Lullaby Town

by Robert Crais

  "Here in DeLuca territory?"

  Rollie sipped his water and nodded. "Used to be there were only five core families, with everybody killing everybody else over territory and business, but now there's eight, nine families and these guys all like to make like they're Lee Iacocca, everybody polite, everybody doing business with everybody else as long as the other guy pays rispetto. You know rispetto?"

  "You want to do business in another guy's territory, you don't just move in. You pay respect. You ask permission and you give him a piece of the action."

  "Yeah. Vito Ratoulli, the guy owns this place, he's a soldier for Carlino. He pays the DeLucas six percent of his gross to do business here. Vito makes the best calamari diablo around, he treats DeLuca with respect, old Sal even comes here to eat sometimes. Works both ways. Some of DeLuca's people have businesses in Carlino territory."

  The maitre d' came back and put a large white plate between us. There was a little white bowl of olive oil and basil in the center of the plate and a dozen paper-thin slices of prosciutto fanned out around it and a row of small hot rolls around the edge of the plate. The rolls were warm and slick with olive oil and little pieces of garlic. Rollie folded up a slice of the prosciutto, swirled it in the olive oil, ate half of it along with one of the little rolls, then gave the rest to his dog. He said, "You like spicy food?"

  "Yes."

  Rollie told the maitre d' that we wanted the calamari. The maitre d' went away. I said, "What part of Italy are your people from?"

  Rollie made a booming laugh. "You eat enough macaroni, you lose your taste for red beans and fat-back."

  I said, "Why'd the families make peace?"

  Rollie spread his hands. "Organized crime isn't just the dagos and the kikes anymore. The brothers up in Harlem used to be under the mafia's thumb, but now you got civil rights. The black man figures he can do his own crime and not have to pay the dago. You got your Crips and Bloods and they ain't just street punks anymore. You got your Jamaicans and your East Indians, and those cats come up here believing in voodoo and shit. They don't give a damn about no Sicily. You got your Cubanos and your Chinese Triads and all these little bastards from Southeast Asia. Shit." Rollie frowned and thought about it. "The families knew that if they didn't hang together, they'd be run out of business, but it ain't an easy peace. There's still plenty of bad blood. No one likes showing polite, and no one likes showing respect, and a lot of bodies were buried before the families decided how they were going to divide up the crime and the territory. Your DeLucas and your Gambozas hate each other all the way back to Sicily, but they hate the niggers and the chinks worse. You see?"

  "Anybody do business with the other guys?"

  "Shit."

  "I want Charlie DeLuca to turn loose somebody he owns."

  Rollie ate another piece of prosciutto. "Charlie the Tuna isn't a guy you can talk with."

  "They never are."

  Rollie smiled. "You got anything to give him?"

  I shook my head.

  Rollie made a little shrug. "I'll ask around. Maybe I can help you out."

  "I figured I'd go talk to him, see how he feels about it. You know where I can find him?"

  "Try the meat plant."

  "I did. He's sorta tough to see."

  "Probably ain't there most of the time, anyway. The wiseguys own these businesses, but they don't like to work. Try a place called the Figaro Social Club up on Mott Street

  , about eight, nine blocks from here."

  "Okay."

  Rollie frowned at the last piece of prosciutto, picked it up, then swirled it in the oil. 'This guy, he gets hot, he ain't so good at controlling himself. That's why he's always in trouble. That's why his daddy has to clean up after him."

  "I know."

  "He's a nut case, Elvis. Certifiable." He spoke slowly. "This ain't L.A."

  I said, "Rollie, in L.A. we got Richard Ramirez and the Hillside Strangler."

  Roland stared at me for a minute, then nodded again and ate the prosciutto. "Yeah. I guess you do."

  Maxie suddenly charged sideways, snapping and barking at something that only he could see. Roland George got the sad look again and gently reeled him in and mumbled soft things that the dog could not hear and petted him until he was calm. I thought I heard him say Liana.

  After a while the little dog took a deep breath and sighed and sat at Roland's feet. He broke wind loudly. Everyone in the restaurant must have heard, but no one looked. Showing polite, I guess. Paying respect, I guess.

  When the calamari came, it was excellent.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Figaro Social Club was on Mott Street

  , squeezed between a shoe repair shop and a place that sold fresh ground coffee, looking sharp with one of those padded doors upholstered in red naugahyde. The naugahyde was cracked and had maybe been wiped down in 1962 but not since, and the doorstep and the gutter were littered and oily and wet. A small CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC sign was hanging on the door. I thought it all looked sort of crummy, but maybe I was just suffering from West Coast Bias. On the West Coast, big-time mobsters spent a lot of money and lived in palaces and acted like they were related to the Doheny family. Maybe on the East Coast such behavior was considered gauche. On the East Coast, the well-established mobster probably went in for the rat-hole look.

  I pushed through the red door and stood in the entry for a moment, letting my eyes adjust. Charlie DeLuca and a couple of guys built like bread trucks were sitting at a bare wooden table, shoveling in pasta with some sort of red sauce. Behind them, Joey Putata and a short, muscular guy were wrestling a full beer keg onto the bar. An old guy in a white barman's bib yelled at them to go easy with the goddamned thing. In the back of the place a tall bony man with a long face and a hatchet nose was shooting pool by himself. His shoulders were unnaturally wide, as if he should have been twins but wasn't, and he was X-ray thin, with pale skin pulled tight and lean over all the bones. His hair was black and shaggy and stuck out in spikes on top, and he wore black Ray Ban Wayfarer sunglasses and black roach-killer boots with little silver tips and tight black pants and a black silk shirt buttoned at the neck. All the black made the pale skin look as white as milk.

  The bartender saw me first and flagged his hand. "Hey, can't you read? We're closed to the public."

  "I know. I'm here because I want to see Mr. DeLuca." You give them the mister when you're hoping for cooperation.

  DeLuca and the two guys at his table looked over, and so did Joey Putata. When Joey Putata saw me, he stopped wrestling with the beer keg and said, "Oh, shit." He hadn't said anything about the clam bar.

  "My name is Elvis Cole, Mr. DeLuca. I want to talk with you about Karen Lloyd." I was laying it on thick with the mister.

  DeLuca blinked at me, then looked at Joey Putata. "I thought you got rid of this fuck." Probably wasn't laying it on thick enough.

  Joey said, "Hey, Charlie, we gave him the word. I took Lenny and Phil with me. We gave him the word real good."

  Charlie turned back to me and went back to work on the pasta. I think he was eating tongue. "You're the creep from Disneyland, right?"

  "Nope. I'm the creep from Los Angeles."

  "What's the fucking difference? It's all talking rabbits out there anyway, ain't it?"

  The two guys sitting with Charlie and the little bartender thought that was a good one. One of the guys sitting with Charlie had big arms and a lot of gut and a gray sharkskin jacket over a blue shirt. His collar tips were long and stuck out over the jacket. Twenty years out of style. He said, "Hey, Charlie, you think this mook knows Minnie Mouse? You think he plays hide the salami with old Minnie?" Everybody laughed except the guy back at the pool table. He was staring at the pool table and holding the cue stick as if it were a guitar, gently bobbing his head in time with the music.

  Charlie said, "You got some nut coming here. Didn't Joey tell you to knock it off and go home?"

  "Joey didn't do a good job."

  Joey said, "Hey,
fuck you."

  Charlie turned back to me with the same hard eyes he was giving Joey. "Joey's a piece of shit. I got guys who can do better, Mickey Mouse." He turned enough to look back toward the pool table. "You think you can do better than this piece of shit, Ric?"

  The guy with the pool cue nodded, still staring at the pool table. Ric. He looked almost seven feet tall.

  Charlie said, "You're bothering my friend Karen, Mickey Mouse. That's not good."

  "Not anymore, Charlie. Now I'm working for her because she's working for you and she wants to stop. You see?"

  Charlie stopped with the knife and fork and said, "Karen."

  "She'd like to retire."

  "Karen been talking to you?" He wasn't liking it.

  "I found out some things and I asked her about them. She's hoping we can work something out."

  Charlie put down the knife and fork and made a little hand move to the guy with the twenty-year-old clothes. "Tudi, see if he's wired."

  Tudi came around the table and patted me down. I stood with my hands raised and sort of out to the side while he did it. He took out the Dan Wesson, opened it, pushed out the bullets, closed it, put the bullets in my left pants pocket and the Dan Wesson back in my shoulder rig. He took out my wallet and tossed it to Charlie DeLuca. Tudi started at the tops of my shoulders and went down each arm and my back and my front and my crotch and each leg. He took off the G-2 and went over the seams and the fabric, and then he took off my belt and checked that, too. While he did it, Ric knocked pool balls around and Charlie DeLuca looked through my wallet. Tudi said, "He's clean."

  DeLuca closed my wallet and tossed it back to me. "I never met a private dick before. Private dicks around here know they fuck with Charlie DeLuca, they end up with the fish. You know what they call me?"

  "Charlie the Tuna."

  "You know why they call me that?"

  "They can't think of anything better."

  Joey said, "You see? The guy's a wiseass. I couldn't help the wiseass wouldn't listen." Whining.

  Charlie said, "Shut up, you piece of shit."

  Joey shut up.

  I said, "Karen wants to move on. Maybe we can work something out so that you get what you want and she gets what she wants."

  Charlie nodded, two guys sitting around a bar, shooting the breeze. "What's your cut? You fuckin' her?"

  "No cut. I'm just trying to help a friend."

  "Yeah. You know the old saying, if it ain't broke, don't fix it?"

  I said, "There are ways we can work this. You can find another bank to launder your money."

  He smiled and spread his hands and looked at Tudi. "Tudi, you know what this guy is talking about, launder our money?"

  Tudi said, "Shit."

  I said, "Okay. How about you move someone else into Karen's place. She'll stay on until they're in place, and then she'll leave. That way you don't lose a thing and everything stays just as it is."

  Charlie made the smile again and did more with the hands. "I don't get this guy. I say one thing, he says another. Maybe he don't speak English out there in Disneyland. Whatta they talk there, mousetalk?"

  Tudi went, "Eep, eep." Everybody thought that was a riot.

  I said, "Karen wants out, Charlie. She's leaving."

  Charlie pushed his plate of pasta carefully to the side and leaned forward. "Try to get this through your head, mook. What she wants does not matter. Do you know what matters?"

  "What you want."

  "Right. And you know what I want right now?"

  "To fit into size-34 pants."

  Joey said, "You see, Charlie? You see? A wiseass."

  Charlie DeLuca's eyes went dark and he looked at me the way you look at a parking ticket you've found under your wiper blade. He said, "I want you to watch this." He turned and made the little hand move to Joey Putata. "Come here, piece of shit."

  Joey glanced at the short, muscular guy and then at the bartender, and then he walked out to stand in front of Charlie DeLuca's table. The principal's office. "What?"

  "You told me you got rid of him. I sent you on the job to get rid of him, and here he is. I don't like fuckups, piece of shit."

  Charlie wasn't looking at Joey; he was looking at me. Joey was staring at Charlie, sweating now, scared and wondering what was going to happen, and everyone else was staring at Joey. Except for Ric. Ric made a nice, smooth shot and the clack of the balls was the only sound in the bar.

  Charlie said, "Smack yourself, piece of shit."

  Joey said, "C'mon, Charlie, please. I took Lenny and Phil. We gave him the word."

  Charlie still didn't look at him; he stared at me. "Do it, piece of shit. Hit yourself in the face."

  Joey sort of slowly raised his right hand and looked at it, then slapped himself in the face. It wasn't very hard.

  "Close your hand."

  Joey started to cry. "Hey, c'mon, Charlie."

  "Piece of shit."

  Joey closed his hand and sort of punched at his jaw.

  "Harder."

  Joey hit himself harder, but it still wasn't very hard.

  Charlie said, "Ric, this piece of shit needs some help."

  Ric put down the pool cue and moved up by the bar, head still bobbing to music only he could hear. When he moved, he sort of glided, as if the tight pale skin were laid over steel cables and servo motors instead of muscle. He took off the Wayfarers and put them away in the black shirt and then he took out a stainless-steel Smith & Wesson 10mm automatic. You don't see many 10-mils. Style.

  Joey said, "Hey, Charlie, hey, I'll do it, look at this." This time his lip split.

  Charlie nodded. "That's better, piece of shit. Now a couple more."

  Joey hit himself twice more. The second time opened the split and blood ran down Joey's chin and dripped onto his shirt. Ric put away the 10mm. Charlie DeLuca got up from the little table and came around and looked at me. "You see the way it is."

  I said, "Sure."

  "I want you gone. Ric, you and Tudi walk this fuck outta here and show him that I get what I want."

  I said, "Does this mean I can't stay for lunch?"

  Ric peeled himself away from the bar and the guy with the big arms took out a short-barreled Ruger .38 revolver. He showed it to me, then put it in his coat pocket just like they do in the movies. Ric didn't bother with the 10mm. I guess he just brought it out on special occasions.

  Charlie DeLuca was turning away as if he were going around the table to finish his tongue when he hit Joey Putata a wide, looping right hand that caught Joey blind and knocked him over a couple of chairs and down to the floor. Joey covered up and DeLuca kicked him in the kidneys and the back and the legs, yelling, "Piece of shit, rotten piece of shit." He grabbed a fork from somebody's plate and stabbed Joey in the fleshy part of the shoulder. Joey Putata screamed and Charlie went back to kicking him. Tudi and the bartender and the other guys watched, but took a step back as if they didn't like what they were seeing and they were frightened that they might be pulled into it. Except for Ric. Ric glided up behind Charlie and put his hands on Charlie's shoulders and mumbled until Charlie stopped kicking and cursing and was finally standing there, breathing hard and finished with it. Ric the cooler, talking down the nut case. Charlie went back to the table, sat, but stared at the plate as if he didn't recognize what was in front of him.

  The little bartender said, "Jesus."

  Ric straightened his jacket, then came back over to me and pushed me through the red naugahyde door out into the light. It took Tudi a couple of steps to catch up. I said, "He gets sort of carried away, doesn't he?"

  Ric said, "Shut up and let's go."

  We went up along the street, then turned into a little alley. The alley was black and wet and gritty, with dumpsters and steel garbage drums sprouting like mushrooms along the base of the buildings. A couple of six-wheeler vegetable trucks were parked to the side, enveloped by restaurant steam venting from greasy pipes. Surly white kids and Puerto Rican kids in dirty aprons hung aro
und outside of the kitchen doors, smoking and scratching at tattoos that someone had cut into them with Bic pens and sewing needles. Rotten cabbage was the big smell. I said, "Gee, fellas, I think I can find my way from here."

  Tudi said, "We get finished with you, mook, you ain't even gonna be able to find the hospital."

  Ric didn't say anything.

  Tudi took the little .38 out of his coat pocket and pointed it at me and that's when Joe Pike stepped out from behind one of the vegetable trucks, twisted the gun out of Tudi's hand, cocked it, and pressed it against Tudi's right temple. It had taken him maybe a tenth of a second.

  Pike said, "Do you want to die?"

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It happened quickly and without apparent effort, as if Pike had somehow assembled himself from the air and the trucks and the earth.

  Tudi blinked and looked confused, response lagging behind event, and then his eyes bulged and he sucked in a single sharp breath. "Jesus Christ." His right hand stayed up and out, as if he were still holding the gun.

  I said, "You're five minutes too soon. I was just about to let these guys have it."

  Pike's mouth twitched. He never smiles, but sometimes he'll give the twitch.

  Pike is maybe six-one and lean, all taut cords and veins. He was in straight-legged blue jeans and Nike running shoes and an olive-green Marine Corps parka over a gray sweatshirt and G.I. pilot's glasses so dark that they were without depth or dimension. He cocked his head to look at Ric. He had to look up.

  Ric lifted his hands to the sides, letting Pike see that they were empty. He moved with great care, but he didn't look scared. Outside in the light, his skin was so pale I wondered if he used makeup, his eyes black dots set far back in dark hollows, angry weasels staring out of ice caves.

  Pike said, "Your call."

  Ric smiled. His teeth were small and yellow and angled backward like a snake's. If he bit you, you'd have a helluva time getting away from him. He reached out and pushed Tudi's gun hand down. "He's got your gun, stupid. All you're holding is air."