by William Cain
“Yeah, so you can shoot me through the eye. Nice try! Get the fuck away from me!” he shouts.
“Now, now, your neighbors can hear you. You don’t want that,” she tells him in her best soothing voice. “No one is here to hurt you,” and she adds quietly, “You know if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t knock. Let me in, and we can work things out like two adults. And stop your crying and whining. It’s unbecoming, and you’re embarrassing yourself.”
Gangi’s a little insulted, humiliated, and scared all at the same time, and he does what any normal sixty-one-year-old man might do, and he begins to open the door, peering through the crack as it becomes wider, waiting for the loud bang of her pistol and the splitting headache as the rear of his head explodes. He finds himself sweating, and he’s beginning to smell, and suddenly Helen is standing there and the door is fully open.
She reaches up and pinches his cheek, “Hello, old friend,” and smiles at him.
◆◆◆
She’s seated at his breakfast bar, wearing light khakis and a neat, white blouse, sandals on her feet. She’s even wearing lipstick and makeup, and Gangi is a little freaked out. The Helen he knows wouldn’t look like this. No, she’d be wearing almost all black, with a severe, pale facial expression, a look of death, and talking in terms of finality. Not the little lady he’s picturing here at all, talking about hiking in the Smokies and how good dinner was last night, and that she’s developed a taste for okra and collard greens. She tells him about the man she met at the bar and how funny he was. Dancing lightly to country songs and sharing a beer or two, and that the man was a good dancer and they traded phone numbers at the end of the night. Gangi is perplexed, with one thought running through his head, What is going on here?
She suggested they have a little coffee together and wouldn’t he make some. So he did as he was ordered and poured the grounds into the machine and filled it with water from his sink, all the while keeping her in view so he could at least see his final moments play out as she draws some hidden tool of the trade and watches him die. But it didn’t happen, and he places two cups with hot coffee on the counter, grabs some milk and sweetener, and pensively takes a seat beside her. He reaches behind him and, with one hand, still looking at her, he grabs a jar of biscotti. “These are from Chicago, they’re authentic. Not the stuff you find around here. These are from the bakers of the old country.”
She takes a chocolate one and says, “My favorite, thank you, Al,” as she begins to bite small pieces off and sip her coffee. “Coffee’s good, too. I didn’t know you were such a foodie. It’s fun facts like that that keep life worth living,” she says, chuckling lightly. Al is definitely weirded out, but he’s growing calmer as each minute passes that he’s not dead.
“Hey, ever had grits?” he asks. “I make some killer grits with bacon. One small bowl of that will stick to your ribs and you’re good all day,” he says, surprising himself. This is almost going so good, it can’t be real, and he’s almost forgotten that he’s waiting for the end, a bang, a cut, a stab.
“I have had grits. Not my favorite, but maybe you can change my mind,” she says playfully, and he thinks Helen’s almost hitting on him. “Gen should see this. It would blow him away.” Gangi looks over at Helen and she’s smiling at him and they look at each other for a moment and he adds, “I can make some now.”
“Sure, why not? Let’s have brunch together. I’ll make eggs and toast, and you whip up the grits and bacon.” He shows her to where he keeps his pans and bread, and they begin to cook together. It is the strangest scene he’s been in since, well, forever. Stranger than the hookers and the bizarre S/M costumes. Stranger than Michael and Junior.
Helen knows Al is worried and scared. She would be too if she were him. She has a stellar reputation in the field of elimination. Most of her targets never see her, and their demise is instant. She’s not interested in inflicting pain. She also knows that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and the best way to calm him down is to eat. Making brunch is just a way to put some of this attention and restless energy into something else besides fear. As they cook side by side, she begins to hum an old Italian operetta. Without thinking, Gangi starts humming too, and after a while he asks, “Isn’t this from Naughty Marietta?”
“Why yes, it is,” she replies and they resume cooking and humming. When they’re done, Gangi brings out the silver and flatware and he leads her to a table on the enclosed patio. Helen takes a seat while Gangi disappears inside to get juice and water. Once he returns, he tells her, “Let’s dig in before it gets cold.”
“I like your place here. How are your neighbors?”
“They’re ok, I guess. Everybody smiles and waves. It’s like they’re on something,” and they actually share a brief laugh. “I hear you’re friends with that detective working the case on Elsie.”
“Addie? Yes, she’s fun to talk to and she’s genuine. Get this, I think she likes me, we hit it off,” she tells Gangi. “I like her, too,” she adds sincerely. “It was really nice of Biggie to lend her his jet. She tells me he asked her to call him Gen. Only the best of his friends call him that.”
Al raises a brow, “Yeah, and there aren’t many of those around. Anyway, I don’t think he likes where he lives. He thinks a lot of people are phonies, here or Chicago or anywhere, and he’s sick of it. He’s talked about moving here so we can be closer and visit more often. It’s time. He’s going to be seventy-seven soon. That’s if a certain someone doesn’t do a certain something and make a certain something happen.”
Helen’s not put off by what he says, it’s what she came here to talk about. “You like it here Al? I do. The mountains are beautiful. I wake up every day with a clear mind, refreshed, looking forward to what I’m going to do that day. Sometimes I just go to a park or waterfall and just read, or hike and read.”
“Yeah, I do like it here. We looked at a lot of places before deciding on the Smoky Mountains. The first visit we paid here I think Gen and I were already at home. It felt right.”
“I’m thinking about retiring,” she tells him wistfully. “I’m tired, and my time is come.”
As they finish their meal, they clear the table and bring the flatware into the kitchen, leaving them to soak in the sink. Helen notices some other dishes, cleaned and sitting in the rack of the double sink. “You don’t have a maid or housekeeper?” she asks.
Al shakes his head, “Too much trouble. I don’t like strangers in my home. It’s just me anyways. Unless I have a friend over.”
“Addie told me about Daphne.”
“Daphne, yeah. We’re getting to be a thing. You think this place is big enough for two? I do. She spends enough time here, she might as well move in.”
Helen pumps his arm with her fist, “You cad!” and the two of them continue talking like old friends. It’s a little strange, but it’s becoming easier with each passing moment.
Finally, Helen tells him, “Let’s go back to the patio and talk about serious things for a moment. Why don’t you call Gen and ask him to come here so we can meet? Get things out in the open.”
Al makes the call and, hanging up, says, “He’ll be here in one hour. That’ll give us time to talk and take a short walk. I’ll show you the area. It’d be a real trip if the three of us live here. Now that’s how novels are made!” and they both laugh in agreement.
As they retake their seats on the patio, Helen tells Gangi, “I know Gen knows about the contract on himself and Elsie, or thinks he knows. You know, too.”
“Yeah. It’s kind of why I was a little worried when I saw you.”
“And rightly so,” she says, stretching out on the Adirondack chair she’s in. “You wouldn’t believe what screw-ups Spadaro and Mitch are. How they haven’t killed themselves by now is a miracle.”
“Their end is in sight,” Al mutters, thinking out loud. “What do you think they wanted?”
“Revenge, I guess. Remember how Mitch got all those years ago when Elsie rejecte
d him? Even I was afraid of him. He didn’t act with any rationale, his respect for the Family and women were nonexistent. He was going to be put down.”
Al agrees, “Yeah, his manners were very bad. And he left the Family to go to work for Spadaro. What the hell are you doing working for him anyway?” he asks Helen.
“He pays well and leaves me alone, the two best features an employer can have. Spadaro probably wanted to avenge his brother’s killing. He knows he shouldn’t have tried to grab territory in New York. He was at fault. But, he ignores the truth, and with this contract he’s doing what he always does, striking out blindly.”
Gangi gives what she says some deep thought, then he stands up. “Let’s go for a walk, Helen. I’ll take you on a tour,” and she rises to her feet.
◆◆◆
Gen has arrived and he knows that Al has ensured she’s not a danger to them anymore. If anything, Al is thorough. He knows one wrong move means death. Still, Gen watches Helen to make sure and as he sits on the couch in the spacious living room next to her. Gangi is watching closely, his weapon at the ready. Gen looks at her, “Ok, Helen, tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t know where Addie got her information, but she’s right. I met with Spadaro last May and was told to do a job on Elsie and yourself in July. I was called by Mitch to arrive in Asheville, and that the job should be done in a day or two and to get ready. I think I landed on the fifteenth or sixteenth of July and stayed near Mitch at an apartment they own. The call came on the eighteenth, from Mitch, and I paid your home a visit, but you were gone. Elsie was there, but she was already dead. I took pictures to prove to Mitch I had done the job and he paid me one million U.S., which is the first installment on the contract.”
Continuing, “While I was in Heritage Hills, and near your home, I was passed by a woman on the street, and she waved and smiled. I’ve been enlisted by Addie to help find that woman, who is either the killer or maybe saw something to help with the case. By the way, Addie’s a real nice person, isn’t she?”
And Gen replies, genuinely, “Yes, she’s a sweetheart. However, Skip tells me she was gonna stuff her bazooka up his butt.” The three of them crack up a little.
“Did you find her like that? Did you find Elsie like that?” Helen asks, sadness giving each word a footprint.
“Yes,” he tells her, remembering.
“I am so sorry,” Helen tells him sorrowfully. “When I found her, my first thought was that no one, no one should die like that. Whoever did that is a monster.”
The three of them pause; it’s almost like they’re saying a silent prayer, and maybe they are. Neither of them breaks the silence for a while.
Gen speaks first. His eyes are baleful, and Helen appreciates his emotional depth. “How much is left on your contract?”
“Nine million.” The two men whistle a little.
Gen and Al look at each other. Gen’s thinking that it could’ve been a hundred million, his reaction would have been the same.
“I’ll pay the remainder of the contract,” he tells her.
Helen nods and cautions him, “As a warning, Spadaro may have another countryman of mine to do the same job. I was threatened with a replacement.” She pauses to let this sink in, then adds, “I’m leaving the country soon. You want me to do the job on Spadaro first?” she asks.
“No, leave him to me. I want to do it myself.”
Then he gives her the marching orders she’s been waiting for, “You do the job on Mitch, and this time make sure it’s painful.”
Staring into Gen’s eyes, she answers,
“Gladly.”
Chapter 14 Information
March
I don’t have a short temper, I just have a quick reaction to bullshit. Elizabeth Taylor
Gen opens his door, expecting Gangi. He heard him pull down the driveway, and he’s happy to see him. Al had called earlier to tell him the news about the work-up on Reggi Thomas, that it’s ready, sans medical history. Gen’s pretty interested in this ever since he asked for it, and his interest is peaked after looking over her Facebook pages again. He muses, “People still use that? I could never get into it.” After stepping from the door, he looks at Gangi’s hands and there’s a pretty big pile he’s holding. “Wow, Al, that’s a lot of material.”
Gangi agrees, “She has a big family, and you said to make it complete. I looked it through, it’s all there. Roger’s expensive, but on the ball. I like people that are thorough.” He walks in, “Want I should spread this out on the kitchen table?” Seeing Gen nod, he begins to do just that. “By the way, there’s some new construction near me, in Saluda. Why don’t we take a look at it later today? Might suit you fine.”
“Sure, sounds good. I have to get out of here. Too many memories. And, I think a lot of people know who I am now, or will know. I don’t like people knowing my business,” Gen says with a note of finality. After a short pause, he opens the floor for Gangi. “Ok, let’s see what we have. Why don’t you do the talking and I’ll do the listening. I know a lot about her and her kids already, but I think it’s always a good idea to know more. You know, we always want more,” and Gangi breaks into a smile, nodding in agreement as he looks at the papers before him, deciding where to begin.
“Here we have a picture of her,” he says as he points to an eight by ten.
“She is a good-looking woman,” Gen declares, “she could pass for fifty.”
“This one is Charlotte, her first daughter,” Al tells him, pointing to another, “She and her husband Edwin have two daughters, Madison and Haley. This is them,” he says, handing Gen more photos. “He’s a retired ambulance chaser, and he made a lot of money at it, but they made some really bad gambles on stupid things and they’ve nearly lost it all. Millions of dollars. They live in Biltmore Forest, and they’re members of the country club. I don’t think they can hold on much longer. His money-making days are over since he retired from his practice, and she doesn’t do anything. Her last job was in a tennis shop.”
“Charlotte doesn’t have an arrest record, but her husband does. It’s for solicitation, and get this: ‘Solicitation of a male prostitute, a young male prostitute, just seventeen.’”
Gen looks at the record sheet and sees the date. “It’s probably what forced him to retire early.”
Then, turning back to the photographs, Gen remarks, “Charlotte’s cute, or at least used to be cute, she looks washed up. She looks like her mother. Girls are cute, too. Edwin’s their natural father?”
Gangi sees the expression on Gen’s face, traces of disbelief and doubt, and tells him, “Yeah. Hard to believe, right? Anyway, Reggi Thomas’s youngest daughter is a politician. Her name is Megan. She lives in Raleigh. She’s divorced for over ten years and has two sons, Patrick and Connor. Roger thinks she’s either really bitchy or a dike. She’s not remarried, not dating, and basically involved in campaigns or activism, getting in people’s faces, stuff like that. Here’s their photos with a workup of her bank accounts.” He hands to Gen what Roger dug up, then adds, “She gets arrested a lot. She’s like a professional protester.”
While Gangi looks over Megan’s bank records, he tells him, “Reggi Thomas’s oldest is Francis Thomas. He’s a private businessman, and he lives in Manhattan. His business involves the audit of financial records, tax planning, certifications of accounts, and ledgers. He’s small potatoes. He got divorced last August, her name is Frédérica. You gotta see this photo,” and he eagerly pulls out the one of Frank’s ex.
Gen is entranced, “He married that? Damn. She’s a knockout. He divorced that? What is he? A knucklehead?”
“Word has it that she was screwing everyone within striking distance and he had to,” Gangi tells him with a note of brotherly understanding that men have for each other when things become hopeless.
“Francis and Frédérica have one son, Francis Jr.” He hands the remaining photos over to Gen.
“Reggi Thomas’s husband Joseph died a while ago, and
that’s it on the family.”
“I know about Joseph. He developed Alzheimer’s. Complications from it killed him,” Gen says.
“Hmm,” Gangi reflects, “Anyway, now Roger started to come in with some inside information from the stationhouse at 100 Asheville. Your detective friend Henson identified Reggi Thomas as being close to this very house—your house, Gen—on the day of the murder. Thomas says she saw someone else here, at the top of the driveway, standing there. Detective Henson has her looking through mugshots from the area to find that someone. They send the books to her house, ‘cause she’s old and it’s the best way they have to engage Thomas, to help out.”
“Roger dug through her email and Facebook stuff, and yes, she’s telling people she’s marrying Ken Jones. That Mr. Jones has a driver that lives in Asheville so he can go out and eat and drink to his satisfaction. The driver’s name is Dennis Moray.”
Gen is soaking this up, Al feels it. He’s a good listener, always has been. There’s been many a time in the past forty some odd years that Gangi has witnessed firsthand Gen’s ruthless decisiveness. You don’t want to be on the wrong end when he makes his conclusions and the fallout begins. Gangi wants to believe Gen is getting softer with age, but it’s negligible, and there’s no way in hell that the explosion that’s coming isn’t going to hurt some people.
“Ken Jones has a ranch in Wyoming. He has a caretaker living on site with his wife, and they serve as cooks and gal Fridays when he visits with his friends to go elk hunting. He stables horses there, and he bought Thomas a pony of her own, named it Princess. Reggi Thomas says, and I quote, ‘it’s beautiful when it snows, but it takes too long just to get back to civilization and go to the grocery store to get supplies’ end quote.”
Gen is listening, and he carries a look of concern and insightfulness, occasionally looking at Gangi, and then away when he works to grasp this new found knowledge, compartmentalizing it, storing it away.
