Read Online The Dog Killer of Utica by Frank Lentricchia - Free Book Online Page A

street—soccer ball replaced by a beat-up sled. Angel standing at the T-stop, looking down Wetmore—Conte looking at Angel looking down Wetmore. Should he warn him off the temptation? Wetmore zoomingdown to Bleecker, as the Lo Bianco boy zoomed down, who had not been warned, decades ago. His father told the story. Did Angel’s parents know the story? Had the Italians of Mary Street passed on the story to the newcomers of Mary Street? Fear for your children on the hills of lower East Utica. The Lo Bianco boy, 1941, had not been feared for—zooming down Wetmore fearlessly—braking hard at Bleecker, where he hits a patch of wet leaves on a brilliant day in autumn and skids through the wet leaves hard and fast onto dry sidewalk and the bike flips and little Lo Bianco flies over the handle bars onto Bleecker on his belly as an eastbound bus rolls slowing toward the corner of Bleecker and Wetmore—rolling fatally to a stop—exactly onto the Lo Bianco boy’s exploding head.
    Angel turns from the temptation of Wetmore and sleds west along Mary. Out of sight. Where? To Mary and Bacon? Yet another temptation, as are all parallel north-south cross streets that rise to Mary and beyond and keep on rising until lower East Utica becomes upper East Utica. A rise once signifying elevation of real estate values—not, as now, elevated risks of arson, assault, drugs—as the relentless Anthony V. Senzalma never tires of reporting twice daily on syndicated talk radio.
    Conte stashes Mirko’s computer behind a bookshelf.
    The silence of snowbound Mary is broken by the house-shaking rumbling roar of a military Humvee that stops at 1318. From the passenger’s side, a tall, wiry, dashing man emerges, dressed in a pin-striped suit without overcoat, hat, or boots. An expensive Tuscan shoulder bag. Reaches into the Humvee.Emerges with a brown bag. The Humvee will wait, throbbing at the curb. The dashing man enters with his offering:
    “From my Italophilic companion. Lunch.”
    “Hello, Mark.”
    “El.”
    “Coffee?”
    “No.”
    “This need refrigeration?”
    “Sausage and peppers, El. Significant sandwiches for significant eaters.”
    “So this is only about friends on a lunch date?”
    “Let’s hope so, El.”
    “Ten thirty is early for sandwiches of this heft.”
    “Let’s sit in the kitchen, El, where we have easy access to Kyle’s kindness. Or have you lost your legendary appetite since Catherine walked?”
    “How do you—”
    “Accommodations at Best Western are gracious. Complimentary breakfast. Walking distance to Del Monico’s Steak House. Kyle and I will try to talk her out of returning to Troy.”
    “So you’ve somehow tracked her—”
    “Of course.”
    “Bastard.”
    “We leave no stone unturned.”
    “Bastard.”
    “I need your assistance, El. We have time. Not like tomorrow’s Sunday.”
    “Today is Tuesday, Mark, and I’m about to tell you that you need to leave because unless you wish to officially detain—”
    “Whoa! Big guy! This is about a friend helping a friend who may be dealing with a situation.”
    “Your concern originates from D.C.?”
    “No comment.”
    “Janet Napolitano sending her squad of superpatriots?”
    “No comment.”
    “Totally your initiative?”
    “Yes. I don’t intend to get burned.”
    “Your job that boring? Terrorism in Utica? Come on.”
    “Yep, boring. We have the sudden departure of Catherine Cruz. We have you visiting 608 Nichols Street last night, where Novak Ivanovic gave you something, which you carried home in a shopping bag.”
    “Somehow I don’t see or hear a dear friend sitting across from me. Not to mention my AA sponsor.”
    “Did Novak tell you he chaired the committee that recruited the new Imam, who’s in regular contact with radical clerics in Yemen and London? Sorry. I’ll take a cup of your famous cappuccino. Let’s dial this back, El. On second thought, how about a macchiato?”
    Conte makes two macchiatos, which they take in