Greenmantle

by Charles de Lint

  “I’ve got to go,” she said suddenly.

  “Oh, no,” Lily said. “I haven’t even had a chance to offer you some tea. And I was going to make scones, too.”

  “Another time,” Ali said. “I’ve really got to run.”

  “You promise you’ll visit again?”

  Ali nodded. “Bye, Lily. And thanks.”

  “For what?” the old woman asked, but Ali was already at the door. She waved to Lily and went outside, softly closing the door behind her. Mally was right where she’d promised to wait, playing with the walking stick.

  “Are we going to see Lewis now?” she asked.

  Ali shook her head, “We’re going to look for bones,” she said. “Where should we build the fire?”

  “There’s only one place will do,” Mally said, handing Ali the cane. “On the very top of Wolding Hill.”

  “Okay. Let’s get to it.”

  * * *

  A minute or two after she’d fired the .38, Frankie’s wrist still hurt. Her ears rang from the loud report. Tony had warned her about the kick that the gun had, showed her how to hold it properly, left hand supporting the right, but it had still come as a shock.

  “I think I’ll stick to the other one,” she said.

  Valenti nodded and handed the automatic back to her. “Yeah, I thought it would suit you better, but I wanted you to try the .38 at least once, just to know what it felt like. Now you won’t be wondering about it.”

  Frankie looked at the cardboard target they’d set up about fifteen paces from where they stood. “I didn’t even come close.”

  “You did better with the automatic. You did good, Frankie. You want to go in for a sandwich?”

  “Sure. Tony, why don’t you go after those men? Why don’t you go into the city and stop them before they come out here?”

  “Well,” Valenti said. “First off, in the city, they’ve got the advantage. We can’t go around packing a lot of artillery and then just blast away with it when and if we catch up to them. But they can just hang out wherever they are, pick us off and disappear. What would you say to the police if they stopped us to ask what I’m doing with my UZI and why you’re carrying a piece?”

  “You’re right.”

  “And the second thing is, if they’re willing to leave us alone, I’m happy to return the favor. I’m not gunning for them, Frankie. I want to leave that kind of shit behind me. If they force my hand, I’m going to meet them with all the firepower I can put together, but I’d rather be left alone.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Frankie said. “Really.”

  Valenti nodded. “I’m not just saying it because it’s something I think you want to hear. Believe that.”

  “I do.”

  “That’s good. That’s really good.”

  They left the weapons on the table and set about making some lunch. As she started to slice bread, Frankie glanced at the clock over the stove.

  “Oh no!” she cried. “Look at the time. It’s after twelve.”

  “What’s the matter?” Valenti asked.

  “It’s Ali—she’s not back yet. God, I feel terrible. I forgot all about her. If something’s happened to—”

  “It’s okay,” Valenti said. “Trust me. She’s fine.”

  “But what’s she doing out there?”

  Frankie had turned to him and for a long moment she held his gaze. Valenti sighed. Maybe it was time to get the last of the lies out of the way. Well, not exactly lies, he corrected himself. Just the things that neither he nor Ali had bothered to expand upon.

  “The thing of it is,” he said, “she’s got a friend in the woods—a girl named Mally. And there’s this village back there that we visited yesterday. Let’s finish fixing up these sandwiches and I’ll tell you all about it over lunch.” And I just to Christ hope you believe what I’m about to tell you, he thought, because I’m not so sure I do myself.

  Frankie was puzzled, but she went back to slicing bread. “Okay,” she said. “So long as you’re sure she’s okay.”

  “She’s fine.”

  “I just wish you wouldn’t sound so mysterious about it.”

  “There’s the word,” Valenti said. “You got it in a nutshell. Mystery’s what this is all about.”

  2

  Broadway Joe didn’t recognize the intruder immediately. The shock of his office door slamming open and the man’s sudden appearance held him motionless for a long moment. He saw a darkly-tanned face with a couple of days’ worth of beard smudging its outline; short dark hair above the face, a long raincoat below. Behind the man, Joe’s bodyguards had already been taken out. Freddie was lying stretched out on the carpet, Dan leaning up against a wall, doubled over. As the man brought an Ingram submachine gun up from his side and pointed its muzzle at the consigliere, recognition finally dawned on Broadway Joe.

  “Jesus Christ!” he cried. “What the fuck d’you think you’re pulling, Mario?”

  “Tell your boy to forget it.”

  Broadway Joe looked beyond Mario and saw that Dan was straightening up, one hand going under his sports jacket for his gun. The Ingram never wavered from Joe’s face. Swallowing thickly, the consigliere called out to his bodyguard: “Don’t do it!” He laid his own hands flat, palms down, on the top of his desk.

  “I want to hear the sound of a gun hitting the carpet,” Mario said, “and then I want your boy to drag his pal in here and then go sit in a corner, nice and quiet—got it?”

  “Sure, Mario. Sure. No problem. Do you want to put that thing away?”

  Mario shook his head. He moved farther into the room to where he could cover both the door and the desk. Dan Barboza, plainly unhappy, lifted a .44 Magnum from its shoulder holster, using just his thumb and forefinger, and dropped it on the floor. Grabbing Freddie under the armpits, he dragged him into Broadway Joe’s office, dumping him in front of the couch on the far side of the room. He sat down then, glaring at Mario.

  “Okay,” Mario said. “Here’s how we’re playing this. I want you to get a piece of paper and a pen, Joe, take it out nice and easy, and then you’re gonna write down a little confession for me, capito?”

  “You think I’m crazy?” Broadway Joe demanded. “I’m not writing out nothing.”

  “Then you’re dead.”

  Joe glanced at his bodyguards—you are fucking finished, his eyes told Dan—then back at Mario. “Come on, Mario. Let’s be reasonable. What’s this all about?”

  “I tried reason, Joe. But you broke your word. I don’t give anybody a second chance, you know what I’m saying?”

  “I couldn’t call back the hit. Christ, you think I didn’t want to? But the padrone wants Valenti gone, so what can I do?”

  “You should’ve told me that yesterday, Joe.”

  “Hey, yesterday I was sure I could talk Ricca into okaying it. By the time I find it’s a no-go, it’s too late to get in touch with you.”

  Mario shook his head. “That’s not good enough, Joe.” He made a small motion with the Ingram. “Pen and paper—let’s get a move on.”

  “What am I supposed to write? Nothing you get from me’s going to stand up in court, Mario. You know that. Anything I give you’s under duress.”

  “It’s not for a court,” Mario said. “It’s for the other families and whatever I decide to leave of the Magaddinos, capito?”

  “Don’t do this to me, Mario.”

  “Pen and paper. Get it.” He watched the consigliere fumble for a paper and pen. “You should have known better,” he said. “I took a fall for the family and I took exile for them. I could handle that. I saw how things were going. I could see the young blood coming up and that things were changing. But you should have remembered that I don’t take shit from nobody, Joe. We had a deal.”

  “What was I supposed to do, Mario? The Don says—”

  “Ricca’s no Don—he’s just a punk. Now you start writing. You put down on paper who called the hit on the old Don. You write down that Tony was set up to t
ake the fall for it. You call off the contract on him. Simple.”

  “Nobody called a hit on the old Don, Mario. Tony just got—”

  “Fuck you! Tony was loyal and you know it. Now you either write it or I’m gonna start taking pieces off of you with this.” He moved in close with a sudden quick move and shoved the muzzle of the Ingram up hard against the consigliere’s side. Joe let out a gasp. On the couch, Dan was starting to stand, but Mario had already moved back to his earlier position. The muzzle of the Ingram settled on Dan.

  “Don’t try to be a hero,” Mario told him. “You’re way out of your league right now.” He glanced back at Joe. “Write!”

  “It’s not going to change anything,” Joe said. “Ricca’s still the Don. The other families got to live with that. You think they give a fuck about you, Mario? You think they’re all going to back you up? Wise up, fercrissakes.”

  “Ricca called the hit on his old man—right? Who did it? Louie?”

  “It doesn’t matter. The old Don’s gone and—”

  “Who did it?”

  “Look, Mario. It was business, okay? The old Don was converting everything into legitimate businesses. He was going soft. We had to do something.”

  “Whose idea was it?”

  “Ricca’s,” Joe said quickly.

  Sure, Mario thought. “And what about Tony taking the fall for it? Was that Ricca’s idea too?”

  Broadway Joe nodded. “The old man was trying to go legit, but we knew we could get to him with Eddie putting the squeeze on his girlfriend. And who else would the Don call in but Tony? Things just worked out, what with Tony having a hard-on for Eddie in the first place and everybody knowing that the Don had told him to lay off.”

  “So you take a guy who’s been loyal his whole life—who’s given you his whole life, fercrissakes—and you just dump him.”

  “It was business, Mario.”

  “Fuck you. We’re talking loyalties here. You think you’re gonna keep the old guard on if that’s all they got to look forward to?”

  “I know, Mario. That’s why we’ve got to forget about this shit now or the whole business falls to pieces.”

  Mario glanced at the bodyguards. Freddie was sitting up now, but he still looked stunned. Dan had settled back in the couch. He wasn’t so hot to trot now—not with what he was hearing.

  “There’s still a way out of it,” Mario said.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s like a disease,” Mario explained. “You just cut out the sick part, you know what I’m saying?”

  “We’re talking about the head of a family here. No one’s going to stand for—”

  “Write,” Mario told him. His voice went cold. Broadway Joe paled and set pen to paper. “Just put it all down there,” Mario added, “just like you told me, and you let me worry about what comes after.”

  A tense silence fell over the room as the consigliere did as he was told.

  “How long you been in the business?” Mario asked Dan.

  The bodyguard started, then shrugged. “My old man stood for me—nine, maybe ten years ago.”

  “What’s your name?” Mario nodded when Dan told him. “Jimmy Barboza—he’s your old man? I used to work with him—Christ, that goes back a while now. He was a good man. The Guicciones took him out over that warehouse deal, right?” Mario shook his head. “That was a fucking waste if I ever saw one.”

  Broadway Joe set aside the pen and pushed the sheet of paper over to Mario’s side of the desk. Mario read it quickly, never taking his gaze from the consigliere for long. “That’s nice,” he said. “What do you say, Dan? You gonna witness this for me?”

  Dan hesitated, glancing at Broadway Joe.

  “What we got here’s not going to the law,” Mario said. “It’s just for the families, capito? You don’t wanna sign, that’s okay.”

  Dan looked at the consigliere again. “This shit’s all true?” he asked. “You guys really set Tony up to take this fall?”

  Broadway Joe wouldn’t answer. Mario stepped close again, nudging him with the Ingram. “Man asked you a question.”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “It’s true. But you think about it, Dan. You sign that, you’re going against the family. The old Don, he was going soft—wanted to be legit before he died, fercrissakes. Where does that leave the rest of us? Without jobs, that’s where. You think you can make the kind of bread you’re pulling in now driving a fucking truck or working in a factory?”

  “My old man drilled it into my head,” Dan replied. “You do your part for the family, and the family’ll take care of you.” He looked at Mario. “Sure, I’ll sign it.”

  Mario smiled. “Okay, Joe. One last thing for you to do. Get on the blower and have Ricca meet you here. Fuck this up, and you’re dead.”

  “And if I don’t fuck it up—what happens to me then? Who says I’m not dead anyway?”

  “At this point, that’s just the chance you got to take.”

  “Give me your word that I’ll get out of this alive.”

  Mario shook his head. “I can’t do that, Joe. We can’t have deals between us—not after you screwed me once already.”

  “Fuck you, then.”

  Mario shrugged. “Then you’re dead.” He started to bring the Ingram up so that its muzzle was level with the consigliere’s head, but before he could pull the trigger, Joe picked up the phone.

  “The thing we’ve still got to decide,” Mario said as they waited for the connection to be made, “is who do we hand the family over to once Ricca’s gone?”

  * * *

  Ricca came in with one bodyguard. Before either of them knew what was happening, Mario closed the door behind them and waved them to the couch with the Ingram. Dan, his Magnum back in his hand, went to relieve Ricca’s bodyguard of his piece. The bodyguard was a tall blond Swede named Lars Andersson. The kind of guy Ricca was, he didn’t trust his own people, just like they wouldn’t trust him if they knew him better.

  “What the fuck is going—”

  Ricca shut up when Mario waved the Ingram at him.

  “This guy’s not going to understand,” Dan said as he relieved the Swede of his gun. “He’s not family, you know?”

  Mario nodded. “I know the kind—bought with money, not with blood. Okay, Dan. You and Freddie can blow.”

  “We’ll wait for you outside,” Dan said. “You’re gonna need somebody to get you in to talk to the right people.”

  Mario nodded again. He waited until the door closed behind the two men, then studied his prisoners. Ricca, Joe and the Swede sat in a row on the couch. Joe was slumped in a corner, already defeated. Ricca looked scared and that made Mario shake his head. This punk just couldn’t be the same blood as the old Don. The only one who didn’t seem either defeated or afraid was the Swede. Just too dumb, Mario thought, meeting the big man’s gaze. There wasn’t a great deal of intelligence showing behind the Swede’s glare.

  “Look,” Ricca said, licking his lips. “We can make a deal. I’ve got—”

  Mario shook his head. “No deals,” he said and opened fire with the Ingram.

  It took the Swede the longest to die. He almost made it across the room before he sprawled at Mario’s feet. Mario looked at the bodies, feeling nothing. No satisfaction. Nothing but a certain regret that things had had to turn out this way.

  He put the Ingram back under his raincoat where it hung out of sight from a strap on his shoulder and picked up the paper he’d had the consigliere write out for him. He needed a photocopier now. When the door opened behind him, he turned quickly, the Ingram coming up again, but it was only Dan who held his empty hands up before him.

  “We better split,” he said.

  Mario nodded. “You got any ideas who the best person is to take this to?” he asked, holding up the confession.

  “Bennie LaFata.”

  Mario thought about that. He knew Bennie—he’d been a capo back before Mario had been deported. He was a good man and he knew about loyal
ties, only… “You think he’ll do?” Mario asked.

  “He’s gonna listen.”

  “That’s all we can ask for.”

  There was a lot to do, Mario thought as he followed Dan out of the office. By the time they reached the elevator, they could hear people’s voices raised as they wondered what had happened. It wouldn’t be too long before the place was crawling with the NYPD’s finest.

  Mario looked back down the hall just before he got into the elevator. He’d have to send Tony a clipping, once this hit the papers. He just hoped Tony could handle the problem of Broadway Joe’s son on his own because Mario knew he wasn’t going to be able to get back up to Canada before tomorrow at the earliest.

  “We gotta go,” Dan said. He was holding the elevator door open.

  Mario nodded and stepped inside, still watching the hall until the elevator’s doors slid shut. Time to stop thinking about Tony, he told himself. If he didn’t keep his mind on the job at hand for the next few hours, the whole thing could still blow up in his face. By the time the elevator reached the ground floor and the three men were on the street, he had his priorities straight. His worries for Tony went to the back of his mind and he concentrated on what came next right here and now.

  “So now we set up a meet with LaFata,” he said.

  “I know just the place,” Dan said.

  Mario glanced at Freddie. “Are you in?” When Freddie nodded, he clapped Dan on the shoulder. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  Dan stepped out from the curb to flag down a cab. As they were pulling away, the sound of sirens filled the street behind them.

  3

  Throughout the afternoon Frankie kept thinking: I dreamed about that stag. I dreamed that it was in Ali’s room that night. But every time the image of it rose up in her mind, she pushed it aside. That hadn’t been real. And what Tony had told her this afternoon—that couldn’t be real, either.

  She would have thought that he was putting her on, except he had told the whole story through so matter-of-factly, so very seriously. He had his own doubts, but he couldn’t deny that there was something going on, that all this talk of mysteries and the like had some basis. And he’d seen the stag. He’d seen the wild girl.