All He Saw Was the Girl

by Peter Leonard

  "What'd you think, the Service was going to change?"

  Teegarden had fifteen years in. He was a GS-15, same as Ray had been, and had his own office. Ray stood at the window, glancing at the GM Building a few blocks away, and beyond it the Detroit River and the shoreline of Canada. With the casinos and new construction Detroit looked better than ever. But Ray didn't care, he liked it the way it was. Liked its rustbelt, blue-collar charm.

  Teeg said, "Here's Joey, take a look."

  He had a stack of photographs in his hands, sliding three off the deck like he was dealing cards, and arranged them on his desk that didn't have anything on it except a phone. Ray stood there looking down at a black-and-white shots, a close-up of Joey's face. Nice-looking guy, heavy beard, dark hair slicked back, Joey grinning, Joey smoking a cigar in the second one, getting in his car in front of the Messina Spaghetti Company, his office, a two-story cinderblock building on Grosbeck.

  The next series showed Joey in his boat on Lake St Clair; Joey outside the Roostertail, the riverside, partying with his buddies, and Joey on a street in downtown Detroit, making his daily collections.

  Teegarden put three more shots on top of those, showing Joey with a baseball bat. He was in a batters stance, and it looked like the inside of a restaurant. There were tables in the background but nobody sitting at them. Another shot showed Joey swinging for the fence. And in the third one, Joey was outside the restaurant, big smile, bat resting on his shoulder.

  Teegarden said, "Surveillance photos, courtesy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. "

  Ray said, "He ever play ball?"

  Teegarden said, "He only swings at things that don't move — inanimate objects, and people."

  He slid three more photos off the deck: busted-up cases in a jewelry store, smashed car windows on a dealership lot and the shattered storefront window of a fur shop. He could read the name on the door in the left side of the frame: Dietrich Furs.

  Ray said, "He likes to break things, I see."

  Teegarden said, "You don't pay for protection, this is what happens."

  "They've got pictures of what he did and people he threatened, right? What's the problem?" Ray said.

  "Call the police," Teegarden said, "and you might end up like this."

  Teegarden showed him a guy on the floor of a party store, head resting in a pool of blood.

  "I see your point." Ray didn't understand how Sharon could fall for someone like Joey Palermo. She was too smart, too aware.

  Next, he put down pictures of two fat, balding old men wearing black horn-rim glasses.

  "This is Vincenzo 'Vito Uno' Corrado," he said, pointing to the photo on the left. "The boss of all bosses. And this is Joey's father, Joseph 'Joe P.' Palermo, the under-boss."

  Ray said, "They all have cute nicknames, huh?"

  "They'd have a field day with you," Teegarden said. "I could see Ray 'His Eminence' Pope in a second."

  Ray said, "That's not bad. I'd have to be the top wop with that name."

  "Vito's got stage two prostate cancer," Teegarden said. "And Joe P.'s got a heart condition, takes Coumadin."

  "What's Coumadin?"

  "Blood-thinner medicine."

  "Doesn't say much for the vitality of the Detroit Mafia, " Ray said, "does it? What's Joey's title, where's he fit in?"

  "Runs a street crew, he's a lieutenant. They go into a store, tell the proprietor he needs protection. The guy objects, tells them they're crazy, you saw what they do."

  Ray said, "Interesting business model."

  "Is he still bothering Sharon?"

  "He calls the house," Ray said. "Leaves messages."

  "He obviously doesn't know what you do, or did."

  "I'm not sure," Ray said.

  "What's Sharon say?"

  "She doesn't."

  Teeg stared at him probably wondering what the hell was going on, but didn't say anything.

  Ray said, "Where's old man Palermo live?"

  "Bloomfield Village," Teegarden said.

  "You have an address?"

  "What're you going to do?"

  "I don't know." And he didn't, but if anyone knew where Joey was, his dad did.

  Ray cruised by the house, a 4,500-square-foot red-brick colonial with a circular drive on a street called Glengarry in the heart of the Village, one of the wealthiest areas of suburban Detroit.

  "What a country," Teeg had said. "The mob under-boss living among affluent professionals: doctors, lawyers and auto executives."

  He drove one block over and looked between two houses and saw the back of Joe P.'s place. Ray drove home and had an early dinner. He cooked a strip steak on the grill and had a baked potato and a bottle of Sam Adams. He got in bed at seven and set his alarm for 2:00 a.m. He woke up before it went off, 1:57, got up and put on black Levis and a black turtleneck. He unlocked the gun box in his closet and chose the Walther PPK over the Colt because it was small and light, easier to carry.

  Ray went back to Bloomfield Village and parked on Williamsbury. It was very dark, the moon a sliver. He felt odd, out of his element. He opened the car door — he'd disconnected the interior lights — and got out and pressed the door closed. He walked between two houses that were big and spaced apart, looked like there was an extra lot between them. Both had swimming pools that were covered for the season. It was so quiet the only thing he heard was the sound of his footsteps on the hard grass. It was cold and clear and smelled like fall and when he let out a breath he could see it.

  The back of Joe P.'s place was straight ahead. Ray hopped a white picket fence and crossed the yard to the back of the house. There was a brick patio with nothing on it. He noticed a small sticker on one of the windows that said: Protected by Alert Security Services. Ray didn't believe it. Why would the under-boss of the Detroit Mafia need a security system?

  There were French doors that opened onto the patio. He tried the handles, no give at all. The doors were locked top and bottom with deadbolts. He moved along the back of the house to the garage, three-car attached, single door and a double. Next to the garage doors was a glass-paneled entry door.

  Ray looked in but couldn't see much. He turned and stood facing the backyard and threw an elbow and broke the bottom left pane. He watched and listened, didn't see or hear anything. He reached through the broken pane and unlocked the door and went in. There was a dark-colored Lincoln Town Car and a silver Ford Edge. There were trashcans, and patio furniture taking up most of the third space.

  He tried the door to the house. It was locked but it moved, gave half an inch or so. He flipped a switch on the wall and six recessed ceiling lights came on. He studied a pegboard attached to the wall that had rakes and shovels and brooms and saw a crowbar. He went over and picked it up off the hook and went back to the door and jammed the tapered end of it into the seam between the edge of the door and the jamb, and bent the crowbar back, heard the wood groan, and the door came open.

  Ray went through the kitchen and dining room and living room into the foyer. It had a marble floor and a grand sweeping staircase that rose up to the second floor. He started to go up the stairs and stopped, glanced left into a room with paneled walls and a fireplace.

  He went back down, crossed the foyer and went in the wood-paneled room. He sat behind the desk, and turned on a small lamp that was on the desktop. It had to be Joe P.'s office, the room fifteen by fifteen, two chairs and a table against the far wall in front of a window that looked out on the front yard. He checked the drawers looking for something from Joey, a letter, a postcard, but didn't find anything.

  It was 4:05 when he took out his cell and dialed the number on the desk phone, Ray reasonably sure it was Joe P.'s private business line that only rang here, the number different from the one Teegarden had given him. The only unknown: who else was in the house? Joe P. and his wife for sure, but what about his bodyguard, a big dude named Angelo who had played defensive end for another Joe P., Joe Paterno at Penn State.

  The phone on the d
esk rang, and even though he was expecting it, the sound startled him. God it was loud. It rang ten times before he heard voices at the top of the stairs.

  "I know it's the middle of the night. Don't worry about it, go back to bed."

  Ray heard someone come down the stairs, and come across the foyer, and come in the room, a silver-haired guy about five seven, wearing a bathrobe and black glasses with big frames that reminded him of Aristotle Onassis. Joe P. reached over the desk for the phone and brought it up to his face and said, "This better be fucking important."

  Ray said, "It is."

  Joe P. turned and said, "You have any idea who I am?"

  He put the phone back in the cradle.

  Ray drew the Walther PPK and said, "Who else's in the house?"

  "My wife."

  Ray said "What about Angelo?"

  "He don't stay with us."

  A voice from upstairs said, "Joe, who you talking to?"

  "I'm on the fucking phone, will you go back to bed."

  Ray said, "That's no way to talk to the little lady."

  Joe P. said, "What do you want, the silverware, a TV? Help yourself and get the fuck out of here."

  He talked tough for an old man in a bathrobe. Ray said, "Where's Joey?"

  "I don't know. Why don't you call him. I'll give you his number."

  Ray pulled the hammer back on the PPK. "Let's start over, okay? Pretend I just walked in, haven't said a word. Where's Joey?"

  Joe P said, "You think you can come in here, intimidate me in my own house? I got twenty clowns like you work for me."

  Ray crossed the room and placed the barrel of the Walther against Joe P.'s cheek, felt teeth under wrinkled skin and said, "Then you know I'll shoot you dead, eh goomba? Pull the trigger, blow your fucking head off. Then go upstairs, find out what Mrs P. knows. See if she wants to talk, be a little more co-operative. I started with you because I figured you'd understand the gravity, the serious nature of the situation," he said, giving it a little bureaucratic embellishment.

  "Who you with?"

  "Want me to say it again?"

  "What do you want him for?"

  "I want to talk to him."

  Joe P. didn't say anything. He probably thought he was still thirty and in shape. That's the way it worked. In his head, Ray still thought he was twenty-one. "All right, you don't want to talk, let's go upstairs."

  Joe P. leaned back against the desk. Could barely hold himself up. He coughed and grabbed his chest, struggling, trying to stay on his feet but couldn't, and went down on the floor, legs kicking for a few seconds, then he stopped moving, eyes bulging out of their sockets, staring up at Ray. The clock next to the phone said 4:23 a.m.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  McCabe drove up the hill and pulled in and parked next to the house. He carried the groceries into the kitchen and put them away. He went through the main room to the bathroom and knocked on the door. She didn't say anything. He put the key in the lock and turned it and pushed the handle down and opened the door a crack and swung it all the way open. She was standing at the window looking at him.

  "You want to get out of here? Give me the number," McCabe said.

  She looked angry, didn't say anything. He'd be angry too, cooped up in this little room, like he was in Rebibbia. That was the idea, wasn't it? "You like it in there, enjoying yourself?" He reached for the handle, started to close the door.

  She said, "Okay."

  "You can come out," McCabe said, "but try anything like you did before, that's it. You're going to grow old in there."

  She did and he led her to the dining table in the main room and sat next her. Gave her a piece of paper and a pen. She wrote down a number and handed it to him. He took her cell phone out of his pocket, turned it on and it started beeping. She had gotten at least a dozen calls. Angela stared at it but didn't say anything. He dialed the number. Heard it ring a couple times. Heard Mazara say, " Pronto."

  McCabe said, "Looking for Angela?" He glanced at her. "Say something."

  "Roberto…"

  She said it just the way he wanted her to — helpless, afraid.

  "Where are you?"

  McCabe said. "You want her back, it's going to cost you five hundred thousand euros."

  Mazara said, "What is this?"

  "What do you think it is?" McCabe said.

  "I talk to Angela."

  "You can talk," McCabe said, "when you bring the money."

  "I don't have it," Mazara said.

  "Kidnap someone, rob a bank, you'll figure something out," McCabe said. "You've got forty-eight hours." Give him enough time but not too much.

  Mazara said, "You do anything to her…"

  McCabe closed the phone, cut him off. He didn't want to hear Mazara's hard-guy threats. Just wanted to hook him and let him hang for a while.

  Angela said, "What did he say?"

  "He's going to think about it," McCabe said.

  "He said that?" She shook her head. "I don't believe you."

  "No, he didn't say that. He didn't say anything."

  "What about you, McCabe?"

  She gave him a sultry look, kept it on him and said, "Would you pay to have me back?"

  "Why? You don't mean anything to me."

  She was pouting now, looking offended, and McCabe reminded himself she was playing him like she did the first time, and he was falling for it again. He wasn't that dumb, was he?

  They went in the kitchen and had lunch at 3:00 in the afternoon, bread, salami, Caprese salad and warm Chardonnay that wasn't bad, McCabe sitting across the table from her, occasionally glancing at her but not talking. There wasn't much to say. She ate everything, drank two glasses of wine and finished the meal with a piece of bread.

  When he was finished, she picked up the dishes and took them to the sink and washed them. He stood next to her and dried them like they were a married couple in their country home. But he was alert, on guard, didn't trust this sudden change in attitude, watching her, making sure she didn't reach for a knife.

  McCabe said, "I'm going into Bagnaia." He wanted to check it out, see if there was a better place to meet Mazara and make the exchange.

  She didn't say anything, but turned her head and looked at him with big sad eyes and pouty lips.

  "You can take me with you," she said.

  He considered it for a few seconds and realized he was slipping into the stupid zone again. He said, "No way."

  "Then leave me here. Don't lock me in that room. Where do you think I will go?"

  Anywhere. To the neighbor's to make a phone call. To La Quercia. To Viterbo. Back to Rome. He held her in his gaze. "You know what's going on here, what's happening?" If she did, she didn't acknowledge it, one way or the other. "You're my bargaining chip. With you I've got a chance of getting the money back. Without you I've got no chance at all."

  He took her back to the bathroom. She went in, but didn't say anything, wouldn't look at him. He closed the door and locked it.

  McCabe was gone longer than he planned. He'd driven through Bagnaia, checked it out and stopped at the gardens at Villa Lante, but didn't find a location that would work. He'd stick with his Viterbo plan.

  He drove back to Pietro's place, parked the car and went inside. He unlocked the bathroom door and swung it open. Expected her to be standing there, but she wasn't. Did he forget to lock the door? No, he rewound and saw himself doing it. Locked it and checked the handle to make sure.

  He crossed the room and opened the gun case, three shotguns in their custom slots, one missing. He gripped the barrel of a twelve-gauge, lifting it out.

  "Put it down," she said somewhere behind him.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw her holding the shotgun across her waist, barrel leveled at him, flat and horizontal like she knew what she was doing.

  McCabe's dad had been a duck hunter, he knew shotguns, knew the stance. He put the gun back in the case and turned toward her. "You had your chance. Why didn't you go? Or are you wait
ing for them to pick you up?"

  He moved toward her and she raised the shotgun, stock against her shoulder, twin blue steel barrels pointed at his chest.

  She said, "I think you should stay right there, do not move."

  She was on the other side of the room about fifteen feet away.

  "You going to shoot me?" He took another step toward her, nervous, not sure what she was going to do, staring down the end of the barrels. Saw her cock the twin hammers back with her thumb.

  McCabe said, "Think you've got the nerve?" Challenging her, daring her to do it.

  "Take another step," she said, "you'll find out."

  He did. Moved toward her, saw her fingers twitching on the triggers. He reached out, grabbed the shotgun, taking it out of her hands. He closed the hammers and put it on the rug.

  She came at him now wild and out of control and he wrapped his arms around her and took her down on the antique rug, his body on hers, holding her arms at her sides against the floor, looking at her, faces a few inches apart. He kissed her. That's what he'd wanted to do since he'd brought her here, since the first time he saw her.

  She kissed him back, and they were making out, McCabe into it, lost in the moment, and she was too, eyes closed, holding him tight. Now she opened her eyes and they were looking at each other, both a little embarrassed. What the hell had just happened? McCabe slid off her and she sat next to him, legs bent under her. "Were you going to shoot me?"

  "It isn't loaded," she said, reaching for the shotgun, breaking it open, showing him the empty chambers.

  "You looked serious," McCabe said, "like you were going to blow me away."

  "That was the idea." She paused, her brown eyes locked on him. "Admit it, now you're wondering if I called Roberto, aren't you?"

  "If you did, he'd be here by now," McCabe said.

  "I didn't."

  "Tell me what's going on, will you? I don't get it."

  "I made a mistake," Angela said. "I caused you a lot of trouble, a lot of problems and I feel bad about it."

  It sounded sincere, but he wasn't convinced, expected Mazara to come through the door any second. He said, "How'd you get out?"