by Graham Smith
I want to slam the phone’s handset into its cradle, but that won’t achieve anything. As much as it frustrates me, Alfonse is right.
Another option is for Alfonse to tap directly into The Mortician’s bank and pretend to put the money there. Not only is that too much to ask of Alfonse in terms of risk, we would need The Mortician’s bank details to fake the transaction.
The burger is two parts cold when I return to my seat and take a bite, but I force myself to eat it anyway. I need the energy and, thanks to Mother’s teachings, I hate to see food wasted.
I decide to roll the dice one last time to see if I can engage The Mortician.
* * *
Dratted neighbour called the cops. Don’t want to move money just yet as they are looking for an excuse to nail me. How does double once Johnson is dead sound?
* * *
The Mortician’s reply comes as I’m finishing the last few fries.
* * *
These terms are acceptable. Do I need to remind you of the consequences of non-payment?
* * *
I tell him the payment will be there, as well as where Johnson can be found, and exit the diner.
75
I make my way across town to where I’ve set up it up for The Mortician to execute his hit on me. It’s beyond dangerous to hire a hitman to kill you, and be there when he shows up, but that’s what I’ve done. Or at least, something like that.
My plan is a simple one. I am going to observe him as he arrives and wait until he’s given up trying to find me. Then I’ll follow him.
Once he’s in one of New York’s many crowds, I’ll put a knife in his back and then his heart. As plans go, it’s not quite the D-Day landings, but I don’t see the point in over-complicating things. The crowds will cover the early part of my escape, and by the time people realise a murder has been committed, I’ll be the best part of a hundred yards away.
While it sounds simple, I know that someone who does what The Mortician does for a living will not leave themselves vulnerable. I expect him to run a certain level of surveillance to ensure what I plan to do to him doesn’t happen.
I can’t decide what to do with my disguise. The scar makes me instantly recognisable, but if I remove it, I’ll be showing my real face.
There is a queue of people at the subway but I’m not in any hurry. The location that Alfonse has picked up as The Mortician’s home or base, by tracking his cell signal, is a lot further away from the deserted warehouse, which I’m supposed to be holed up in, than I am.
Time is on my side, but I want to get there at least an hour before he does.
The subway is crowded and while I’m used to seeing people from all walks of life, New York is as eclectic as things get. A man dressed in the pinstriped suit of a banker is sitting beside a Goth with dyed black hair and a plethora of studs and rings in her face.
Opposite them is a woman in her early twenties who is wearing a ripped prom dress with torn fishnet stockings and the kind of work boots normally found on a building site. Her face is made up and is pretty, but the further south you look, the more her outfit contrasts with it.
After a couple of stops and one change of line, I exit the bowels of New York and find myself on a street that has seen better days. Nothing looks as if it’s been maintained for years, and the better days must have taken place decades ago.
Stores have boarded-up windows and there are gangs of homeless people lining up at a door that hasn’t seen fresh paint since Reagan was president.
I feel a vibrating in my pocket and pull out the cell. Only one person can contact me on this number, so it has to be The Mortician.
What I see on the screen makes me launch the cell at the nearest wall with all the force I can muster.
* * *
I have made enquiries. Olly Kingston is dead. You are masquerading as him and targeting me. This is a bad idea. You should leave New York in the next hour. Failure to do so will have fatal consequences.
* * *
I go back into the subway and think about the ways I can still get to The Mortician. I can only surmise that The Mortician has spoken to one of Kingston’s men. If I’m right, he’ll have a description of me. At the risk of being conceited, I know that when he is told about what I did last night, I will go up in his estimation. This will make him far more cautious as he goes about his business.
Without the cell he has no way to track me so, despite his threat, I’m safe for the time being. My disguise will have to go, as it’s a ready identifier.
I leave the subway and find a store where I buy two more cells. One is a base model, which I plan to use for communicating with Alfonse, the other is more sophisticated and will allow me to access Google, among other things.
As soon as I’m in any situation that could get dangerous, the Alfonse phone will be disposed of.
Never mind the trail of bodies I’m leaving as I cross the Big Apple, I’m tossing cell phones as if they were confetti.
I wander along the street as I bring Alfonse up to speed on the latest development.
He already knows.
To take away my despondency he shares two pieces of news.
Both work for different reasons.
76
With the cell phone still pressed to my ear, I hail a cab and tell the driver there’s a hundred bucks tip if he does as I say without question.
I sit in the front and repeat the street names and numbers from Alfonse to the cabbie.
The cabbie has the kind of rough leathery face that needs to see a razor every few hours, and there are several years’ worth of stories in his eyes.
I guess an experienced New York cabbie has seen pretty much all there is to see about human behaviour.
Alfonse’s directions are only coming every five minutes or so, as he has to constantly update the triangulation of The Mortician’s cell.
It isn’t a problem for me though. I’m just happy that I still have a chance to find and identify him.
The cabbie asks if we’re going to Long Island and I just shrug at him. I know the name, but have no idea where it is, other than it’s near New York.
When I give the cabbie the next instruction, he tells me he’s sure we’re going to Long Island.
Pleased that I have someone with knowledge of the local geography with me, I think about the few things I do know about Long Island.
To the best of my recollection, it’s a place full of holiday homes, retired people, and those rich enough to own a beachfront mansion.
Life on Long Island is taken at a slower pace than that in the centre of New York. This becomes evident as soon as we leave the bustle of the city. There are fewer blaring horns and the drivers are less insistent on going first at all costs.
As the roads widen, there is a sense of space that’s absent from the city.
We follow Alfonse’s directions until we’re at a place the cabbie tells me is called the Hamptons.
My chauffeur seems like a decent guy. He’s amiable, and when he tells me about his children and grandchildren I can hear love and pride in his voice. Cameron could learn a lot from him.
After we’ve taken a road into a suburb, Alfonse tells me that The Mortician has stopped moving. He gives me the general area, so I get the cabbie to drop me a few hundred yards away and walk the rest.
I duck into a small bar and use the bathroom to wash my face and remove all traces of the scars.
Alfonse directs me to the house where The Mortician is holed up.
I give Alfonse the house’s number and wait for him to tell me who owns it.
When I hear his answer, I gasp in amazement.
77
The name he’s given me doesn’t mean anything to him, but it rings the wrong kind of bells for me.
Before I can be sure of anything, I need more information. Over the phone I can hear Alfonse’s fingers pounding his keyboard.
‘Got some pictures coming your way.’
I cut the call, look up
and down the street to make sure I’m unobserved, and access the pictures Alfonse has sent me.
It’s just as I had thought. Part of me would like to have been mistaken, but the more primeval part of my psyche is glad he’s mixed up in this. It means I’ll have a chance of following up on my offer to Taylor to recalibrate his sensibilities.
Jason Tagliente, is the drunken lech from the wedding and, according to what Alfonse has told me about him, very much more than that.
A beep from my phone alerts me to more news from Alfonse.
I read the details, with frequent looks up and down the street to check nobody is observing me.
Tagliente is a second cousin of Genaro Chellini, and features on several lists compiled by various law enforcement agencies. While he is not thought to be directly involved in mafia activity, he’s known to be a shrewd investor on the stock markets, and has thrice been investigated after accusations of insider trading were made.
None of these were upheld, but I suppose someone with a talent for making money on the stock exchange may well face such finger-pointing as a matter of course.
The picture in my head is clearer than the pope’s conscience. Chellini will tip off Tagliente regarding a deal, hit, or some other move he’s going to make.
Tagliente will act based on his own predictions as to how the company’s share prices will react. He’ll buy when the price is low, only to sell at the peak of the market when Chellini’s influence has been felt. In other cases, he will know to sell before huge losses are incurred, and then he can swoop in and replace all his sold shares at a fraction of their original value.
For these financial sleights of hand, Tagliente won’t just be using his own money, he’ll be using the money of whichever corporation Chellini has set up for such purposes.
With this information stored for a better examination at a later time, I take a casual walk up the tree-lined street, with my phone pressed to my ear, and peek through the various gates at the supercars on the drives.
I see plenty of Ferraris and Lamborghinis, and a couple of Rolls Royces before I pass Tagliente’s house.
His gates are solid timber, with the same studs you’d see on a medieval castle’s door. There are no chinks I can peer through, and the last thing I want is to be caught spying by The Mortician.
As I’m passing the next house along, I hear the muted putter of an engine kicking into life behind me.
I slow my pace and wait to see what kind of vehicle appears.
A small Ford comes out of Tagliente’s drive and passes me as it heads to New York. I snatch a glimpse at the driver and see a short man who can barely see over the steering wheel.
His face is unremarkable and has a general meatiness to it that suggests the man has muscle that’s turning to fat.
I dismiss the man as a staff member who’s just finished work. There’s no way he looks dangerous enough to be The Mortician.
I’ve covered less than a hundred paces when I get a message from Alfonse telling me The Mortician is on his way to New York.
That I’ve been in close proximity to him doesn’t worry me. He doesn’t know what I look like, or that I’m tracking him. I dare say if he has tried to track me, the same way Alfonse has tracked him, he’ll have figured I ditched the phone after getting his message instructing me to leave town.
Whether I ditched the phone or smashed it in a fit of temper is neither here nor there. It’s no longer with me.
His choice of car is interesting. It’s by no means a base model, but at the same time it’s not a fire-snorting racer that announces its passing with a grumbling exhaust and a paint job a six-year-old could design.
He’s gone for something innocuous, yet pacy. The little Ford will be good in the city and will have a decent amount of grunt should he find himself in rural areas. It’s the kind of car I’d have given my eyeteeth for when that SUV was chasing me and Cameron.
I’m left with two choices. I can either follow The Mortician back to New York, so I can attack him in his lair, or I can do something intelligent instead.
Intelligence wins out. After my attempt to lure him into a trap, The Mortician will have raised his security levels and general awareness. I’m guessing, but I’m pretty sure that as a professional hitman, his base level of home security is akin to Fort Knox’s, lest he be attacked by those seeking to avenge a fallen comrade or family member.
Now I have to choose between asking Tagliente a few questions, and learning more about what I may be facing should I go and knock on Tagliente’s door.
78
Cameron’s head snaps up when he hears a key turning in the lock. He pulls on his shoes and waits to see who comes in.
First through the door is Ivy, and she’s followed by six guys – their presence forces him back, onto the bed.
His first thought is that she’s organised a beating for him. His second thought is that the beating is coming because Jake has failed.
‘Good news, bawbag. The hospital has called John with your results. You’re a match.’
‘Excellent, I’m so relieved.’ Cameron tries to make his voice sound like he means what he’s saying.
An arched eyebrow shows her disbelief. ‘Of course you are.’ She waves a hand at the six guys. ‘Some of Jake’s friends have come to help you get to the hospital. Isn’t that nice?’
Cameron sees the sense in what she’s done; he’s a definite flight risk and he can’t help but admire the way she’s thwarted any attempt at escape he may try. Or, he would do, had he not spent the best part of his life working for men who were devious, underhand and downright violent.
Everything about this situation makes him afraid: from the grim, silent faces, to the twitching gait of the six guys with Ivy. Maybe twenty years ago he might have managed to put a couple of them down and have it away on his toes, but there is no chance of that now. He will be going wherever they decide to take him.
Ivy positions herself in front of him and looks him in the eye.
‘You look scared, Cameron. Are you afraid these fine gentlemen are here to harm you? That you’ll be taken into the wilds and killed?’ She gives a little smile. ‘Once, I might have wanted you dead, but I’ve moved on with my life. I’ve healed from all the pain you caused, and found happiness again. There’s no way I’m prepared to spend the rest of my life worrying about going to jail for your murder. You took my happiness once, I won’t let you take it again.’
Cameron sees the truth in her eyes, and his fear seeps away.
This might be for the best anyway. Sure, having to hang around and donate to John will delay him getting on with the next phase of his life, but at the same time, the sooner it’s done, the sooner he can leave town.
With luck, he’ll be long gone by the time Jake returns. Cameron knows his son carries a lot of anger about what happened with the girl, and once he’s donated to John he’ll no longer be of value to Jake.
He doesn’t think Jake would go so far as to kill him, but he does believe his son would use fists, where his ex-wife had used words.
Sometimes, the best defence is not to be on the battlefield.
79
My journey back to New York is a train ride that costs about one eighth of what I paid the cabbie to get out here.
Neither time nor money are what’s on my mind though. My thoughts are somewhere else altogether.
Jason Tagliente’s half-cousin is Genaro Chellini, the notorious mafia head. The wedding I’d met Tagliente at, was that of his brother to one of Taylor’s cousins.
Therefore, knowingly or not, my girlfriend’s family are connected to the mafia by marriage.
A part of my mind is wondering if there is any way that Tagliente was in contact with The Mortician; whether he’d offered a bonus to the hitman if Taylor were to die as well as Cameron.
While it seems far-fetched on a train in daylight, I know the question will nag at me as darkness falls. I’m aware I may be pointing fingers at everyone I dislike, so I can j
ustify killing them as an act of vengeance, but I do wonder about the possibility. Until I realise there’s no way that Tagliente could have known who the girl on the boat was.
I get off the train and make my way across town until I’m back in a familiar area. It’s too late for me to make my planned visit so I hole up in a cheap hotel for the night.
Gavriel is opening the pawn shop when I arrive. His expression when he sees me is one of surprise. He goes to speak, and then his mouth closes.
I follow him inside.
Once the door is locked behind me, he takes me to a small office, which has two chairs and a desk that’s covered with invoices and bills of sale.
He looks at me with expectancy, and a docile expression. I know he’s prompting me to speak and I have no problem with that. I’m here for help – from him and his father. Not practical or physical help; all I want is information.
‘I’m here because a situation has developed and there are questions that I need answered. Nothing I’m going to ask will put you or your family in danger, but I would very much appreciate honest and full answers.’
Gavriel stays silent and stares at the wall above my head.
I match his silence and let him have some thinking time. He’s smart enough to guess that my questions are about the mafia.
‘We have heard some things that we think you may already know something about.’ His lips purse as he stifles a yawn. ‘I think my father may be a better person to answer your questions.’
He casts me a strange look. It’s like he’s waiting for me to say something and his manners are preventing him from asking me whatever he wants to know.
I could play games and stay quiet to wait him out. If his name was Alfonse, I most certainly would keep my mouth shut, but you can’t be an asshole with people whose help you need.
