by Hannah Howe
“It would break his heart.”
I nodded. “I’d quit for him. I love him, Sweets, with all my heart.”
“Which reminds me...” Steering us away from sentiment, which I think troubles Sweets, my friend offered a customary joke. “...I found this in my Christmas cracker...A patient says to his doctor, ‘those pills you gave me, they’re fantastic. Only one problem, they make me walk like a crab.’ ‘Ah,’ mused the doctor, ‘that’ll be the side effects.’ Or this one...A doctor was doing his rounds when he saw, to his horror, that a patient was half-dead. He said, ‘Nurse, did you give this man two tablets every eight hours, as prescribed?’ The nurse consulted her notes. ‘No, I gave him eight tablets every two hours.’ She smiled sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’ The doctor moved on to the next bed. Here too the patient was in extremis. ‘Nurse, did you give this man a spoonful of medicine every six hours, as prescribed?’ The nurse consulted her notes. ‘No, I gave six spoonfuls of medicine every hour. Sorry.’ The doctor moved on to the next bed, only to find that the patient had expired. ‘Nurse, did you prick this man’s boil?’ The nurse consulted her notes. ‘Oops...’”
Chapter Eighteen
Mac and yours truly returned to my office where I sat at my desk. The more I thought about it the more I was convinced that Jesus was innocent. Which left the question – who was the guilty party? I reckoned that the shooter was someone from my recent past, connected with my work as an enquiry agent. Who had I annoyed recently? It didn’t take me long to come up with an answer – actually, quite a few people. So I decided to work backwards and construct a list.
Vincent Vanzetti
Rudy Valentine
Mickey Anthony
George Kosminski
Boris St John
Dr Ruth Carey
Georgi Dimitrov
Grant Hodges
Jan Bekker
Al Morse
Studs Lorimer
Harry ‘the Hat’ Pearson
Maria de Costa
Carolyn Tyler
Nudger Nicholls
Joe Felder
Billy Masters...
And that’s just page one.
God, Samantha, you’re about as popular as a wasp in a nudist colony...
Start at the very beginning, often a very good place to start...I telephoned the local Godfather, Vincent Vanzetti, and arranged a meeting.
Vincent Vanzetti, a casual acquaintance, owned a yacht, the Esmeralda, and he agreed to meet me on the boat. I am not a sailor so whenever I set foot on a boat, my legs turn to water. The thought of meeting Vanzetti was enough to give me the quivers, so my insides were wobbling like a jelly as Mac drove me to the waterfront.
In his early fifties, Vanzetti had a high forehead, dark, wavy hair and soft, hazel eyes. A long, straight nose and a firm chin dominated his face, along with a neatly trimmed moustache and a rash of pale moles on his right cheek. Around six foot tall and of medium build, he had large hands with the fingernails squared-off and polished. As ever, he was dressed in a smart business suit, along with a white shirt and a red tie, a tie speckled with white dots. Urbane and sophisticated, Vanzetti had the charm of a politician during an election campaign, and the ruthlessness of a man seeking high office.
“Come aboard,” Vanzetti called out from the bridge of the Esmeralda. Then he disappeared into a cabin.
With Mac’s help, I climbed aboard the boat, my feet shuffling along the icy gangplank. The water looked cold and glacial, so falling into the harbour did not appeal.
“Hello, Mac,” Vanzetti smiled as he unbuttoned his jacket to reveal a shoulder holster and a handgun. Apparently, Vanzetti slept with the gun, a consequence of running a criminal empire. What his wife thought of that, I do not know, but doubtless she enjoyed the luxurious trappings, supplied by Vanzetti’s ill-gotten gains.
“Mr Vanzetti,” Mac bowed, exuding politeness.
There was a familiarity between the two men, which begged the question, “Do you two know each other?”
Vanzetti smiled through thin lips. “Mac has carried out some, er, work for me in the past.” Easing himself on to a blue padded sofa, Vanzetti gestured for Mac and yours truly to follow suit. The cabin contained burnished oak panelling, freshly varnished louvred cupboard doors and a central, highly polished oak table. The table had a yellow emblem ingrained on its surface, a compass, which indicated that I was seated to the north.
“You’re looking well,” Vanzetti said of my bodyguard. As usual, Vanzetti’s bodyguards were conspicuous by their absence – they were there, but you couldn’t see them. “Whereas you,” the gangster turned to face me, “you still haven’t found your sea legs. Maybe a quick trip around the harbour would do you good.”
“No,” I replied quickly. “Please. I am feeling rather queasy.” This statement was oh so true. In fact, I was on the verge of throwing up.
“After-effects of your recent misfortune?” Vanzetti enquired solicitously.
I nodded, then mumbled, “I think so.”
He stared at my shoulder, still swathed in a supporting bandage. “I heard about the shooting.”
I nodded again. I was reluctant to open my mouth in case I soiled the immaculate furniture and flooring in Vanzetti’s cabin. Nevertheless, I managed to ask, “Any idea who fired the shot?”
He frowned, his forehead creasing, his eyes narrowing, his eyebrows knitting together as he offered me a midnight scowl. “You think I did it?”
“You did make threats against me, the last time we met.” This was true. Indeed, at one point, Vincent Vanzetti had even accused me of murdering his brother, Peter.
“Hot air,” Vanzetti waved his right hand in dismissive fashion, “words said in the heat of the moment.”
“And you have murdered people in the past.”
His scowl moved past midnight, into the darkest hour, the hour before dawn. “Allegedly.”
“Allegedly,” I added, wondering why I’d been so foolish, so brazen to utter such a remark.
“If I wanted you dead, you would not be sitting here now. Get my drift?” Vanzetti added while arching an eyebrow.
I nodded, then immediately regretted my action. After swallowing bile, I asked, “If it wasn’t you or any of your associates, any idea who pulled the trigger?”
Vanzetti pondered, drawing his thumb and forefinger over the corners of his moustache. “I imagine you’ve drawn up a list.”
“I have.”
“And it’s a long one.”
“Longer than I’d like,” I conceded.
After glancing at Mac, then at a message as it came through on his mobile phone, Vanzetti shook his head and said, “What is it about you...you’re beautiful, you’re presentable, you’re personable, yet you do have this habit of getting under people’s skin.”
“I seek the truth,” I explained. “That makes certain people, people with something to hide, uncomfortable.”
Vanzetti stared at me for a full thirty seconds. During that time, the Esmeralda rocked on the water and my stomach did a backward flip followed by a double somersault and a triple salchow. As I fought the urge to vomit, Vanzetti said, “I’ll put the word out. If I hear a whisper, I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“Now you’d better get off this boat before you do something you might regret and I get the urge to throw you to the fishes.”
I nodded, then with my feet moving twenty to the dozen, I scrambled off the boat and skated down the gangplank on to terra firma. Relieved, and with the nausea abating, I took in lungfuls of cold harbour air, which made me shiver. What’s wrong with you, Samantha, you’re behaving like a wimp. Anyone would think that bullet wounds are a hazard to your health...
“Mac...”
We turned and gazed at the boat, at Vanzetti, who was standing on deck, his hands resting against a guide rail.
“I might have something for you. Give me a couple of weeks.”
“No sweat,” Mac replied.
&n
bsp; Vanzetti offered him a nautical salute. “I’ll be in touch.”
As we walked to the Bugatti, Mac turned to me and asked, “Are you okay, Missy, only...”
“I know...don’t nag...I’ll be fine in a minute. Boats and water...I prefer dry land...and...” I doubled up in pain though, to my amazement, I didn’t lose my breakfast.
Chapter Nineteen
We were sitting in Mac’s Bugatti. I was sipping bottled water, recovering from my nautical ordeal. I guess the rocking boat, my shoulder wound, my lingering concussion, the medication and the tension of meeting Vincent Vanzetti all combined to make me feel queasy. However, the spring water had revived me and I was feeling my old, buoyant self again.
“I don’t think Mr Vanzetti was the shooter,” Mac offered while watching a pair of seagulls pick at a bundle of litter. One of the seagulls ripped open the package to reveal a carton of fish and chips. He rejected a chip in favour of the battered fish, which produced a squall of protest from his companion.
“What do you know about Vanzetti?” I asked between sips of water.
“How do you mean?” Mac frowned.
“How did he get to where he is today?”
Mac scratched his right ear, then tugged at his earlobe. He glanced at his pocket, at his large bar of fruit and nut but, stoically, he resisted temptation and supplied me with an answer.
“Far as I know, Vanzetti’s parents moved to Wales after their marriage in the early sixties to join his uncle in the ice-cream business. Vanzetti helped run the business, but it weren’t for him. So he started a con, selling fake designer items. From there he branched out and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“What about Rudy Valentine, have you worked for him?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Know anything about him?”
“Family moved to Butetown from Jamaica in the fifties. Rudy got a job at the docks. He soon learned the wrinkles, the dodges and set up a few scams. His big break came in the eighties when he called on his contacts in the Caribbean to supply drugs to the yuppies in the City of London. I tell you, there’s more ‘snow’ in the City than in Antarctica. Rudy made a fortune. And, as he likes to remind you, when he arrived, the black folks were the slaves doing menial tasks; now he employs white folks to do his dirty work.”
“Think you can arrange a meeting with Rudy Valentine?” I asked.
Mac frowned, his eyebrows arching into the profile of a ginger seagull. “Who do you think I am, dial-a-villain?” He shrugged, then offered me a tight grin. “Well, I suppose I could give it a try.”
While Mac made a series of phone calls, I closed my eyes and tried to relax. My stomach was still gurgling, but the nausea had subsided. The squawking seagulls reminded me of summer, for some reason, of days spent on the beach with my mother. The beach was a good outlet for day trips because, apart from buying the occasional ice cream, my mother didn’t have to spend a penny. I wondered what my mother would make of me now; her Samantha with a bullet wound in her shoulder –somehow, she would not be surprised at that; her Samantha with a large diamond ring on her finger –now that would take her breath away.
Mac closed his phone and announced, “He’s a bit reluctant, but Rudy Valentine has agreed to meet you.”
“Where?” I asked.
“His nightclub, The Ace of Hearts.”
We drove through the recently gritted streets into the heart of the city and Valentine’s nightclub, The Ace of Hearts.
It was late afternoon and the nightclub was quiet. While Mac remained in the car, a minder met me at the door and escorted me up to Valentine’s office, a plush affair dominated by heavy oak furniture and rich leather upholstery. Valentine sat behind his desk, wearing a silk shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, a light grey waistcoat and a cautious expression. In his early sixties, he had dark, rheumy eyes, a strong jaw and a bald head. Over six foot tall, I sensed that Valentine’s back troubled him because he had a habit of leaning forward, offering a slight stoop.
“Mr Valentine.” I paused in front of his desk. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”
He nodded, slowly, then flashed his sugarcane smile. “So talk of your demise is greatly exaggerated.”
I returned his smile. “My mother got many things wrong, I’m sure she’d admit to that, but she did breed a tough little nut.”
“What can I do for you, my lady?” Valentine spoke with the civility of a medieval knight. A man of steely determination, he concealed his iron fist within his soft, lilting voice, the proverbial velvet glove.
“Someone put a bullet in my shoulder. I thought maybe you might have heard a whisper, a suggestion of who fired the gun.”
“You don’t think it was me, or one of my associates?”
“You’re on my list of suspects,” I admitted, “but, on reflection, your motives are pretty slim. After all, your man got the better of Vincent Vanzetti’s man in the showdown. You were the victor, so why sully that victory, why draw attention to yourself by shooting me?”
My comments referred to the murder of Peter Vanzetti. As you might recall, initially, Vincent Vanzetti figured me for that murder because it was linked to a case I was working on. However, I proved to Vanzetti that George Kosminski, Rudy Valentine’s hit man, had murdered Peter out of revenge – a year previously, Peter had murdered Celeste Croft, Rudy’s granddaughter. The villains arranged a showdown where George Kosminski shot Vanzetti’s man, Lennie Pascoe, in a display of macho bravado. That third murder brought the killings to a close and, in their perverted way, the two villains accepted that justice had been done. Rudy Valentine had revenged Celeste’s murder. The matter was now closed and the villains could move on.
Valentine glanced at his pocket watch, hanging from a gold chain. He made a mental note of the time, then said, “I had nothing to do with your shooting.”
“But you do employ a hit man, George Kosminski.”
“What about George?” Valentine frowned.
“I embarrassed him, on more than one occasion. I sense that he’s a man easily moved to rage. Maybe he put the bullet in me, out of revenge.”
“You think George was freelancing?”
I shrugged my left shoulder. “It’s possible.”
“Except, that I don’t allow George, or any of my employees, to freelance. George works for me, he follows my orders; if he put a freelance bullet into you, or anyone else, he knows there would be a price to pay.”
Would George Kosminski risk paying that price? Possibly. I’d embarrassed him. I’d caught him, in flagrante delicto, enjoying a bondage session. Worse, I’d bruised his professional pride – Valentine had instructed George to buy me off, or murder me, but just before the hit, I managed to escape, reducing George to a laughing stock, in his boss’ eyes.
Rudy Valentine leaned forward. From his desk, he selected a pack of playing cards and gave them a dexterous shuffle. With his hands working the cards and his eyes on me, he said, “Word reached me, about your shooting. But I seriously doubt that it was a professional hit. If I were you, my lady, I would examine my friends and associates; I would look closer to home for the gunman. If I were you, I would have a word with Mickey Anthony.”
“What about Mickey?” I frowned.
“Just a whisper, gossip, loose talk.”
Rudy Valentine dealt himself a hand of cards, face down. When he turned the cards over he revealed a straight of diamonds – ace, king, queen, jack and ten.
With the sugarcane smile on his lips, Valentine said, “Mickey Anthony, a fellow private eye. If I were a betting man, which I am, I’d throw a handful of chips his way. Word is, you annoyed him, my lady; word is, he spoke of revenge.”
Chapter Twenty
Mickey Anthony was in his early forties and well established as a private detective. He’d been very helpful to me in the formative years of my agency, and lately when he’d been a source of information. However, relations had soured. Mickey was a womaniser of the serial kind. He had a beautiful wif
e and, apparently, she was easy about their open relationship. Mickey fancied me, in that he wanted to have sex with me, but consistently I had rebuffed him. I sensed that this caused him great frustration and that my rebuffs had dented his pride. To add insult to this injury I’d discovered that Mickey was about to seduce Alis Storey, having lured her to a hotel by offering a pack of lies. Mickey met Alis on the Internet, on a social networking site. Fortunately, I intervened and saved Alis’ honour, though Mickey was furious, phoning me, making a number of veiled threats. Again, pride was the source of those threats. In addition, word about Mickey’s behaviour, his womanising, his lust for teenagers, had leaked out and, apparently, his business was suffering as a result.
Mickey Anthony rented an office in a prime location – on the fourth floor of a modern, red-bricked development overlooking Queen Street railway station in the centre of Cardiff. With Mac at my side, I entered a lift and we made our way up to Anthony and Associates where I knocked on Mickey’s door.
“Enter,” he announced brusquely and we walked into the office to find him slipping into a leather jacket. A handsome, muscular man with dark, tousled hair, dark, smouldering eyes and a square jaw speckled with designer stubble, Mickey was dressed in blue jeans and a cream, roll-neck sweater. “Ah, Sam.” He glanced at me while zipping up his jacket. “I was just on my way out...”
“Five minutes, Mickey,” I insisted, “that’s all I want from you.”
Mickey sighed. He shrugged his broad shoulders then flopped into his chair, placing his boots on the edge of his desk. My legs were aching, so I sat in a clients’ chair while Mac, arms folded across his chest, stood guard at the door.
“Sorry to disturb you,” I apologised.
“You’ve been disturbing me for five years, so why apologise now?”
Mickey glanced at Mac, who stared back with an evil glint in his eye. I sensed that Mac was frustrated, with sitting around guarding me and with the situation vis-à-vis his lover.
“You heard about the shooting,” I said to Mickey.
He offered a casual lift of his right shoulder. “Course.”
