Sky's Shadow Read online

  Sky's Shadow

  A Tommy Dapino Thriller

  Ted Galdi

  Copyright © 2021 Ted Galdi

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-7366716-8-9

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  About the Author

  One

  The black Cadillac Escalade with aftermarket rims seems like a drug dealer’s car. Excitement tickles Danielle’s stomach.

  An eight-year-old girl sitting on the ground of the homeless encampment looks up at her with wide eyes and asks, “What happens next?”

  “I forgot it’s time for me to eat dinner, sweetheart.”

  “Does she get away from the wolves?”

  “I’ll finish telling you the story later. Promise. The end will surprise you.”

  The child smiles, her dirt-speckled cheeks dimpling. Danielle, thirty-three, winds through the tents to her boyfriend Len by the Escalade.

  He rocks on his feet and says, “Their stuff sounds downright ruthless, babe.”

  “Tar?”

  “Tar and fentanyl. New batch. Just released from some gang narco lab in Tijuana.”

  “I’ve never done—”

  “Yeah. This’ll be special. Your first time. With me.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We came out here to be free, right? No better way to feel free than with fentanyl.”

  “But so many ODs and—”

  “Don’t overthink it. I love you. Do you love me?”

  She gazes into his face, wishing it were her ex-fiance’s. And lies, “Of course.”

  “Then be free with me.”

  Len’s smile doesn’t rouse much in her. But at least gives her some self-worth. “Yeah, whatever, okay,” she says.

  “Ah. Beautiful. They don’t want to sell it out here. So many cops, you know? They’ll drive us somewhere safe.”

  He leads her into the Escalade, three others from their tent village in the backseats. Up front are two mid-twenties Mexican men, the one at the wheel with a tattoo of a boa constrictor around his neck, the other a retro NBA jersey jammed with veiny muscles.

  The car starts moving. Nobody talks. Within fifteen minutes, the San Diego cityscape is lost behind trees. The driver turns off the road. Deepens into the woods. His headlights shine onto a clearing. He stops and kills the engine.

  He and his partner step into the darkness. Len approaches them, Danielle and the others following.

  “All right,” Len says. “Where’s the stuff?”

  The dealer with the snake tattoo says, “Trunk.” But doesn’t open it, instead leans against it. He glances at the time on his cellphone.

  “Let’s get to it,” Len says, clawing at his arm. “Pop that trunk, bro.”

  The dealer chuckles.

  “What’s so funny?” Len asks.

  “Nothing…bro.”

  “You want my money or not?”

  “Here.” The dealer reaches into his front pocket. “You get a sugar high while we wait.” He removes a stick of gum and holds it out.

  “What is this?”

  The dealer unwraps the gum and puts it in his own mouth. “One more minute.”

  “What’re we waiting for?” Len steps closer to him.

  Danielle lays a cautionary hand on his forearm and says, “Baby.”

  “Have you ever seen anyone conduct business like this?” Len asks the three other buyers.

  One shakes his head no. Another shrugs. The third seems too drunk to have listened to the question.

  The dealer with the basketball jersey circles the group while the one with the snake tattoo watches his phone. The minutes on it change from 9:29 PM to 9:30 PM and he says, “Okay.”

  Guratt, a loud noise booms.

  Len’s forearm slides away from Danielle’s fingertips. His face hits the Escalade’s bumper, then the dirt. The back of his head is missing a chunk.

  Danielle gazes over her shoulder. A gun.

  The three other buyers scramble through the woods. The dealers, both clutching pistols, pursue them.

  A voice spouting Catholic prayer silences when the snake-tattooed dealer fires. The sound of a corpse hitting the ground. Guratt, another gunshot, another toppled body. The dealer in the jersey pumps a bullet into the skull of a third.

  Danielle’s necklace flaps as she sprints. In her periphery the snake-tattooed man rushes toward her. She trips on a rock, skins her palms landing. His feet plant at her sides.

  She looks up at him, says in a shaky voice, “Why’re you doing this? We just wanted to buy some—”

  “You did nothing wrong.”

  “Yeah, yeah I know. If something happened between you and my boyfriend in the past, I swear I wasn’t involved.”

  “He did nothing wrong either. This is bigger than both of you. Fate brought you here for a reason you’ll never understand. But you, I like you. You have kind voice. So I’ll let you go free of this. Just promise you won’t tell police.”

  “Of course not. Thank you, sir.”

  He extends his grip. “Let me give you a hand.”

  She reaches for it. He laughs and shoots her in the face. Then walks to his partner and watches a pair of headlights approach through the brush.

  Danielle’s left eye socket feels empty beside a mushy wetness. The bullet must’ve torn through her eyeball but missed the fatal parts of her brain. She wants to scream. But doesn’t. They must think she’s dead. She steadies the minor fluctuations in the elevation of her chest and stomach as she breathes.

  From the corner of her one working eye she sees a white truck pull into the clearing. It looks like a box-back U-Haul without markings. The dealers drag a slain buyer toward it. The hatch opens. Two other men inside. White. The woods too dark to make out facial details.

  The Mexicans hoist the cor
pse off the ground and pass it to the White men in the truck. Danielle peers farther into the vehicle for any clues to what’s happening. She just spots some drink coolers.

  The Mexicans approach her. While her eye is open. One grabs her ankles, the other her armpits. They carry her to the truck, the dust and wind wearing down her resistance to blink.

  Just before she gives in, two new sets of headlights appear on the horizon, the Mexicans whipping their attention off her.

  “Hey,” the one in the jersey calls toward the truck. “Someone’s coming.”

  The White men kick the corpse they were passed onto the ground. The Mexicans let go of Danielle.

  “Shit,” the one with the snake tattoo says as two incoming engines roar. “We need to leave. Now, now, now.”

  The Mexicans run to their Escalade. A White man jumps out of the truck and races around a corner. The one inside slams the hatch.

  The Escalade’s wheels spin, the truck’s a couple seconds later. The vehicles accelerate, soon out of Danielle’s sight.

  A pair of ATVs skids to a stop near the dead bodies, atop them two teenage boys. “I told you that sounded different than fireworks,” one says to the other.

  “Holy crap. None of our friends will ever believe this story.”

  Two

  Tommy Dapino, thirty-one, walks into a lounge in Queens, New York. Josh, his next-door neighbor growing up and oldest friend, hand-signals to him from a table in the back. Tommy glimpses his outfit, smirks, and says, “What’s with the vest and fedora? You look like a guy who gets rejected on American Idol…then stalks all the judges.”

  “Come on, T. Just a little swag. This spot is trendy. The look works here.”

  Tommy sits his six-one frame in a chair across from Josh and eyes the decor. Funky light fixtures, red-leather couches, a wall of wine bottles. He says, “I liked this better when it was O’Shea’s. Decent food. Good prices. This joint is trying to act too Manhattan for its own good.”

  “Nah. It’s always packed. People like it. I even had my thirtieth here when you were…away.”

  “Let’s not talk about that, huh?”

  “Right on. It’s good to have you back, homie. Tonight’ll be solid. I’ve got babes on the way.”

  “I thought it was going to just be me and you, catching up. I’m not really in the mood for any new people.”

  “Come on. I need you to be my wingman. I matched with this really cute nutritionist on Bumble. We’ve been messaging all week. She loves my jokes. Already sent me seven rolling-on-the-floor emojis. Tonight this can turn into something real, T.”

  “You’re keeping a running count of her emojis?”

  “I…well…anyway. She’s bringing a friend. Maybe you hit it off with her.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Whatever.”

  “At least just smile and try to make me look handsome by association.” Josh checks the time on his phone. “They’ll be here in nine minutes. Do I seem nervous? I seem nervous. I need to calm down. I need another glass of vino. Want one?”

  “Bud Light.”

  Josh pops up from his chair and weaves his way through the crowd toward the bar. He bumps into a guy about four inches taller and forty pounds heavier, knocks the glass out of his hand.

  The guy glances at the mess on the floor. “What the hell?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t see you. I was—”

  “So you saying I’m not noticeable then?”

  A bully. Tommy knows the type, came across plenty the last two years. A broken nose and black eyes on Josh wouldn’t make for a good first impression on the nutritionist. His dating life has flailed since they attended their first spin-the-bottle game. Tommy still remembers the look on Josh’s face when Laura Bancelli ran upstairs crying after spinning on him.

  “Hey,” Tommy shouts at the bully.

  The group at the next table peeks at him standing. He squares to the bully, Josh stepping aside.

  “What do you want?” the bully asks.

  Tommy fans his hand in front of his nose and glances down at the spilt drink. “Whoa. That breath is flagrant. What was in your glass? Mule piss?” The spectators chuckle.

  “Let’s step outside. We’ll see if you have the balls to tell me again there.”

  Tommy smiles, then right hooks him. The bully drops to the floor unconscious.

  Gasps. A bouncer slams Tommy into the wall and says, “Dipshit. Let’s go.” He muscles him to the rear exit and pushes him into the parking lot.

  “What the hell man?” Tommy says. “That guy was about to kick my friend’s ass. I was helping him out.”

  “The only ass-kicking that went on in there was done by you.”

  “You didn’t hear him? He said—”

  “I didn’t have to hear him. He was just talking. Talking is allowed. Punching other patrons out isn’t. I’ll remember your face. I’m putting you on the blacklist. This is a nice establishment. We don’t need guys like you—” He keeps yapping, but Tommy slips on his headphones, drowning him out. Then flips him off and walks away.

  After twenty or so minutes on foot through Queens blasting Nirvana, he arrives at his building and takes the stairs to his fourth-floor apartment, an “Assistant Maintenance Supervisor” placard on his door.

  He enters and flips the light switch. The small living space’s only furniture is a bed and secondhand cloth chair. He fills a cup with sink water and pours it over the soil of his plant on the windowsill. Since the weather was cloudy the last three days, he runs his fingers over the leaves to make sure they feel okay.

  He sits on the chair and turns on the TV. The streaming service gives him dozens of recommendations for movies he’s never heard of. Instead of taking a gamble, he settles on Ghostbusters, a favorite from his childhood he’s seen about fifty times.

  About ten minutes into the movie, his phone rings. “Hello,” he answers.

  “I think there’s a family of bats trapped in my wall,” Mrs. Kevel says, a resident in apartment 2F who calls him at least twice a week with some building-maintenance problem that’s imaginary.

  He closes his eyes. Huffs. “Yeah. I’ll come down.” He pauses Ghostbusters and steps into the hallway.

  His phone rings again. He wonders what inventive nuance Mrs. Kevel decided to add about the bats. But her name isn’t on his screen, rather a number not saved in his contacts, one with a 619 area code.

  “Yeah?” he answers.

  “Is this Thomas Dapino?” a man asks.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m Detective Browing with the San Diego Police Department. You were listed as an emergency contact for Danielle Dapino on a former employment record. This is her brother, correct?”

  “Yeah. Is she under arrest? What, possession?”

  “No, no sir. She didn’t commit a crime.”

  “Why’s a detective calling me if she didn’t do anything?”

  A pause. “She’s dead.”

  Three

  Tommy sits in a San Diego funeral home in the only suit he owns. Across from him is a closed casket. Despite the booze and drugs over the years, Danielle retained her beauty, but won’t be taking it to the grave. Tommy turns to the man next to him, her ex-fiance, and says, “The funeral director told me half her face was missing.”

  “The whole thing is just sickening. I haven’t been able to eat more than a cracker.”

  “Remember those eyes?”

  “I fell in love with her the moment I saw them.”

  “This scumbag didn’t even let her keep her eyes.”

  Tommy recalls those crystal-blue ones of hers. And the time when he and Josh were fourteen and snuck out of the house for a party. At one AM they attempted climbing back in through a window. The curtain rushed to the side, those eyes of Danielle staring at them. She could’ve told on her little brother but didn’t. Instead she made him and Josh grilled cheese while they recounted the details of their first high-school party.

  A woman enters the funeral hom
e Tommy at first doesn’t recognize. Big, black sunglasses conceal her face, the visible portions tight, as if pulled back by a recent plastic surgery.

  His mother.

  A part of him feels she lacks the right to even be here. She is responsible for the event that drove away his and Danielle’s father, leading to her excessive drinking, which then led her to drug addiction, which then led her into the woods with those dealers.

  His mother removes her sunglasses and gazes at him, the first they’re seeing each other in about a decade. She waves. He does not wave back.

  After the service, Tommy walks out of the funeral home into the first restaurant he sees, some open-air cafe that doesn’t look too expensive. He sits at the bar and peers out at the street, the sun shining on all types of passersby. A young couple with a stroller. Three teenagers on skateboards. A man walking a dog. A woman in a business suit. Everyone wears a variation of the same carefree smile.

  Tommy asks the bartender, “Are all these people as happy as they look or is it some sort of an act you guys play on the West Coast?”

  “Let me guess…Philly?”

  “Queens.”

  “First time to Cali?”

  “First time out of the Northeast. Shot of whiskey. Jack.”

  “You on vacation?”

  “Do people usually order shots of whiskey before noon on vacation?”

  The bartender chuckles. “First one’s on me. You eating?”

  “Cheeseburger. Medium rare.”

  The bartender keys in the order on a terminal. Tommy notices a framed photo beside it of the Twin Towers, “America Strong” along the top.

  “Been to Ground Zero?” he asks.

  “The owner. He put it up. Visited the memorial a few years ago.”

  “I knew guys who were there. That day.”

  The bartender passes him the shot and leans forward as if to hear more.

  “I was too young,” Tommy says, “but a few of the older guys in my ladder company told me all about it. Every detail. Every last detail.”

  “You’re a New York City fireman?”

  Tommy drinks the shot. “I was.”

  “I’ve got mad respect for firefighters. Society couldn’t run without you guys.”

  Tommy lifts his shot glass. “Couldn’t without you guys either.”