White Wolf McLeod

by David J. Wallis

  Mary soon found herself driving through a pristine forest with a crystal-clear lake reflecting the cloudless blue sky that seemed to extend upwards towards infinity. It had recently snowed, and the trees were laden with a thick layer of white frosting, reminding her of a Christmas scene. Thinking of Christmas, she wondered what she would be doing this year. She had not seen her family for a long while, and she hoped that she would not be on the road chasing down leads for this case during those holidays. It was bad enough that she would be working over Thanksgiving.

  The Seriglio mansion had been carved out of the natural forest to provide the type of security this mob family required. Still, someone had the foresight to leave some of the original beauty intact in the surrounding area and not desecrate it completely. After all, it could be reasoned, this family had gone into legitimate enterprises, leaving their dark past behind them. Exhibiting few characteristics of a siege mentality that permeated the stately residences of the other families, which remained in the dark underworld, except the sensible measures taken to protect the visible wealth accrued inside and out of the house, the Seriglio leadership attempted to portray an openness to public scrutiny as if they had nothing to hide nor fear. As if they could wipe the slate clean with a simple renouncement of their previous business interests and move to a new State and home.

  The officers pulled to the side of the road, and Mary followed suit. O’Reilly, a stocky Irishman with sandy blond hair and gray-blue eyes walked up to the side of her car. She rolled down the window to speak to him.

  “This is probably as good a spot as any,” he told her, “to observe the house, ma’am. I’d leave the car here and trek up to those trees.” He pointed to where three trees grew close together approximately thirty feet off the highway. Hope you brought your snow boots. It can get pretty deep.”

  “Got it covered,” she said, shutting off the engine.

  “We’ll drop by later to check on you,” he promised.

  “Don’t think I can take care of myself?”

  “There are a lot of things in the forest besides the two-legged kind that can get you into trouble, ma’am. We’ve had experienced trackers get so disoriented up here they needed help getting out. And you’d be surprised just how treacherous it can get only a few feet from the roadway.”

  “I appreciate the warning, Officer O’Reilly,” she said, flashing him with a smile.

  O’Reilly tapped the top of the car twice and moved back to his own. Mary watched them leave and then stepped out of the car. She opened the trunk and removed a bag of special equipment she had brought along. She let the lid drop by its own weight and instantly regretted it. The air around her and the forest was eerily quiet, and the sound of the trunk closing sounded like a cannon burst. She wondered how far the sound would carry and if it would alert someone outside the house.

  Feeling “what’s done is done,” she hoisted the bag over her shoulder and started trudging in the knee-deep snow by the road. She felt the snow give under her weight, and she found herself slogging her way with the strength of her legs with each step. It took her much more time and effort than she had calculated. Yet, she persevered and finally reached her objective, three trees growing where the officer had indicated, which afforded her an excellent view of the family’s holdings.

  The mansion was a sprawling ranch house with large windows set within each wall to take advantage of the scenery; yet, conversely, a six-foot rock wall surrounded the entire compound, broken only by a large gate facing the direction of the lake. There was even a boathouse down by the lake. She did not see the car that had brought McLeod here—at least, she presumed that he had been brought here—but it was probably closed up with the half-dozen or more vehicles in a long garage that was not connected to the main house. She noticed an absence of guards patrolling the perimeter. Of course, she reasoned, with the number of windows built into the house and the open grounds between the buildings and the wall, it was pretty difficult to approach the house without being seen.

  She withdrew a pair of binoculars from the bag and lifted them up to her eyes for a closer look. She saw shadows or reflections—she could not be certain—in the windows facing her direction. She got the impression that someone was watching out that window into the forest. She wondered if he or she were looking exactly in her direction.

  She panned the compound, and movement caught her attention. She saw McLeod walking with a much taller man across the grounds from the house to the garage. One of McLeod’s interests was vintage cars, and he had probably talked Antonio Seriglio into showing off his collection. That meant that he had gained the house, but she did not know if he had a chance to drop the listening device yet or not. She put the binoculars into the bag and took out what looked like a transistor radio with an earphone.

  She was so preoccupied with her observations that she did not hear O’Reilly come up from behind her, stepping into her footsteps, until he was almost on top of her. She turned her head to look at him and was rewarded with a sharp blow to the back of her head. She had just the presence of mind to fall forward and bury the radio under the snow as she hit the ground. Then darkness closed around her mind.

  Sandinista came up to stand next to his partner.

  “Tell Carlos that we bagged his pigeon,” O’Reilly told him. “I’ll carry her to the car.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SERIGLIO’S HOUSE

  THE RIDE FROM the airport to the Seriglio homestead was deathly quiet and filled with a high degree of tension, like a tightly-wound spring ready to uncoil with an explosive burst. McLeod felt insulted by the reception. Although he did not rank all that high in his Uncle’s family hierarchy, yet as an emissary from one family to another he should have been received by someone equal to his position, not by three underlings who treated him no better than a pariah. Had McLeod truly been a mobster, the oversight would have been considered an insult to his Uncle’s family. Not a big insult, but still one that would require some satisfaction of honor. He thought he might tell his Uncle of this discourtesy just for the fun of it and watch the fallout from afar.

  The unpleasant journey finally ended when the driver pulled through the gates of the compound and drove up to the front walkway. A gentleman of medium height in his late forties and wearing casual dress despite the cold weather exited the house and solemnly approached as McLeod stepped out of the car.

  “Mr. Wolf,” this man greeted, distant and formal as he extended his hand. “I’m Ronald Kazinsky. I am Mr. Seriglio’s chief accountant and family lawyer. I apologize that I was unable to meet you at the airport. I had some pressing business to attend to, you might say.”

  McLeod reluctantly shook the proffered hand once and quickly dropped it. He abhorred the unwanted touch of another person, but especially from this creature. He did not know which was worse: a mobster or a lawyer. They both practice a dirty business. He could imagine, caustically, what kind of “pressing business” this Kazinsky had in mind. If it were too early to get laid, he was probably screwing someone in a different way.

  “Follow me, please.” Kazinsky turned and started towards the house. He acted more like the house steward than the family’s mouthpiece.

  McLeod was almost tempted to delay entering the house, in order to test this guy’s mettle, to see how long he could stand the cold. But he decided against it. The man probably had enough ice flowing through his veins as it was. “So, what’s a Jew doing working for a Sicilian family?”

  Kazinsky turned his head slightly in his direction. If he had been offended, it did not register on his deadpanned face. “I might ask the same of you, an Indian,” he rejoined acerbically. He paused, waiting for a response, which McLeod did not offer. “I guess you don’t subscribe to the theory that money and Jews go together? If you have one then you must have the other.” He smiled chillingly, thinking that his quip was funny.

  “So, you’re like a good luck charm, then?” McLeod flipped back.

  “If you say so. You
haven’t said anything about yourself.”

  McLeod shrugged. “What’s to say? We’ve never signed a peace treaty. We’re still at war with the United States. And, we’re still taking scalps when we can.” He grinned maliciously at the man, enjoying the chagrined response he had elicited. He then first entered through the door into the house.

  The Seriglio home was decorated in a preponderance of dark woods. Whoever they had hired as an interior decorator had gone overboard on a dark theme. Perhaps, this guy was in tune with the true nature of the family’s soul, McLeod chuckled to himself. Even with abundant lighting, the dark paneling, woodwork, hardwood floors, and even the dark-colored furniture all seemed to absorb most of the illumination, creating a gloomy ambience throughout.

  McLeod was ushered through an area he thought to be akin to the family room. The interior of the room was sunken by two steps, and the couches and tables were arranged around a television set to provide a sense of intimacy. He was impressed by the sterility of it all, however. It lacked the kind of character to properly raise children. Then he knew what was missing: it needed to be messed up a bit to give it a lived-in look.

  His tour concluded when he was brought to the center of the house, where the inner sanctum sat, substantially reinforced and deemed secure with the remainder of the house built around it. The inner sanctum was designed as an office with a large desk occupying much of the space furthest from the door. Two leather chairs faced the desk. There were three small desks along the right wall, pushed up flush, the accompanying chairs sitting into the room. On each sat a telephone, each connected to a separate line. Behind the large desk, a narrow shelf supported four more telephones. The room certainly had all the appearances of a communications center. Lighting was provided by separate standing lamps on each of the desks and by lights affixed to the walls, a set of two to each. The floor was hardwood, and McLeod wondered why there was no rug, unless it was because it was easier to clean up any spilled blood.

  When McLeod stepped into the heart of the mansion, three men stood in anticipation of his arrival. He recognized Michael Seriglio, Antonio’s son and the new Don of the family and all of its interests, behind the impressive desk. He looked very much like a younger version of his father, only with softer features, possibly from his mother, enhancing the inherited handsome traits. He stood six feet tall with an athletic build honed by high school and college sports. His black hair was worn short and combed back over his head with the exception of a rebellious strand that fell across his brow above thick eyebrows that helped frame his piercing, intelligent brown eyes.

  The other two men McLeod dismissed as henchmen, bodyguards, or flunkies. The man flanking him on the left was of stocky build, wearing a tan two-piece suit. A telltale bulge under his left breast pocket failed to conceal his shoulder holster where he kept his piece. The other man to his right was less stockily built, and he wore a brown suit badly, indicating that he had either lost weight recently or purposely chose to wear a larger size in apparel.

  “Mr. Wolf,” Kazinsky spoke. “I need to take your coat.”

  McLeod looked back at the man, gave him a half smile, and quickly removed his outer wrap. He handed it by the lapel to the Jew with his left hand. Then he doffed his hat and handed it to him also. He resisted from commenting, Here you are, Jeeves.

  “We will need to pat you down,” Kazinsky told him.

  “Just leave what is mine alone,” McLeod quipped. He raised his arms from his sides and suffered the two goons to approach him. The heavier of the two began to touch him with the flat of his hands around his torso, then his arms, and then down his legs. As the man stood up, McLeod caught the man’s glance and the upturned corner of his mouth. He easily read the man’s thoughts but waited for the man’s hand to move towards his groin. McLeod reacted with the reflexes of a cat. His left foot clamped down on the larger man’s instep while his right foot slammed into the pervert’s right knee. The goon heard his kneecap break before he felt the damage, and he fell backwards onto the floor, bellowing from the shock and the intense pain. Before the second goon could react, McLeod hit him with a series of karate chops in the mid-section that brought him to his knees. Blows to either side of the man’s neck just above the collarbones put him out. Then McLeod resumed his relaxed stance as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened and faced Michael with an air of expectation.

  “Put it away, Ronald,” the young Don commanded in a quiet voice lacking emotion, just loud enough over the whimpering goon. McLeod did not have to turn around to know that a snub-nosed .38 was pointed at his back.

  Michael sat down in his oversized chair. “Get some help to clean up this mess,” he directed Kazinsky. To McLeod, he bade, “Sit down, Mr. Wolf.” He was clearly unhappy with the demonstration he just witnessed.

  McLeod pulled the right chair towards him and sat down.

  “I had you checked out,” the Italian admitted. “I don’t believe your Uncle spoke accurately. You’re better than even he believes. Let’s just say you’ve impressed me.”

  McLeod ignored the flattery and remained silent.

  “I don’t ordinarily appreciate an outsider roughing up my men.”

  If his words contained a valid threat, McLeod poignantly ignored them. “And, I don’t ordinarily let perverts touch me without giving them a lesson in manners.”

  Michael eyeballed him for several moments and seemed to be evaluating McLeod’s capabilities and the possible repercussions depending on his course of action. He appeared to choose a neutral approach.

  “I understand you have something to tell me.”

  The Marshal nodded. “In exchange for a small favor.”

  Michael sat back with an amused look on his face, the first emotion he had demonstrated since the meeting commenced. He gestured with his right hand for McLeod to continue.

  “I need to know everything you might have on an Andrew Prescott and his possible connection with Senator Laughlin.” He espied a flash in Michael’s eyes at the mention of the Senator’s name.

  The Don recovered his granite-like composure and placed both hands flat on the desk. “Mind if I ask why? You sound more like a cop.”

  “Family business,” McLeod replied, not batting an eye or taking the bait. “We suspect that this Prescott is trying to interfere in our legitimate interests. We’re hoping that he isn’t trying to use his influence with your Senator and instigate an unwanted investigation by the Government into areas we’d like to keep under wraps.”

  Michael sneered at the word “legitimate,” but he became even more wary than before when he began to understand how much McLeod knew of his family’s connections with Senator Laughlin.

  “All right.” He tired to sound more casual than he succeeded. “Done. I’ll give you what we have. Now, what do you have for me?”

  “You have a mole. At least one, maybe more.”

  “Really?” The young man almost wanted to laugh. “Who?” He drew out the word as he filled it with a great deal of skepticism.

  “I’d like to nose around for a couple of days, if you don’t mind? And, I’d appreciate a free hand. Don’t worry. I’m not interested in any of your family secrets. If you want, someone to go with me, it’s all right by me as long as he doesn’t interfere. Anyone except by the name of Cortez.”

  Michael was about to comment when the door opened, and Don Antonio Seriglio entered the room. “Michael? I heard there was some trouble,” he rasped in a wheezy voice.

  Both Michael and McLeod rose out of respect. “Father. I’d like you to meet Sam Wolf. He’s the nephew of Luigi Castanza.”

  “Ah, wonderful!” Antonio exclaimed with genuine pleasure.

  McLeod approached the elder man and took his right hand in both of his and bowed his head. The old man seemed pleased by his action.

  “How is my good friend, Luigi?”

  “Well, Don Antonio. He asked me to look in on you if I had the chance. He will be happy when I tell him that you look very well.�
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  Antonio chuckled. “Michael. Have you finished your business? I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “For the time being, Father. I need to get some papers together for Mr. Wolf. And, he’ll be staying with us for a couple of days.”

  “Excellent! Let me steal him away for a while. I want to catch up on a few things.” To McLeod, he said, “Do you like old cars, my boy?”

  “Very much so,” McLeod replied.

  “Good. Good. Come with me. I wanna show you my favorite. We can talk while we walk. You won’t need a coat. We keep our garage pretty warm.”

  Thus, while McLeod and the elder Seriglio crossed the yard and entered the garage, Mary’s head was being rudely introduced to an immovable object wielded with blunt force. The police officers bundled her up and put her in the squad car. O’Reilly then drove the cruiser further up the road to a cabin kept hidden away and maintained by the family, while Sandinista drove Mary’s rented car into the Seriglio compound as if he owned the place.

  But McLeod had not seen the arrival of the car, as he and Antonio were already in the garage, looking over the elder’s collection of expensive and exotic cars.