His murder victims included a federal judge, several New York policemen, a newspaper writer, and potential witnesses, including women, and two young children on Long
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