by Lee Thomas
“Jesus,” Butch said. “I don’t… Look, this is your house and even though I haven’t done a damn thing to prove it, I am grateful for what you’ve done for me. The rest of it…? I guess it’s none of my business, and I need to keep my mouth shut.”
The words were encouraging. They implied progress. Still, Hollis didn’t understand why all of this meant so much to him; it had to be more than his promise to Rory, more than saving a soul as lost as his own had been. It would have been foolish to deny his attraction to Butch, just as it would be foolish—perhaps devastating—to ever act on this attraction. Fortunately, Hollis wasn’t a schoolboy, made feeble by romance and lust. If anything, acknowledging the way he felt allowed him objectivity. Control. So why? he wondered. Was it one thing or all of the things in his head and heart that made him determined to protect this man?
Butch walked to the window. As if mimicking Hollis’s earlier performance, he turned his face into the bath of morning sun.
“We’d better try and get you figured out, then,” Hollis said.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you want? Are you here just to hide? I suppose that’s fine if that’s what you want to do.”
“No, I don’t just want to hide,” he said. “There’s this necklace, and someone thinks it’s important. Or I think they do. Either way, I have to figure out what it is.”
Hollis reached deep into his slack’s pocket and grasped the chain and charm. He pulled it free. “Do you mean this?”
“Yeah,” Butch said, lunging forward to take it from Hollis’s hand. “I thought that punk had pinched it while I was out cold.”
“Okay, I can help you with that.” Hollis knew a number of people that dealt in jewelry and antiquities. “I can put a list together of the people you need to see. What else? You said you were tapped?”
“Flat broke,” Butch admitted. “I’ll need to find work, need to scrape up money in case I have to disappear for good, and I’ll have to lay pretty low while I’m here.”
“That isn’t going to work,” Hollis said. “Not in this city.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
He really is naïve, Hollis thought. The guy was thinking like a rube right off the carrot cart.
“Butch, you ran from Chicago, a mob-woven spider’s web. And where did you go? New Orleans, which is just another web. We have as many runners and gunners as Chicago, and they’re all connected, so if you try to get work in one of the clubs here, you’re shaking hands with close cousins to the folks who want you dead. You could try humping crates at the docks, but that’s not much different.”
“Shit,” Butch hissed. He lowered his head.
“Don’t worry about the job,” Hollis said. “You’ve got a roof and food.”
“Yeah,” Butch said. He didn’t sound convinced.
“And on that note, I’d better go talk to Lionel. I have a feeling it will be a rather unpleasant conversation.” Cheating bastard. “When you’re feeling up to it, get dressed and fix yourself something for breakfast. We should have plenty in the cabinets and icebox. We keep the devil’s hours around here, so you probably won’t see me until two or three this afternoon.”
“Okay,” Butch said. He moved away from the window and held out his hand for Hollis to shake.
The man looked miserable, frustrated, beaten, but Hollis felt certain he was on the right track. He shook the hand and offered a tight smile. As an afterthought, he clapped Butch on the shoulder before saying, “Take care.”
Chapter 19
Simpler Times
Curt Conrad unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped inside. After removing his gloves, he shoved them in the pocket of his overcoat, and then he removed his hat. He dumped his winter clothes over the coat rack by the door. The hat fell off. It hit the floor. Conrad thought about stooping to pick it up, but it was a flicker of a thought, quickly replaced by a decision to grab it later on his way out. For now, he wanted a drink and then some shuteye. Last night had been a late one; one of many. So he took his sleep where he could get it, even if it meant skipping out of the office a couple hours shy of his posted schedule.
Not that leaving the station early amounted to a tower of air. He hadn’t worked a full eight hours in three years; it was one of the perks of being a detective. The simple phrase, “Tracking something down,” was all it took to shut up his superiors and his partner, Lennon, who was becoming a serious pain in his ass.
The guy wouldn’t shut up about Musante. Conrad didn’t know why his partner was so hard for information on the shit-heel. A guy like Musante wasn’t worth the gray juice it took to think him over, and if Curt hadn’t pulled the trigger himself, he wouldn’t have given the dirty little wop a second thought.
A yawn erupted over his round face. Conrad removed his holster and swung it across the back of a chair and continued through the living room. In the kitchen he poured himself a shot and threw it back.
When he returned to the living room, he found Paul Rabin facing him. The man had removed Conrad’s service piece from its holster, and he aimed it at the detective’s chest.
“Greetings,” Rabin said merrily. Conrad flinched and stepped back. Rabin was dressed, as always, like a politician in a fine three-piece suit. Pressed. Slick. “Take a seat,” Rabin said. The three dry syllables rolled over a desert before leaving his mouth.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Conrad asked.
“Take a seat, detective.”
Tremors of fear began in his knees and worked their way to his throat, causing his voice to rattle when he said, “Impelliteri is going to tear your ass apart when he hears about this.”
“Then it’ll be our little secret. Now sit down. I won’t tell you again.”
He sat on the wooden chair, his father’s chair, by the window. Conrad didn’t know much about Rabin, but what he knew was enough to keep him from testing the man. A dozen times he’d delivered packets to Rabin; each envelope had contained a significant amount of money and the name of a guy who was never seen again. In remembering those envelopes, he couldn’t help but recall the cash he’d removed from them. He’d helped himself to a share of Rabin’s commissions, and the man knew it. But it was just money. Conrad could get his hands on plenty if he had to. He could fix this.
“Is this about money? I can get you money.”
“No,” Rabin said. He walked forward and stopped three feet in front of Conrad.
Conrad looked past the barrel of the gun at Rabin. His face was hard and flat like a death mask. His eyes glittered but it was the shimmer of candlelight on a polished coffin lid. Cold. Lifeless. These were the eyes his victims looked into for mercy.
“What do you want?”
“I’m confused,” Rabin said. “Why would Marco Impelliteri, our kind employer, hire you to murder his closest confidant?”
“You got some bad information. Cardinal killed Musante.”
A twitch tugged at the corner of Rabin’s lip. It was a subtle reaction—two rapid tics that came and went so quickly Conrad might have imagined them. But when Rabin stepped forward his movement was distinct and unmistakably odd. To Conrad it appeared as if Rabin were struggling, pushing forward, like the madman was walking while someone was trying to hold him back. “No. Cardinal was a pawn. Did you arrange his setup?”
“Come on, Rabin, I just go where I’m told. Same as you.”
“No.” Rabin lifted his foot and kicked it down between Conrad’s legs, where it rested on the edge of the chair. “Times have changed. So much of what I have believed has turned out to be false. I can’t afford to be wrong anymore. Who told you to go to Musante’s house?”
Sweat rolled down the back of Conrad’s neck and pooled at his collar before soaking into the starched fabric. Conrad had never had a bit of trouble throwing lies, but by comparison those had been small, all but meaningless fibs with little on the line. The lies he told now were important; they could keep the red under his skin where it belonged. “Ma
rco told me, same as always.”
“That’s a lie, and it’s the last one I’ll allow. Tell me another and I’ll start taking pieces off of you.”
Conrad needed a name to feed the madman, but his calm was shattered. He couldn’t think of anyone to point a finger at except for the man who had actually given him the order. “It was Terry McGavin.”
“I don’t know that name.” Rabin kept his foot on the chair, but leaned forward, slowly pushing the gun toward Conrad’s shining fat face.
“He’s with Moran. On Powell’s crew.”
“You work both sides.” Rabin nodded his head. “Powell wants the Galenus Rose for himself.”
“The what?”
Conrad saw the fucker was as crazy as he’d always believed, and that was a bad thing, considering which one of them held the gun.
“But how did Powell even know of its existence?” Rabin wondered aloud. “No. This is wrong. You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying, you crazy son of a bitch. I picked up a few easy hits from Terry here and there. Simple low-profile shit. I didn’t want word getting back to Impelliteri, and I didn’t want Powell thinking he had me on a leash.”
“And what did Terry tell you about the necklace?”
“Nothing,” Conrad said.
“But you knew about it,” Rabin said. “You made quite a to do about it when we met last week.”
“That was Impelliteri. All Terry told me was to wait outside of Musante’s and pop him when he came out and then do the wrestler the same way. He gave me the time and the place. That’s it. I didn’t hear about the fucking necklace until after I called Marco to let him know about Lonnie.”
“Terry didn’t ask you to retrieve anything from the scene?”
“Not a fucking thing.”
“Curious.”
“I don’t know about that, but it’s true.” Conrad squirmed in the chair. “What about Impelliteri? Are you going to tell him all of this?”
Rabin removed his foot from the chair and stepped away. “I’ll be severing my connections with Mr. Impelliteri. What is said here, remains here. I see no reason to involve him in this matter.”
“No reason at all,” Conrad agreed.
“And your partner, Detective Lennon? He was working with you?”
An idea presented itself and Conrad grabbed hold of it. Roger Lennon had been an annoyance since day one. If Conrad could get Rabin off of his back and put him onto Lennon’s, his life would not only be a lot easier, but it would last a whole lot longer.
“He was the go-between,” Conrad said. He made it sound as if the information was obvious. “Between Terry and me. If Terry said anything about a necklace it was probably to Roger. I can ask him at the station tomorrow.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Once Conrad had told the lie, it hung before him like a rope ladder and he reached for it, swatted at it, knowing it was the only thing that would get him out of this pit. “I’ll call him. Give me a minute, and I’ll get him on the phone.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.”
“You can ask him anything you want.” Conrad knew he sounded too eager, too desperate. The ladder was pulling away, but he had to let it go. The panic in his voice wasn’t doing him any good.
“I don’t see the need to trouble Detective Lennon at this time,” Rabin said. “I admit to some curiosity, what with you being so eager to throw your partner to the lions. There must be quite a history between the two of you, and I’ve recently grown interested in the ease with which those closest to us can deceive and betray. But, thank you, no.”
“He’s the one you want. I can get him for you.”
“I assure you, if necessary, I can get him for myself,” Rabin said. “What about the wrestler?”
“Cardinal? What about him?”
“Have your people turned up any information on the man? His whereabouts? I’m curious.”
“Nobody’s told me anything. I figured you’d get to him long before we did.”
Rabin nodded. “Yes, I imagine I will. There’s an old Paddy I’ve been far too coy about questioning. I imagine it’s time to get serious about that one.”
“If you need a hand, just say the word.”
“Very kind,” Rabin said. He stepped away and lowered the gun before retreating to the entrance of the living room. Rabin threw a glance over his shoulder at the door. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just let myself out.”
“Sure.”
Conrad was confused. Relieved but confused. In fact, everything he knew about Rabin suggested Conrad should be face down on the floor, bleeding. But there Rabin was, turning the knob, pulling the door open, leaving the apartment. It wasn’t the smartest move, because Conrad was going to find the old prick and put a bullet in his head, but there was no reason to bring that up just now.
He exhaled and closed his eyes. He only allowed himself a momentary respite, though. The detective wanted a locked door between himself and the killer. Taking a second deep breath, he opened his eyes, pushed himself from the wooden chair, and headed across the room. Conrad stumbled when he noticed the door opening again.
Rabin poked his head in. “I still have your gun.”
“Keep it,” Conrad told him. Guns were cheap. Easy to find. He didn’t care about it, at least not enough to invite Rabin back into his home.
“Don’t be silly.” Rabin opened the door the rest of the way and stepped over the threshold. He held the gun in his palm. His finger wasn’t even looped through the trigger. Once inside the apartment he closed the door behind him. “Professional courtesy and all.”
“Yeah,” Conrad said. “Thanks.”
Rabin met him in the middle of the room and held out the gun. Uncertain, Conrad stared at the weapon like it was a dead bird.
“Should I just return it to your holster?” Rabin asked.
“Nah, that’s fine. I’ll take it.”
And Conrad reached for the gun. He grasped the handle and in a smooth motion, lifted it level with Rabin’s eyes. He pulled the trigger.
The hammer hit an empty chamber with a hard clap.
Rabin’s polished-coffin eyes didn’t blink.
“You…” Conrad began to say.
Rabin delivered a quick, vicious punch to Conrad’s nose. The detective’s vision blurred from pain and from a wash of tears that instantly covered his eyes. Conrad stumbled back, disoriented. From reflex, he threw his hands to cover his injured face. He still held the gun and it smashed into his aching nose. Blood gushed over the grip before Conrad dropped the weapon on the carpet. Rabin strolled forward and buried his right fist in Conrad’s belly, doubling the man over.
“I spoke with my wife this morning,” Rabin said.
Though he still couldn’t see, Conrad uncoiled and whipped his fist toward the voice. It passed through the air, sending him off balance. Tottering and blind, he waved his arms with steadying flaps until he was certain he wouldn’t topple.
Then he felt the rope slip around his neck.
“It wasn’t a pleasant conversation,” Rabin said, “but it reminded me of a simpler time.”
Chapter 20
Things to Feel
Lennon worked late. The station remained bustling with the third shifters. Tobacco smoke rose thick, casting haze over the wooden desks and the men in their suits. In a shadowed corner, a man pecked at the keys of a typewriter. Two men sat on the edge of a desk, smoking cigars and laughing heartily. Al Jolson sang “Sonny Boy” through the radio static. For Lennon, this setting offered greater comfort and familiarity than his house on Whitmore Street. The sense of camaraderie came easily. He and his colleagues shared this space and they shared ideas and they shared a language. To his mind, the station was more akin to a gentleman’s club than a place of work, and with Edie and the girls out of town, Lennon didn’t have to worry about checking in every thirty minutes, or being interrupted by calls from home. Edie questioning. Needling. Wanting his attention when it was needed elsewhere.
For the twentieth time, he looked over the information he’d gathered about Lonnie Musante, a man who struck Lennon as an ever-growing mystery. The creep was completely useless to the syndicate, and yet he was dear to Marco Impelliteri. Why? In a business that thrived on substance and exploit, Musante seemed irrelevant—a criminal failure with a terminal disease. He dealt in speculation, in superstition; he was impotent when it came to what the outfits truly valued: the cash, the blood.
On his desk sat two small evidence boxes he’d had sent up from the cage. Lennon went through the items collected at Musante’s house piece by piece, a ritual he’d performed more than a dozen times in the last few days. When he came to the Mauser 1914 a familiar thought, the same thought he always had when he looked at the gun, ran through his mind. He’d seen the gun before. On the one hand, Lennon knew the familiarity of the weapon was easily explained; thousands of the things had been manufactured and sent to the streets. But it wasn’t just the model that he found familiar; it was this particular weapon. The nicks. The scratches.
Lennon ran his finger down the wooden wrap-around grip and paused at a chip near the base, likely where a ring had gouged the wood while some lowlife was ramming the magazine home. His thumb traced the shape of the divot and then Lennon put the gun down on his desk as the realization of where he’d seen it before flooded him.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He shook his head.
Lennon sprang from his desk and ran from the office. When he found a rookie in blue, standing over a filing cabinet, he clapped a hand on the kid’s shoulder and said, “Drop what you’re doing. I need a file. A grocery store robbery. Went down a couple months back. Gladson’s Mercantile. Perpetrator’s name was Myer or Mayer.”
“Who was the lead officer?”
“Curt Conrad,” Lennon said.
The case all of his colleagues considered solved, all but closed save for the apprehension of their suspect, unraveled in his head. Musante. Cardinal. Conrad had set the whole damn thing up. His partner had involved him in a mob hit, crossing a line Lennon had sworn to keep at a distance. Premeditated and foolish, Conrad murdered one man and framed another, and dragged Lennon along for the goddamn ride. Once Lennon had the proof in his hands, he would be paying his partner a visit. The man owed him answers.
