Chapter 1
The Yellow Cab slowed, the driver searching the darkness for a number. All of the brownstones on the densely foliated street looked similar in the shadows. The cab hovered before one of them, hoping for some guidance from the back seat. All the driver could hear was coat sleeves rubbing and lips smacking. He cleared his throat. No response.
“Is this it,” the cabby inquired with a gentle Hindi overtone. More groping and hard breathing ensued.
“Excuse me,” the driver said, louder but still polite.
After a brief delay, the movement stopped and the man responded. “Did you say something?”
“Is this your home?” the driver repeated.
“Next one,” said the man.
The cab nudged ahead then came to a halt.
“How much,” the man asked.
“Nine eighty.”
The woman gathered her purse and exited the cab as the man fumbled under his coat. Finally locating his wallet, he handed the driver a twenty. By the time the cabby extended an arm back through the window slot with some change, the woman and man were weaving their way, arm in arm, up the steps of the brownstone. At the doorstep, cashmere clung to leather. Eager hands wandered through styled hair and caressed soft skin. Warm lips devoured each other hungrily until juvenile laughter parted them. The man rummaged through his pockets half-heartedly then they locked together again. After additional moments of impassioned grappling, the man, spurred by the unseasonable cold, resumed his search in earnest. Streetlights reflected off the small metal object he produced. He struggled with the lock.
“Come on, you can do it,” urged the woman. They both laughed then click. The door opened. More stumbling, kissing and laughter. They mounted the stairs and kissed again.
“Aren’t you going to turn on the lights,” asked the woman playfully.
“No, darling. You see, the object of the game is for you to advance to the bedroom without bumping any furniture.”
She planted several soft kisses everywhere but on his lips. “Really. And if I don’t?
“I guess we’ll just have to turn on the lights and have another drink.”
The woman fanned herself with distaste. “I don’t think I could tolerate another one of those. But what if I do?” she asked with seductive hopefulness.
“Why then you’ll receive your prize.”
“Oh,” she said. “And what might that be?”
“Why me, of course.”
She kissed him on the lips. “Well then, we’d better get started.”
She forged ahead tentatively then more aggressively. Her leg kicked up and she fell backward, narrowly missing a chair. He caught her and she screeched with delight. Several more kisses and close calls brought them to a hallway.
“Excellent work. You’re on the home stretch now,” he said.
She grasped his hand and pulled him forward. A crevice of light beaming through the ajar bedroom door lent a goddess-like quality to the woman’s handsome features. The woman pushed her way into the room and the man followed. The woman turned. As the man rushed to meet her, he was met, instead, with searing pain as the cold steel was thrust forcefully into his abdomen. The man groaned. The woman screamed but her cry was quickly stifled by a leather-clad forearm. Simultaneously, a violent thrust into her right kidney bent her backward. The blade was removed rapidly and repeatedly impaled her neck, chest, face and side. An additional assailant burst from the darkness and together with the first, stabbed the man savagely, the man staggering backward, the attackers pursuing like sharks in a feeding frenzy. There were guttural shrieks and crashing furniture as the hapless victims attempted to fend off their assailants in vain. Finally, the resistance ceased but the zeal of two of the attackers did not; they ground their gloved fingers into the wounds of their apparently lifeless victims, then howled in tongues as they painted the walls with sinister euphoria, their revelry broken only by the sound of approaching sirens.
“Put the safe back,” shouted one of the men with a hint of panic.
“No time,” said the third man who had gone back to the office to work.
The men who had initiated the attack started for the door at the back of the kitchen, as they had planned.
The third man lingered in the office.
“What are you doing?”
“Gettin’ what we came for, dumb ass?”
By the time the men in the blue uniforms were entering the apartment, the men who had perpetrated the atrocity were on the street, walking swiftly.
Chapter 2
Danny Tenacce pulled his Camry cautiously to the curb, its headlights illuminating the back of the black SUV that he knew belonged to his brother. The chrome alphanumeric and characteristic emblem affixed above the vehicle’s bumper glared back at him in a manner that he interpreted as a boast. The Toyota blinked and beeped behind him as he stumbled in the sidewalk divot that had persisted for thirty years, having survived multiple attempts at repair. The air was anomalously cold for August. It bit at his balding vertex and he cursed under his breath, reprimanding himself for having accepted the position at Princeton instead of the job offered to him by UC Santa Barbara, what was it, going on five years now.
The house resembled all of the others in the middle class Brooklyn neighborhood except that it had been better maintained. Despite the settling dusk, he noticed that a new coat of paint had been applied and all of the shutters replaced since the time he last visited, at Christmas. Statues of St. Joseph and an NYPD officer guarded the residence as they had since he was a child. He scoffed at them as he made his way to the back and entered the house without knocking.
The smell of garlic and sage permeated the modest but tidy duplex. He could hear the men shouting at the television from an adjoining room. Women of varying ages stirred pots in the kitchen and placed china and silverware on the white-clothed table in the dining room. He dodged a screeching niece being chased by a nephew and approached the slender woman with the silky gray hair as she poured a steaming cauldron of spaghetti into a strainer in the sink.
“Any seats left for the prodigal son?” he called from behind her.
A glow of delight radiated from the woman’s delicate countenance as she spun around to hug him.
“It’s so good to see you,” she said, her embrace lingering. “For a while, I was worried you weren’t coming.”
“What? And miss a chance to see you? Never.”
“Your father will be happy you came for his birthday.”
He did not answer. She patted his shoulder blades with gratitude, then released him.
“So that means you’ll stay for the weekend and go to mass with us on Sunday?” she cajoled.
He chuckled. “I don’t know about that now. ”
“All right, all right.” She stepped back to regard him briefly. “So how have you been?”
“Fine,” he replied.
“I mean you look great.”
“Thanks. You too, Mom.”
“You look … stout.” She gestured with flexed biceps. “Still doing your tae bo or whatever it is, I guess?”
“Tae kwon do and Hapkido. Yes, still doing it.”
“And the job? Any new … discoveries?”
“No. New discoveries don’t come easy in my line of work. Trying … but no. Just teaching.”
There was an awkward silence. “Well good,” his mother said finally. “Let me help finish getting this dinner together and we’ll talk more later.”
“Yes. Later.”
He was nearly floored by the wide, square body of his aunt as she carried a platter of Italian cold cuts toward the dining room. “Hi, hun,” she muttered as she hurried past. He token hugged his sister and sister-in-law with as little contact as possible then moved toward the living room. His mother appeared at his side at the threshold.
“Here, let me come with you,” she said.
“Good idea.”
“Danny’s here,” she proclaimed.
Helmeted figures grunted as they collided on the forty-six inch analog screen which had been state-of-the-art in its day. Ever the salesman, his brother sprang to his feet with a frozen smile. Joe Jr., or Joey as he was called, was a handsome man and extremely Italian with dark eyes, curly black hair and thick forearms. He grasped Danny’s hand with his powerful mitt and crushed it, slapping his shoulder hard with his left hand. “How ya doin’ little bro,” he exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in an age. How’ve ya been?”
Danny considered turning his sibling’s wrist over with one of his well-practiced maneuvers to see if it would really break, but not wanting to spoil his mother’s party, he suppressed the urge and said hello instead. After exchanging the usual meaningless cordialities that had become their custom since becoming adults, he moved on to greet his father and teenaged nephew, each of whom grunted unintelligibly without making eye contact or attempting to rise.
“Well, why don’t ya sit down,” said his brother, scrambling to the seat on the sofa next to his father’s recliner, patting the seat to his left.
His mother, who had remained to observe, peeled the jacket away from her son’s arm, then glided to the bedroom with her usual unintentional grace. Lowering himself onto the refurbished sofa served as a reminder of just how uncomfortable it was. Having dispensed with formalities, Joe Sr. and Joe Jr., a former all-state linebacker and tackling dummy for two years at Rutgers, wasted little time in resuming their supplementary color commentary. They loved football. The pummeling he took as a youngster—at the hands of his brother, two years his senior, while being forced to participate—had instilled in Danny an intense Pavlovian aversion for the game and the other sports with which they were obsessed. He leaned back and pretended to watch. He daydreamed of equations and reviewed the movements of his forms. The time passed quickly. Soon his mother was calling them for dinner.
His father assumed his place at the head of the table. His brother sat at his right, his mother at his left. Danny sat somewhere in the middle, between his aunt and his brother-in-law, a philandering mechanic. Once everyone was seated, Joe Jr. rose from his chair. The clang of his spoon on the side of his glass brought the flittering chatter to rest.
“I’d like to make a toast to this guy right here,” he started, pointing to his father. Then he proceeded to deliver a clever stew of schmaltz and acerbic wit that left everyone at the table clapping, and Danny Tenacce nauseous and green.
At the end of his tribute, Joe Jr. hoisted his glass. “Salute,” he cried, and as was the custom, the crowd around the table followed suit.
“Cent’anni!” they all called out, all except Danny, who let his glass lay on the table and remained silent, eyes fixed forward.
Joe Tenacce raised his glass and responded with the others but kept a portion of his gaze trained on his second son. When the toast was finished, he requested that Joe Jr. ask the blessing, not allowing the tension that had gripped the muscles of his lower neck to bring down his smile. They joined hands and Danny watched as the others bowed their heads. Joe Jr.’s prayer of thanks was Catholic and brief, then it was time to eat.
The salad came first. Danny loaded up. The smell of meatballs and red sauce made him ill, his mother’s Polish genes no doubt. It was hard to believe he was Italian. He passed the antipasto and freshly baked bread but doubled up on the red wine. It was cheap but would serve its purpose. When the pasta came, Danny went light. He passed on the Bolognese put poured a moderate portion of the marinara on his pasta because he knew that his mother had made it especially for him. They ate and talked quietly.
About midway through the meal, his father took a swig of Chianti and cleared his throat. Danny recognized that it was about to start: the alpha male initiating the establishment of rank ritual, just as he had learned in the “Social Behavior in Primates” class he had taken as an undergraduate elective. He predicted the ensuing scene, to himself, with uncanny precision. Joe questioned Joe Jr. first, affording him an opportunity to recount all of the victories he had won in high-stakes negotiations in the year to date. Then he complimented his wife on her excellent meal and the indispensable role that she played in his life. From there, Joe Sr. orchestrated a medley of caustic barbs intermingled among snickers and sneers—around the table—directed at the most infamous flaws and follies of those he disrespected the most. Ultimately, it trickled downhill to Danny.
“So how are things at Princeton?” Joe started. “Found any of those nuons, freons or other things that we can’t see, that you and those Swedish guys are lookin’ for?”
Danny realized that he was taking the bait but could not restrain himself. “It’s the Large Hadron Collider at the CERN in Switzerland to which I assume you are referring. It hasn’t been built yet. And the Higgs particle is the current hot ‘thing’ for which those ‘guys’ will be searching. No, it hasn’t yet been found.”
“Yeah, like I said,” his father replied. There were a few giggles.
“And I’m not sure why you asked that. You know that I’m a religious cryptologist and that I haven’t looked for particles since my second year in graduate school.”
“That’s right. Nothing so practical as lookin’ for nuons and gluons. Ya just sit at a desk all day and think about things that aren’t what they seem ta be and that you never will find.” After the laughter died down, he added, “Wish I could make a living like that.”
Danny shot back. “Maybe you could have. If you had graduated from high school.”
“I had ta go ta work,” replied Joe Sr., his smile tight, just barely hanging on.
“If you could call what you did in those days working,” said Danny.
Joe Sr. wasn’t smiling anymore.
Forks clanged on plates and knives tinged on crystal. No one spoke for a moment. Then Danny, against his better judgment, pursued. “So I heard the Third laid off a bunch of detectives recently, but I see you’re still working. What did you do, get your old 13th Avenue buddies to drum up some business for you?” Some of the family members at the table wanted to laugh—or applaud—but no one did either.
“Now how could I do that?” Joe Sr. retaliated, his scorn now palpable. “I put ‘em all away just about single-handedly in the eighties.”
Joe Jr. raised his brows and intervened. “So Ma, I heard that cousin Mario is finally gettin’ married.”
Mary Tenacce responded eagerly. “Yes, and his bride-to-be has asked me to help plan their wedding. That’s the second person who’s asked me to plan a party for them in the last three months. Maybe I should start a business.”
Joe Sr.’s cell phone rang. “Tenacce here,” he answered gruffly. “Yeah … Yeah … Where?” He rose and walked into the kitchen.
Mother and elder son continued their discussion about weddings until free form conversation began to seep back in. Just when it had taken hold, Joe Sr. returned.
“Sorry ta fink out on my own party guys, but I gotta go,” he announced. “Got business down in Manhattan. Listen, thank you all for comin’.”
He kissed his wife, slapped his eldest son on the back and moved hastily to retrieve his coat. When Danny Tenacce heard the door close, he felt the rigidity in his shoulders subside. The eating and drinking resumed. After a few moments, the laughter began to increase in volume and Danny Tenacce began to diffuse into anonymous solitude. When the commotion had reached a fever pitch, he smiled, raised his glass and drank.
Chapter 3
The three young men walked in a line, in front of the chapel, an architectural escutcheon of the prestigious university that towered above its hewn stone neighbors. Peter, the tallest of the three freshman sauntered confidently in the lead, unmoved by his surroundings. He dragged deeply on his cigarette and exhaled slowly into the crisp autumn air as he walked, certain that his father’s money would shelter him from the ill effects of the slender burning cylinder, like it did from everything else. James, the shortest, followed behind Peter, sporting scruffy facial hair in an attempt to make himself look older. The chapel tower windows seemed to stare down at him, as if to acknowledge his newfound membership in an elite club, causing him to flush with pride. John, who brought up the rear, simply fretted. They made their way across the quadrangle, John interrupting their silence to dispel his own nervousness.
“I hear that this class is supposed to be good.”
“I hear it’s easy,” said Peter. “That’s why I’m takin’ it.”
“The guy’s supposed to be a freakin’ genius,” James offered.
“That worries me,” said John. “Guys like that think on a different level and expect you to do the same.”
“You worry about everything,” Peter remarked.
“How do you know? You only met me a week ago.”
“And figured it out already. Sad, huh?”
John frowned.
James reoriented the conversation. “Hey, I heard the guy’s a good teacher.”
“Who cares,” countered Peter, allowing the smoke to run out again.
James attempted to hold his ground. “He makes it simple. And he gives simple tests.”
“Ridiculously simple, I’ve heard. That’s the key,” said Peter with authority.
They angled across the dew-covered lawn toward the gray stone building. Peter stomped out his cigarette and they entered. The linoleum floors were scuffed, large metal conduits ran above metal rafters and paint flaked off of the institutional green cement walls. Peter and John, accustomed to luxury, and James, accustomed to such shabbiness but hoping for more, were put off by the worn surroundings but walked up the stairs in silence.
“Room 205.”
“Looks like the place.”
Inside, about fifteen students were already seated, preparing notebooks and sifting through backpacks. The three freshman took consecutive chairs in the rear of the room, bantering among themselves. Then the door opened and a man who looked to be in his late forties appeared. He was a thin man, moderately tall, with disheveled brown hair and wild eyes.
“Get a load of this guy,” Peter jeered. The others looked but did not respond.
“Hello. I’m Dr. Richards,” said the man, as if a curtain had been pulled open, revealing him before he was ready. “This is ‘Advanced Physics for Nonphysicists.’ But I guess you know that or you wouldn’t be here.” He clasped his chin between the thumb and index finger of his right hand and began pacing, as if he were thinking about what to do next. Then it seemed to come to him and he went to the table behind him, retrieved a stack of crudely bound booklets and began handing them out.
“This is your textbook for the course,” he said once they were distributed. “I couldn’t find a book that tells you what I want to teach so I kind of threw it together myself.” He looked at his feet with a hint of modest pride, then looked up for their approval.
When there was none, he cleared his throat, and as if someone had pressed a button, commenced delivery of a well-rehearsed monologue in a monotone, staring at the window, the ceiling, the door, anywhere but at his listeners, as he spoke.
He began with an outline of the course and its requirements, proceeded through a brief history of physics, then plunged into his topic in earnest, alternately scrawling equations and diagrams on a transparent plastic sheet, then projecting them onto a screen at the front of the room.
“Is this guy high?” offered James incredulously.
“Shhh,” John admonished, eyes glued to the screen.
Richards continued, oblivious to the whispers and occasional clandestine snickers. When he finished, he switched off the screen, and directing his gaze back to his audience, addressed them with automaton facies that, when coupled with the hair, bordered on preposterous.
“All of this is in your syllabus, or textbook, or whatever you want to call it,” he said, waving his hand. “It’ll probably help to read it before class. The things that might make good test questions: they’re indicated in red in the margins.”
He walked back to the box from which he had procured the material that he had previously distributed, pulled out a hand-crafted tome that would have fit nicely in a microwave oven and held it up before the class.
“Of course, if you’d like to see more detailed derivations, they can be found here,” he said hopefully, pointing at the book.
When there were no takers, he assumed the hand on chin position again and paused, staring down at the floor, then after a few seconds of what appeared to be deep thought, he popped his head up, regarding them dully. “Ok, that’s all I have,” he proclaimed. Then he collected his briefcase and floated from the room on a cloud without acknowledging the bewildered class, as if he were being pulled away, entranced by an irresistible force.
Shuffling and murmuring ensued.
“Is this guy from outer space?” groused James as they collected their belongings.
“Maybe, but did you hear what he said!” exclaimed John. “In less than an hour, he gave a detailed mathematical treatise on the Newtonian, Lagrangian and Hamiltonian formulations of classic mechanics, to a bunch of people without an advanced mathematics background, in a way that everyone understood. That was amazing!”
“I did actually half comprehend what he was talking about,” said Peter, as if it were true. “But of course, you know what the best part is.”
“Yeah, we know,” chimed James and John in unison. “The test questions are in the syllabus.”
Peter pointed at them, winked and nodded, then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out another cigarette as they joined the train of students heading toward the exit.