“What are you driving?” I asked.
“I bought a ‘97 Chevy Tahoe in Corpus Christie where I moored The Haphazard until I return.”
“While I’m gone, store your gear, and park your rig in stall number two-zero-five.”
“Will do, mate.”
I’d prepared for a recon while Bludd studied up on the who’s who of the Abbandanza crime family. I loaded the Avenger with my bug-out bag and set out for Toronto. Progress, however slow, had to be made. Manpower would not be allowed to hinder me. When Palatini operators drifted in, I’d double them up based on skill sets, and send them out on a target. What I needed at the moment were more leads.
I cruised by Joey’s place to see if there was any action. I hoped to see his Mustang parked in the double car garage behind his house, but the garage door was closed. The cool temperatures had set in a couple months earlier, and the garages were used more and more as the weather deteriorated.
I’d spotted the change at Joey’s place right away when I pulled into my observation point. The newspapers that had accumulated on his front porch over the past few days were gone. Maybe Joey was back in town.
I was hungry. Sometimes, when I’d get busy, I’d forget to eat. I could kill two birds with one stone this time. I could eat and check out the mobster’s lair at Musolino’s. I’d arrived after the lunch crowd had left. Joyce was busy working the floor but took the time to say hello. I ordered up their specialty, an endless bowl of cheesy ravioli with garlic bread. Joyce came back by after I’d finished my plate, and sat next to me. It was small talk at first, but she soon warmed up to me. I noticed something different about her, something I needed to comment on.
“Joyce honey, you’re not smiling today, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
I wasn’t convinced. People frequently answered that way, but I’ve learned if you prod enough, they’ll share their woes. Most people with troubles needed someone, they could trust, to listen to their problems—Joyce was a troubled lady. She had practically begged me to inquire further about her concerns. So I did. I reached across the table, placed my hand on the top of hers, and with a gentle, caring squeeze, asked again, “What took your beautiful smile away?”
She flashed a smile in my direction, but it wasn’t real. “I have to get out of here.”
I didn’t know the problem or what she needed to escape from, but nervousness in her voice validated her concerns.
“You need out of Musolino’s?”
“No, Toronto! I need to pack my boys and go.”
“Why? And where would you go?”
“I’m sick and tired of this awful place. We had a murder right here in our parking lot.”
I felt responsible for Joyce’s fears in the wake of the tragedy.
“Well, maybe Amato hung out with the wrong crowd?”
Joyce quietly studied my eyes. “How did you know about Amato? I don’t think it was on the news yet?”
I realized I’d made a slip. Never hem and haw or stutter your way through a lie. I did the right thing and took a moment before I responded. “I work the journalism business, remember. We get a lot of information before it’s released to the public.”
Joyce nodded. She’d bought my song and dance routine, but she didn’t know the backstory. Amato had been a coworker, and he was an okay guy with the people he worked with, but he wasn’t okay with everyone. She didn’t see the side of him I did. She didn’t know, for a few measly bucks he abducted a woman and transported her to be killed. That was the Amato I knew. She had no way of knowing him for what he was, any more than she knew me.
“You’re a journalist, you should write articles to help stop this craziness. Any violence is useless, and they should outlaw guns too.” She looked at me in earnest as if she had a good idea. Sweet naïve Joyce, she believed people could be persuaded by a silly tabloid story against violence, and people would cease their human ways. It made about as much sense as confiscating all the guns from the law abiding gun owners, and somehow that would disarm the criminals. The root of the problem was human behavior, not a gun. I chose to avoid the debate, it wouldn’t change a thing.
“How about Missouri, that little place you told me about?” I hoped I’d impressed her by remembering she’d spoken of a move before.
“Shell Knob is a safe place. My boys would love it. My parents have never seen either of them.”
“Joyce, I think you’re on to something. It sounds like a good decision.”
“I’m going to find a way soon.” In the corner of her eye, a tear formed. I felt my own emotion for her. Something that was foreign to me a year ago. I’d given way to change. Not that I tried to, I was happy the way I was.
“Perhaps I could help?”
Joyce’s smile returned. Her eyes sparkled as her smile radiated her beauty. “That’s so sweet of you,” she said. Our eyes fastened together. It was our moment, a connection, deeper than physical attraction. There was an unexplainable chemistry going on that brought a measure of enjoyment.
Seconds later, a young, shapely woman, tightly squeezed into a baby pink mini dress, entered Musolino’s, and stole my attention. She was a vision of beauty, with olive skin and long glossy black hair that flowed as she sunk her five-inch spike heels into the oak wood floor. She crossed the dining area and to the hallway. She was the woman from Joey’s place.
Joyce patted my hand as she stood. “I’ve got to get back to work.” Her words sounded reasonable, but the body language was all wrong. I’d offended her. I apologized for the distraction, then I apologized again, and once more for good measure. Joyce had been cool about it.
“You don’t want any of that.” We both knew who she had referred to. I felt an explanation was in order. It wouldn’t be the truth, but it would be an explanation. Joyce wasn’t stupid, she’d been around, and she made any lie, tougher to spin.
“The woman reminded me of a friend’s daughter.”
“Sure.” Joyce smirked.
I could tell I had to go the extra mile with this line to get her to buy in. “His daughter disappeared about three years ago. She was from Oregon but wanted to go to one of those specialty colleges in Buffalo. It was sad. She disappeared without a trace.” I put on a lost puppy dog face. “I just thought, maybe.” Joyce sat back down next to me to listen. I’d turned the corner on the conversation and was heading the other way.
“I don’t know if it is his daughter or not, but if it is, your friend is better off not finding her.”
I looked at her quizzically. Her cheeky comment had taken me off guard. “Do you know her?” I asked.
“I know who she is.” Joyce’s smile had once again disappeared. She watched the hall as she continued, “best not to talk about her.”
“Why’s that?”
“You ask too many questions, even for a journalist. I’ve got to go.” Joyce stood to leave. I took her by the hand; a soft smooth hand—unexpected. She was a waitress, mother, and single parent. Her hands had every right to be harsh, callous, and dry, but they were tender and pleasing to touch.
“Joyce, you haven’t given me your last name?”
“It’s Farmer. It was my maiden name.” Then with a smile and a slight embrace she was off waiting tables.
It was four-thirty, and the osteria would be jumping soon. With a casual ambling, I made my way toward the restroom, located in the hallway. I wanted to get a glimpse in the first office that Cal had identified as belonging to Joey and Angelique. If Angelique and the dark haired beauty were one and the same, there was definitely something of interest to be seen.
As I walked by, suddenly the olive skinned woman came out of the first office. We nearly collided. It would have been okay if we had. Luckily, I’d caught her as she fell from her spiked heels. I held her for a moment in my hands, until I was sure she was stable on her platforms. This was a great opportunity to strike up a conversation, I thought. A good deed never goes unrewarded. I’d kept her from a potentially nasty fall
, at a minimum there would be the traditional “thank you,” and open the door for dialogue.
She smoothed her dress against her hips as she gained her balance. She flicked her head to one side and with her hand tossed her hair away from her face, and gazed into my eyes. Her eyes were dark like rich chocolate and commanded my attention as she rewarded me.
She began with a tirade of foul four letter words followed by a few nasty innuendos. Her voice filled with intensity, and her language became filthier as she made personal reference to my body parts which were hidden from view. I’d worked in a factory for years, and I couldn’t recall a time when I’d heard so many cuss words strung together in such a fashion. There was no thank you to be had. Evidently it was my fault she’d walked into me and fell off those lousy stilts she’d worn. But still, I apologized, it was an accident. I continued toward the restroom thinking it was over, but she followed. Her lingo changed, I supposed it was Italian, but I didn’t understand a word of it. Regardless, I suspect it was nasty too.
I’d stayed in the restroom for a few minutes before I peeked out into the hallway. The devil incarnate was nowhere in sight. With the coast clear, I slipped out the back exit to circle around the building where my Avenger was parked curbside. There it was, right there in front of me, I stopped dead in my tracks. In the parking lot, the very spot where I iced Amato was her Nissan 350Z. I hightailed it to the Avenger, I wanted to be ready to rock-n-roll on a tail when the little princess took off. Maybe Joey was holed up, and she would lead me to his burrow. It made sense; I doubted he would let his gal out without a leash. There was nothing wrong with her on the outside, not that I could see. Nothing duct tape couldn’t fix. She was the type of woman that knew what type of woman she was. She could make a man’s mouth water. I had duct tape.
I waited, and thought about how our encounter might work out, then I waited some more. It was nearly ten when her car pulled out onto the street. I didn’t know if she was alone or where she was going. All I could do was tail. We were headed in the general direction of the house where I first laid eyes on her. If that was our destination, I wouldn’t have a long drive.
She’d arrived at Joey’s house alone. I hadn’t been parked very long, but midnight was just around the corner, and I was getting antsy to score a good lead. She had led our brief chat at Musolino’s. It was my turn this time. The interior lights dimmed, and it was time for me to get a closer look. The Flood lights on the garage illuminated the driveway sufficiently; I could see how they might prove their worth as a deterrent to prowlers. Lights also created greater darkness to the sides of where the lights shined. It provided a cloak of obscurity for the advanced predator, like a Palatini assassin. I holstered my primary weapon and grabbed my bug-out bag. I pulled on a simple knit face mask, black leather police gloves, and slipped extra latex gloves in my pocket. The mask and gloves went fashionably well with my dark jacket. I made my way to her backyard.
I stealthily moved in position behind the house. I knew it was risky, but some risk had to be pursued. I wasn’t concerned with a dog. There was none. The value of the recon earlier paid off in some ways. If they’d had one, the yard would likely have been fenced, and I would have seen the animal. I wasn’t concerned with an alarm system. Cal said none of the mobsters wanted anything to do with alarms that would trigger a cop response or camera systems. Joey had told Cal, “Let those suckers try to get in, I got a surprise waiting for them.”
I located the bedroom at the back corner of the ranch style home. It was the only room visible from the outside that remained dimly lit. I wasn’t able to see in the room through the window blinds, but I could hear. I placed my acoustic listening device on the window glass and listened in. Within a couple minutes, two things were notable, no voices, only noise. I could hear music and the spray of water. I went to the back door, slipped a bump key into the door lock and cracked it with a small rubber mallet. The dead bolt hadn’t been thrown, so I walked in. It took less than thirty seconds from start to finish.
I dropped my bug out bag inside the house at the back door. When I left, I wanted to make sure I had it. I passed through the anteroom, which was separated by an unlocked interior door. I unsheathed my M22 and attached the moderator. From there, I went in search of the target room. The house was dotted with plug-in nightlights which provided some advantage in navigating the hallway. I saw a light emitting from an open door in the right corner of the hall. I’d closed the distance to the room; the sound of music was now noticeable. I peeked around the corner into what appeared to be the master-bedroom. A single bedside lamp lit the room. The shower could be faintly heard. There was a large walk-in-closet just to the left at the room entrance. It was fitted with double bi-fold doors which stood partially open. The lamp from the opposite side of the room held the closet in cavernous darkness. It was a good place to hide.
The shower stopped, and a few moments later the bathroom door cracked open which hurled a plume of moist hot air toward the bedroom ceiling. I could see the entry to the master-bath through a vanity mirror on a dresser located on the opposite side of the bedroom. The woman was drying her hair, at first with a towel followed by a hair dryer. Moisture from the shower had formed on the bathroom mirror, which obscured her nakedness from my point of view. This conversation I expected to have wasn’t going to be easy, there were a lot of distractions. Too many. She moved out of view and then back in view, the moisture had cleared making for a clear view. She was less naked. Minutes later, she came from the bathroom, hung her towel on the bed post, and with her back to me, shimmied into a silky looking piece of lingerie that barely hung down past the bottom of her panties—had she been wearing panties. She looked more like a Victoria Secrets model than a notorious mobster’s wife. She was the type of girl that could’ve made a ragged tee-shirt look like designer sleepwear. She had it all, sexy and elegant. Why had she chosen to be with a stinking Mafia bum like Joey?
She turned the music volume up then sat on the edge of the bed and brushed her hair. She stood, picked up a purple satin robe, and slipped it on. She looked good in purple; she looked good out of purple too. She walked toward the closet, but was interrupted as she opened the bi-fold doors. The moderator on my .40-caliber automatic often had that effect on people. It was time for a formal introduction.
She was startled by my presence, but not unnerved. I wanted her away from anything that might conceal a weapon. I remembered Cal’s warning that she was ruthless. “Sit on the floor at the end of the bed. I think you’ll find it comfortable.”
She sat without saying a word; I was surprised at her behavior. I expected fear, but she showed none. I figured at any moment she’d read me the riot act with lots of added nastiness. “I have questions, I want answers, Capiche?”
Her lips pursed, and a snotty defiant attitude was written all over her face. “What are you, some kind-a-joke, eh?” She spoke pretty good English for an Italian-Canadian. It didn’t sound much like English that I was used to, but I could follow her drift.
A joke, I thought, maybe she was right, maybe I’d taken this all too lightly. I pulled off my mask, “Remember me?” At that moment, I saw the fear in her eyes. She remembered our meeting, but that wasn’t the reason for her concern. Masked people wore masks for a reason; if the mask came off, it marked a change in plans, a more dangerous change for her.
She knew how to make a man forget she’d flipped out in a cussing tirade. She could’ve made me forget about a lot of things. But then, she opened her mouth again. “You are a clumsy fool. You almost knocked me down. You are a stupid oaf.”
Why is it, beautiful women so often end up such a disappointment when they open their traps? “My name is Walter, and you’re smart enough to know I’m not here because of your foul mouth. I have questions.”
“Okay, Walter with questions, just so you know, I do not tell you nothing, capiche?”
Her sarcasm stunk and she could stop repeating my name; she made it sound—ugly. I put my .40-caliber to h
er temple, “I’m not here to hear your sassy mouth. Do you understand?”
She gently nodded as she said, “Do you know who I am?”
“No, you tell me, so I don’t get it wrong.”
“My husband is Joey Naccarella. Have you heard of him?” Before I could reply, she was off and running at the mouth again. Usually when I conduct an interview, I like people to talk, that’s why I ask them questions, but this girl was getting on my last nerve.
“You still didn’t tell me who you are.”
She donned a sly look. “Do you know who the Abbandanza Family is? No, you don’t know. My husband Joey is a made-man. Do you know what that means? No, you don’t know because you are a stupid man, stupid, stupid, stupid, man. You don’t know nothing.”
“What is your name?”
In a sharp tone of voice, she said, “Joey is connected. Do you know what that means? If you were a smart man, you’d leave right now and maybe you’d live another day or two.”
Thuup. I grazed her thigh with my .40-caliber. She screamed, rolled to the floor, and careened in pain. I placed my gloved hand over her mouth and held it there until she was quiet. I whispered in her ear, “All I asked for was your name.” I uncovered her mouth to speak.
“Angelique Naccarella.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it? I know who Joey is, what I want to know is where he is? We need to talk.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”
I sat her up on the floor and handed her the wet towel from the bed post to hold against her flesh wound. “You don’t know where your husband is?”
She winched in pain as she answered, “He was called to a sit down. Before he goes he told me to move money to new accounts, take out cash, and go see my family. He would get back to me. He knew it don’t look good.”
“Who called him to this sit down meeting?”
“If I tell you what do I get out of it?”
“Are you religious?”
“I’m Catholic.”
Lawless Measures: Vigilante - The Fight Continues Page 14
