In those days, Baptiste, then in the full strength of maturity, had felt fond contempt for the old man and considered him a failure for plugging away at his flower shop while others who had come to America at the same time had carved fortunes out of the raw years of the twenties. But now he understood, and Speranza could see the same look in the eyes of his sons.
They and the others were respectful toward him—at least to his face—but Speranza knew he no longer wielded any real power, and it didn’t bother him. Somehow, living here in Parker’s Landing with Carmen, his widowed daughter, to look after him, it didn’t matter. It was power enough for him to doctor this beautiful plant, to see it bloom again, a strong deep yellow, next summer. Wishing that Rizzo wasn’t in the house waiting for him, the old man gave the rose plant a few more bursts from the spray can with the absorbed expression of a physician lost to all else but the needs of his patient.
In the living room of the big, modern house, Rizzo waited with impatience tinged with foreboding. He sat on a blocky leather sofa and unconsciously ran the toe of his shoe against the nap of the thick, wheat-colored carpet, watching its color change to dark gold.
Kathy came back into the living room. “My grandfather asks if you’ll wait a little while,” she said. Rizzo saw that she was staring at the bandage on his cheek. Embarrassed, Kathy pulled her eyes away. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Yeah,” said Rizzo, “please. Black with no sugar.”
The girl went to a high mahogany sideboard and poured Rizzo a large cup of coffee from an electric pot.
“Is it hot enough?”
It wasn’t; it was lukewarm, but Rizzo drank it. “Just fine.”
“I’m out of school sick today,” Kathy told him. “I had an earache when I woke up and Mother thought—”
“Hello, Charlie.” Rizzo looked up and saw Gino Speranza, the old man’s younger son, in the doorway of the front hall. He was a squat, curly-haired man in his mid-twenties wearing glasses with a very light green tint. “What are you doing here?”
“Uncle Gino!” said Kathy, turning around.
“Hiya, Kath,” said Gino. “Why aren’t you in school?”
“Earache,” explained Kathy, putting a dirty hand to her left ear. “Shall I tell Grandpa you’re here?”
“Sure, I guess so,” said Gino, flopping heavily on the other end of the leather sofa and putting a moccasined foot on the dark, oval coffee table in front of it. When Kathy had gone, he repeated: “What are you doing here, Charlie?”
“A little business, Gino. A little business.”
“I think you’ve come to the wrong address, Charlie boy,” said Gino. “These days business is generally conducted over on Ramona Way.” Abe Montara lived just over two miles away.
Rizzo shrugged.
“What’s wrong with your face?” Gino asked. “It looks like you’ve been standing too close to a blast furnace. Don’t tell me Abe is getting that tough over a few bookkeeping errors.”
“I had a little accident. Nothing serious.”
“If you say so.”
To change the subject, Rizzo said: “I thought you were supposed to be up at that business college in Syracuse. You on vacation?”
“Yeah,” said Gino. “Permanent vacation. I graduated myself a little early and told them to stick it.” He warmed to the subject. “Charlie, you wouldn’t believe—”
“Gino.”
Baptiste Speranza was standing in the doorway with his gardening gloves in his hand. Anger showed on his face.
“Hello, Papa,” said Gino, taking his foot off the coffee table in spite of himself, “I—”
“In a minute,” said the old man. “I’ve got business.” He turned a welcoming but wary smile on Rizzo. “Hello, Carlo, you wanted to see me?”
“Uh, yes,” Rizzo said stiffly, “I did. But if you’re busy—”
“This is a good time,” said Speranza. “Come. We’ll find a place to talk.” He looked at his son. “Gino,” he said, “we’ll talk in a little while, eh?”
“Sure, Papa.”
Rizzo followed the old man down the hallway. Speranza stopped at a green metal door and put his hand on the doorknob. “We can have some privacy in here,” he said.
Rizzo followed, and a blast of warm, moist air hit his face.
“Make sure you close the door tightly,” cautioned Speranza. They were in a small greenhouse crowded with plants. Only a walkway of latticed boards was free of foliage. A small heater in the corner exuded a steady blast of warm air.
“Look at this, Carlo,” said Speranza, cupping a delicate green-veined, peach-colored orchid, “Orchis morio. It’s probably the only specimen in New York State. And look, more buds. They don’t live long, the flowers, but they’ve got a beautiful aroma. Smell.”
Impatiently, Rizzo bent to sniff the delicate flower. It smelled distinctly of vanilla.
“Very nice,” he said.
“Yes,” agreed Speranza, “very, very nice.”
There was silence for a few moments. “Carlo,” said Speranza, “what have you come to see me about? Are you in more trouble?”
“No,” said Rizzo. “Yes—I mean—Don Baptiste, I need help.” The whole story of the night before came out in a rush. Even through the embarrassment at telling such a story, Rizzo could see that despite himself Speranza was becoming more and more interested. At first he listened silently, but then he began to interrupt with questions and comments.
“Motion pictures,” Speranza said. “They sound very professional. You didn’t see them at all?”
When Rizzo had finished, Speranza was in deep thought. Then he spoke. “This Caster, how much do you know about him? Was he—” Then the animation which had risen in the old man’s face seemed to die. Once more he was an old man in gardening clothes. An old man who knew he was retired and had resigned himself to it. “Carlo,” he said, “you’d better see Abe Montara about him. He’s the one who can help you.”
“I can’t, Don Baptiste. Abe won’t even talk to me, not since—” He didn’t have to finish the sentence.
“Yes,” said Speranza, rubbing his smoothly shaven chin, “it’s a very bad situation. But I can’t help you, you know. You’ll have to see Abe. Tell him I told you to come see him. He’ll listen. You’ll see.” Rizzo found that Speranza was leading him out of the little greenhouse and along the hallway. When they re-entered the living room, Gino was nowhere to be seen. Rizzo noticed the old man looking around for his son, and then they were on the doorstep and Speranza had taken his hand.
“Thank you for coming to see me, Carlo. You go see Abe; he can help. And give my love to Angie and the little ones.”
“Sure, Don Baptiste,” said Rizzo hopelessly. “I’ll do that.”
The big oaken door was closed. There was nothing Rizzo could do but walk down the flagstone path to his car. He started the car and began driving without any real idea where he was going. But not to Abe Montara.
After less than three blocks, Rizzo heard the blast of a loud horn immediately behind his car and saw in the mirror, dangerously close to his back bumper, a black Thunderbird. His first reaction was panic, and Rizzo started to step on the accelerator. But then he recognized Gino Speranza’s grinning face behind the wheel of the big car.
Rizzo pulled over to the cub, and in seconds Gino was in the front seat beside him.
“Scared you just a little bit, didn’t I?” Gino said.
“What do you want?”
“I want to help you.” When Rizzo looked puzzled, Gino cocked a leg over the other knee and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. “What my old man doesn’t know,” he said, “is that from my old room on the second floor you can hear everything that goes on in that precious greenhouse of his.”
“You heard—”
“Everything. Every word. You’re in trouble, Charlie. And it sounds like bad trouble. But I’m going to help you out of it.”
“You help?” Rizzo asked incredulously. “How are you going to help
me if your old man won’t?”
“Can’t, you mean,” Gino said. “My old man is past it, Charlie. He’s only good for tending his garden while Abe runs the Speranza family action.”
Rizzo didn’t agree or disagree.
“But I don’t see it that way,” Gino continued. “I don’t see why Abe Montara should take over anything.”
“And you’re going to stop him, eh, Gino?”
“I just might.”
“All by yourself?”
“I’m not alone,” said Gino. “I’ve got my friends. What’s the matter? Don’t you want any help? Are you going to back off just because they got the jump on you? I don’t see how you can afford to do that. The way I hear it, your finances aren’t all that good these days.”
“No,” Rizzo admitted, “they’re not.”
“Well, then. Montara’s got you in a hole and is in no hurry to let you out. If you let these imported heavies put you down like this, you might as well pack it in. You’re through. Nobody can help you. Not my father. Nobody.”
Rizzo couldn’t deny that he was boxed into a corner.
On the other hand,” said Gino, “if you buck these guys with my help and take over that bar, it’s all yours. You don’t owe Montara a thing for it. And Abe will come around sooner or later. He’ll make a lot of noise, but Abe’s a realist. Right now he thinks you’re just a punk he can make or break.”
“What’s in this for you?” asked Rizzo.
“Me? Well, you might want to do something for me now and then—just to show your gratitude. But mostly I’ve got a little reputation. I show I’ve got a bit of muscle, that I can do a job. And then maybe my old man and my brother will stop trying to make a college graduate out of me and let me in on some of the action Montara is keeping to himself. God knows, Dom Speranza, the original paper tiger, isn’t going to buck Abe, so I guess it’ll have to be me.”
“That’s a big job,” said Rizzo, half-amused and half-impressed by Gino’s cool confidence.
“I know. But I can do it. What do you say—is it a deal?”
Rizzo didn’t have to ponder long; he could see no other way out. “It’s a deal,” he said.
13
After a night of little sleep, Harry Caster felt like a man on a frayed rope. He was tempted to lock up the house and the Lamplighter and head for the cabin and Hildy.
But fear and stubbornness kept him in Parker’s Landing. Rizzo would know he had left, and then what would happen to the Lamplighter? And how could he come back? There was no point in starting all this just to run away and have everything destroyed. So, after fixing himself breakfast, Harry went down to the Lamplighter and spent the day aimlessly cleaning, taking stock and trying to pass the dragging hours. The call from Hoerner never came, but with every move he made, Harry felt the compact presence of the gun Hoerner had given him.
Harry didn’t hear from Marco, so he asked Hank Sherman to come in again. The weekend was coming on, and business would be good. Hoerner finally called late in the afternoon to try to bolster Harry’s confidence, but he failed to ease Harry’s mind.
Just after six o’clock that evening, Harry was in his small office when Hank called him. “Harry,” he said excitedly, “the telephone.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Hank said, “but hurry. Something’s wrong.”
Harry threw down his pencil and moved swiftly to the telephone behind the bar. “Hello,” he shouted into the speaker, “this is Harry Caster.”
The line was silent. The call hadn’t disconnected, but he could hear nothing.
“What did it sound like?” he asked Hank.
“It was like somebody gasping for breath. It was a man, I think, calling your name, and it sounded like he was in pain. I don’t—”
Harry cut him off with a gesture as a sound came on the line. It was a gasping, choking noise he’d never heard before. Then something that almost sounded like his name: “Har—Har—” The line went silent again, and Harry heard the dial tone buzzing loudly in his ear. He put the receiver down.
“Who do you think it was?” Hank asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t hear enough to—Marco!” Harry was certain. “It was Marco. I know it was. Take care of things here, Hank. I’ll be back.”
Ripping off his apron, Harry grabbed his coat and ran out to the parking lot. Marco didn’t live far away.
Marco’s cottage, small and dirty white with a sagging red-tile roof, was nearly lost in the drooping branches of willow trees. Harry skidded the car to a stop in front of the cottage. He could see that some lights were on inside it. At the screened front door, Harry knocked and shouted: “Marco! Marco! It’s me, Harry. Are you okay?”
There was no answer, but the doorknob turned easily, and Harry pushed into the white-walled living room of the cottage. The room was empty, and Harry pulled back slightly, feeling like an intruder. “Marco?” he said in a quieter voice. Still there was no answer. Harry had his hand on the knob ready to leave, when he turned to have a better look around. The lights had been on.
Harry pushed against the kitchen door, but after a couple of inches it stopped and would go no farther. It stopped with a soft, slightly giving feeling, as if it was held by something heavy but pliant.
“Damn,” Harry said, giving the door a heave with all his strength. It haltingly opened enough for him to stick his head into the dark kitchen. At first, all he could see was that something white was on the floor blocking the door.
Then recognition came. It was Marco, dressed only in underwear and wedged between the door and a tall cabinet against the wall. “Marco,” Harry said, but he got no answer. He stopped trying to force the door and quickly retraced his path out the front door. Pushing open a half-sprung gate, he ran through the side yard to the kitchen door. Flicking on the overhead light, Harry saw that Marco was lying on his stomach wedged headfirst into the corner behind the door. The receiver of the telephone dangled at the side of his head. His shorts and T-shirt were startlingly white against the worn linoleum. Marco’s naked, hairy legs were a bluer shade of white in contrast.
Harry was surprised at how big and soft Marco looked. Grabbing him by the shoulders, Harry tried to turn Marco over and get him out of the corner. But Marco’s weight and the close quarters defeated him. He was forced to fall back and pull Marco out by his stocking feet.
When he managed to get the youth turned over, Harry saw his face and gave a grimace of shared pain and sympathy. To Harry, Marco’s face looked like a burst fig. The predominant color was a painful purple with swelling black pouches where the eyes should have been. The mouth was split and hung as slack as a slashed innertube. A broken tooth hung on his lower lip by a strip of skin, and another, shattered to a peak, stood out sharply in his black and bloody mouth. One eyebrow, red and furry, hung down over a closed eye.
Afraid to touch Marco, Harry grabbed for the dangling telephone receiver and frantically tapped on the cut-off switch until he got a dial tone.
“Parker Hospital,” said a woman’s middle-aged voice that soon assured Harry that an ambulance was on its way. Then he dialed Alec Hoerner’s home number.
Hoerner was trying to read a newspaper and keep an eye on two frying pork chops on a hot plate when the telephone rang.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
“It’s Marco,” Harry said, “my bartender. He’s been very badly beaten up.”
“Where are you?”
“At Marco’s cottage in Parker’s Landing. He called me at the bar, and I came over here and found him.”
“Is anybody else there?”
“No,” Harry said, “but I called an ambulance.”
“Stay there until it arrives. Then go back to your bar and stay there until I contact you. If Rizzo gets in touch, stall him as much as you can. I’ll see you or call you later tonight.”
“What are you going to do?” Harry asked.
“I think Rizzo needs a little more convincing,”
Hoerner said, and he was gone.
Harry sat down at the kitchen table across from Marco. He could hear Marco’s breathing—deep but ragged, as if something inside were torn and flapping. He became conscious of every breath. With nothing else to do, Harry sat in the darkness—he’d cut off the bright light—and the seconds dragged. There was no denying the certain knowledge that what had happened to Marco was all his fault. Or the premonition that this was just the beginning of a very bad time.
This thought was broken by the dying howl of a siren at the front of the cottage. Out front Harry found a beige ambulance parked across the street, and a man in a white hospital jacket standing looking in the wrong direction.
“Over here,” Harry called, but hardly any sound came from his throat. He tried again, and the ambulance driver turned to face him. He was a young black with hair like dirty yellow wool. From the waist up he was dressed in hospital-issue with a fine stipple of rust-brown spots across one shoulder. But below the waist, he was strictly war surplus. Marine Corps green trousers fell over high-zippered jump boots.
“You called for an ambulance?”
“Yes.”
Another attendant emerged carefully from the ambulance. With streaked gray hair and a face nearly the same color, he looked like an unsuccessful abortionist just out of jail. By the time he got around to the back of the ambulance, the driver had pulled out a long stretcher and was headed toward Harry. The older man grabbed the back of the stretcher as it was going away.
“Where’s the victim?” asked the driver.
“In the kitchen at the back,” said Harry, trying to lead the ambulance men and stay out of the way at the same time. “I’ll hold the gate for you.”
“Never mind,” said the driver, plunging on and continuing an old monologue to his partner. “Yeah—so I told the first sergeant…”
The Triple Shot Box (Goodey's Last Stand, Not Sleeping Just Dead & Fighting Back): Three Gritty Crime Novels Page 49
