by David DeLee
Enrico and Bennie heaved the containers up and slapped them down on the plans with a heavy thump.
“I need to take a leak,” Bennie said. He still sounded like someone was pinching his nose closed.
“There anything to eat around here?” Enrico asked. “I’m starving.”
Dom nodded back toward the elevator. “Use the public toilets on the first floor. Better yet, go to the Starbucks down the street. Bring me back a cappuccino.”
He handed Bennie two twenties.
“We’ll take a couple of regular coffees,” Bannon said. “Cream no sugars.”
“Screw you, Bannon.”
The two thugs left.
The elevator pinged. Bannon listened to the elevator doors open, then close. He doubted he’d be getting his coffee.
Tara and Bannon walked deeper into the apartment. The ceiling was unfinished, exposing the encapsulated iron support girders overhead. Colorful wires were wrapped in bundles and ran from installed electrical boxes, light switches, computer and cable TV ports to the apartment’s junction box. Light came the midmorning sunlight shining through the windows and strings of naked bulbs hung from orange cords.
Tara silently walked around, taking in every detail of their surroundings. She looked out through the big picture windows at the harbor beyond. “Nice view.”
Bannon almost smiled, knowing what she was really doing; sizing up the place, taking in every detail, calculating tactical advantages and causes for concern in the layout in case things went sideways. She gave him the barest of nods, indicating the place was clear. No boogiemen laying in wait to spring a trap.
“Why’d we come here?” Bannon asked.
“You’ll find out.” Dom flipped open one the containers and stared at the money haphazardly dumped into it. He smiled.
The elevator pinged.
Enrico and Bennie couldn’t be back from their coffee run yet. Maybe they’d forgotten something. Maybe they were up to something more sinister. It raised the hairs on the back of Bannon neck.
Tara alerted to the danger like an animal in the wild. She unzipped her jacket giving her easier access to either her haladie or her Coast Guard issued Sig Sauer, each holstered and sheathed on her hips.
Dom leaned against the counter and took a toothpick out. He started to pick his teeth with it.
From the hallway a voice called out, “What apartment did ya say they were at?”
A second voice. “This one, boss. Down the hall.”
Neither voice belonged to Enrico or Bennie.
Bannon glanced back at Tara.
She took a step closer to him, prepared for whatever came next.
Two men walked into the room. The one in front was a tall, thin man wearing a dark jacket over a gray sweater, dark slacks, and expensive dress shoes. His most prominent fashion accessory was the automatic pistol in his hand.
He had it aimed at Bannon and Tara.
Being held at gunpoint was nothing new for the two of them. He almost sighed in response and paid little attention to the armed man. It was the man behind him who piqued Bannon’s curiosity.
A man he instantly recognized from numerous news stories he’d seen on TV and on the Internet over the years.
Stout and wide, he wore a custom-tailored suit, dark gray and obviously quite expensive, under a black overcoat. His black hair was graying at the temples and thinning on top. The light bulbs hanging overhead reflected brightly off his olive-colored scalp. Sixty-five years old, the man still looked tough as nails.
Vincent LaSala, the head of the New England syndicate. The boss of bosses of organized crime.
Bannon should have put two and two together. If Billy Palmer was working for LaSala, as Singleton had discovered, it made sense, Alex Riggi did, too. He, Bonucci, and the others were part of LaSala’s crew.
“You know who I am?” the mob asked, his dark eyes narrowing in challenge.
“Sure. Vinnie Knuckles.”
LaSala smirked. “Always did love that moniker. Know why they called me that?”
Bannon shook his head. Didn’t really care, either.
LaSala walked up to him. Both his hands were in the pockets of his overcoat. “When I started out in this business, under Nick Manganello—”
“Nicky the Man,” Bannon said, recalling the former crime boss’ nickname. He was gunned down in a hail of bullets outside a popular seafood restaurant down by the wharf. A mob hit straight out of the Mafioso handbook.
“Yeah. Yeah.” LaSala seemed pleased Bannon knew of him. “I did collection work for him, back in the day. You know what that is?”
“Sure. You collected the money from the syndicate’s illegal gambling, loan sharking, and protection rackets.”
“Then you know what happened when they didn’t pay up, right?”
“Sure,” Bannon said again. “They got a beating.”
LaSala, smiled reminiscing in his mind. “Yeah. Good times. I earned a reputation for being pretty good at given ’em them beat downs, too. You know why?”
“I’m guessing you’re about to tell us.”
“I wore a pair of gold-plated brass knuckles.”
“Ah, I get it. Vinnie Knuckles.”
LaSala pulled his hands out of his coat pockets. Strapped across each was a pair of battered and scarred gold-plated brass knuckles.
Bannon admired the knuckles. “Nice. But let me just say, before we go down the road it looks like you’re about to go down, I want you to know I was raised to respect my elders. That being said.” Bannon paused for affect. “I will beat you to within an inch of your life and shove those brass knuckles so far down your throat you’ll poop gold for a week.”
LaSala smiled, even as his confidence appeared shaken. “I get I’m not the spring chicken I used to be. It’s hard to accept, but it’s true. Which is why I brought Tony the Nose here along with me. In case I couldn’t handle you.”
Tony the Nose adjusted his hold on his automatic weapon.
“Normally a prudent move, Mr. LaSala,” Bannon said. He hooked a thumb in Tara’s direction. “Allow me to introduce my associate. She the one you need to worry about. Her name’s Blades.”
LaSala’s dark eyes scrutinized her. “Blades. What for?”
Dom had moved deeper into the kitchen as the tension in the room grew thick. “Um, don’t wanna know, boss.”
“I don’t know what’s going on here.” Bannon said. “We’re not looking for any trouble, but trust me, before Tony even thinks about pulling that trigger, he’ll be dead.”
Dom circled around to the other side of the kitchen island, getting out of the line of fire.
“I wouldn’t underestimate her, boss. Bennie—” He tapped his nose, reminding LaSala of Bennie’s broken nose.
“You’re telling me she did that to him? One of your best guys?”
“He’s one of your best?” Tara asked with a snort.
“And she put Enrico down without breaking a sweat,” Dom added. “And took Ada’s Louisville slugger from her, too.” He added, “All at the same time.”
“This dame took Ada’s bat from her?” LaSala’s tone suggested he didn’t believe it. He glanced at Tara again, clearly trying to determine if he was being played.
Tara tilted her head and gave him a look. Go on, test me. I want you to.
Bannon offered LaSala a way out without looking weak in front of his men. “You seem to be upset about something, Mr. LaSala. I’d rather discuss it, maybe work it out before things get…unpleasant. Cause if we need to go that way, nobody’s gonna like it.”
Tara said, “I will.”
LaSala returned his hands to his coat pockets. A pre-arranged signal, Bannon noted, because Tony the Nose lowered his weapon.
“When Dominick phoned me last night after meeting you two,” LaSala said. “I had you checked out. You run a bar in New Hampshire. A real hole-in-the-wall dive from what I hear.”
Offended, Bannon said, “It’s not a dive.”
Ta
ra spoke up. “Yeah. It kind of is.”
“You’re retired Coast Guard. Ran some special ops stuff overseas, but you never served with Alex. You never worked with the 1st Cav. You know what else I learned?”
Bannon knew. “That I’m a licensed private investigator.”
“Bingo. Now tell me what kind of game you’re playing,” LaSala said. “Or knife-wielding girlfriend or no, we’re going at it.”
“I’m trying to find out who killed Alex Riggi,” Bannon said. “That’s the truth.”
“That’s it?” His tone said he had his doubts.
“And we’re also looking for Alex’s friend, Billy Palmer. He’s missing, maybe dead, too.”
“You think I had something to do with that?” LaSala asked.
Bannon shrugged. “We followed a lead that led to him,” he pointed at Dominick Bonucci, “that brought us to you.”
LaSala pulled his hands out of his pockets and slipped the brass knuckles off. He dropped the knuckles back into his coat pockets. “You’re not working for the cops? Or the feds?”
“Nope.”
He slapped Bannon good naturedly on the arm. “Good, ’cause if you are, I’ll kill you. Understand?”
“Sure.”
“All your talk of Alex owing you money, that was just a story, BS?”
“Yup.”
“Who hired you to look into Riggi and Palmer?” LaSala asked.
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t.”
LaSala smiled. “You got a code. I respect that.”
“Knocking off check cashing stores seems a little penny-ante for the head of the New England crime syndicate to be directly involved in,” Bannon said.
LaSala walked over the containers on the counter. He opened one up, looked down. “This look penny-ante to you?”
Bannon walked over to him, remaining cautious. Tara stood with her feet planted, a wary eye on Tony the Nose and Dom. He glanced into the open container. “Half a mil. It’s all right.”
“To survive, a healthy business needs multiple streams of income,” LaSala said.
“Gambling, drugs, loan sharking, protection rackets, extortion,” Bannon said. “I’d say you’re plenty diversified.”
“Alex Riggi,” LaSala said. “I know who killed him. As for Billy Palmer I don’t know where he is, but I suspect he’s still alive. You see, young Billy, he’s really, really important to me.”
“Because he keeps your books,” Bannon said. “He’s your accountant.”
LaSala looked at Tony and Dom, nodding, impressed. “Very good. You must be some pretty good PI.”
“I have my moments.”
Tara rolled her eyes. “Can we get on with it?”
LaSala pinched his nose. “Yeah. Yeah. Right. As I was saying. I don’t know where Billy is but I know who’s got him.”
That surprised Bannon. “Care to share?”
“Yeah. Sure. And you know what? I just got an idea. Since you’re such a hotshot PI that’s got his moments, why don’t you,” he poked Bannon in the chest, “find him for me.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You want us,” Bannon said. “To work for you?”
“Sure.” LaSala said, brightening to the idea the more he thought about it. “It makes sense, right?” He glanced at Tony the Nose and Dominick Bonucci for proof of his brilliance.
They nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, boss. Makes sense.”
“You’re looking for him anyway,” LaSala said, returning his attention to Bannon. “You’re being paid to finding him already. No. Wait. I’ll pay you, too. Pay you to do something you’re already doing, what better gig can there be than that? There’s no law against you getting paid by two clients, is there?”
Bannon glanced at Tara. The situation had turned surreal. What do you think?
She shrugged. “Why not?”
“How much?” Bannon asked.
LaSala reached an arm around Bannon’s shoulder and steered him away from the others, walking him deeper into the unfinished apartment. The man smelled of Old Spice and stale cigar smoke. “We can iron out the details later, but here’s the thing. You do this thing for me, there’s got to be conditions.”
“What sort of conditions?”
“First, when you find Billy—”
“If we find Billy.”
“When you find him.” LaSala patted Bannon’s chest. His tone suggesting failure wasn’t an option. “You tell me where he is first.”
“How do you know he’s not already dead?”
“He’s not. As for how I know. I take care of the people who work for me. It reflects bad on me if I don’t.”
“That doesn’t mean his alive,” Tara said. “That just makes you arrogant and narcissistic.”
“Your woman got a smart mouth on her, Bannon. You might want to tell her to keep it snapped shut.”
Bannon smiled. “I’d rather see you do it.”
LaSala released his hold on Bannon. “Enough of the fun and games. We got a deal or not?”
“What aren’t you telling us, Mr. LaSala.”
The mob boss walked back toward the kitchen area. He shrugged. “What else could there be?”
His two button-men shook their heads. Like straight men to a comic. “Yeah. What else?”
“Let me guess,” Bannon said. “You tell me when I go off the rails. Palmer’s your accountant. That means he knows stuff. Money stuff. Where it is, how you got it, and how to get access to it.”
The color drained from LaSala fleshy face. He stared hard at Bannon with narrow eyes before he turned his attention to Tony and Dominick again. He smiled, laugh it off. “You get this guy. Can you believe the pair of this guy? Controls my stuff.” His expression darkened. “No one controls my stuff but me!”
With a swipe of his arms, LaSala shoved the gray containers off the countertop. They sailed through the air, hit the kitchen wall, and bounced to the plywood floor. They tumbled onto their sides. The bundles of stolen cash spilled out across the small kitchen.
LaSala pounded a fist into the countertop.
Bannon waited a beat, then said, “You want to talk about it?”
The mob boss seethed but calmed down enough to compose himself. He turned, his face still beet red. “What I want is for you to find my bean counter and tell me where he is.”
“Let’s start with who you think has him and why you don’t think he’s at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean along with his boat.”
“Because he’s been snatched. Riggi was the message. Left behind to be discovered. So I’d know.”
“A message sent by who?” Bannon asked.
“Toi Kwon.”
Bannon didn’t know who that was, but the name caught Tara’s attention. She closed in on LaSala. “What’s this got to do with Kwon?”
“He’s the leader of the local Yakuza, their oyabun. You know what that is, don’t you?”
Tara said, “The Japanese mafia.”
LaSala bristled. “We reject it’s usage. It’s racist and culturally offensive.”
“What?” Bannon asked. “Mafia?”
“Yes.”
Tara exhaled with disgust. “Oh, please.”
“What’s the Yakuza got to do with this?” Bannon said.
“Our operation here in Boston—”
“Your criminal enterprise,” Bannon said.
“Syndicate.” LaSala nodded. “I control it. The total operation. Underneath, there are factions. Kwon runs the Yakuza and the Chinese triads out of Chinatown. The Irish gangs, they’ve got Southie. Then we’ve got the newer players; the Bratva, the Albanians, biker gangs, the cartel affiliated street gangs. We make room for them, too. Everybody’s got their place. Their seat at the table. They get their piece of the pie.”
“Which you dole out,” Bannon said. “Making them operate under your thumb.”
“Yeah, sure. It’s a delicate balancing act. Keeping everyone in their place. Keep e
verybody happy.”
“Until they aren’t,” Bannon said. “Someone’s forgotten their place, haven’t they?”
“This figlio di puttana Kwon,” LaSala said with a shaking hand gesture.
Suddenly the man looked tired, worn down by the mantle of leadership. Bannon wondered how often his authority got challenged, potential uprisings put down. He assumed running a complex criminal syndicate was a young man’s game and as LaSala admitted, he was no spring chicken.
McMurphy could give him more details, but as he remembered it, LaSala had assumed control from his father, a man who’d died peacefully in his sleep in a jail cell, serving out a life sentence. But as he recalled, that ascension to power had been anything but peaceful.
“These youngsters coming up these days don’t know their place,” LaSala lamented. “They want more than their fair share, you know what I mean?”
“As determined by you,” Tara asked.
LaSala glared at her. “Yeah. That’s right. It’s worked that way for years. Decades.”
“But Kwon’s upsetting your apple cart,” Bannon said.
“Little piss-ant…yeah. For months he’s been angling for more…” LaSala struggled to find the right words.
“More pie,” Bannon suggested.
“That’s right. More than he deserves. I can’t have that. I’m like a parent. I gotta do what’s right for all my children. Be fair, but firm.”
“For their own good,” Bannon said.
“Exactly. You give ’em too much…pie, they get fat. They’ll get greedy. They’ll want more. And then more. A good parent doesn’t let his kids getting fat.”
“Tell us about Kwon,” she said.
“His old man ran the Yakuza for years. Tadashi Kwon was a man knew his place. A man of his word. The Yakuza runs the local meth business, here and with their people in New York’s Chinatown. We allow ’em to run guns out to Hawaii and ultimately to Japan.”
