by Brian Drake
Wolf parked the Chrysler curbside and looked at the house and congratulated himself on a good bit of detective work. Holmes would have been proud. He followed the stone path to the door and rang the bell. He looked down the cul-de-sac, quiet except for crows cawing from treetops, each home unique in its design, not a cookie-cutter copy in the bunch. A few vehicles sat in driveways. A housewife watered a yard and a T-shirted man dug into a mailbox. He rang again but nobody answered. Wolf returned to the Chrysler, compared the photos with the physical house. They matched, no question. He had the right location, which left only one answer: the homeowner never reported the break-in.
He dialed a contact at the newspaper, a real reporter for the Star-Journal, somebody whom Wolf had helped in the recent past.
“Mike Freer speaking.”
Wolf said, “Don’t say my name.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Who lives at 2667 Brooker Lane?”
“You’re kidding?”
“No,” Wolf said.
“Grab today’s paper. Below the fold, business section. Pic and story. That should answer your question.”
Vince Palakis said, “Lay off the onions and put on some extra mustard.”
The short Vietnamese man on the other side of the stainless-steel hot dog cart, the shiny surface of which reflected the afternoon sun, squeezed a thin line of yellow mustard along the top of the Polish sausage, then spooned dill relish over the mustard. Palakis passed the man a five and said keep the change. He bit into the sausage, smiled, nodded. “Perfect, as always.”
The Vietnamese man smiled with straight but yellow teeth. He raised his voice over the rumble of passing traffic. “Cowboys win game this weekend.”
“Not with Russell out with that sprained ankle.”
“I have bet they win.”
“How much?”
“Fifty-dollar holler. Win whole game.”
“I hope they do.” Palakis took another bite and the sausage blasted a shot of juice that tagged his striped white shirt. He recoiled, reached for extra napkins, and dabbed the shirt. His vendor friend dipped a towel in warm water and offered it but Palakis waved him off.
“I have a spare in the car,” he said. “We’ve been working so late I’ve slept in the office twice this week. See you later.”
Palakis turned his tall body and moved along the crowded sidewalk to the steps of the Las Palmas Stratford Building. Still munching the Polish dog, he bypassed the front entrance for the next-door parking garage. His footsteps echoed. He skipped the elevator and climbed the stairs. Bright fluorescent lights buzzed as he swallowed the last bite and followed a green line around a bend to where his bright yellow Porsche 911 Turbo waited.
His keyless remote flashed the lights and popped the locks. He opened the passenger door and unzipped the overnight bag on the seat. He pulled out another striped white shirt.
Shoes tapped behind him, stopped.
“Mister Palakis.”
The tall man turned, closing the door. His hazel eyes regarded the dark-haired man with the gray-touched mustache with no recognition.
“Hi,” Palakis said. The other man wore street clothes. A reporter, maybe? But he carried no notebook.
Palakis frowned. “You with the papers?”
“No. I just wanted to know how you’re doing.” Ben Regan smiled. “Since the robbery and all. Still focused on the negotiations?”
Palakis stared at the other man a moment. His lunch sat in his gut like a rock. “There are cameras watching us.”
“I’m just talking.”
“What do you want?”
Regan stifled a laugh. He said, “It’s not hard to figure out what we want.”
Palakis kept his lips pressed together.
Regan pulled out his wallet and removed two twenty-dollar bills. He stuffed the bills in Palakis’s shirt pocket. “Get that stain removed. I’ll be in touch.”
Regan’s shoes tapped some more as he walked away. Palakis stared at the back of Regan’s head. He had wanted to tell the mustached man that he had no trouble staying on task, because help was on the way, and wondered how the back of the other man’s head would look half blown away.
Palakis sat in his car, shaking. What remained of his lunch, now cold, sat on the passenger seat. He hadn’t bothered with changing his shirt.
Discovering the theft of the DVD disk had sent Palakis into a tailspin of panic.
Years ago, when Palakis had been a young man, he’d struck up a friendship with an up-and-coming mob figure named Ugo Califano. The friendship had earned Palakis certain favors, which helped Palakis become established as a top software designer and enabled his company to sit on the Fortune 500 list. The favors were, of course, returned in kind, and one of Ugo’s big favors had been asking Palakis to take care of the DVD and make sure nobody ever saw it unless he, personally, came to collect the disk.
The footage was critical to Ugo’s survival. It was keeping his operations active, and earning money, while he was in hiding because of a murder contract paid for by his rivals, who wanted him out of the way.
And now the disk was gone.
There was only one thing to do. With a shaking hand, Palakis took out his cell phone and dialed a New York number. He couldn’t reach Ugo directly, but he could talk to a lieutenant who could forward the information and respond to Palakis’s request for help.
Which would come in the form of a killer Palakis had only seen once and hoped to never see again.
Miles Kincaid let out a breath as his brown leather boots hit solid ground. He didn’t stop to let his pulse settle.
He crossed from the plane to the brightly lighted terminal building, goose-bumps crawling up his neck from the cool breeze rushing along the tarmac. The muted roar of other plane engines followed him inside, and he found baggage claim to collect his suitcases. His contact, Palakis, was in the crowd somewhere. Miles knew who to look for but figured Palakis could find him first.
“There you are.”
The big man turned, didn’t smile at the trim blond fellow before him.
“Long time, Miles,” Vince Palakis said. He extended a hand. Miles didn’t shake. He’d always considered Palakis a worthless hanger-on. He and Miles’s boss, Ugo Califano, went way back, and Califano gave the orders, so Miles had to go and assist the blond man in his time of need. But he didn’t have to shake hands.
Palakis lowered the offered hand. “Well. Let’s hit the road.”
“Uh-huh,” Miles said.
The Porsche’s engine whined with turbo boost as Palakis sped onto the freeway. Miles’s body pressed into the deep bucket seat and he noted the lack of a manual shift lever. Another strike against Palakis. Real sports cars had a clutch.
“I need that DVD back,” Palakis said. “As much as Ugo, if not more. He trusted me to take care of it. And if it comes out that he and I are buddies I might as well forget my future in politics.”
“You have a lot to protect,” Miles said.
“Yup.”
Palakis told Miles about the visit in the garage, adding, “I don’t know his name or even if he’ll send someone else to see me next time. I also have no idea how the disk was found. That’s your next question, right?”
“Who did you tell?”
“Excuse me?”
“I want a list. Somebody knew. Don’t forget the girls you fool around with and may have bragged to.”
“I’ve never--”
“Quit. How else was the disk found?”
Palakis tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“A list,” Miles said.
Palakis exhaled hard. “Alexa Reyale. My regular, um, companion. I’ll get the names of the others. There’s George Cooper, my second-in-command. He could have found out. And Scott.”
“Who?”
“My son.”
Miles raised a thick eyebrow.
Palakis cleared his throat. “We haven’t been getting along last few years. Ever since--”
&nb
sp; “What?”
“The hit-and-run.”
“Repeat that.”
“The hit-and-run.” Palakis took a few deep breaths. “I was in an accident. Couple years back. My fault. A little boy died. Ugo pulled some strings and made the heat go away. That’s when my relationship with Scott changed. I thought he’d cool down once the patsy was arrested. He didn’t. He knew the truth. Somehow.”
“I’m gonna call you Saint Vince from now on.”
The two men said no more. Miles turned the story over in his head, considering different angles. At least he had a place to start, but he needed a little more.
Palakis pulled off the freeway and merged with street traffic. A few stop-and-go blocks later, he parked in front of a towering Hyatt and told Miles, “You’ve got a room reserved under Ken Wade.”
“The family.”
“Huh?”
“The family of the little boy. Who are they?”
Miles watched Palakis’s Adam’s apple go up, then down. His body sank against the driver’s door as if he wanted as much space between him and the big man as possible, but he couldn’t avoid Kincaid’s unblinking eyes.
“A cop’s family. Detective named Brock.”
Miles jerked open the door, hauled out body and suitcase. Leaning back inside, he said, “If it weren’t for my orders, I’d kill you,” and slammed the yellow door.
Miles turned the deadbolt and the swing bolt. He’d been given a large suite with a deck. It was quiet and cold. He went to the heater/AC unit near the deck doors and turned up the heat. A low hum followed by a blast of warm air filled the room.
He placed his suitcase on the bed and removed the X-ray proof bottom. From the hidden compartment he took out his customized Wilson Combat .45 automatic, a box of subsonic ammo, a silencer, and a framed photograph.
The gun, ammo and silencer he placed in the nightstand drawer. The picture he set with care on the nightstand next to the lamp. He looked at the pony-tailed girl in the frame. Dark hair, big smile, blue eyes. Miles took a cigar and lighter from his inside jacket pocket, opened the patio door and stepped outside. He lit up, stared out into the night, and thought of his dead daughter. Of the men who killed her. Of a policeman’s family and their dead son.
Kincaid was a killer, sure. He was good at it. He could make a job sloppy or neat depending on whether he was sending a message, or just clearing trash.
But he’d never killed any civilians. There were certain lines one couldn’t cross. His job was to help keep the peace in the syndicate, and his “victims” had always been hoods. Hurting civilians not only brought in the cops and the Feds, it also served no useful purpose.
Palakis had not only hurt civilians, he was using the mob to clean up his mess. Why Ugo Califano had agreed to help, Kincaid didn’t understand. Perhaps the two went back far enough that Ugo was willing to bend the rules. Kincaid didn’t have to like it, he just had to do it.
He had a job to do, yeah, but afterwards maybe he’d leave Palakis in a ditch. Eliminate the problem completely, and the mess never returns.
9
Wolf sat out on his deck, a burning cigar in one hand, the business section of the newspaper in his lap.
Vince Palakis. The resident of 2667 Brooker Lane. Not an unfamiliar name. He’d once investigated the software company CEO based on rumors of a hit-and-run crash. Somebody else had been arrested and convicted, but Wolf had reasons for never totally believing Palakis hadn’t been involved. A lack of clues and the arrest meant he couldn’t pursue the matter as far as he’d have liked. So why would he be a robbery target? Why not report the incident? The easy answer, there was a corrupt side to his smiling face, something dirty behind the charitable donations and deceit along with the friends in high places.
But he wasn’t on the DVD.
Why would he have the video, and who decided the importance of taking it from him?
Wolf set the newspaper aside and smoked and counted stars. The street below was silent but for the occasional car or rumbling bus. The pigeons had holed up for the night. No crickets chirped in the concrete fortresses. A lone light burned in the building across the street. He wondered who was in there.
Wolf finished the cigar and stood up. Time for work. The Chrysler had a full tank of gas. He’d cleaned and loaded his pistol. One goal for the evening: find out who tipped a killer to Freddie’s address.
Wolf prowled the streets for hours, checking bars, gambling dens, various hangouts. Chatting with regular informants. Passing bills here and there. Buying drinks when the money didn’t carry enough weight. After three a.m. Wolf finally had a name.
Harvey the Hook dealt stolen credit cards and funny money. He’d thought he was helping out a friend of Freddie’s, or so the story went. Wolf checked two more bars looking for him and learned he might be at his girlfriend’s place.
The quiet neighborhood sported homes and cul-de-sacs on one side, two apartment complexes on the other. Wolf stopped across from the Essex Apartments, watched the first-floor dwelling closest to the street. Minna Jaggar, Harvey’s squeeze, lived there. The bright porch light illuminated a Virgin Mary statue to the right of the door.
He sat back and waited windows cracked for fresh air. He had the right place. Harvey drove an old El Camino, and a battleship-gray El rested in the small parking lot in front of the two first-floor units.
Eventually the front door opened, and light flashed on Harvey’s face. He squeezed his big body into the El, drove off. Wolf followed a few car lengths behind. They rolled at a steady 25 through the neighborhood, passing a park, to a convenience store at the last corner. Wolf pulled over and watched Harvey limp inside. A former associate had shot Harvey in the leg once during an argument, leaving Harvey with the permanent injury, and the associate hadn’t been seen since.
Harvey exited the store with a gallon of milk. He drove the El Camino back toward the apartment. Wolf waited until they neared the park, then swung around the El and slammed to a stop perpendicular to Harvey’s vehicle. Harvey’s tires screeched and smoked as he hit the brakes. He jumped out shouting obscenities but closed his mouth when Wolf swung the .45 over the top of the car and fired.
Harvey whipped around and landed hard on the pavement. Wolf had aimed for a shoulder and scored. He grabbed Harvey by an ankle. Harvey cussed, gasped, choked, and yelled as Wolf dragged the man across the asphalt, up the curb, and over the grass to the shadow of a tree. Wolf put a foot on Harvey’s chest.
Harvey started breathing heavy, sweat dripped into his eyes and down the sides of his face. “You won’t see the sun come up!”
“Look who’s talking,” Wolf said. “You told somebody where to find Freddie Webster today. Who was he?”
“Said he was a friend of Freddie’s. I swear I didn’t know about O’Shea or anything!”
“Name.”
“Tony Jordon! He said he was from Chicago.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Tall guy dark hair mustache. I think he’s on the other side of 40 because the lip hair has gray in it.”
“Harvey.”
“Wha—what?”
“That guy wasn’t a friend of Freddie’s.”
Wolf’s finger tightened on the trigger. Harvey started to scream. The .45 barked once more.
Wolf drove around until his body settled down. Harvey hadn’t provided anything really-useful, but at least part of the score had been settled, and he had a description of who to look for. Sticking with Palakis would be the best way to find “Tony Jordan”.
Fatigue rolled like a wave through Wolf. He pulled over in front of an all-night diner. He wanted time to mull over his next move, and a cup of tea would provide a jump start.
A bell jangled as Wolf entered, and the cook behind the scuffed and scratched counter locked his eyes on the man in the long black coat. The place wasn’t very big, with gray walls and Formica tables with purple vinyl booths, old movie posters on the walls. Wolf noticed a James Dean (East of Eden), Bogar
t (High Sierra), a Cagney (White Heat), one with McQueen from The Great Escape. Favorites of his. A neon sign above the counter said Mick’s Since 1954 and added an odd pink glow to the white fluorescent lighting. Wolf wondered if the grease stains dotting the floor went back to ‘54.
Wolf wiped a counter stool with a handkerchief and sat. The cook, a stocky guy the size of a rhino, narrowed his eyes. A petite brunette in the back-corner booth fixed a frightened gaze on Wolf as well. The remaining handful of customers paid no attention and continued their conversations in low tones.
“What’ll you have?” the big cook said, his claw of a hand making the pencil he held above a notepad look like a toothpick.
Wolf scanned the menu card. “Any tea?”
“No.” He waited. “How ‘bout coffee?”
Wolf said, “How about ice water with lemon,” adding: “And some cherry pie.”
The cook didn’t bother to scribble. He filled a glass, pushed a lemon wedge onto the rim of the glass, and slid it in front of Wolf.
The cook placed the pie slice in front of Wolf, bug chunks of cherries and thick red cream dripping from the sides. Wolf grabbed a fork.
The brunette came up to the counter with an empty coffee cup and a few dollars. She kept four stools between her and Wolf. When he shifted, she jumped, her eyes flicking his way, then back to the cook as he refilled the mug. He took her money and dropped a few coins on the counter in return.
“How much coffee can you drink, kid?” the cook said. But the girl turned away with lowered eyes. Her clothes hung on her wiry frame, dark circles under her eyes, skin pale and almost clammy despite her almond tone.
She set the mug on her table, sat again, and picked up a cell phone. Wolf watched her make one call after another, her defeated, sad expression growing more so each time she hung up.
With slumped shoulders she sipped her coffee and stared out the front window. Her shoulders tensed each time somebody new entered. There were only three new arrivals in the time it took Wolf to finish the pie, a couple looking fresh from a club, and a cabbie on a break. Wolf swallowed the last of the pie, drank the water. Wolf tapped his glass with the fork. The cook refilled and returned the glass.
