The Dead of Winter

by William H Hallahan

  The man was black and the horse was black and the night was black and the road was black.

  Stygian black.

  The horse moved with implacable deliberateness, a slow ground-covering step, and he walked directly at Lyons. Lyons wanted urgently to know who was under that hood before he pulled the trigger. But he’d have to shoot first and ask afterward, because the implacable horseman on the implacable horse in the implacable darkness carried upraised before him a cavalry saber with a trailing black silk pennant tied to the guard. And he rode directly at Lyons.

  A voice spoke to Lyons. A familiar voice that he could not place. A voice that asked him the same question over and over. A question he couldn’t hear. But he knew the answer was “I don’t remember.”

  Dan Lyons woke up. The room was silent and the storm in the street sounded distantly. Rainwater washed down the frozen window panes, making ghostly shadows from the street lamp.

  Someone in the room had said aloud, “Laundry.”

  Had he himself said it?

  He lay staring at the windows and seeing again the moon-mad surf washing into that sandy box with the human rag dolls thrashing to the water’s dance.

  If he thought long enough, he’d find the answers.

  Enough.

  The word hung in the air in the silence in the room. Lyons let it hang there, watching Tyler. Basche sat cross-armed, listening.

  Enough. Tyler chewed on it, actively twisting strands of his mustache. Enough. At last he took his cup over to the percolator and poured more coffee. Then he walked heavily over to the window seat and sat down.

  Enough.

  He sipped some coffee and wiped his mustache. Then he looked at Lyons.

  Lyons remained silent.

  “Fleagle,” said Tyler, holding up a finger. “And Ha Ha.” Two fingers. “Ozzie New York and his helper.” Four fingers. He popped up his thumb. “Pell. That’s what we set out to do.”

  Lyons looked at Basche, who looked away. Lyons looked back at Tyler.

  “Enough,” he said again.

  “But why!” Tyler gauged Lyons through appraising eyes. “Are you afraid?”

  “Afraid? Yes. I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid of what? Dan? What?”

  “Me.”

  Enough. Afraid. Me.

  Tyler went back to twisting rapidly small strands of his mustache. “Look, Dan,” he said, “you’re not turning into a homicidal monster, if that’s what you mean. This whole thing got started when a bunch of animals beat a friend of ours to death. We have to get them before they get us—all of us, all of society. These people aren’t human, Dan. We didn’t start this, but we’re going to finish it. All of it. We just don’t have to put up with these monsters anymore.”

  “Enough! No more sermons. There’s no end to killing once you start. It’s a lifetime job. Enough. Enough.”

  Tyler sighed deeply. He looked at Basche, who sat studying Lyons thoughtfully.

  “One more. Pell. Let’s clean Pell’s clock for him and that’s it. That’s the whole cast of characters from Fleagle’s notebook. Let’s see that notebook.”

  “Enough,” said Lyons.

  “I just want it for a minute.”

  Wearily Lyons walked over to a bureau drawer and retrieved the notebook and, with it, his sheets of deciphered notes.

  Tyler scanned the pages silently. He glanced at Lyons several times and shook his head with disgust.

  “Listen to this—Joe Lampo. Pell seemed to let Fleagle break more than Ha Ha allowed. Here he says to Fleagle, ‘You take that white billy of yours with the ball bearings and you go catch this guy. Make him scream with pain. Beat him in the head until you scramble his brains. Shatter his teeth. Crack bones. Make boiled string out of his thews and tendons and muscles. Destroy his spirit and leave him wallowing in his own blood, piss and puke.’ God. You know what’s so great about what we’re doing, Lyons? No one ever dished up their own medicine to these guys. No one. They can’t stand up against their own tactics any more than their victims can. Organize and set up a massive man hunt and kill them. Refuse them their legal dodges and they can’t survive.”

  “Oh, God on the mountain. Enough, Tyler. Enough.”

  Basche unfolded his arms and leaned forward in his chair. “Who is Pell?”

  “Yes,” said Tyler. “Work your magic on the telephone, Lyons. Find Pell.”

  “I have.”

  “You know who he is?”

  Lyons nodded. “Yeah. And you’re going to love it, Tyler.” He walked over to his desk and pulled out a manila folder, which he handed to Tyler.

  Tyler read the first sentences of the first sheet of paper. “Oh my God, Lyons.”

  Tearsheet from True Crime Detective magazine:

  Some say Anthony Pell is a miniature Howard Hughes—a brilliant businessman with an overriding hatred for publicity. Some say.

  Some say Anthony Pell is the mastermind behind an international network of heroin peddlers that stretches from the poppy fields of Turkey through the dusty streets of North Africa and Spain into the cellars of Paris and the slums of the United States. Some say.

  Some say Anthony Pell is a racetrack manipulator who has never seen a glassine envelope of heroin. Some say.

  Some say Anthony Pell is a human computer who fixes the odds on every major betting event in the United States and Europe. Some say.

  All say that Anthony Pell has never been arrested, never been tied by name or reputation to a single specific illegal deed, never publicly engaged in a single business activity, legal or otherwise. All say.

  No one can say what Anthony Pell does for a living, where he was born, when he was born or how so many conflicting stories have gotten circulated. No one.

  All that anyone can say is that Anthony Pell does exist, that he exists very comfortably somewhere and has a morbid aversion to publicity.

  We print herewith the only known photograph of Anthony Pell. At least they say it is Anthony Pell. That is—some say.

  The Editors

  True Crime Detective

  Testimony before Intelligence Subcommittee, International Criminal Police Organization (Interpol), Paris, France, by Alfred Lemar on Turkish heroin production:

  Pell? Anthony Pell? We find that on any given summer’s day in Europe, this Anthony Pell is simultaneously in Ankara and London, simultaneously here in Paris negotiating the world price of raw heroin and in New York conducting a meeting there of all the international operators of dope traffic. There is no such man as Anthony Pell. He does not exist. Anthony Pell is a code name. A nickname for any big-time narcotics organizer.

  Lionel Almasy, United States Attorney General’s office, testifying before the United States Senate Special Subcommittee on International Narcotics:

  Anthony Pell? We know nothing about him. We have no information against him. We have a dossier on him that is twenty years old and there is nothing in it. Contrary to popular belief, Senator, neither the Attorney General’s office nor the FBI conducts investigations of private citizens without some evidence of, or suspicion of, wrongdoing.

  Robert Servaas, special investigator, United States Senate Special Subcommittee on International Narcotics:

  Pell is a monster. He started out in life as a Jack the Ripper. The East River of New York is littered with the bones of his victims. His specialty then was a stab in the back. He eliminated his victims by disemboweling them on the docks of Manhattan. With no bowels to putrefy and inflate, the bodies never rose again. Later Pell was promoted in the ranks and someone discovered he had a gift for criminal organization. His activities have been masked for over twenty years, but he is commonly credited with an organizational genius that the racketeers of the world pay handsomely to consult with. He operates on “skim” or “lickerish,” a commission based on the take of any venture he plans. There is a steady flow of money from all over the world into his pockets. And since he has nothing to do with any crime he plans, he can never be caught. Never. Anthony Pell i
s invincible. An invincible monster.

  As Tyler read each sheet, he handed it silently to Roger Basche. When Tyler finished reading all the sheets, Lyons handed him a piece of white paper:

  Limousines with license numbers you submitted are owned by Battery Park Auto Rental Agency. On night in question, all limousines were rented to Anthony Pell, 10700 Lincoln Drive, Grosse Pointe Farms, Detroit, Michigan.

  Mrs. Raphael picked up the jigger of bourbon and measured it with her eye. Holding the back of her head with one hand, she tensely dumped a third of the bourbon into her mouth. Then she held her hand, fanwise, against her throat and swallowed with her eyes shut.

  She took another mouthful and swallowed, then a third mouthful that finished the glass.

  “Don’t desert me,” she said to Dan Lyons.

  He shook his head. “I’m with you,” he said solemnly.

  She lit a cigarette with trembling hands. “How many do you think will be there?” She crossed her legs, propped her elbow on a fist at her side, recrossed her legs and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Do you think this dress is all right?” She tugged at the hem.

  Dan Lyons went through the motions of examining her dress yet again—a navy-blue jersey with buttons down the front to the hem and a white spike collar. He looked at her thick figure in it—at the simple pin at her throat, at her pleasant fifty-year-old face. He glanced at her short graying hair and the too heavy lipstick, too heavily mascaraed blue eyes. And at the bracelets.

  “You’re wearing too many bracelets.”

  “He liked them.”

  Lyons nodded silently.

  “He gave them to me.”

  Lyons nodded again. “He’d be proud of you. You look just fine.”

  “His sister will be there. Maybe his ex, too. There can’t be many. His folks are dead. Just a few, do you think?”

  “Yeah. You look fine. You won’t have to speak to anyone or say anything. It’s a service. Just a few prayers. That’s all.” Lyons signaled the bartender.

  “I feel terrible. I didn’t go to the cemetery the other day.”

  “Nobody went. Nobody was invited. His sister—”

  “He never talked to her. He never called her. What right did she have to be so ashamed? Shoveled him into the ground like a criminal or something.”

  “Sh-h-h-h! Don’t make a scene.”

  “Oh, I won’t. I won’t.” Mrs. Raphael watched the bartender approach in his white apron. He held forth the bottle of bourbon with a hairy arm and squirted bourbon into her shot glass. He looked at Lyons’ bottle of beer and shambled away.

  “I wouldn’t think of spoiling his memorial service.” Abruptly she clutched her hands over her face and sobbed. She held her hands there for a few moments, then sighed. “Goddam it. I’ll go in there with red eyes and mascara running like ink. How does it look? Don’t tell me. I got to stop crying all the time.” She found a tissue in her purse and blew her nose.

  “I’d like to get the man that beat him, Dan. I’d kill him. Honest to God. I’d kill him. I’d buy a gun and shoot him.” She quietly put her face into her hands again. Finally she held her face up, chewing on both lips and breathing deeply to stop the tears.

  “When my husband’s ship went down, I cried a lot. I really liked him. My husband. But Vinny. Honest to God, Dan, I really loved him. I mean—well, everyone knows what goes on in bedrooms, but honest to God, Dan, he was wonderful. He could always make me laugh. He always knew when I was feeling blue. And now … now …” She turned her face away toward the wall, rigidly, with her lips bunched, trying to hold herself together. She crumpled one hand against her eyes.

  Dan Lyons watched her a moment, then turned his face and looked at the paper Christmas streamers stapled to the wooden booth.

  “When I wiped up that blood and vomit …” she went on, letting the tears stream freely.

  Dan Lyons pulled out a handkerchief.

  She took it quickly and dabbed her face. “I got to start making sense here. I’ll get mascara all over this white collar.” She took a deep breath and picked up the jigger of bourbon. “I’m not going to cry anymore. Right? Right.” She swallowed half of the bourbon and reached for her cigarettes. Lyons lit one for her.

  “Couldn’t you kill the guy that did it, Dan?”

  Lyons looked thoughtfully at her. “Yeah, Terry, I could.”

  “You know, you and me, we were the only friends, real friends, he had.” She stared at the wet table. “My God, what’s to become of me?”

  “We’d better go,” said Lyons.

  “Oh no. My God. No. I have to do my eyes. Oh my God. They’re all red. I have to go to the head and fix them. Are you sure this dress—yeah. Wait. Now. Don’t go without me.” With a jangle of bracelets she hurried into the ladies’ room. A little thick in the waist maybe, Danny, but the legs are slim and girlish and the blue eyes merry. Still a dance or two left. Did she plan all her life to become Mrs. Raphael, the middle-aged landlady, a seaman’s widow with a lover in apartment 1A?

  When they walked across the flagstones of the church vestibule, half a dozen people in the front pew turned and studied them, then turned back.

  Immemorial incense. Unforgettable odor. Decades of censers, swinging rhythmically from chains to the intonation of ancient chants. Pale winter light lit the stained-glass window over the altar. And below, banks of feeble, fragile candle flames.

  She pulled him into the rear pew and sat down.

  “Fourteen,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “There’s fourteen people.”

  The priest entered. Lyons slowly studied the communicants. He identified Vinny Reece’s sister by the angle of her head and by a line of cheek reminiscent of Vinny.

  There was one other person he identified, sitting apart with her chauffeur.

  Mrs. Charles Ha Ha.

  Teresa Raphael sat in the upholstered chair by Dan Lyons’ window. She’d fallen asleep, a weary face with too much mascara, too much lipstick, too many unaccustomed whiskies, too many tears. In her lap lay unread sections of the newspaper. On the table next to her was a cold cup of tea.

  Dusk.

  Lyons turned on several lamps and looked at her.

  The priest had read the prayers, the fourteen in the front pew had shuffled and squirmed, and Teresa Raphael had wept out her lonely heart for Vinny Reece.

  Hers were the only tears.

  Lyons dialed the telephone.

  “Hello. Joe?”

  “Dan? Yeah.”

  “O.K.”

  “O.K.? Really? You’re really going to do it?”

  “Really.”

  “That’s great!”

  “Yeah. Great.”

  8

  A black squirrel descended the trunk of the elm tree. He came down haltingly, counter-clockwise.

  During the night the ground had been lightly dusted with snow flurries. The squirrel stepped carefully along the lawn, sniffing the snow like a field commander reading a scout report.

  A block away, five stories in the air, in a church bell-tower, a pair of binoculars followed the squirrel’s fitful, tail-flicking progress across the powdery white lawn and along the side of the house.

  Beyond the squirrel the binoculars picked up two sentry dogs in a fenced-in run. It was ten of seven and they had begun their customary restless prowling, watching the back door of the house. The house, a large stone structure, stood almost bare of shrubbery on a large corner lot. Under the scrutiny of the binoculars the house gave the appearance of an introverted recluse. The windows were heavily draped. The garage doors were shut. The sunless morning light was morose through the bare elms. And the two hulking dogs seemed like a menacing gesture aimed at the world.

  At seven o’clock a back door opened and the dogs began to leap violently.

  A man stepped out. Wearing a hooded jogger suit, he walked around the apron of the driveway, working his arms, bending his torso and squatting on his legs as he pulled on a pair of glove
s. In the damp, still air his breath ballooned in clouds.

  He entered the dog run through a gate and shut it. The dogs cruised eagerly around his legs when he leaned down to clip long leads to their collars.

  He next pulled two leather muzzles from his back pockets and fitted them over their jaws. When he was ready, he led the dogs down the driveway and jogged away down the middle of the street with a bounding dog on each ten-foot lead.

  Lyons withdrew his eyes from the mounted binoculars.

  In a small pocket pad he logged the time and event: “7 A.M. Bodyguard-chauffeur takes the two dogs for the usual morning run.”

  He checked the setting of the camera against the light meter, reset the lens aperture, then examined the focus of the telephoto lens, long as a small cannon barrel.

  He’d spent three days in the campanile, waiting. Three days of sitting, shivering and pondering. Three days of solitude, far from his office.

  The lofty elms stood in rows on either side of the streets like piers in a cathedral. High above the road their branches intermingled like Gothic arches, mullioned and groined symmetrically.

  The soggy gray sky showed a light through the bare December branches like natural stained-glass windows. A clerestory without end.

  The crèche on the lawn of the church was still illumined by the semicircle of spotlights.

  Lyons took two catalytic hand warmers from his jacket pockets and tucked one into each of his fur-lined boots. His feet were numb. He poured himself a cup of steaming coffee from a thermos and sat down to wait.

  The squirrel had disappeared.

  At 7:25 he watched the return of the runner and the two dogs through the binoculars. The dogs, muscular Dobermans, were panting white breath with their tongues distended. As the man returned the dogs to their pen, Lyons made a note on his pad.

  At 9:15 the bodyguard-chauffeur came through the back door again. He was dressed now in a black suit, black tie and white shirt. He backed the limousine out of the garage and drove away. The dogs danced in circles in their pen.