by Brian Drake
“Tell Carlo that Wolf is here.”
“He’s not seeing anybody.”
“He’ll see me.”
“I got my orders. Beat it.”
Wolf said, “Don’t make me get out of this car.”
The guard stepped back and yanked his radio and took out the revolver. Wolf bolted from the car. The guard started talking into the radio and swung the gun up at the same time. Wolf grabbed the gun, twisted, forcing the guard’s body to turn with the twist, and socked him in the mouth with his free hand. The guard dropped onto his rear. The radio clattered beside him. Wolf was ejecting the shells from the revolver as more guards ran over.
Each of the guards held a weapon on Wolf from the other side of the fence. The man in charge, a trim fellow this time, stepped forward and said, “What’s the idea, Wolf? Carlo ain’t seeing anybody.”
“Will you ask him, already? Maybe I got a clue about last night.”
“You can tell me.”
“I don’t even know your name, bub. Get your boss down here or we’re going to piss off the neighbors with a lot of shooting.” Wolf opened his coat and took out the Colt. He kept it beside his leg as he scanned each face of the men before him. One or two started looking nervous and tightened the grips on their own weapons.
The shack guard moaned a little.
“Everybody take it easy,” the trim guard said. He took out his radio and spoke to somebody about Wolf. After a short wait and a positive response, he told his guys to scoot and opened the gate and told Wolf to drive up to the front of the house.
Wolf put his gun away and followed directions.
An escort met him at the front and took him to a terrace on the side of the house where Gulino waited.
The capo was going gray at the temples but the rest of him was in good shape. He still looked like he could go a few rounds in the ring. He had started as a boxer, got in with the so-called bad crowd, and worked his way up through the organization. Now he ran his own section of the west coast. He shook Wolf’s hand and said, “I would have liked watching you try to gun down my men.”
“Maybe next time,” Wolf said.
They sat at a table and Gulino told Wolf’s escort to bring them a couple of beers. They burned through small talk while they waited. When the beers arrived and the escort departed, Gulino took a long drink and said,
“I don’t know how to explain last night.”
“Are you and Sanchez arguing?”
“Over what? We settled our territory disputes decades ago. It’s been live and let live ever since. Heaven knows New York won’t let us clash, and when they hear about this, if they haven’t already, we’re both in the wringer. No, it has to be somebody else. What have you learned?”
“Only that there was one shooter. One guy with a machine gun. He probably capped Sanchez’s man, too.”
“No names?”
Wolf shook his head.
“Well I’ve stopped everything,” the capo said. “Told all my guys to lay low. Don’t tangle with nobody. Of course, the cops are knockin’ on doors looking for answers and I told them to cooperate.”
“Bet that wasn’t easy.”
“You’re telling me.”
“But you’ve also told them to be ready to fight.”
Gulino nodded. “That’s true.”
“Who do you have on the street trying to get the answers?”
“Vince Manning. I’ll tell him you’re on the job, too, in case y’all want to share notes. So why are you here?”
“I wanted to hear you say you weren’t responsible, number one. Though you could be lying.”
“I wouldn’t lie, Wolf. Not something like this.”
“Fair enough. Number two, I need ideas. Who in the organization might want to get rid of you?”
Gulino laughed. “Sixty-four thousand-dollar question. It could be anybody.”
“Who have you made unhappy recently? Cain Chapman, for instance.”
“Him? He gets out of jail and expects me to have kept his old job open. I couldn’t do it. He was a good earner but I gotta fill holes when a guy’s going to be gone for eight years. He should have understood that. I gave him a job and he’s back on the street so he shouldn’t be upset for long. I don’t think he’d have the connections to pull off a hit, either. Or the money, for that matter. He’s starting over entirely.”
“Anybody else?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“What about the independents? The guys who kick back to you.”
“You think one of them weasels has the balls to move up in the world? Independent means small fry. There’s a reason they’re small fry.”
“Gotta be somebody, Carlo.”
Gulino drank some beer and thought it over. “There’s one. Maybe. He’s crossed into our block once and I had to smack his wrists.”
“Name?”
“Victor Marcus. Runs the--”
“Bay Meadow Poker Room, I know.”
“Play there?”
“Victor’s number two and I had a nice match up recently. I cleaned him out.”
“You beat Nitro Randall at a poker game? That hasn’t happened in--”
“I know. He was shocked. Threatened to kill me and everything.”
“You want some extra guys to go with you?”
“Carlo. It’s me you’re talking to.”
Gulino laughed and finished his beer. Wolf drank down the rest of his and stood up. They shook hands again.
Wolf said, “You think of anybody else, get word to me.”
“You giving me an order, Wolf?”
“Pretty much.”
“And only you can get away with that. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
The Bay Meadow Poker Room sat on prime real estate just off the 80 freeway. Situated right on the edge of the bay, the private card room on the backside of the club had an amazing view of the blue water and the double-deck bridge connecting one side of the bay to the other. Wolf parked in front. He entered through the front, stood in the main lobby. White walls, red carpet, no clocks. It was cool inside, the temperature always consistent. Not too hot or too cold, just right. Most of the play happened in the main room off the lobby. Players bought chips from a guy behind a counter, which wasn’t covered by bars or a bullet-proof screen. Off to the right sat the tables offering the various versions of poker. Almost all of the tables were full.
It was through a pair of double doors, always closed, that allowed one to access the private room in back. You had to have special connections to get back there.
Wolf went up to the counter.
“Victor in?”
The clerk wore glasses perched on his nose and set aside a calculus book. “I haven’t seen him.”
“Can you call him?”
“Do you have an appointment? He’s only seeing appointments today.”
“Tell him it’s Wolf.”
The clerk nodded and picked up a phone, spoke briefly, hung up.
“If you don’t have an appointment--”
“Call him again.”
Another voice, “Leave the phone alone, Billy.”
Wolf looked to his right. From around the counter came another man, about as tall as Wolf, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, thin black tie. He chewed on a toothpick.
“You’re not welcome here, Wolf,” the man said.
“Hello, Nitro.” Wolf turned so he could face the new arrival. “Have you lost weight?”
“Get out of here,” said Nitro Randall.
“I need to see Victor.”
“He’s not talking to you or anybody else.”
“Nitro--”
“I’m not telling you again.” Randall stepped closer. He let his coat open a little. The butt of a revolver stuck out under his left arm.
“And I’m done asking nicely,” Wolf said. “You’re the second guy today who thinks he can make me go away.”
“Yeah, you’re the big bad Wolf. You’re like herpes. Every ti
me you do go away, you always come back again.”
Wolf threw back his own jacket to show the butt of the Colt. “Are we really going to do this, Nitro?”
“Maybe I’ll let you see him if you give back my money.”
“I took it from you fair and square. It’s not my fault you didn’t have the ace.”
“You son of a bitch.”
Nitro spat the toothpick while clawing for his gun and Wolf stepped in at the same time, grabbing the barrel, forcing it to one side. The clerk yelled and dived under the desk. Nitro punched Wolf in the gut. Wolf recoiled, bending at the waist, letting go of the gun. Wolf straightened and Nitro smiled as he cocked the revolver.
“Put it down, Nitro!”
On the upper level, standing at the rail, stood Victor Marcus in his usual tan suit.
Nitro saw for the first time that all play at the tables had stopped. All eyes were on him and Wolf. He lowered the hammer and put the gun away. Wolf straightened his coat.
“What do you want, Wolf?” Marcus called.
“We need to talk.”
“I’ll give you five minutes.”
Wolf passed Nitro on the way to the steps and joined Marcus in his private office. A window behind his desk overlooked the private room. It was also packed. Marcus poured a glass of whiskey from a small bar but did not offer Wolf any. He sat behind his desk. Wolf remained standing.
“So, talk,” Marcus said.
“You heard about the killings.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you do it?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question, Victor.”
“Why would I want to upset Carlo and Pedro? I have a nice set up here and they leave me alone.”
“Carlo says you tried crossing into his business once. Is that true?”
Marcus swallowed some of his drink. “Yeah, it’s true. I overstepped. Carlo put the hurt on me. Said if it ever happened again, he’d tear me apart. You think I want to cross him again?”
Wolf shrugged. “Maybe. Nitro was ready to kill me. That poker game was months ago. With me out of the way your scheme might have a chance.”
“You have a big ego. And Nitro has a temper, you know that. I keep telling him to take a vacation and cool off.”
“Any back room gossip?”
“Hey, anything that gets said back there, stays back there.”
“It goes onto your recorders, Victor. How would you like it if everybody found out that what they think is private you’re keeping a record of?”
“How do you know about that?”
Wolf smiled.
Marcus took a deep breath and finished the whiskey. He set the glass down on the desk beside some papers. He moved his hands to his lap.
“Keep those hands on the desk, Victor.”
“Don’t insult me.”
“Victor?”
“Fine. Fine!” He placed both hands on the desk. “Okay so maybe I heard something.”
“So, talk.”
“Why should I?”
“You’ll get to keep living.”
“Oh, you’re funny.”
“I’m all ears, too.”
“You need to spend less time with me and more with Carlo.”
“Meaning what?”
“He’s the next target, dummy. They’re gonna cap him when he leaves the Lexington Club today. After lunch. That’s one hour from now.”
Wolf stepped toward the desk. “You little punk.”
Victor held up his hands like a shield. “Hey! Who knows if it’s true? You know how guys make stuff up.”
“Who talked about it?”
“I don’t know. I swear!”
Wolf took out his gun.
“Okay. Okay!” He sucked in some air. “So maybe I do got a beef with him, all right?”
“But not the stones to do anything yourself.”
“It was Sean Masters, know him?”
“He runs the gambling ship off the coast. What else?”
“That’s all I heard. You’d have to talk to him. He’s out on the boat.”
Wolf put away his gun. “See how easy that was, Victor?”
“Someday, Wolf, somebody’s going to erase your sorry ass.”
Wolf grinned as he opened the door. “It won’t be you, Victor. You’d probably piss yourself before you could pull the trigger.”
Wolf went back downstairs. Play at the tables had returned to normal but he felt everybody’s eyes on him as he descended. The clerk at the counter looked nervous. Nitro Randall stood at the door. He stepped aside as Wolf neared and said, “See you soon, Wolf.”
“Not if I see you first.” Wolf went out.
Inspector Callaway had a direct order from his boss to find out who burned the Gulino and Sanchez people before anybody else did. He couldn’t believe the police department was trying to solve the murders of gangsters who would otherwise be low priority. They usually only shot each other, so who cared? The city did not want a war between the capos because they didn’t want innocent people caught in the crossfire ending up on television.
They had managed to get halfway through the day without another shooting. Callaway considered that a good thing.
While the rest of the department scoured the street for information, Callaway parked his car in a No Parking spot in front of the Lexington Club and stepped out. He flashed his badge at the greeter inside the restaurant before the mousy little man could tell him members only and asked where Gulino’s table was.
The capo sat alone eating a plate of spaghetti with meat sauce in a back booth. A stack of garlic bread sat on an adjoining plate. Callaway approached the table with his hands exposed.
“Eating alone, Carlo?” The spaghetti smelled good. Callaway’s stomach rumbled.
Gulino swallowed some food. “Good afternoon, Inspector. I’ve already spoken with our mutual friend.”
“Then you can repeat everything to me.”
Callaway caught movement at two other tables, men shifting in their seats. So, Carlo wasn’t really alone after all. The capo waved the men off and kept eating.
He gave the inspector a rundown of his conversation with Wolf.
“How about this,” Callaway said. “What if Sanchez has been killed? Who would take his place?”
“His daughter?”
“Sure. But then why would she want you dead?”
Gulino paused to think for a minute.
“Don’t be a smart ass,” Callaway said.
Gulino laughed.
“I’m glad you think it’s funny, Carlo.”
“Look, it’s not funny. I’m just as concerned as you. Eventually me and Sanchez will talk but it sure as hell isn’t going to be me who makes the first move.”
“Pride cometh before the fall.”
“You’re a philosopher, too?”
“No, just a tired cop trying to do his job.”
“Your job is out there on the street.”
“What have your people reported to you?”
“Nobody knows nothing.”
“Where’s Vince Manning?”
“He’s on the street looking for answers. If he can’t find them, nobody can.”
Gulino went back to his food. Callaway watched him eat.
“Tell Vince to keep his nose clean,” the inspector said. “I really don’t want any trouble with you guys, Carlo. I just want whoever pulled that trigger.”
“Can I finish my lunch now?”
“You might want a Tums after all that. Just looking at it is giving me heart burn.” Callaway went out. Back in his car, he rolled down the windows and watched the front of the club.
A half hour ticked by. The street stayed packed with cars; pedestrians on the sidewalk. Normal life. Callaway fidgeted in the seat.
A black Cadillac limousine double-parked at the curb in front of the club. The doors opened. Gulino and his men exited, went down the steps. The driver stepped out of the limo and held open the b
ack door.
A gunshot cracked.
Callaway saw Gulino fall, but not because he was hit. One of his men tackled him. The others drew guns and formed a circle around the boss and stuffed him into the limo. Another gunshot. People on the sidewalk screamed. Some cars sped up while others screeched to a halt. Horns blared. Another shot. The limo lurched into traffic, trying to weave around stopped cars.
Callaway jumped out and ran across the street, gun in hand. The shots had come from the top of the parking structure facing the Lexington Club. Great. More running and climbing. Callaway hustled all the way to the roof. He stopped short as another man carrying a long tote bag with something of equal length stuffed inside met him at the top of the steps. The man was thin and wiry and wore dark glasses.
Callaway aimed at the man’s neck. “Police!”
The man started to raise a pistol of his own. Callaway fired, missing, and the man returned fire as he ran the other way. The shot struck the cement at Callaway’s feet; bits of shrapnel nicked his left ankle. Callaway took off in pursuit. He chased the other man through the parked cars toward the other side of the structure. Callaway knew the roof of the neighboring building lay beyond. It would not be a hard jump for somebody in shape. For him? Forget it!
He huffed after the shooter. The man turned around again, lined up a proper shot--
When the gun fired, Callaway expected to feel the bullet puncture his body. Somewhere. Anywhere. He indeed heard the bullet whistle over his head, but when the gunman fell face first onto the ground with a pool of blood forming below him, it made no sense.
Callaway, stunned, panting, kept his gun aimed at the gunman.
“You really need to be more careful, John.”
Callaway looked over his shoulder.
Wolf, holding his Colt, casually approached. “It’s okay. I think I killed him,” he said.
Callaway put away his gun and went to the body. He felt for a pulse in the man’s neck. None. He kicked away the tote bag and the pistol in the man’s hand.
“I suppose I should say thank you?”
“The thought had occurred to me.” Wolf holstered his gun.
“What’s the deal?”
Wolf recounted his conversation with Victor Marcus.
