Chương 25: The Tale of Tony Two-Soups

"How're you holding up?" Tre asked Mickey.

"This must be a lot for us to dump on your lap." The cook shrugged.

"Ain't the worst I've seen. One time I saw dis rat behind Sorrento's, that's where I worked back when I lived in the city. This big guy, the rat, the size of that Taco Bell dog from back in da day, was just dragging a severed hand across the ground. Not a whole arm or nothin'. Just the hand. And he ain't even rushing. Like he was out runnin' errands."

"Whose hand was it?" Tre asked.

"Hell if I know. Lotta hands in New York." Mickey shook his head.

"Took me a couple months to shake that image from my head… and I grew up in Queens." We all just stared, none of us was sure where he was going with all this.

"Point is," Mickey said, "I seen plenty of bad things. So, helpin' a friend with a dying cop is pretty low on my list. Plus, fuck da police. Those guys never did nothin' for ol' Mickey." He let that hang there for a moment.

"But I do gotta ask, just outta my own curiosities, what the fuck is goin' on out there?" Isabel took the lead, explaining the situation with Sameer, Evan, the crash, and the two killers. Basically, everything, although she avoided any discussion of the nature of the game itself.

"So, there was a cover-up over the crash dat killed Raf?" Mickey asked. Tre nodded.

"Yes. We know that for sure now. And we know Hardin pushed for it."

"But we don't know what they hid or who they were protecting: Rafael or Anika," I added.

"Da killers had ta know."

"Agreed," Isabel finally said.

"That's why they were there. To destroy whatever evidence was left and kill the last two people who knew the truth about the crash. Hardin and Rowe."

"Which kinda confirms at least one of the killers benefits from the cover-up," Tre continued, pacing along the counter. Isabel's head snapped up.

"If Hardin covered for Evan's dad being drunk, then it tracks that Evan's gotta be one of them. Right?"

"Right. But Hardin could have also covered up the crash for Sameer's sister's benefit," I said carefully.

"We don't know either way yet." Isabel shook her head forcefully.

"But why cover for Anika? It makes no sense. There's no connection there."

"Well, what's Hardin's connection to Rafael Ortiz then?" I asked. Mickey pushed off the counter and stared toward the sink.

"Raf used to come in for breakfast every Sunday after our meeting. Good guy. Quiet. Didn't talk much in the room, but dat's how it goes with some guys. They show up cause they gotta problem, but a lotta them don't do the work." He's talking about AA, Nora, Tre offered mentally. Evan was telling the truth about his dad being on the wagon.

"Few years back, I noticed Raf sittin' with Hardin in da corner booth. Early morning on a weekday. Now, I got no love for cops on principle, but Hardin was a regular, so I didn't think nothin' of it at first. Except… Hardin looked devastated, and Raf looked…" Mickey paused, choosing the word carefully.

"Cornered… uncomfortable with what was being asked of him. I kept my ears open." He crossed his arms.

"Turned out Hardin's wife, Lisa, had just left him. Out of nowhere, she filed for divorce and wanted the house. The Sheriff was panic-stricken more than heartbroken. And Raf… dat was just who Raf was. Nice guy, like I said."

"But what did the Sheriff want with Evan's dad?"

"From what I caught, he needed somebody to help sell his house before the wife could take it, but quietly, without going through the usual channels. Raf had the connections to do it clean."

"So, Hardin owed him," Isabel said.

"I guess you could say dat."

"So, there is a Chinatown thing at play," Tre said.

"Good call, Nora." Mickey held up a hand.

"Slow down, Rafael Ortiz wasn't a master manipulator or nothin'. Dis wasn't some big-city scandal, kiddos."

"Right. But there was a connection between the Sheriff and Evan's dad. Which means the Sheriff could have covered for Mr. Ortiz being drunk. Why would Evan want to murder him?" Isabel shifted her weight, like she was anxious to get going.

"Sameer's not a murderer. I've known him since—""You don't actually know anyone here," I cut in as delicately as possible.

"Not really. You can't trust what you think you know about these people." The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Isabel bit her lip but didn't argue.

"But none of this helps us identify the second Weepy White," Tre said.

"The objective only says to unmask the killer. Singular. Maybe it doesn't matter, Tre."

"Come on, Nora. The objective intentionally didn't tell us to even look for a second killer because it wanted us to be confused." He was probably right. There was no reason or motive for Maltheris to show us his hand or really help us at all, beyond prolonging our suffering. Even still, the LifeLine hadn't updated with notifications or achievement unlocks for defeating the Weepy Whites.

"Whoever they are, the fire didn't stop them," I said.

"The sprinklers kicked on pretty fast," Tre said, "and they were in the back of the room by the window. Easy escape." Mickey straightened, turning away from the sink.

"Could dey have followed you here?"

"If they did, we would know by now," I said.

"So where are dey then?" Mickey pressed, head swiveling, like he thought they were hidden somewhere in the diner. No one knew where the killers were, but we shared a reluctance to admit that.

"No matter who the killer is, they're probably going to the party," Isabel said.

"Because Sameer and Evan will both be there. Because that's where everyone goes."

"Us too, I guess," I said. Tre nodded.

"We're clearly being pushed in that direction."

"Then let's not waste too much more time here." I was eager to finish this Zone.

"We're planning, Nora." Isabel had drifted to the far end of the prep station while we talked. She ran her thumb along the edges of the steel counter, not looking at anything in particular.

"You good?" She met my eyes.

"There's a scuff mark right here that I made when I was eight. I was spinning a butter knife, and it flew off." A small automatic smile.

"My mom grounded me for a week." The smile went out.

"But I don't know if it actually happened." She pulled her hand away from the table.

"I can't tell anymore if I remember this stuff or if it's just... there. It feels real. That's what's messing me up." I didn't have anything useful to say to that. So, I just said, "I know."

"Yeah." She looked at the counter for another second, then back at me.

"Anyway."

"We should move," Tre said from the prep station.

"Party's not gonna surveil itself." Mickey glanced up from wringing out the towel.

"Christ… I can't believe kids still party out there."

"Why?"

"The Lake Mothers." He crossed to the back door and opened it, tapping a fresh cigarette from the pack. His hands were shaking as he lit it, standing half in, half out of the kitchen.

"You couldn't pay me to go out there after dark."

"What're you talking about?" I asked. Isabel scoffed.

"It's just a story. Urban legend bullshit from the fifties about kids drowning and mothers going crazy."

"Oh. Like Friday the 13th," Tre said. Isabel met my eyes and quickly shook her head. Mickey took another drag.

"My uncle helped drag the lake back in '54. He moved to Florida a year later. Wouldn't even drive past the camp on his way out of town."

"It's been a party spot since the 70s," Isabel said.

"Nothing's ever happened."" Yet," Mickey shot back.

"My uncle said whatever you do out there, don't go near the water after dark.

'Mick,' he told me, 'Mick, I don't care if you're looking to get laid or drunk or what… You stay back from the water.'""Okay, that's enough. There's no such thing as monsters," Isabel said firmly.

"Everyone goes to the party. Including us." A notification flashed in my vision: OPTIONAL OBJECTIVE INVESTIGATE THE LAKE MOTHERS' LEGEND"Or ignore it entirely, I'm sure it's fine." Did we just get a side quest? Tre's mental voice pinged. I gave him a tiny nod.

"Look," I explained to Mickey, "we appreciate the warning. Really. But there are two killers out there, most likely heading to the party. If we don't figure out who they are tonight—""Wanna know why I left New York." It wasn't a question.

"Last place I worked, good place, ya know? Busy lunch crowd, regulars, the whole bit. But the whole area was all mobbed up. This was the late 70s, so everywhere was mobbed up, but especially around Sorrento's.

"Anyway, there was this one guy, Tony Two-Soups is what everyone called him, cause he could never pick one. Always hemming and hawing over the menu like he hadn't been in there four hundred times.

'Do I want the Italian wedding or the Pasta Fagioli?' Dis fuckin' guy only comes in at night." He took a long drag of his cigarette.

"So, Tony Two-Soups is doing his thing, and I'm inna back, and then I hear the door open. Ya see, this rival capo, Junk-Drawer Joey, had some grudge against Tony and sent these guys to 'deliver a message.'" Mickey's nostrils flared.

"Then the shootin' starts." He paused. Took a breath.

"Now I ain't tellin' you this to fuck ya up or nothin'. But I'm gonna describe it 'cause youse need to understand somethin' about bad places after dark." He shook his head, taking a final drag, nearly smoking the butt of the cigarette at this point.

"Da gunshots ain't all 'bang bang' like in the movies, more like a jackhammer sound. Then the screaming starts, and I hear the tables going over, the glasses, the dishes, all of it at once. And underneath alla dat, I hear Tony Two-Soups screaming in Italian, which is funny because Tony Two-Soups was from Jersey and didn't speak a word of Italian in his life." He looked at the floor.

"I hit the floor and crawl under the prep table. And I'm lying there, and I see blood start coming under the kitchen door. A lot of it." He went to take another drag and realized he'd smoked the whole thing.

"Eventually, it gets quiet. And I get the nerve to look. I stand up slow and I peek through dat little window where the food goes out to the waitresses." He crushed the cigarette butt under his boot.

"Tony Two-Soups was still in his chair. Most of him, anyway. There were two other guys face-down onna ground. One of 'em still had his hand wrapped around a wine glass, don't ask me why I remember dat but I do. And there was a woman in the booth by the window, and I knew her; she came in every Thursday, always got the Piccata… a whole part of her face was just gone… And everywhere... I mean every-damn-where there was blood. The walls. The ceiling. Everywhere you looked was red." He shook his head.

"I can still smell the copper and gunpowder and the good gravy I had going on the stove. And while I'm standing there looking at all of that, one of Joey's guys is walking toward the front door to leave. Calm. Just strolling. And dis guy stops by a table near the door, grabs a roll from the breadbasket, wipes something off it on his jacket, and takes a big bite. Then this motherfucker looks up at me with my face in the window. And he says, 'Mickey, your bread sucks.' And then he leaves."

Nobody had anything to add to that.

"I'm only telling youse all this so you understand… I'd rather go back to that kitchen, on that day, looking at all of that, than go out to that camp after dark." He looked at me, really looked at me. At my destroyed jeans, the burn holes in Dad's jacket, the exposed skin.

"But if you insist on goin' out there, youse can't go out like that." He jerked his head toward the back room.

"Let's see what we can scrounge up."