by Paul W Papa
“I already told you what happened at the hospital.”
“Yeah, but I want to see where you were when everything went down.”
I did as asked, going over it all again. Playing each part. Showing him everyone’s position when the shooting started and how it all went down, all the while Tina’s screams echoed in my head. Why did I give them the room? What could I have possibly been thinking? They had their whole lives ahead of them and now…well, now they were both laying in hospital beds, breathing through a machine, and hoping to beat the odds.
When it was all done, Queeney led me out the back.
“Watch the glass,” he said.
The sliding door was made of plate glass. When the first bullet hit, it broke through the pane, the glass then fell from the door frame in large sharp pieces, big enough to slice off parts of the body. As each bullet hit the falling glass, it shattered even more. By the time it was all done, shards of razor-sharp glass were spread all over the place. It covered the floor, the rug, and was sticking out of the cushions on the couch. There was nowhere to step that didn’t leave it under foot.
We made our way out to the patio. “This is where he stood,” Queeney said, pointing to a spot just before the sliding door. “You can tell from the drips of blood.” He looked over at me. “I’d say you hit him two, maybe three times. Nothing fatal, but enough to get his attention.”
“How would you know that?” I asked.
“The rest of your slugs are embedded in the fence behind us,” he said.
We followed the drips out the back, past the bushes, and through the private gate, where they suddenly stopped. “He must have gotten into a car here,” Queeney said.
It was more or less a straight shot from the sliding door to this spot. The drips didn’t curve or go around anything. “He had a driver,” I stated.
Queeney looked at me and smiled. “Good eye. Your father taught you well. Maybe you should be a detective.”
“Maybe I should,” I admitted. “It might be safer.”
“Checked the morgue and all the hospitals,” Queeney offered. “No one showed with a gunshot wound. Looks like a hit to me,” he said.
Queeney was right of course, except for the rules. If Chicago were coming after me, they wouldn’t have done it at a New York property. Not without permission. Not unless they wanted to start a war. And who wants that?
“And you’re sure Jeannie hasn’t left town?” I asked.
“As sure as I can be,” Queeney said. “Got her photos at all the usual places; train stations, airports, bus depots.” He paused. “Of course, she could’ve left by automobile, but she doesn’t own one, so she’d of had to buy one, borrow one, or hitchhike.”
None of which were terribly likely.
“You need anything else from me?” I asked. My tie seemed to be tightening around my neck and I could feel my legs beginning to give out.
“You can go, if that’s what you’re asking. But don’t go too far. Don’t get any ideas of leaving.”
I turned and headed for the front door to the suite. As I did, I took my handkerchief from my back pocket and mopped my forehead.
“I took the liberty of pasting your name on a slab at the morgue,” Queeney said. “ME’s already got the toe tag waiting.”
I turned to face him. “Aren’t you the funny one?” I said before I turned and left.
Twenty-Nine
I NEEDED TO think and I did my best thinking with cards in my hand. I also had a couple of hours to kill before I picked up Vic, so I headed to the tables. I was so lost in thought, that I almost went to a 21 table. Luckily I caught it before I sat down. Instead, I chose a poker table with a female dealer. I liked them better than the males; they were more interesting to look at. This particular dealer had deep green eyes and long brown hair tied up in the back with a red ribbon. She was no Joi Lansing, but she’d do.
I took the fifth position and threw two sawbucks on the table, which the dealer immediately turned into chips. There was a couple to my right and an old man that looked as if he might have performed Bris on Moses. He wore a plain business suit, void of flaps on the pockets and cuffs on the pants. Instead of a Fedora, he sported a Homburg, which he had positioned on the table just to his right. I placed my own lid on the table to my left where there was more room.
I looked around for Bobby, but didn’t see him anywhere; I guess even aliens get the day off every once in a while. The couple skedaddled before the next hand was dealt. That left me and Moses’ mohel. A cocktail waitress came by and I ordered a manhattan. The cigarette girl showed as well, and even though I don’t smoke, I gave her two bits just for her smile. The dealer dealt, bets were made, and hands were both won and lost, depending on whose seat you sat in. I was up nearly twenty dollars when a familiar face joined the table.
“Every time I see you, you look worse,” Fingers said as he took the number one position.
“It’s the latest trend,” I said. “All the kids are doing it.”
The dealer began to do her job, but stopped when Fingers raised his hand like a traffic cop. He looked over at the mohel and threw him a sawbuck in the form of a chip. “Why don’t you take a powder?” he said.
“It’s a free table,” the old man countered and threw back the offering. “You can keep your chip.”
Fingers turned to the man with a look that would have curled paint. He picked up the chip and placed it forcefully next to the man, snapping it on the table. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” he said.
“I heard you,” the old man replied.
“What branch did you serve in?” I asked.
The old man turned to me. “What makes you think I served?”
“You have a way about you that says military. Perhaps you’d do me the honor of letting me buy you a drink.” I said.
“I don’t want no handouts.”
“It’s not a handout. It’s a thank you. I had uncles who died in the war, still buried in France.”
I stood and offered my hand to the old man. He took it with a grip much firmer than I expected. “I have some business with my associate,” I said. “Would you mind taking that drink at the bar? I’ll arrange it.”
The man agreed. He placed his Homburg on his head, tipped it to Fingers, and left the table. I flagged a cocktail waitress.
“See that man heading for the bar?” I said pointing to the mohel. “Make sure he gets all he wants to drink. It’s on me.” I took Finger’s ten from the table and placed it on her tray. I laid another down next to it for her. She smiled and headed for the bar.
“Nice work,” Fingers said. “How did you know he served in the war?”
“He was wearing a no frills wartime suit. Still supporting the cause. If he didn’t serve, he had someone in the family who did.”
“Didn’t know you had uncles in the war.”
“I didn’t,” I admitted. “But he didn’t know that.”
Fingers motioned for the dealer to leave with a jerk of his head. She looked to the pit boss, then clapped her hands and showed both sides for the eye in the sky, before leaving.
Fingers lit his cigar. He took a couple of deep inhales and let out a cloud of smoke.
I waited.
“Someone try to take you out last night?” he finally asked, as he examined his stogie.
“It would seem that way.”
“What happened?”
I felt a pit in my stomach. It wasn’t a story I wanted to tell again, but I did anyway. “I was showing the suite to a couple I knew from Boston. They were here on their honeymoon and I was going to treat them to the room. I didn’t need it.”
Fingers looked across the table at me. “What do you mean you didn’t need it?”
“I was upgraded because I did a favor for Bobby. Nabbed a couple of cheaters. He gave me the suite, then I ran into these kids I knew and thought I’d pass it along to them. It was a bonehead move I’ll admit, but I didn’t think Chicago would try to hit me at a New York pr
operty. At least not without permission.”
“Is that what you think? That Chicago hit you?”
“What else would I think? You told me yourself to watch out for them.”
“That I did,” Fingers admitted. “But casinos are our money-makers, all on the up and up. No one’s going to sanction a hit in a casino.”
“Are you saying it wasn’t Chicago?” I asked, a bit stupefied.
Fingers stood. “Get your head on straight, kid,” he said. “This is personal. Whoever’s doing this has a grudge against you.” He tossed me a chip as he stood to leave. “Thanks for taking care of the old man,” he said.
If someone had a grudge against me, I was pretty sure just who that person was.
Thirty
VIC CREMONESI GOT off the plane wearing a blue plaid button up shirt, pleated high waist pants, and a wool newsboy cap. Vic was a handsome man. The Gary Cooper or William Holden type, the kind the girls all swooned for. He was our magnet. When we went out, all the dames would flock to him. He’d make his choice, and we’d fight over what was left. I never complained.
Vic looked much like he did six months ago when I put him on the plane to fly home and assured him I’d be all right in Las Vegas. Except his eyes betrayed him. There was a melancholy in them; a forlornness. His head and shoulders drooped and he moved with a certain resistance—a man who didn’t want to get where he was going.
At the end of the walk he stopped and looked around. My message must have gotten to him, and why wouldn’t it? His eyes showed recognition and he headed for me. I wasn’t sure how he’d take me, but then again, I wasn’t sure how I wanted to be taken. I’d put his kid brother and his kid brother’s new bride in the hospital, holding on for dear life. I wasn’t sure if he’d shake my hand or smack me one right in the kisser.
He chose the first option.
“How are you, Max? I appreciate you picking me up.”
“It is the very least I can do,” I said, and I meant it. “I’m here for you. Whatever you want, whatever you need, I’m here and I’ll do it.”
Vic nodded slowly and tried to smile, but it didn’t take. “I appreciate that,” he said. “Right now, I’d just like to get to the hospital.”
I took him to my Roadmaster, and pointed it in the direction of Tony and Tina. We didn’t speak much during the trip there; I let Vic take the lead on that front. Who knows what to say in these situations? It always ends up being something sappy or stupid, like everything will be all right. We both knew that wasn’t the truth.
I parked the car in the lot. We headed inside, took the elevator, and went up to the ICU. Vic checked in at the nurses’ station, after which a blonde number in a light blue blouse, long white skirt, and white, wide-topped apron showed us to Tony’s room.
“You may go inside,” she said to Vic. Then she turned to me, “but you will have to wait out here. Relatives only.”
She said it with a bit of a scowl, as if she knew it was because of me that Tony was in there. She was right, of course, but I didn’t need to be reminded. Vic went inside and I waited in the hall. The room’s window curtains were opened just enough for me to see inside without making it obvious. Tony was lying in the bed. He wasn’t conscious, but he wasn’t breathing through a tube either. That gave him a leg up on Tina. Vic pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat in it. He took hold of his brother’s hand, made the sign of the cross, and bowed his head. I pulled my lid off and held it to my chest. I was sure Vic was saying a Salve Ragina, or something similar. Tony would need it.
I would’ve walked down to Tina’s room, but I couldn’t bring myself to see her again. The image was already seared into my mind. I saw it every time I closed my eyes and sometimes when I didn’t. I know, it was cowardly, but I guess I’m a coward.
I didn’t know what to say when Vic came out of the room and I don’t think Vic did either. I put my hand on his shoulder. He nodded, as he had before.
“I’m sure the doctor will be here in the morning,” he said. “I’ll know more then.”
“If you think you can keep something down, I’ll take you for a bite,” I said. “You’re gonna need your strength.” It was a foolish thing to offer, but I’m Italian and it’s in our blood to offer food, no matter what the circumstance.
“I need to see Tina first,” he said.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I countered. “It might be better to wait until tomorrow.” I knew he should see her; she was his brother’s wife after all, but I didn’t want to burden him with that image. Not now.
Vic looked at me for a moment, then relented. “You may be right,” he said.
We made our way back to the Roadmaster and I headed to the Sands. Fifteen minutes later we were seated at the Garden Room Café staring at menus. “Order whatever you want,” I said. “It’s on the house.”
Vic looked up from his menu with a raised eyebrow.
“I did the pit boss a favor,” I explained. “He comps my meals.”
Vic returned to his menu. “Must have been some favor,” he said.
The waitress came and we ordered. I had the chicken livers sautéed in madeira sauce with mushrooms and a heart of palm salad. Vic had chicken in the pot with a matzo ball and the onion soup. The waitress walked away, leaving us in silence. Vic moved the sugar to his left, then back to his right. He stared down at the table, but he wasn’t looking at it; his mind was not in the restaurant, not at our table, but I knew where it was.
“I’m sorry,” I said, having nothing better to offer.
Vic looked up. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked.
Vic knew me and he knew my family. He knew there were times you could ask and times when you couldn’t. But it went both ways. I knew Vic as well as he knew me. He was a standup guy. I’d been behind the eight ball many times in my youth and Vic always stayed tight-lipped. If there was anyone I could trust, it was Vic. So I told him everything.
I told him about Sal wanting me gone, playing cards with Fingers and Bilotti, Jeannie coming into the Emerald Room, rapping Bilotti one on the noggin, taking her to my apartment, and then Queeney showing up, trying to pin one on me. Vic didn’t ask me what everyone else seemed to want to know. He didn’t have to.
I continued. Telling him about the beat down, Jeannie being nowhere to be found, helping Bobby finger the cheats, and then meeting Tony and Tina at the tables. “I was so happy to see them,” I said, “that I forgot my head.” I paused. It’s not that I needed to compose myself, I just wanted to take a couple deep breaths. I can do that.
“I didn’t need the room,” I continued, “and I thought how nice it would be for them to spend their honeymoon in a suite. I was a sap.”
“I guess it was a good thing you were heeled,” Vic said.
“I guess it was,” I agreed. “Queeney said I might have landed a couple of slugs in the guy. Probably not enough to end him, but enough for him to remember me by.”
“Can’t say I’m sad to hear of Bilotti’s demise,” Vic said. “He was a real piece of work.”
“Amen to that brother.”
“Remember what he did to the Collina brothers?” Vic asked.
“Refresh my memory,” I said.
“They were out of Chicago, Bilotti’s stomping ground. It was in all the papers about ten or so years back.”
It didn’t ring a bell.
Vic continued. “They were brothers, running a barber shop or a butcher shop, something like that. Anyway, they were approached for protection. You know how it is. But these two brothers didn’t want to hear of it. They got the community together and refused to pay. Did a pretty good job of it too. They started a community organization and there was even talk of running for office.”
“That couldn’t have gone well,” I said.
“It didn’t. They found the two of them in a dumpster; their throats slit. Bilotti’s trademark move. Only the bluebottles couldn’t pin it on him. He had alibis.”
“Sounds l
ike Bilotti,” I said.
The waitress came over with our food and placed it in front of us. It looked as good as she did.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“I’m gonna need a manhattan,” I said. I looked over at Vic. He held up his hand and shook his head. “He’s fine with the water,” I said.
Vic dug in. He must have been hungrier than he led on. I joined him, but I wasn’t in such a hurry. I like to enjoy my food. Savor it. Let it make me happy.
“Didn’t you tell me your father had a run in with Bilotti?” Vic asked between bites.
“Yeah, that’s why people think I offed him.”
“Well whoever did it, did the world a favor,” Vic said. “And I’m sure Collina’s kids would agree.”
“There were children?” I asked.
Vic nodded. “Two, if I remember correctly. One of the brothers was single, but the other was married with two kids. A son and a daughter. I never heard what happened to them.”
I had to agree with Vic. Whoever did Bilotti in, had done the world a favor. I almost wished it was me. I think Queeney did too.
Thirty-One
WE FINISHED OUR meal. I tipped the waitress and we walked out into the casino.
“You got a place to stay yet?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
I would have offered my rental—it had more than one room after all—but I was a man who learned from his mistakes. That didn’t mean there weren’t options. “I can get you a room here,” I said. “I know a guy.”
Vic stiffened. “I’m not looking for a handout,” he said. “You’ve done enough with dinner and all, and I appreciate that, but I can pay my own way.”
“I wasn’t trying to insult you,” I said. “I just meant that I can help you get a room, put in a good word for you is all. You’re welcome to pay.”
“All right,” Vic said. “I guess I’m just a bit jumpy.”
It was understandable.
I walked Vic over to the front desk. “Wait here,” I said. “I’ll go find Bobby.”
