Past Echoes

by Graham Smith

  ‘What is it, Gavriel? What’s going on?’

  ‘You haven’t heard?’ There’s incredulity in his voice.

  ‘Heard—’ I stop talking. There’s only one thing he can be talking about. Alfonse has released Ms Rosenberg’s evidence. ‘It’s out there?’

  He nods. ‘It’s more than out there, it’s everywhere. The police have been rounding up lots of people. Lots of important people. People who think they are either above the law or out of its reach.’

  ‘Sounds perfect. Has the source of the information been identified?’

  ‘No. There are lots of theories floating about, and the most popular is that it’s an ex-cop who has spent years compiling the case.’

  To my mind, the idea of an ex-cop doesn’t just sound plausible, it goes louder and shouts probable.

  I start to picture some grey-haired guy, poring over dusty files, but I stop myself. I know who built the case – over a forty-year span. Ms Rosenberg wasn’t close enough to me to be called a friend, but I enjoyed her company, and found her to be a decent person who expected the world to share her values and not impede her progress.

  ‘I guess we’re going to have a lot to discuss then.’

  While I’m pleased that Alfonse has broken Ms Rosenberg’s story, I’m worried what effect this new state of play may have on my own mission.

  If the guy I’m after is running scared, or incarcerated, I may never get to deliver the justice that Taylor’s killer deserves.

  The sooner I find out what has happened, and is still happening, the better.

  ‘I will take you to my father, but first you must leave here. I don’t know if I’m being watched, but after hearing what you may have done, I can’t be seen with you.’

  ‘How will I get to meet your father?’

  Gavriel gives me directions to a diner four blocks away. I’m to go there and wait until he passes.

  80

  As instructed, I wait for Gavriel to pass the diner and fall in fifty yards behind him. He’s not setting the fast pace of someone who is in a hurry, or is fearful. Rather, he’s adopting the gait of someone who has neither purpose nor urgency.

  He leads me a few blocks worth of detours until I feel a hand on my shoulder. I glance behind me and see the largest of Halvard’s three nephews. For him, the laying of his hand and the squeeze of my shoulder probably has gentle as the intent, but to me, it feels like the jaws of a vice have attached themselves to me and a maniac is winding them tight.

  ‘Come with me, please.’ His voice is as deep and melodious as befits his bulk.

  I follow him into an alleyway where he leads me to a doorway.

  The door opens at his first knock and I see his two brothers.

  Two minutes later I’m sitting round a kitchen table that is big enough to seat twelve. Or in this case, just large enough for me, Halvard, Gavriel and the three bruisers.

  Halvard’s eyes are weary, and belie a lot more than his age, as he tells me about the arrests that have been made and the chaos that has been brought about by so many mafia men being arrested.

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that there have been moves made by most gangs against others, as they use the arrests as an excuse to muscle in on new territory. Halvard hasn’t gone so far as to describe a full-on turf war, but I’m sure it isn’t far away.

  ‘My Fifi really did a number on him, didn’t she?’

  I shrug. ‘I guess she did.’

  I’d say more, but I’m still playing catch-up on the implications and don’t want to speak out of turn.

  ‘Gavriel says you want to know more about the mafia connections.’ Halvard breaks and glances at his son with fondness. ‘I can only tell you about those I know, but what I do know, I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Thanks. First off, Genaro Chellini is a big noise and he’s not been implicated in this business with Gabbidon’s corruption. Does that mean he’s clean, or not connected?’

  Halvard chuckles. ‘He’s clean, so far as Gabbidon is concerned. He has many city officials either in his pocket or under his thumb, therefore he has no need to get involved with the mayor as he’s already got the other key people on board.’

  ‘Fair enough, what about Jason Tagliente? Is he just a money-man or is he in deeper?’

  ‘He’s deep. Chellini has no sons and those in the know, say Tagliente is a definite candidate to succeed him.’

  ‘Interesting. What do you make of that?’

  Halvard screws up his face. ‘Tagliente will be good for the business side of things, but he won’t be as committed as Chellini. He needs to grow up and quit the party life.’

  ‘What connection will he have to The Mortician?’

  ‘Tagliente?’

  I nod.

  ‘He’ll know him. Perhaps he’s even used him.’ Halvard’s eyes narrow. ‘Tell me, Jake, why do you want to know about The Mortician?’

  Both Halvard and Gavriel close their eyes in sadness when I tell them about how Taylor died, and my quest to bring justice to her killer.

  After I finish speaking, we all sit in silence until one of the cousins speaks. It’s not the massive guy, just one of the huge ones.

  ‘Baruch, Yerik, I think we should help out here. If Mr Boulder is going to take on The Mortician, he’s going to need all the assistance he can get.’

  Massive nods his head and looks to the huge guy who hasn’t spoken. ‘I’m with Ike. What about you, Yerik?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘No. I can’t allow it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Uncle, but you can’t stop us.’

  Halvard’s face drops and his jaw tightens as he looks to me for support.

  I keep my face implacable as I work through the idea of having them alongside me.

  If there’s any kind of fisticuffs, having Halvard’s nephews on my side will be enough to guarantee success against any opponents who fail to bring less than a couple of dozen friends to the party.

  A counterpoint to this is the glaring fact that the three brothers take up one hell of a lot of space. If bullets start to fly, there’s a better than average chance they’ll be hit. I’m not by any means a good shot, but I’d be confident of hitting any one of them at twenty paces.

  Another point is, being of average height and build, I can use subterfuge and sneak in and out of places. The chances of sneaking these guys in or out of anywhere are zero, unless I find myself storming the elephant enclosure at the zoo.

  On the other hand, the extra muscle would be helpful if The Mortician is as deadly as his reputation suggests.

  I look at each of the men in turn, assess their resolve, and see only determination. ‘What I’m planning is very dangerous. You could end up being killed, having to kill, or being imprisoned if things go wrong.’

  It’s Baruch who answers for them. ‘The Mortician threatened our father and made him sell his business to Chellini. We’ll take whatever risks are necessary. You did what you had to do with Kingston, we respect that and want to help you take out The Mortician.’

  I give them another good looking at, making sure I hold each of their stares. ‘If you’re coming with me, you must do as I say, when I say it.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  The three deep voices, speaking as one, almost create a sonic boom.

  81

  Dusk is falling as Ike drives us out to Long Island in a silver SUV. I’d have preferred something a little less conspicuous, but at least it has tinted windows to hide the men-mountains we’ve shoehorned into the back seats.

  I’m in the front passenger seat and it’s been pulled all the way forward to better accommodate Baruch’s bulk. I’m more than a little cramped, but the SUV isn’t big enough to accommodate three bodies as large as those belonging to the Weil brothers. Perhaps a stretch limo would be big enough, but it would be a close thing.

  The SUV smells of testosterone and sweat, with a hint of lavender coming from the air-freshener. For big, silent guys, they’re making a lot of nervous chatter.
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  I shush them and lay out my plan of attack. They agree with it in the main and their suggestions are a mixture of insightful and downright suicidal.

  Yerik seems to be the most hot-headed of the three. He wants to storm Tagliente’s house, guns blazing, so we can kill everyone we encounter.

  Baruch’s voice is full of scorn as he rounds on his brother. ‘What about innocents? There may well be servants, or other people there who’re nothing to do with the mafia. What do you think will happen if we do as you say? Do you think the police will arrive? Or the guys we’re shooting at will start shooting back?’

  He gets nothing but a harrumph for an answer.

  I leave them to stew for a moment then continue explaining how the attack will take place. I’m more about infiltration than frontal assault and, should things go as planned there will be a lot of guns waved around, but very few, if any, shots fired. Tagliente may well have mafia connections, but it’s a fair bet that his neighbours don’t. Gunshots may go unreported in certain areas of New York, but it’s a racing certainty that out here they would have the locals instructing their servants to call the police at once.

  Ike gets us to Tagliente’s street without incident, but when he nears his house, I tell him to make sure that he keeps his eyes on the road and his speed consistent. The last thing I want is to raise the suspicions of an observant guard.

  He does as I’ve instructed, while the two in the back crane their necks to look through the blacked-out windows. I get a good look at the house through the open gates as a pizza delivery scooter leaves.

  A low whistle emanates from the back seat, followed by Baruch’s sonorous voice. ‘Man, that’s some place he’s got there. Did you see them cars?’

  If they are the sports cars I saw earlier, there’s no point Baruch, or either of his brothers, getting all wistful. It was a struggle to get them in the SUV, there’s no way they could squeeze themselves into a sports car.

  ‘Describe the cars, please?’

  Baruch replies and I let out a sigh of relief. None of them are a small Ford. Therefore, The Mortician isn’t here. It’s one thing to lure him into a trap, quite another to walk into his.

  As per my instructions, Ike parks a quarter mile along the street, in a cul-de-sac. None of us are carrying anything that identifies us, and if we should fall, we are to be left behind.

  We’re all wearing ski masks, although I know them by the British term of balaclavas, and there’s a generous coating of the rigid collodion on our fingertips.

  I roll my balaclava into a hat and walk up the street towards Tagliente’s house.

  There’s nothing underhand or sneaky about my movements: I’m just a guy walking along the sidewalk. I have a pair of earbuds in. They’re not connected to anything, but they do make it look as if I’m enjoying a pleasant dusk stroll. My pace is leisurely without being a dawdle. To anyone who’s watching, or just sees me as they drive past, I’m not worthy of a second look – at least, that’s what I’m hoping they’ll think.

  When I’m fifty yards from Tagliente’s gate, I point across the street and listen for the roar of an engine that my signal should generate.

  It comes at once.

  I duck against the large hedge of a neighbour and make my way towards Tagliente’s medieval gates. As I get closer, I press my back against the privet and look to my left, so I can watch proceedings as I inch closer towards the gates.

  As planned, the SUV gets there at the same time I do. There is music emanating from it, but not so loud as to be of nuisance value. Yerik’s head pops out of the passenger window and he lifts a pair of shades to better look at the guard who pokes his head round one of the gates. ‘Yo, man. Open up and let us in, Jase is expecting us. We got him a real nice present. She’s blonde and in possession of the prettiest little ass you ever did see.’

  The guard hesitates, looks at Yerik and then back at the little guardhouse.

  From the guard’s actions, I’ve learned two things: the first is that people turning up unexpected is nothing unusual to him; the second is that he appears to have company in the guardhouse.

  I plant my right foot hard on the ground and get ready to move.

  The guard licks his lips, casts another look at the guardhouse, and gives a nod. He steps back so the opening gates don’t catch him.

  I use the SUV as cover and, just as it passes the guard, I take three rapid steps and throw a hard punch to his temple.

  Before an alarm can be raised I continue my run and head for the guardhouse.

  A second guard is on his way out of the door and he’s raising a gun.

  I knock his gun hand skyward with my left hand and bury my right into his gut. He’s still doubling over when my knee crashes into his face. It’s not enough to knock him unconscious, but it doesn’t need to be.

  The SUV stops and Yerik gets out.

  With his help, I bundle both guards into the guardhouse. I leave them there with Yerik and a roll of duct tape.

  Not only will he be able to delay any would-be rescuers for Tagliente, he’ll also be able to warn us of any law enforcement that comes our way.

  I jog behind the SUV as Ike steers it up to the house.

  Tagliente’s home is all Georgian uniformity and Grecian pillars. It might not look so bad if it wasn’t for the concrete lions flanking the front door.

  Either the lions are new, or the gardener has a special trick that prevents them from growing the layer of algae that coats most stone items this close to the ocean.

  Baruch and Ike take up station beside a lion’s ass and wait for me to open the door. I can’t speak for them but my heart is pounding, and I’m feeling a rush of adrenaline as my body prepares itself for what is on the other side of the door.

  Whatever it is, we have the element of surprise and all three of us have guns in our hands.

  82

  I twist the doorknob with my left hand and push hard enough to make the door swing back. My eyes are flicking everywhere and the gun in my hand is the briefest of seconds behind them.

  There’s a hallway containing the usual hallway furniture. It’s just this hallway furniture looks more expensive than my entire apartment.

  I see a stairway, three doors, and no human beings. Loud music is coming from upstairs, and there’s a rhythmic thumping from an overemphasis on the bass levels.

  With a wave, I direct Ike left and Baruch right, and I head to the far door. Upstairs can wait – I’ve already been ambushed with near fatal consequences, and as I’m still pissing blood from that mistake, I don’t plan to repeat it.

  The two brothers have their brief. Shots are only to be fired if guns are pulled by those we encounter. It’s not that I care about the deaths of mafia men, more that I don’t want innocents harmed.

  There’s also the issue of guns being rather noisy things when they’re fired indoors. The music upstairs may well be booming but I doubt it’s loud enough to cover gunfire.

  Ike has an automatic pistol like me and Baruch has a sawn-off shotgun that looks like a child’s toy in his huge hand. If he pulls his trigger, all attempts at subterfuge will be over before his shots hit their target.

  The three of us stand in front of our respective doors, and I count down from three using my fingers.

  When I get to one, I drop my hand and reach for the door handle.

  The room I enter is a study – not the man-caves Alfonse and I have, a proper study – with a teak bookcase filled with what looks like first editions, a desk that has been polished to such a level of glossiness it wouldn’t go amiss in a Ferrari showroom, and the ubiquitous pair of Chesterfield wingbacks.

  A quick scan of the room reveals no human life. Neither does a proper, albeit rapid, search.

  So far, so good.

  At least it is until I hear a shout, a slap, and the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground.

  I set off running, wondering which brother needs my help.

  A muffled scream comes from the door
Baruch had opened so I go that way first. I see him with one of his huge arms wrapped around a girl, and his gun trained on a man sprawled on the floor.

  There are groans coming from the guy but very little sign of movement.

  I glance at Baruch who shrugs. ‘I only slapped him.’

  The guy got off lucky. If this is what one of Baruch’s slaps does, there’s no telling what damage would be caused by a full-blooded punch.

  I drag the moaning guy to the middle of the floor and use some duct tape to gag him. I do the same with the girl and, with Baruch’s help, bind the two of them together.

  Rather than risk them being able to move in unified co-ordination, I put them back to back and head to toe. The guy’s arms are taped to the girl’s legs and vice versa. For them to be able to move, they’ll have to be either Olympic gymnasts or circus freaks. Judging by the girl’s muffin top and the guy’s spare tyre, it’s a fair bet they’re neither.

  With them secured I check for other doors and find none. This room is a drawing room or lounge. It has more floor space than my whole apartment and the TV fixed above the fireplace is only inches smaller than the bookcase that covers an entire wall of my lounge.

  Baruch and I head out of the room and follow Ike’s footsteps.

  There’s a dining room and there’s no sign of life. Or death. Just one mahogany table with eight chairs, a dresser, and some fancy paintings on the wall.

  There is another door.

  A dime gets you a dollar there is a kitchen on the other side of that door.

  I push it open and win my dollar.

  Ike has his gun trained on two women and a man, who are cowering against the units. Each looks to have Hispanic blood and they all look terrified.

  My best guess is that he’s startled the help, and there are too many of them for him to have risked tying them up without one of them being able to get away, or, at the very least, letting out a warning shout. Rather than panic, he’s shown the guts and gumption to stand his ground and wait for our arrival.