THE GRAVE

Fine tendrils of mist, seen in the glow of a black Lincoln’s headlights, rose from a freshly dug, warm mountain of mud and dissipated, like smoke slithering away from the tip of a cigar, into the cool midnight air.

The car, parked askew at the turnaround point of a dead-end trail in the woods surrounding Willow Lake, was empty, yet the engine purred, and a Tony Bennett number, “Two by Two”, echoed softly from the radio inside its dark cab. The crooner’s voice mingled with the noise of woodland sounds, creating a dreamlike world seemingly incapable of tribulation.

A wind picked up and rustled the leaves of the trees, creating a shushing sound. This noise echoed throughout the woods, sounding like a wave approaching the shore. After a moment, the wind subsided; the wave receded. Above, a full moon lit up the night sky with a white glow, shining down on the treetops and making the leaves gleam silvery white. Somewhere deep in the woods, an owl hooted. The temperature could have been warmer for September; otherwise, it would have been a perfect night for a young couple to park in the woods, listen to the latest hit songs, and neck after a wonderful date.

GAARIICH! The noise of a steel shovelhead slashing into the earth like a dagger shattered the delicate harmony. Then, thrumP: The sound of damp dirt dropping from the shovelhead onto the mound of soil concluded the sequence.

GAARIICH… thrumP … GAARIICH… thrumP.

Twenty feet away from the Lincoln, working in the gleam of its headlights, two men stood knee-deep in a hole, digging. The hole was deep enough and long enough to hold a body… or two. Despite the meager light, both men worked diligently. They wore long, black overcoats, black gloves, and fedoras. Their faces were hidden by shadows cast by the brims of their hats. GAARIICH… thrumP.

Neither spoke. It seemed as if two complete strangers happened upon a desolate scene and began digging a hole together in the early morning hours. Another gust of wind swept through the trees; the wave returned to shore. Seconds later, the wind ceased; the wave pulled back.

“I can’t stop thinking I’m a dead man,” one of them said, nervously.

“Relax, Nick,” the other man said, “I’m tellin’ ya, you’re fine. Maxwell may be a cold-blooded prick, but he’s a businessman first. He ain’t gonna wanna lose someone as loyal as you. That cocksucker Johnny, though… He don’t have a loyal bone in his body. I don’t mind tellin’ ya, I’m gonna enjoy stuffin’ that asshole in this fuckin’ hole.”

GAARIICH… thrumP.

Nick, heavier and more out of breath than his counterpart, stuck his shovelhead into a mound of dirt and sat on the edge of the hole. He removed a cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, took a drag, and said, blowing out smoke with his words, “We both fucked up, Buddy. Hell, maybe me more ‘den him. Maxwell was pissed at us bo’f. I mean, the fuckin’ coppers have the getaway car and most of the money we took.”

“Hey! Knock that shit off, Nick. Word is, Johnny screwed up—not you. Talkin’ like that’ll getcha kilt. It was all Johnny’s fault. Got it?”

Nick knew the cops also had his fingerprints, but he didn’t dare tell anyone that. Shrugging his shoulders, he told Buddy, “For what it's worth, Johnny is a pretty good hand, too, ya know.”

“Johnny’s a useless sack of shit,” Buddy—Two Socks to his friends—said, “If you told me he could take a piss and pick ‘is nose at da same time, I’d be surprised. And there’s nothin’ loyal ‘bout ‘im. I seen ‘im pallin’ around with all ‘dose dirtbags on 49th Street, near da pigpen.”

“I don’t know.”

“Nicky, baby, everybody knows if da cops caught ‘im he’d sing pretty, just like frickin’ Doris Day. Sure, Maxwell’s pissed wit you, and you’ll prolly have ta pay a price, but it won’t be your life--for God’s sake. If anythin’, he’ll putcha back on da streets wit’ the greenies; do some grunt work, like ya usta; shake down one of dose degenerate bookies down at da docks or somethin’.”

GAARIICH! … thrumP.

“I don’t know,” Nick said again, before taking another drag off his cigarette.

“Look, we’ve been friends for twenty-some fuckin’ years, Nick—twenty-some fuckin years. Trust me. Now git off your ass and help me finish diggin’ this hole.”

Nick snuffed out the cigarette in a puddle of mud. “Sure, Buddy—sure. Sorry,” he said, hopping back into the hole, “Had to take a break.”

“It’s all those pizza-pies you eat, Nick. I bet your stomach has more mozzarella and anchovies in it than Moretti’s Pizzeria has in its stock room.”

Nick gave ‘Two Socks’ a sly look, grabbed his shovel, and began digging. “You know, you’re right, I’ll be fine. I’m just thinkin’ on it too much.” He thrust the shovel into the dirt: GAARIICH! … and added to the pile of mud and dirt: thrumP.

“I know,” ‘Two Socks’ said, “You’re always thinkin’ too fuckin’ much. That’s your problem.” GAARIICH! … thrumP. “People like us weren’t made ta think about life-type things, ya know.” GAARIICH!… thrumP. “You gotta stop with dem cigarettes too, That’s why ya gotta rest every five fuckin’ seconds.” GAARIICH! … thrumP.

The two fell silent again. Tony Bennett’s song ended, and “Let’s Get Lost” by Vaughn Monroe began playing from the Lincoln’s radio.

The owl hooted again, causing Nick to look up at the trees. They were nothing but black spires barring down upon him.

No matter how much ‘Two Socks’ tried to calm Nick down, it didn’t work; the portly man was worried. He’d been on hits before. He knew the ‘hit-tee’ never knew his number was up. “You know what else I’ve been thinking about,” Nick said, “I’ve been thinking of leavin’.”

“Leavin’? Watcha mean?”

“Gettin’ out. Move to some nice suburb somewhere. This last job rattled me, Buddy. Of course, all the gang’s secrets would go with me to the grave, and all. I don’t mean I’m turning stool pigeon or nothin’ like that.” Nick stopped digging and rested his head on the top of the shovel’s handle. “Can you imagine me havin’ neighbors over for bar-b-q and watchin’ the ballgame on Sunday afternoon, or hangin’ Christmas lights on my house for Santie Claus?”

‘Two Socks’ offered a daft look, “Nicky, baby, you can trust me, but don’t be talkin’ ‘bout that shit around anyone else, got it? People may start questionin’ that loyalty you’re known for. ‘Specially Maxwell.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t talk like this around the guys. I’m not sure why I even brought it up. I guess just thinkin’ too much again.”

“Thinkin’ ‘ill getcha in trouble.” Buddy shook his head, disappointed. “Maxwell always told me, never think ‘bout whatch ur doin’, just think ‘bout how ur gonna git away wit it.”

Nick knew what he meant. Everyone in the gang heard stories about their Boss’s activities. Those stories made Maxwell one of the most feared men in New York City—probably one of the most feared in the Northeastern United States. He didn’t mess around with his enemies… or his allies.

“You ‘member that greaseball Maxwell’s youngest daughter, Cecilia, was gunna marry?” Nick asked.

“Yeah,” Buddy answered, with a chuckle. “How can I forget. I’m the one who held the rat down while Maxwell cut his fuckin’ ring finger off.”

“I wonder why Maxwell didn’t just kill ‘em?”

“He wanted him to suffer, Nicky, my boy. Didn’t you know a few days after he cut the guy’s finger off, he went to the man’s parents’ house and killed the bo’f of ‘em?”

“He did?”

“Yeah. Right in front of the fuckin’ guy, too.”

“I didn’t know that. I did hear Cecilia took care of the stripper he was sleepin’ with. Beat her so bad she’s blind to this day.”

“The apple don’t fall too far from da tree, eh?”

Nick remembered another story about a seventeen-year-old Maxwell. According to the story, the future crime boss went to the home of a policeman who had arrested him for stealing cartons of cigarettes from the drugstore. He kidnapped the cop and his wife, tied them up, and buried them… ALIVE! Over cigarettes and a day in jail. Rumor had it the woman was pregnant as well.

Of course, Nick didn’t know if the story was true. Maxwell was now close to eighty years old. That meant this crime took place sometime before 1920. Nothing anyone could easily look up. For all Nick knew, Maxwell put the story out there to keep his men in order.

“I don’t think our boss has no feelin’s,” Nick said.

“He enjoys what he does, that’s for sure.”

GAARIICH! … thrumP.

“I gotta grab a smoke,” Nick said. “I’m too fuckin’ shaky. Ya mind?”

“Nah, go ahead,” Buddy sighed, “It ain’t like you’ve been helpin’ much so far.”

Nick stuck his shovel into a hump of dirt and reached for the cigarette behind his ear. “Oh yeah… already smoked that one.”

“What?”

“Nothin’ Buddy, just talkin’ to myself.”

Nick climbed out of the hole and walked over to the Lincoln to retrieve his pack of Redds. In the distance, he heard GAARIICH! … thrumP as Buddy continued to dig Johnny Robertson’s grave.

The smokes weren’t in the seat where he left them. Poking his head in the car, he saw them on the floorboard of the Lincoln. “Come here, you little bastards,” he groaned, bending to pick them up.

As he took the first drag, a Patti Page tune, “Tennessee Waltz,” replaced the Vaughn Monroe song on the radio. Nick liked the song and hummed along as he took a second drag. Inhaling, the amber-red glow of the burning tobacco on the tip of the cigarette brightened in the darkness. He exhaled slowly, blowing out the smoke.

Nothing like a smoke to take a worry away, he thought.

“Hey, Nick!” Buddy yelled over, “Wanna shake a leg?”

“Sure thing, Buddy!” Nick hollered, flicking the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.

Back at the hole, Nick helped Buddy get the last bit of dirt out.

“What time is it?” Nick asked.

Buddy looked at his watch, “Two thirty. Why, you gotta hot date?”

GAARIICH! … thrumP.

“Nah. Wife’s gone up to New Hampshire to see her parents. She’ll be gone the week.”

“That’s the perfect time to have a hot date—when your wife’s away.”

“Not me, Buddy. You know that.”

“Just you and five-knuckle-Betty, huh?”

“I guess. I hope we’re outta here by three, though,” Nick said, sounding a little frightened. “I read somewhere that three o’clock is called the witchin’ hour. I don’t want no spirits coming after me.”

Buddy looked at him, stupidly. “What da hell’s wrong with ya, Nick? Getting’ all spooky, are we? You best not let Maxwell hear ya sayin’ stupid shit like dat, or else he might think you’re wacky and take ya out—loyal or not.” Buddy then repeated the term in a dismissive tone, “Da witchin’ hour? I don’t believe dis shit… you’re a fuckin’ gangster who deals with guns and knives and low-life gamblers, and you’re a fraidy-cat of ghosts.”

Slightly embarrassed and wanting the subject dropped, Nick said, “If it’s all the same to you, I think this is good.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand, indicating he was talking about the hole. “Ya think it’s good?”

“Yeah, it’s plenty deep, I suppose,” Buddy said, “Maybe just a little more.”

Nick nodded and shoveled some more scoops out of the hole. At this point, Buddy hopped out and began walking to the Lincoln.

“Where ya goin’?”

While continuing to walk, Buddy called over his shoulder, “I gotta get somethin’ from the car. Don’t worry, though, I’ll only be a second. I don’t think no ghosts ‘ill getcha while I’m gone.”

Buddy was gone for a few moments while Nick kept scooping dirt out of the hole—thrumP. Eddie Fisher now sang the song, “Anytime,” tenderly on the car’s radio.

Another good song, Nick thought.

Then, from behind him, Buddy’s voice. “Hey, Nick.”

Nick turned and saw his friend of twenty-some fuckin’ years pointing a gun at him.

“Buddy…” Nick said, “I thought we was friends.”

“What can I tell ya Nicky baby, I’m sorry,” Buddy shrugged his shoulders. “This don’t mean we’re not friends. But friendship ain’t never put food on da table, ya know? At least I didn’t kill ya from behind. I’m no coward, I’m gonna do business with ya face ta face. You’re not one of those degenerate gamblers or crooked bookies. Don’t that mean nothin’ to ya?”

“But… Buddy, what… I thought ya said I was alright.”

“What the fuck else could I say? That yer diggin’ your own fuckin’ grave?”

“I guess not,” a dejected Nick said.

“It wasn’t my idea, Nick. It was Maxwell. He thought it would be funny if ya dug your own grave. You know ‘im. I thought it was pretty mean-hearted myself—‘specially for a guy as loyal as you. But if you coulda saw him laugh.”

Nick pleaded, “Can’t ya let me go? I mean, twenty years is a long time to know a person. We’ve gone down a long road, ya know? We’ve done some crazy shit together. I’ll get outta town—never come back. I’ll go up to New Hampshire and live with my wife’s parents. They won’t mind. If that’s too close for ya, I’ll go west—as far as ya like, Buddy. I’ve been lookin’ for a way out. Like I said, ya know? This could be it.”

“Yeah, you’re wantin’ ta hang Christmas lights for Sant-e Claus.”

“That’s right, Buddy. See, you can tell Maxwell you took care of me. Tell him you buried me—tell him… tell him I dug my own grave—just like he wanted. He won’t check. He’ll get a good laugh. Whatta ya say?”

“I havta do this, Nick. If I don’t Maxwell ‘ill kill me. You know that.”

“But if I’m not around…, how will he know?”

“I’d like ta Nicky, but I’m not takin’ no chances. I trust ya, but I don’t trust ya. Ya know what I mean? Now Johnny, that sonofawhore-cocksuckin’-bitch ‘ill get a slug in the back of ‘is fuckin’ head—no pro’lem. And I’ll enjoy it, too. Believe-you-me.”

Buddy’s voice carried a tone of heartlessness that frightened Nick more than the gun pointed at him. He’d heard this tone in Buddy’s voice before, but he’d never been on the wrong end of it.

Boy, this is a whole other can of beans, Nick thought.

“So,” Nick asked, timidly, “Is this hole for Johnny too, or just me?”

“‘Fraid it’s for the bo’f of ya’s.”

Nick Garcia looked helpless and pathetic, like an alcoholic who has lost all hope, standing in the muddy hole that could soon be his final resting place. In contrast, Buddy Davidson looked down on Nick with a menacing and powerful gaze, like a snake about to strike a mouse.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Buddy said. “You’ve hit people a buncha times. You know it's only business.”

“Yeah,” Nick said, “A cruddy business.”

“Yeah,” Buddy agreed, and repeated the word, ‘cruddy,’ thoughtfully. “But business is business. Hey, look on the bright side, Nick, least da witches won’t gitch’ya.”

“Yeah, the witches won’t get me, but a cruddy bastard is gonna tr—

”Buddy didn’t allow Nick to finish his statement; he pulled the trigger…CLICK!

No BANG or BOOM, just click. He tried again: click. Buddy brought the gun up to his face, twisting his wrist to view it from all sides, looking at it wide-eyed, anxious, and surprised. Nick stood in the hole, remaining calm. Buddy pointed and pulled the trigger again: CLICK!

Then again: CLICK!

CLICK!

CLICK!

Nothing.

Buddy gazed down at his friend and business partner of twenty-some-fuckin’-years standing in the hole. A blank, scared look on his face.

The frightened look on Nick’s face slowly shifted into a sly grin. He reached into the breast pocket inside his overcoat, grabbed a handful of something, and held out his hand. Buddy met Nick’s closed fist with a gulp. After a moment, Nick opened his hand, and six slugs dropped into the mud with a muted splat as each one hit the muck. Then, he drew his gun from its holster and pointed it at Buddy. Much of the anxiety drained from Nick’s face and shoulders. Now that he was on the right side of the pistol, it was a whole different story.

Buddy took one step backward and said, “Nick…” No other words came to him.

“It’s alright, Buddy. I’d rather you keep quiet. I only ask that you don’t run. I’m not sure how this is going to end yet, but if you run, I’ll blast ya. It's just business, like you sa—”

Buddy dove headfirst into the grave, his arms outstretched, his hands reaching for the gun, surprising Nick. He landed on top of his cohort, plopping down onto him with a muffled THUD! A scuffle ensued.

Normally, Buddy was stronger and a better fighter than Nick, but when he landed on top of his friend and the two fell, his right arm snapped on the floor of the muddy grave.

Buddy screamed out in pain, but continued to wrestle for control of the gun the best he could. Panicked, Nick pulled the weapon close to his chest and gripped it tightly.

Sloshing and gritting sounds filled the woods’ soundtrack as the two fought for their lives. The struggle only lasted a few moments before Buddy found himself lying on his back at the bottom of the hole, clutching his broken arm to his chest. To end the fight, Nick clocked Buddy on the noggin with the barrel of the gun, causing him to see stars for a few seconds and scraping the skin on his forehead. Thin lines of blood trickled down his face.

Keeping the barrel of the gun pointed at Buddy with one hand, Nick crawled out of the hole with the other. Through heavy breaths, he said, “Don’t look like my smokin’s so bad now, eh?”

Holding his broken arm, Buddy asked, “How’d ya know, Nick? How’d ya know?”

“When I went to take my smoke, I found the gun under your seat. I wasn’t sure if it was for me or not, but suspicion got the better of me, ya know? To be safe, I took the bullets outta it. Glad I dropped my smokes on the floorboard or else I’d never seen it.”

“Nick…” Buddy said—now it was him pathetic and the dirty hole—“…you can’t just…”

“Shut up!” Nick snapped. The emotion in his voice caused his words to crack. A part of him felt bad about what was occurring. At first, this puzzled Nick; he had countless contract killings under his belt and never felt a smidge of remorse. Why would he be feeling anything about this one?

Then it came to him, this hit is different—this hit isn’t supposed to happen.

Nick realized that he wasn’t going to whack Buddy… this was going to be plain, old-fashioned murder. No one had told him what to do; no contracts were made. Plus, he knew this guy, well. He worked with him for twenty-some-fuckin’-years. He was the best man at his wedding for crying out loud.

“I understand in this business we have to lie all the time,” Nick said, “I understand we have to do what we have to do to survive. So I don’t blame you for lying to me, but I’m going to do what I have to do to survive. Like I said, it’s a cruddy business.”

“But Nick,” Buddy spat, “If you kill me, Maxwell ‘ill git ya eventually.”

Buddy was right. Maxwell would be relentless in hunting him down.

“Those worries are for another time,” Nick said.

Buddy spat some dirt out of his mouth and said, “Don’t be a fuckin’ dummy.”

“Ya know, maybe you’re the one to blame for all this shit, anyway,” Nick said, speaking of the botched crime that led to this mess. “You were the one who heisted the car, you should’ve checked the trunk for a fuckin’ spare.”

“You’re right, Nicky baby. You’re fuckin’ right. I should’ve.”

“DAMN! I gave you a chance to let me go. Why didn’t you just let me go? You talk about loyalty. You shit licker!” Nick kicked a clump of mud into Buddy’s face, growing flustered, pissed at Buddy for putting him in this position.

“Fuck you, Nick! FUCK YOU!” Buddy sneered up at him.

“Buddy, Buddy, Buddy, you fool. You should’ve checked the trunk for a spare, you should’ve let me go, and you should’ve checked your fuckin’ gun before pointin’ it at me and pullin’ the damn trigger! Three strikes… you’re out!”

One shot rang out, momentarily silencing the soothing sounds of nature. The crickets, bullfrogs, and fowl all quieted.

As the report’s echo faded, Nick noticed something shuffling in the nearby brush. He looked up and, in the glow of the Lincoln’s headlights, saw a man beeline from the brush and into the woods.

“Shit,” he spewed, and took off, chasing him, wondering who the fuck would be out in the woods this late at night. After struggling with Buddy, he was already breathing heavily and didn’t feel like running.

Twenty minutes earlier, Eugene came upon the two men digging the hole while out hunting. Over the years, he’d see campers from a distance. But he’d never seen two people digging a hole in the middle of the night. It intrigued him. When the men began yelling and fighting, it scared him, but also intrigued him more. However, the gunshot frightened the piss out of him, literally. He beelined into the woods, a big wet spot on the crotch of his pants, moving through the darkness like a nocturnal cheetah.

Nick didn’t have a chance of catching his witness, but he put forth an effort, firing his gun in the direction of the running man, hoping he’d get lucky.

Eugene ducked into the rotted-out hollow of an oak tree and waited for the danger to pass. Over the years, he had come across people a few times. He always felt an urge to approach. Each time, though, fear seized him, and he kept his distance. Now, after this, he decided he’d never consider approaching again.

He heard the man jogging toward the tree, but didn’t think he’d see him in the pitch darkness. Nonetheless, he crouched deeper into the mildew-scented shadows.

Nick stopped in front of the rotted stump.

Eugene saw his silhouette in the dim light of the moon, hunched over and breathing heavily.

“Son of a bitch,” the stout man wheezed.

It had drizzled earlier in the evening, leaving the ground soft. Dapples of silver moonlight reflected off puddles and damp vegetation, while drip-drops of rainwater fell from drying leaves, creating quiet popping sounds at irregular intervals. Eugene could hear the man huffing and puffing even over all the nature sounds. He found this odd because he wasn’t out of breath at all.

A spider, which seconds earlier was minding its own business in the hollow of the tree, crawled down Eugene’s arm and across his hand. In the daylight, this wouldn’t have bothered the experienced woodsman. Fear of spiders—or any creepy-crawly for that matter—wasn’t something that affected him. Yet, at night, in total darkness, the sensation of something big and hairy moving across his skin startled him, and he shook it off, making noise in the process.

The stout man jump-turned, firing his gun three times in the direction of the sound, using the last of his bullets.

Two bullets missed Eugene, but one grazed his left arm. Because of the pitch blackness inside the hollow, Eugene couldn’t see how badly he’d been injured. All he knew was it burned like hell, and he smelled burning flesh. Whimpering in pain, he grabbed his wounded arm and put pressure on it.

He didn’t know what to do. He was surrounded by the tree on three sides, and his only exit was blocked by the man trying to kill him.

“Alright, you cocksucker, come on outta there,” Nick said.

Eugene did no such thing. He remained seated, grimacing and groaning.

“You come outta there or I’m gonna come in after ya.”

Eugene didn’t fully understand what the man said, but he caught the threatening tone. So, as soon as the man moved toward the oak tree’s opening, Eugene stood up and burst out of the darkness, running into the portly fellow and body-checking him. Despite the man’s attempt to kill him, Eugene didn’t want to hurt him; he just wanted to survive.

Eugene knocked Nick over onto a muddy patch of ground, where the stout man slid a few feet into some wet ferns. At the same time, Eugene slipped, fell, and went sprawling.

This didn’t allow Nick to get the upper hand, but it did allow him to keep the mysterious man in his limited sight.

Running strictly on adrenaline, Nick rolled over and grabbed Eugene’s legs, wrapping his arms around them in a bear hug. Eugene struggled to break free from his grasp by kicking, pulling, and writhing. He grunted and whimpered louder and louder; he hit his captor on the shoulders and pushed against his head, but Nick hung on like a python clutching its prey.

“You cocksucker,” Nick said, slowly working his way up Eugene’s body—gripping and climbing like a man holding onto a pole for dear life. “Knock it the fuck off, you bastard!”

Eugene lay back, reaching for a rock or a stick or something to hit the man with. He found nothing. So, he grabbed the only thing he could—a handful of muck.

Shoving the mineral-rich mud into his attacker’s face, Eugene grunted in exasperation.

The mushy soil found its way deep into Nick’s nose, ears, and mouth.

“AAAARRRGGG,” Nick spewed, loosening his grip.

This was enough for Eugene to wriggle away from the man. He got to his feet and ran into the dark woods.

Pissed and ready to kill, Nick got up and gave chase for a second time.

He couldn’t see the man, but he ran in the general direction, hoping the guy would trip up. As he ran, he cursed his luck. Who else but him would commit a murder in the middle of the woods late at night and get caught? If he didn’t catch this mystery man, the guy would definitely go to the cops. There wasn’t a doubt in Nick’s mind that the bastard had gotten the plate number on the Lincoln.

Thanks to the gloomy moonlight, Nick ran into the sharp and jagged end of a sapling that had snapped during a windstorm four months earlier. The wood, acting like a stake, pierced Nick’s stomach and came out of his back. Blood filled the gangster’s mouth and oozed out between his lips. He survived the injury for ten painful seconds. For a split second, he thought of New Hampshire, then his mind went black. All it could concentrate on was the agony flooding every part of his midsection.

Eugene, already a quarter of a mile away, never knew the man had accidentally killed himself. After that night, he never ventured back to that part of the woods.

Four months later, on a breezy January afternoon, a local hunter discovered the Lincoln. It was covered with leaves, and the passenger door was open. It took him a moment to find the badly decomposed body in the open grave. Buddy Davidson, now well on his way to becoming a skeleton, was also covered in leaves and other brush. Standing over the grave, a frigid wind pushed against the hunter’s face; the wave came ashore.

Nick Garcia wasn’t discovered until later that day, when the Black Ash police searched the immediate area.

The cops found him lying on the ground underneath the snapped sapling. Since sixteen weeks had passed, no one—not even the medical examiner—could figure out how he died. His body was too decomposed. They found the bullet in Buddy Davidson’s body.

Authorities in New York City had been searching for both men. They had sent three investigators to the scene after getting the plate number for the Lincoln. The best conclusion they reached was that Maxwell Pellegrino had both men killed by one of his capos. Since these were the only two men missing, they didn’t see the need to search beyond the immediate area. As a result, Eugene’s home remained safe.