Chapter 3 - The Meatpacker’s Confession
Before heading to Brighton Beach, I had one final piece of business to attend to in Brooklyn.
The basement of the meatpacking plant smelled of raw beef, copper, and damp concrete. Fluorescent tubes flickered overhead, buzzing with a high-pitched hum that echoed off the tiled walls. Huge carcasses of beef hung from steel hooks, swaying gently in the cold draft.
In the center of the room, tied to a metal chair under a single hanging bulb, was Marco.
He was shivering violently. His expensive suit was ruined, stained with grease and dirt. His lip was swollen where Tony had struck him earlier for screaming.
When the heavy steel door clicked open, Marco raised his head. His eyes went straight past me and landed on Bruno. The dog trotted into the cold room, his paws making wet clicking sounds on the concrete floor. Bruno didn't look at the meat hanging around him; his eyes were fixed entirely on Marco.
"Hector... please..." Marco’s voice was a ragged whisper. "It's freezing down here... please..."
I pulled up a wooden crate and sat down opposite him, just out of his reach. Bruno laid down at my feet, his head resting on his paws, watching Marco with unwavering intensity.
"You've been shivering for two hours, Marco," I said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from my coat. I lit one, the small orange flame illuminating the shadows of my face. "Elena Vasquez lay in the cold street for forty minutes while the paramedics tried to restart her heart. I think you can handle a little chill."
"I'm sorry, Hector! God strike me down, I am so sorry!" Marco sobbed, his chest heaving. "I lost control! The gambling... the poker games in Atlantic City... I owed Radkov five million dollars! He was going to cut my fingers off, Hector! He was going to kill my wife!"
"So you decided to sell my family instead," I said, exhaling a long plume of blue smoke. "You gave Radkov our dock codes. You gave him our drop schedules. And when a seven-year-old girl saw you collecting his money, you panicked like a dog."
"I didn't mean to hit her!" Marco screamed. "I swear it! I was backing up the sedan, I didn't see her behind the rear bumper! I heard the thud... and when I got out and saw her lying there... I knew if I stayed, the police would come, you would find out about the drugs, and you'd kill me!"
A heavy silence fell over the room.
I looked at Bruno. "He admits it, boy. He backed over her. He didn't even check if she was breathing."
Bruno let out a low, terrifying rumble from deep within his chest. He stood up slowly, his shoulder muscles rippling under his short fur. He took two steps forward, his snout inches from Marco’s trembling knees.
"You know, Marco," I said, flicking a ash onto the cold floor. "Bruno was there when you hit her. Not in the street, but he smelled her blood on your tires when you brought that car back to the garage that night. You washed it, didn't you? You spent three hours with a power washer."
"Yes..." Marco wept.
"But you couldn't wash away the scent. A dog’s nose remembers everything, Marco. It remembers fear. It remembers death. And most importantly, it remembers treason."
I stood up from the crate.
"Hector! What are you going to do to me?!" Marco panicked, straining against the heavy ropes tying his wrists to the steel chair. "Kill me! Just shoot me! Don't leave me here with him!"
"Shoot you?" I scoffed softly. "That would be too easy, Marco. A bullet is quick. It doesn't give you time to think about what you took from that little girl's father."
I turned to Tony, who was standing by the door holding a heavy iron key.
"Leave him in the cold room," I told Tony. "Turn the temperature down to twenty degrees. Give him a blanket—we aren't savages. But he stays there until I come back from Brighton Beach. If Radkov’s men decide to launch a war tonight, Marco will be our bargaining chip."
"No! Hector! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE!" Marco shrieked as I walked toward the exit. "HECTOR!"
Bruno followed me out, but right before the door shut, the dog paused. He turned his head back toward Marco, let out one final, sharp bark that echoed off the concrete walls like a gunshot, and then slipped out into the hallway.
As the heavy steel door clicked shut, locking Marco in the dark, cold depths of the basement, Tony looked at me.
"The cars are loaded, Don Hector. Twenty men. Automatic weapons, shotguns, and body armor. Jimmy is leading the convoy."
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"Good," I said, putting on my leather gloves. "Tell them no firing unless I give the word. We're not going there to start a war. We're going there to finish one."
I looked down at Bruno. His tail gave a single, firm wag. He was ready.
