"What other things?" Hunter exhales audibly. "Never mind. Don't answer that. So, all this shit has been going on behind my back. She is, or was, Sam's backup? Right?"
Zachary hesitates and says, "Not exactly. If anything, more the other way around."
"Well, hell, Joe. I fucked the wrong one. Right?"
"Hunter, you said ... oh, shit, never mind. Listen."
Hunter exhales, and settles on the flip stool, holding the phone away from his ear, staring at the handset. He takes in a deep breath. Lets it out slowly and interrupts whatever Joe was saying, "You're saying that Sam worked for her? And Dee works for you and MacBeer? Right? A woman, a widow, regardless of how it ... with two kids is involved in all this crap. ARE YOU NUTS? "
"Hawk, I wish it weren't so. Not necessary but we have to keep tabs on her to wrap this up. She is the mystery woman and can damn well take care of herself, and she has. You need to remember that. She can play any role, and has. And incidentally, she's a damn good shot. You need to remember that as well although she doesn't have to be ... would just be a few feet."
"A few feet. I won't do this. Not with her tagging along." He pauses, then continues. "Wasn't there something fishy, more than fishy, with her husband's death? I remember hearing rumors." He pauses for several moments. Then, "You know something. Mystery woman my ass. She's hooked in with ..."
"Not now. We'll talk about this more when you get here. Without her. She'll go ahead." Then he pauses, and his tone of voice takes on a harsh command timbre. "You will do this or you're out. Now. So, is it yes or no? Stay or go? I'm busy and getting tired of your one-liners and bitching. We have a mission to complete and that's all I'm interested in and you better be also."
Hunter stares at the phone. He's sweating. The closet is making him claustrophobic, or he's back in a flak jacket listening to assholes in starched jungle utilities. He remembers something an old sea dog Captain told him when he was a Second Lieutenant. "Decisions made by someone above you in the chain of command will seldom be in your best personal interest." He shakes his head and takes in a deep breath. Something's sure not right here. But! What would my father have done? Execute the orders? And me? Take Hill 22, or 46, or 229 or 881 or whatever. Does it make a difference? Not if you're in the fight. His mind running full throttle shifts into the gunfighter's gear. Always cheat...always win...if you're in the fight. The world remembers Joe Louis. No one remembers Tony Galento.
Am I in the fight? Yes. Therefore kill everyone in sight. He remembers another gunfighter's rule and mutters it aloud. "The faster you finish the fight, the less shot you will get."
Joe says, "What was that?"
"Nothing. Okay, I'm in, but..."
"No buts. Yes or No? Now."
"Yes. In. Who is Oboe?"
"Never heard of him."
"You sent him. He spoke on your behalf."
"Told you, I never heard of him. Didn't send anyone. Now let's get on with the task at hand."
Hunter snarls, "Okay. Good. Then I have your permission to kill this ghost of Ichabod Crane next time I see him."
"Whatever twitches your trigger finger, teammate."
"Great team, right? It's always we until the throwin' of hands start."
"It is a team. The two of us. Just like always."
"Yeah, and you always out-ranked me; you were always in a bunker, and I was always the one laying in the paddy with the leeches and AK47 rounds buzzing around me like pissed-off bees."
"Well, hell, Hawk. I was always the better thinker. You were always better at killing. It is what it is." Joe pauses. "So, get to know Columbo, but be careful. She's a black widow. We'll talk more about it when you get here. Just get squared away. Don't talk to anyone out there in San Diego, including Bradovich. And be here Thursday. And plan to move on to the continent. Preferably into London, then on to Geneva for cash, then on to Rome. From there to Pisa, and wherever the currents and winds take you."
"Joe, c'mom, this is not good. The woman does have a family. Even spiders ..."
"Hawk. Stop. I know what we're doing."
"There's that 'we' again. Joe."
"Right. We. Now listen, please. She knows what she's doing. Has for a long time." He pauses. "See you on Thursday. Call me, or have her call me with your schedule. I mean, after all, she's your secretary. Make like she is one. And stay away from the help." Joe laughs, then adds nothing for several seconds. Nor does Hunter. Then, "Hunter. Don't you do her." Click.
Hunter stares at the phone, holding it in front of him, then deliberately cradles it. Gets up, flips up the seat and table, eases out and locks the closet, returning to the kitchen. Picks up his mug of coffee and takes a sip as he strolls back toward the patio. He gags. This is bad. It's not just sludge, it's ... it's asphalt.
He slides open the patio door, drifts out and onto a lounge chair next to the Jacuzzi. He looks out over the same-as-everyplace wood fence and into the fading light. Evening twilight has arrived quickly. The day has swept past, as has the last eleven years, like the old Santé Fe Express. He takes in a deep breath. Takes another sip of the "Black Death." Mumbles, "Whoa!" Then checks his "Hush Puppy" in his rear waist band. Looks at the mug and tosses the sludge onto the grass at the edge of the pool.
"Hell, I don't need paving. I need a drink."
Pisces slinks into his study like a leopard on the prowl. Even his loafers seem to be scratching the tile like angry claws. Rocco pads behind like a trained bear. Robert Camack, aka Roberto Camack Catalano, slides in behind his huge antique mahogany desk as if settling on a tree limb to lay in wait. Only a few items are on top of the desk. An envelope. A phone. A calendar, page turned to today's date. He puts the envelope in top center drawer. Nothing to detract from the beautiful rust colored inset leather desk top. The bear and leopard exchange a glance before the big cat takes in the paneled walls, also in mahogany, shelves on one wall crammed with books never read. Original oils carefully hung on the other walls, as they are throughout the villa. His works of art. Pisces prides himself in his painting.
Bruno, comfortable, casual in deportment comes through the door of the great study and eases toward the desk front. Looks at Rocco and says in Italian, "Good day, yes? Great weather. Better, a great trip for the boss," then looking away from Rocco to Pisces. "Right, Bossa?"
Pisces looks at Bruno, smiles and says warmly in English, "How long have you been working for me? How long have we been friends?"
Bruno, internally warmed, grins broadly, says in English, "Forever, Bossa. Forever. I'm so," then lapses into Italian, "grateful for the chance to work for you. To be with you." Twists his head first one way, then the other searching, for Rocco who has moved. He's behind him but off to one side. Bruno grins and nods at Rocco, seeking agreement, approval or perhaps subconscious understanding. He receives only a granite-like stare. Bruno snaps his head to the front as Pisces speaks.
"Then why are you fucking my wife?" Pisces' eyes are cold and his tone has the feel of dry ice.
Bruno stills, stiffens, eyes shifting in thought but lost for words. He clears his throat, stammers, "B ... Bo ... Bossa. Signore Catalano, I ..."
Pisces raises his hand from his lap like a cobra ready to strike. The "Psssst" of the silencer-equipped pistol, although suppressed, sounds like a cannon in the morgue-like quiet study. Bruno flops backward onto the tiled floor like a thrown sand bag. The collapse of the body is loud, magnified by the silence of the room, sounding like a kettle drum crash. The sandbag quietly pooling blood onto the tile floor. The last fading violins of the concerto.
Pisces looks at Rocco and hisses, "Get him outta' here. Without her," nodding his head towards the bedroom, "seeing you. I will handle everything else."
"Yes, sir."
"And, Rocco. Let it be a warning. Pisces is life and death. Pisces giveth and Pisces taketh away. Pisces is life. To himself, and to those around him. Make sure all our help understand. The crew. Gina ... never mind her." He pauses, turns the calendar page, "Find us another drive
r. Someone older so as not to make a young man's mistake."
"Yes, sir."
"The man in Pisa. Carmen Messina? He would be good, and he's from here. Get him, but only if you agree and like him. Vet him like a good horse." Pisces laughs. "And make sure he's a gelding." Laughs again. Still with a sly smile on his face, he says, "Rocco, don't make him one. Just find one." He pauses. "Should have thought of that sooner, huh?"
"Yessa, boss."
"Oh, and Rocco. While there, get rid of Antonio. I don't trust him. Make it hurt first, like make him a gelding first if you have time."
"Done."
Dee strolls out onto the patio. Hunter has his back to her, looking out over the backyard fence. The sun is setting. Clear sky, red and orange. A wisp of breeze brings the scent of salt air inland sweeping away what's left of the humidity. It's peaceful yet this is the home where tragedy struck this day. Catastrophe dwelt here but a few hours ago. Dee places her hands on Hunter's shoulders. He leaps out of the chaise lounge, spinning around, dropping his brandy. The snifter shatters on the pool-side cool-crete. He faces her, his MK22 Mod O in his hand, extended at her forehead in less than an eye blink. He stops abruptly, his mind and reflexes registering the moment. He pauses. Relaxes. Drops the weapon to his side. Exhales.
Time seems suspended until he breaks the silence. "Not a good glass day." He drops his chin slightly, and looking through the top of his eyes and shaking his head he rebukes, "You should know better." Raises his head. "At least so I've been told." His tone is icy and sarcastic.
"I know." Her complexion pales, cadaver-like. She stands immobile, tense, like a gunfighter caught without a weapon. She catches her breath. "Hunter, relax. Let's talk."
"Talk? Okay, speak."
"All right. It's late. Been a long day." Color returns to her face. She says lightly, "How about dinner?"
"Dinner? Dinner? Jesus! Are you nuts, Mrs. Columbo?" He dwells a moment, then blurts mockingly, "Partner."
She slaps his face. Hard. Says, "Get your act together, Hunter. It is what it is. Now you know. I know. We know. And now you're no longer clueless, Hawk." She steps back, smiles, turns slowly around as if modeling, tempting some dense sailor. "I am what I am. Angelo is dead. Years now. I'm back working, only in a different capacity since I have children to care for and a family to worry about and an asset to ... to work with, or for."
"Asset. Jesus." Hunter slips the Hush Puppy in the rear waist band of his slacks, and sits on one of those fold-out, aluminum, canvas covered chairs. Every patio has four with an umbrella table. Less tense, more or less peaceful he says, "Well, hell, where do we go from here?"
She says, "How about some dinner?"
"Yeah, great idea. I haven't eaten since ... since this morning, early." He pauses for a second, then says, "How about Lubach's, or there's a new place, Bully's East? I'll treat."
Dee looks at him, shakes her head slowly. "You may be one tough son of a ... gun, but you surely need help. I mean, everyone tells me how lean and mean you are. And today, I mean, wow! But you know what, you just don't seem to think straight all the time. I know. I'm babbling again. That's my weakness. That's my Babylon. But, you. Holy Smokes. I mean, how can we go out to dinner when you can't even lock your front door? The windows only have tarps over them. What's to keep people out? What's to keep the neighbors, or worse, the press, from poking around and coming inside? You're the trained agent. I'm just an out-of-practice assistant handler. A little ol' landlady and clerk-typist."
Hunter sits and stares. Focused but yet not. Studying but wondering. Fidgeting but not. I've heard about her husband's disappearance. The mystery of it all. The presumption of death. Something's not ... well, shoot. He nods his head, a smile begins to form, drifts slowly across his face. Eyes lighten with either a plan or mischief, or both. He stands. Looks at his watch, then the darkening sky. The western reds and oranges vanishing fast and turning to ultramarine, and nightfall.
"Okay, you're right. I'll fix something and we'll eat here. Get a fresh start."
"Gee, good thinking, Hawk. But, how about this for an idea? I'll get something for us to eat. You set things up out here. I assume I'm probably a better cook than you and for sure have a better plan. What d'ya think?"
"Okay. You fix dinner. I'll fix us a drink."
"Fine. Let's see. I bet you'll have another apricot brandy. But first, clean up the broken glass so I can go barefoot. Then, get your brandy, and tell you what. Pour me a scotch, neat. We'll sip those, then I'll get busy. And, I'm guessing, you'll want to ask me a lot of questions."
"Yeah, okay, Landlady. I do have a few."
"Get the drinks. And turn on the Jacuzzi. This is going to be an interesting evening to say the least."
Hunter, now on his feet, gazes into Dee's dark eyes. Smiles form on both their faces. Then Hunter laughs softly and says, "You know, you pack a heckuva wallop. A good right hand."
"And that's not all."
Hunter hears a voice reaching from the depths of his brain-housing group. Hunter, don't you do her.
Then another from some other depth. Do her.
Pisces sits at the table on the veranda. Takes another sip of Chianti. Gina fidgets with the table settings. Working to make things right, yet glancing often and shyly at Roberto. Then, with a rush of air, seemingly more abrupt than a jet launching from a carrier, Signora Catalano bursts onto the tiled veranda. "Roberto, everything looks so beautiful. The dinner. The fresh catch of the day. Itsa smells so wonderful. I, too, will have a glass of the Chianti." She sits at the table, and waves her hand at Gina to bring some wine.
Anna smiles, leans back, her head sways from side to side with apparent pleasure. "What a gorgeous evening. The mountain, she looks so peaceful. The sea so calm. Life is good. Yes?"
"Yes." Pisces pauses. "It is for most of us. Let's eat." He looks over her head, commands,
"Gina. Signora Catalano and I wish to start. Please serve. And tell Rocco that I wish to see him before he leaves; and you, after supper, in my study. Yes?"
"Yes, sir, Signore Catalano,"
An uncomfortable calm settles upon three diverse horizons. Each with anticipation. Each for a different reason. Each with dissimilar colors. And perhaps, each with a distinctive result. Perchance those enjoying these horizons don't grasp this, or perhaps they do. Don't care, or perhaps they do. The missteps of the ded reckoning process are cumulative so the lapses in the fix feed upon themselves as plotted, growing with time.
Navigators, or in fact predators, will need to check the drift meter or shoot another celestial fix, not forgetting to advance and retard the LOP's so to make a course direction.
Because ... a reckoning, is coming.
CHAPTER 5
"In ten years nobody will remember
the details of caliber, stance, or tactics.
They will only remember who lived."
A gunfighter's rule
Coilean Muldoon sent a message to the Shanahan lads to meet him at the Metro Pub in town. His anglicized name is Colin, the Irish meaning of which is "whelp." Perhaps as a young boy he was that, however, now he is as ugly as a bulldog, mean as a snake and passes gas more than any three bulldogs.
The two Shanahan lads enter, look around and see the old man, Colin Muldoon, at a far corner table, and he is accompanied by his eldest son, Conor. One would have thought that the father would have wanted a Coilean Junior, however he did breed a whelp and raised him into a Pit Bull...like those originally bred in Ireland and used as "catch dogs" for semi-wild hogs. The dogs can be family companions, as Conor perhaps once was, but now more likely he's renowned for his fighting prowess and nickname, "Pit". A brutish lad with a notable short Irish temper, Popeye-like arms, his stout neck and shoulders melded as one, and a zit-ridden mug of an English Bull, not a Pit.
Both he and his father are hunched over inhaling fine pub grub. The Metro is known for many things, most positive, but its food is of the finest in the city, certainly within the walls of the old city. Da
nny and Sean Shanahan wind their way through other seated pub customers to the Muldoon table waving both hands to wish away the dense bluish-gray haze of smokers. The lads stand tableside until Colin Muldoon nods. Then they sit. The brutish son, Conor, glances up and sneers at them allowing a string of gravy to dribble on his chin. The elder Muldoon grumbles, "Have a pint?"
Danny Shanahan answers for himself and his younger brother, Sean. "That would be good. The task is over and done with. Not a soul spotted us." He pauses, waiting for a reaction.
Colin grunts, "Tis on me then."
That settled, Danny continues making eye contact with only the elder one of the two. "What is it you wish this night, Master Muldoon, sire?"
Colin raises his ham-like hand with his finger extended and with the other hand shovels another load of fine Irish stew into his mouth. Puts his soup spoon down and swipes his mouth with his sleeve. Watches the waitress, a perky, auburn-haired young lass, leap away with the pint order as his son, Conor, pats her soccer ball shaped butt. She yelps and with a playful grin screeches, "Keep your paws to yourself you overgrown ape and tell your father he's smellin' up this space with his rear-ended belches." The Pit Bull ignores the remark and shovels in another spoonful of gravy-dripping stew into his grinning mouth.
The elder Muldoon, beet red from the remarks but ignores it nonetheless, says to the Shanahan lads, "When she brings your pints, and is gone, we'll talk. That be the way of it. And it will be in the Irish. I'm told you understand."
Ded Reckoning Page 5
