Ded Reckoning

by William F Lee

  "I still think I should go with you. Work in tandem."

  "No."

  "It will be as you say. You are the leader."

  Marnee retreats further into the lobby, finds a corner and attempts to blend with a tall billowing potted plant.

  Reis watches the front entrance but able only to see the left shoulder and arm of Rocco. When he sees Rocco move off, Reis waits for several moments and strolls outside, feigning wanting a breath of fresh air. He stops under the canopy. Not seeing Rocco, he inches forward in the only direction Rocco could have gone. Toward the alley. Looks, sees nothing. Glances around at other options. There are none. The Israeli steps into the alley, unfastens his jacket button. Reaches back and checks his weapon in the back waist of his trousers. He carefully jiggles the Walther. It's awkward with its silencer on, but finds no tangles. Ensures the safety is off.

  After several steps, still not seeing anything other than tar-like blackness and yet darker shadows, he continues to creep deeper into the alley. He eases his weapon from his waist. Not wanting to frighten anyone should a worker suddenly appear in the alley, he holds the weapon in one hand, tightly alongside of this leg.

  He continues to inch along. Should have brought a Jewish girl.

  Rocco reaches out from the shadowed crevice in the wall, hand over Reis' mouth, snatches and spins Reis into the building's side. Reis' nose splatters as it hits the coarse surface of the stone wall. The Walther drops from his hand. Rocco slams the Israeli's face into the wall again and again. The third time Reis crumbles to the alleyway cobblestones. Rocco stoops down and grabs the Walther and fires. Pfsssst. Pfsssst. Reis' face explodes as the rounds exit. Bone, blood and flesh splatters mix with the grit and grime of the unattended passage.

  Rocco has a quick look up and down the alley. He tucks the pistol in his waist. Drags the Israeli by the ankles to a large trash bin thirty feet deeper into the alley. Picks him up and shoves him over the edge of the bin. Climbs up and in himself, scoops hands and armfuls of trash over the body. He climbs out, wiping his jacket and suit trousers as tidy as he can and then wipes the weapon clean with his handkerchief. Looks about again, then takes several paces and drops the Walther down a drainage grating and dashes to the back end of the alley and around the corner of the building. Strips off his suit coat. Removes everything from the pockets and rips off the two labels. Jams the labels, a pen and the dinner receipt in his trouser pocket. He stuffs the jacket in a trash can, again digging and piling the contents on top of his deposit. Returns the lid and hastens to the hotel through a back entrance and up the fire stairwell to his room.

  He slips inside. Asks, "Ready?"

  Adrianna responds with a nervous, "Yes."

  "Good. Wait." He rushes to the phone and calls the front desk and has his bill quietly readied and brought to his suite.

  A few minutes after the clerk has taken full payment and a sizable tip, Rocco and Adrianna go downstairs using the fire exit and rear entrance. They step outside and into their waiting car. They leave hurriedly but with less enthusiasm than when arriving, passing the trash can with Rocco's coat as they depart. Lumbering behind them is the huge sanitation truck, here to empty the trash can and the dumpster.

  Inside, Marnee, nervous beyond what her patience can bear and better sense dictates, checks her weapon in her waistline and steps toward the lobby entrance.

  Where the hell is Reis?

  CHAPTER 17

  "Train like you plan to fight.

  Hard and dirty."

  A gunfighter's rule

  Marnee had seen Reis go outside and disappear into the shadows beyond the entrance. Laid-back in manner yet wary, she steps outside. Surveys her surroundings. Sees no one other than the valet coming back to his curbside stand. Using Italian, Marnee asks if he's seen the two gentlemen that were outside several moments ago. The valet answers saying that he has been on a break and didn't see anyone. Adding, as if an excuse for his being away, "No business this timea night. Makea no difference. People come and go. I don'ta remember no one."

  Vexed and disgruntled, Marnee comes back inside to the front desk and asks the night clerk if the DeStefano couple has checked out. The clerk shrugs and says no without checking.

  Marnee steps away and out of sight of the desk clerk. Reaches inside her pant suit jacket and fingers her weapon in the waistband of her slacks. She stalks outside, gazes around and sees nothing but the silent and dimly lit streets surrounding the hotel. She arbitrarily chooses to go to her left. Eases a half-block up the street. Stands, hand inside her jacket at the back. Compressed against a wall.

  Sees nothing.

  Hears nothing.

  She grimaces edgily. Drops to a crouch and calls out to Reis in a loud whisper. Nothing. Moves sideward several steps. Tries again slightly louder. Same result.

  Stands, slides her hand from inside the jacket and returns to the front of the hotel staying close to the buildings. She sees a different young man at the valet stand. Approaches him and asks him the same question with little conviction. The answer is an abrupt no but with a quiver in his voice and on-edge eyes. She moves closer to the young man and asks again. Marnee is a unique beauty. Midnight dark eyes, like bottomless inkwells and expressionless at times as this, like a shark. Her nose is a prominent feature along with thick lips and wide mouth. Uncommonly big for her face, but in a mysterious way, ravenously attractive. Sexy, alluring, but not model-like. A look and personality that suck a man in and make all other women look common. The valet sees only the shark in her. He remits a shaky, frightened, "No."

  "Another, 'no'?" Marnee takes two lightning-quick steps and gets into the boy's face. Snarls, "Listen you little shit, there were two men out here. Where did they go?"

  The valet responds defiantly, "I told you. I saw no one." His misjudged bravado gaining strength, he shouts, "I don't know what you're talking about, bitch."

  "Bitch?" Marnee slaps him in the face. Twice. Quick. Palm, then backhand.

  The young man staggers a step back, hands belatedly raise in self-defense. Then he draws back his fist. Marnee snatches his wrist, twists his arm behind his back, spins him around, and sweep kicks his feet from beneath him. The valet lands face down, half on the cement of the entrance and half on the antiquated cobblestone surface of the street. Nose bleeding and stunned.

  With her hand still on his wrist now bent behind his back at a forty-five degree angle, and a knee in the small of his back, Marnee growls, "Where did they go?"

  The valet grunts and points with his free arm towards the alley. She lifts her knee from his back, releases his wrist and stands. He begins to push himself up aggressively, spewing internationally understood obscenities. Marnee stomps her foot in the back of his head, smashing his face to the concrete again. Snarls, "Remember, you tripped and fell." She rolls him over onto his back and at the same time snatches her switch blade from her jacket pocket. "Anything else and I will come back and slice you up like a salami." She grabs his tie and with a flick of her wrist slices it off beneath the knot. Drops the loose end on his chest and steps away. The young man, bleeding from his nose and mouth, eyes looking like glass implants, remains as still as a toppled statue as Marnee departs toward the alley.

  Inside the alley she inches along, her Walther in both hands. Arms stretched-out in front forming a narrow triangle. She scans with her body, eyes and weapon as one. The alley is as black as a witches heart, and Marnee's vibes are all in F Sharp. She inches past the dumpster.

  Stops. Surveys her immediate sphere of vision. Messy like most trash areas.

  Listens. Talk to me, Reis.

  She calls out his name in a coarse whisper. "Reis." Again, nothing.

  Suddenly something whooshes past, brushing her shoulder. She turns and jumps backward, staggering into a building wall opposite the dumpster. Her Walther swings to the target.

  Damn cat.

  The dumpster cat scats down the alley. Marnee sees and hears nothing else. Scared the pee out of me. She inches
to the far wall of the alley, inching along, staring to the end. Nothing.

  Stands motionless for a few moments, calls out in the hoarse whisper again. "Reis." Pauses. "Reis." Nothing, just the cat turning the corner at the end of the alley, tail in the air.

  She returns to the front of the hotel. The valet jumps aside, one hand raised in self-defense, the other fumbling with a handkerchief trying to curtail the dribbles of blood from his nose. Since he is not being attended by anyone, Marnee assumes he got her message. Nonetheless she takes a quick step in his direction, then slides her weapon back under her jacket and into her waistline. Marnee feigns a move toward him. The young man leaps behind the valet stand. She stares at him menacingly, then turns and leaves.

  Inside the hotel, Marnee hastily checks the lounge area and the bar. Not a soul other than the barkeep sitting on a stool at the far end reading a book. She goes to a house phone near the front desk and calls her room. No answer.

  Knowing the DeStefano's room number, she dials that number. It rings to pointlessness.

  Marnee stalks along the front desk, drumming her fingers on the counter as she slides to the end where there is a flip-top entrance. She glances around the lobby. It's empty. She ducks under the counter and hisses at the young night clerk, motioning him to come to the end.

  The young man approaches not cautiously, but busily, motioning with his hands for Marnee to leave. To get out from behind his counter, his space. When he arrives, he points and waggles his finger at Marnee as a prelude to his scolding. She snatches his wrist, jerks and spins him around and into an alcove inside "his space" and out of sight of the lobby. His body slams into the wall, his intended words still in his throat. Marnee spins him around facing her and grasps his personals in her hand and squeezes, clamp-like, and pins him into a corner in this closed niche. Her grip is like a robotic claw.

  The young man manages an out-of-breath soprano squeak.

  She hisses, "Where are they?"

  Only a half octave lower he groans, "Gone. Out the back."

  "Have you seen my friend?"

  The youngster leans over even more as she tightens the vise. "No. No. Please. They paid and left."

  "The car?"

  "Brought to the back."

  "By who?"

  He yelps again as she re-snatches his privates and squeezes harder. "Alfredo." The robotic claw tightens. "The valet."

  "And you?"

  "Brought the bill to his suite. He payed the bill and tipped me."

  "Not enough." She releases the young man to his exhaling of breath and whimpers. Then knees him in the groin. Hisses, "Not enough." Marnee rumbles out of the alcove and turns to see the valet entering the lobby. He looks wide-eyed at her, turns and darts back outside probably frantically wondering how a woman so sexy can deliver such punishment.

  The dark-eyed, tanned-skin Marnee turns back. Her short, thick black hair still in place. Her beige pantsuit jacket strained to retain her breasts and the slacks, though flowing as she moves, can't hide the round firmness of her butt. The clerk is bent over in a semi-crouch, shuffling tenderly out of the alcove and to his position near the register. He looks back, still in disbelief that so much nastiness is ingrained in such a fine-looking woman. She glares at him, growls, "Say one word and I'll come back and cut them off. Everything."

  She strides outside once again. Grabs the valet, Alfredo, by his throat. Snarls, "You lied," and knees him in the groin. She releases him and lets him drop to his knees, bent over at the waist and head resting on the concrete next to his valet station. Marnee looks down, shrugs. Give him credit. Didn't leave his post. She smirks, says, "Remember what I said."

  She steps toward and turns into the alley. Must find him. He's hurt, I know it. Leaps and staggers backward as a huge trash truck roars and rattles out of the alley, rumbles around the corner snorting carbon-monoxide from its twin exhaust pipes jutting upward alongside the cab into the darkness.

  Marnee stares after the truck momentarily, then steps into the alley again for another look-see.

  Where the devil can he be?

  Has to be dead.

  The meeting at the pub, although potentially volatile, is as calm as Irishmen can be with pints in hand. No one is shouting, but all are red-faced and ranting. The elder Muldoon reaches a decision amidst the clamor. Slams his fist on the table for silence. The din stops and all eyes turn to him. For whatever reason after the disrupting slam of his fist, he then waves heads to huddle up and he hisses only slightly above a whisper, "This man Kerrigan must die, and he will die knowing it's in payback for our Paddy." He goes on, but now in a low growl, "And the killer of me good and dear friend, Mickey O'Rourke, will meet the same fate. As God is me judge." Muldoon takes another whale-like swallow from the pint, then adds, "Whoever they or he be."

  Venom dripping from every word, Danny Shanahan asks, "Where is this Kerrigan bastard?"

  Colin Muldoon takes a gulp of his pint and responds, "I don't know, lad. But I give me word I will find out, and he will be yours and Sean's to handle." Another gulp from the pint, then, "As you wish. And the Saints be with ya ... as they are with our cause."

  Danny and Sean nod, drain their mugs of ale and bang the heavy pewter mugs on the wooden table. Here, each regular has his own pewter mug, stored hanging on the mirrorless portion of the wall behind the bar. A cheer goes up from this fiercely independent yet clannish group. Their ancestral nature is hardworking, accustomed to hard times but would fight as soon as spit. Muldoon orders another pint for the group from the barmaid. She is no longer adored and fondled at the tableside by Muldoon's son. Conan Muldoon is still recovering from the urinal gripping sensations of his one-night love affair with the free-living lass.

  Sean Shanahan shakes off the Muldoon offer with his head, wipes his mouth with his sleeve and says in a low tone, "I believe I will pass on another pint and visit Mary Kate. She is in need of a friend in her grievin'." He looks to Mary Kate's uncle and asks, "Is that fine with you, Mr. O'Rourke?"

  "Aye it 'tis, my lad. It 'tis. I will be along in due time to see if my brother's grievin' daughter is near recoverin' from this tragedy. If one ever can." He shakes his head, "Have 'er make you a nice cup of tea, Sean me boy."

  At the table a few in the group snigger and mumble but are careful that nothing is heard by O'Rourke and the Shanahans. It would be considered sacrilegious or worse, fightin' words. Mike O'Rourke needs only a flint's spark to ignite his temper, and less for the Shanahan brothers. However, restraint is difficult for the pit bull, Conan Muldoon. He's been admonished and whacked already this day by his heavy-fisted father and wants no further schooling thus he remains silent but sneering.

  Danny Shanahan pats his brother on the shoulder, nods and winks. "Go, little brother, and give Mary Kate a hug, and tell her I'll be sayin' some Our Father's for her and her dear departed dad.

  Sean's face reddens barely enough to be seen by Danny much less the others, and he pushes away from the table. He shuffles toward the pub's door, pretending he's not anxious. In his heart he is sure he wants to comfort Mary Kate, but in the dark recesses of his mind he has other plans. One, is to bed her, of course. And two, is to see if she has any more information of her dad than her Uncle Mike and the elder Muldoon have let on. Both endeavors would be good, but the first would be great and the latter will do on the way out.

  When the younger of the Shanahan brothers arrives at the O'Rourke door and rings, it is opened a crack by Mary Kate. The lass peers out, smiles, clad only in a light flannel robe with its untied cloth belt dangling. She opens the door wide for Sean and with the suction of the door, her robe as well. She makes no effort to grasp the robe closed as she gently pulls Sean inside by his belt buckle.

  As they climb the steps to the flat above the cobbler shop, she murmurs, "Wonderful of you to come, Sean, love. I was prayin' you might would, 'though a Hail Mary or two I was sayin' for my father." They stop and face one another at the top.

  Sean hesitates as his eyes scan
the gap in her robe. "I only stayed for the one pint." He shilly-shally's for a moment, then adds, "Your Uncle Mike says he will be along in due time and for you to make me a cup of tea." He receives no immediate reply only a gentle tug on his arm.

  Now, the robe more than slightly agape, Mary Kate inches closer to Sean. She hooks her finger over his belt buckle and pulls him close, nestles soul-deep, rubbing her body wantonly on his. She whispers, "Tea it will be, but in due time." Brushes her lips across his and takes him by the hand. "Come with me," and leads him down a narrow hallway to her room at the rear of the flat.

  Sean murmurs, "Do ya think it's a good idea what with your uncle comin' along be ..."

  "I do," as she pulls him along with one hand and sheds her robe with the other.

  The sea is like an enormous pool of ink. There are gentle swells but no whitecaps. The sky is bright with stars but moonless. The Sorridenta slips along at less than cruising speed, rocking gently with its running lights and mast lights hinting at its presence. Below in the master lounge, propped up by pillows with their backs against the headboard, Roberto Catalano and Gina sip brandy. Clothes strewn from the door to the bed. One chair toppled over after its use as a prop. A venturesome night of love-making, ended.

  Gina sips the last of her brandy. Slides down from the pillows and slithers fully onto the large bunk-style bed. Sighs, "You are too much for me, Roberto. I dreamed of it being so ... I am worn out and sleepy ... and drunk." She feigns a kiss, "I am sorry. I can't ..." her voice trailing off in drowsiness.

  "You have only whetted my appetite, and we have barely begun, sweetheart. Let me pour another brandy for us. A booster shot." He sits more upright and turns to the bed table, reaching for the crystal brandy decanter.

  She sighs, voice more or less inaudible, "No more, please. I cannot stay awake. I've had much too much already."

  Pisces turns while still seated and stares at Gina. Her eyes are closed. He leans over and whispers, "Sleep tight. I'm going to have one more topside. Then I'll be back to join you." He leans over and kisses her forehead.