by Kim Baldwin
Blayne cracked up. Warning, “Watch the ice,” she returned to her desk.
Pictures of Fiji stared at her from the computer monitor. Tanned, toned bodies in bikinis, fortunate tourists sipping fruity drinks. She tapped a pencil on her desk impatiently as a restlessness swept through her. It wasn’t just a vacation she craved. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was that she needed, she only knew she needed a change, and soon.
She liked her job, her friends, and even living in Chicago, though she’d never expected to settle in the Windy City. At one time, it had seemed her life was all laid out for her. After college, she’d planned to travel for six months and then return home to Ishpeming, Michigan to take over managing Blarneys, the family pub she’d lived above all her life. Her parents had expected it and she wasn’t adverse to the idea. She loved small town life and knew she would enjoy working in the congenial atmosphere of the authentic Irish tavern.
But a month before her graduation, Blarneys had burned to the ground, killing her parents and leaving her suddenly orphaned, homeless, and with an uncertain future, all in one swift awful nightmare. Claudia’s father had offered her employment in his travel agency, and Chicago had seemed as good a place as any to start her life anew.
Since then it had been a comfortable existence, but it had gotten much too comfortable of late. She needed some fun. Some action. Some romance. Something spontaneous in her life. Time to shake things up a little. I need to get out more.
*
Across the street from the travel agency, four men in business suits and overcoats sat shivering in a large panel truck that read L. Wolfe and Sons, Plumbers on the outside.
In the back with two other unhappy agents on temporary transfer from Washington, Special Agent Leslie ‘Skip’ Topping wondered how long it would be before his walrus moustache froze over like a mountaineer’s.
“Turn up the heater, will you, pal?” he called forward to the driver, a paunchy local agent dressed in the insulated coveralls a real plumber might be wearing on such a lousy day.
“Up all the way already,” Johnny Trelaine responded.
Skip had a feeling the jerk was lying, sitting in his cozy little hole up front, making sure the three Washington ringers in the back were as uncomfortable as possible. It was pretty obvious he resented the hell out of the lead role they’d been assigned in this organized crime investigation, when it was FBI Chicago that had put the case together.
“Damn this cold.” S.A. Dennis O’Rourke blew on his hands. A ginger-haired agent Skip had known for years, he was having trouble operating the sophisticated recording equipment in front of him with his gloves on. So he kept taking them off then complaining that his fingers were icicles.
Skip had a slightly easier task. He could manage his binoculars just fine with the heavy gloves he’d bought the second day of their surveillance, and there hadn’t been much to see today anyway. Six apparent customers of the travel agency and three trucks in and out of the soda place. The bitter cold and icy roads had kept the streets virtually clear of traffic.
The bosses in Washington were optimistic the tip they’d gotten would pay off, and this miserable stakeout would provide them with evidence to finally nail Vittorio Cinzano. So far the ruthless mob underboss had proven to be an elusive target. Cinzano was careful to avoid being seen anywhere near one of his distribution hubs. And guys that high up in the Mafia hierarchy were rarely sloppy.
“Anything?” Special Agent George Dombrowski mumbled through a mouthful of glazed donut. It was his third, but he was one man who needn’t worry about the calories. He was built like a brick wall, with a massive neck to match his overdeveloped arms and shoulders, and beefy hands that made the donut seem half-sized.
“At least we can hear something finally,” O’Rourke reported, fiddling again with the knobs on the recorder. “It’s a woman talking. She wants someone to call her when the meeting is over.”
Dombrowski paused over his donut. “That’s all she said? To call her when the meeting’s over?”
“All we got, anyway,” O’Rourke confirmed. “Not enough to ID her. But it’s got to be one of the three that work in the travel agency. They’re the only women in the building.”
“Which one of them do you think it is?” Dombrowski asked.
“No way of knowing with those damn windows where they are,” Skip complained, not for the first time. The squat red brick building they were watching had two large picture windows in front but they were set too high to see inside. “If I had to pick, though, I’d say the brunette.”
Dombrowski chuckled. “We didn’t ask which one you wanted to screw, Skip.”
“Hell, they could all be in on it,” O’Rourke said. “Maybe they’re back there in the warehouse all the time. Maybe this is just the first time we’ve caught one saying anything.”
“Heads up,” Trelaine interrupted from the driver’s seat. “Three subjects. Ford sedan approaching from the rear.”
Skip shot to his feet and trained his binoculars on the battered sedan that drew alongside them. It slowed to turn into the travel agency parking lot then disappeared behind the building. The windows were tinted, making it almost impossible for a positive identification of the occupants.
“That was Cinzano himself, Goddamn it!” Trelaine whooped. “In the back, left side.”
“You sure?” Dombrowski asked doubtfully. “Couldn’t see much.”
“Could be him,” Skip agreed. “Sedan looks about right. He’d want to be inconspicuous.”
“I know I’m right. I’ve been staring at pictures of him for months,” Trelaine reminded them, the usual edge of resentment missing from his voice.
Skip knew what he was thinking. Play nice or get cut out of this. “We’ll know soon enough,” he said. “Everybody shut up now, will you, so I can hear what’s going on?”
Chapter Two
Vittorio Cinzano paused just inside the door to the soda distribution center that shielded half his cocaine empire. The warehouse was quiet, the massive garage doors to the parking lot closed and the forklifts idle. High, cellophane-encased pallets crowded the building and Vittorio knew he looked out of place there, in his expensive navy suit and silk tie, handmade Italian shoes, and cashmere-lined coat. But he always dressed according to his status and position, and was conscious of his dark-eyed handsome looks when he chose his garments.
Six feet tall and in his early fifties, he thought he was ageing even better than most Italian men. His brown hair was only just tinged with gray and he still felt women’s eyes on him despite the recent accumulation of extra pounds around the middle, a consequence of his fondness for pasta. The only flaw in his classic profile was his crooked nose. Vittorio had occasionally contemplated plastic surgery so he could look like a mature movie star, but when he saw his nose he also saw his father and his heritage, and that was something he would never trade away for vanity.
He swung his gaze slowly past the loading dock at his end of the warehouse to the glass-fronted office virtually out of sight at the rear. He knew the traitor he had come to see was watching him on the security cameras, so he lingered a moment where he was, enjoying a small measure of satisfaction. He knew exactly how much he was making the man sweat.
He had been here only twice before, both times late at night when there’d been nothing in the building that could compromise him. However, there was plenty to incriminate him in the surrounding pallets today, and he’d also come in broad daylight. But he judged it worth the risk. This was personal. Deeply personal. He had just confirmed that someone in his inner circle had betrayed him.
Aldo Martinelli had been a nobody, a low level associate, until he had the good fortune to catch the eye of Martinelli’s baby sister, Marie. Their marriage had been his way up the ladder, for family was everything to Vittorio. It had gotten Martinelli the esteemed position of caporegime, and the cushy job of overseeing deliveries at the warehouse. Vittorio had even looked the other way when he learned his brother-in-la
w had taken a mistress, but only because Martinelli had been discreet about it.
Unfortunately Aldo had gotten greedy. Not content with the percentage Vittorio allowed him, he had upped the street price of their coke on his own and was pocketing the extra. It hadn’t taken long for some of the customers to start complaining.
Vittorio had paid a surprise visit to the Martinelli home that morning to confirm his suspicions, and it had been a snap to do so. There was a Jaguar in the driveway, a massive new high definition TV in the living room, and Marie had prattled on and on about the Florida condo they were about to close on. Martinelli had evidently been skimming for quite some time.
Vittorio had not let on to his sister that anything was out of the ordinary. But he knew she might just call her husband for some reason and mention the visit. So Vittorio had come to the warehouse straightaway, to give his brother-in-law an opportunity to own up to what he had done. He wanted to believe, for Marie’s sake, that his caporegime could grow some balls and accept responsibility like a man. But he knew that the fat fuck he’d come to see was the type to run, or worse—seek protection in the wrong places—if he learned he’d been discovered.
Vittorio did not allow his face to convey any of his rage. Nor his voice. “See we’re not interrupted,” he instructed his driver.
The guy, one of two dozen goons who worked for him and who all looked uncannily alike, exited the door to stand watch outside. His bodyguard, another of the same, followed Vittorio toward the rear office.
Martinelli met them halfway there and greeted Vittorio with the customary embrace and kisses that bespoke their family connection and shared Italian heritage. Vittorio allowed it, then stood back, silently studying the man he had trusted enough to appoint as his captain. He gave nothing away in his posture or blank expression.
Martinelli had the same olive complexion as his boss, but the similarity ended there. Nearly a head shorter, he was balding and heavyset and had a vaguely porcine face with beady black eyes set too close together and an upturned pug nose with oversized nostrils. He was dressed in brown trousers and a tan shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the buttons stretched too tight. The clothes were appropriate, nice but not too extravagant. But Martinelli had gotten sloppy about the details and Cinzano never missed the details, like the pricey watch and the quality of the polished wingtips.
“Hey, Vittorio.” Martinelli hailed him with false cheer, obviously trying not to show his nerves. He had a faint growth of beard, like he couldn’t be bothered to shave the last day or two. “Didn’t expect to see you today.”
To his credit, he was trying not to let on that he knew he was in trouble, but the slight twitch in his left eye gave him away. That, and the sweat that was beginning to pour out of him. Vittorio had arranged for him to get a call earlier telling him to anticipate a meeting, but he would have expected it to be routine business with one of Cinzano’s men. As soon as he saw Vittorio, he had to know he’d been discovered skimming some of the cut.
“We need a sit-down,” Vittorio said. He glanced at the pallets around them, surveying the enormity of places where bugs might have been planted. It wasn’t lost on Martinelli.
“The office?” he extended a palm in that direction. He had small hands, pudgy like the rest of him, and Vittorio was gratified to see that no matter how hard he tried, the traitorous capo couldn’t hold the hand steady.
Vittorio led the way and his bodyguard waited for Martinelli to follow before bringing up the rear. They entered the office but Vittorio remained standing, ignoring the comfy couch along one wall, and the large oak desk with Martinelli’s leather chair on one side and two plush and inviting guest chairs on the other.
Martinelli turned on the radio and set it high enough to obscure any conversation. He was really sweating now. The dome of his head shone with it. He pulled out a handkerchief and quickly swiped at his face and forehead.
Still Vittorio remained silent. Watching. Waiting. Patient. Inscrutable. And intimidating as hell.
Martinelli moved behind his desk, and gestured toward the couch. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Something to drink? I got some great old Scotch.”
Evidently he thought there might be a small chance that if he acted all business-as-normal, his brother-in-law might remember they were family. Vittorio didn’t move.
Martinelli’s shaking became more noticeable, and there was a quaver to his voice now too. He was rapidly unraveling. “How are Nicki and the twins?”
“Fine.” The clipped response cut short any further inquiry about family.
Vittorio remained outwardly impassive, glancing about the office, in no hurry to address what he’d come for. He was getting off on watching Martinelli talk himself into a hole. He loved this part of the life he led. Exacting his brand of justice. Setting an example. His sister was better off without this turd anyway.
Martinelli wasn’t about to stop talking. It was better than the alternative. “Hey, how about something to eat? I…I can send Joyce out for something. Great Italian place down the block.”
Vittorio allowed the blasé demeanor to vanish, making direct eye contact that pinned Martinelli in place. “I just lost my appetite. Do you know why?”
Sweat rolled down into Martinelli’s eyes, making him blink. He wiped at his face with the handkerchief again and seemed to be having trouble breathing. Desperation flashed in his eyes, and he looked around, seeking an escape. It told Vittorio all he needed to know. He’d given Aldo a chance. He owed Marie that much. But he had to protect himself at all costs.
Vittorio made a subtle movement of his head, and his bodyguard moved between Martinelli and the door. The bodyguard, who seemed not the slightest bit interested in what was happening, towered over Martinelli, and was muscle everywhere that the smaller man was fat.
“Sit down, Aldo.” The abrupt command contained the first hint of Vittorio’s growing impatience, and his disappointment that Martinelli wasn’t going to confess his misdeeds unless pressured.
Martinelli sank into the chair and began rearranging the stuff on his desk, obsessively tidying the papers into piles while avoiding eye contact. “I should call home. Marie has been asking me to invite you and Nicki over for dinner,” he said, procrastinating.
Vittorio held his temper. “What do you need to tell me, Aldo?”
*
“What the hell are they saying?” Skip Topping was standing almost on top of O’Rourke, trying to hear any sound that might be escaping the agent’s earphones.
“Can’t hear squat,” O’Rourke griped. “They’ve turned on the damn radio. We should have broken it when we planted the bug.”
“Yeah, like that wouldn’t have been obvious,” Trelaine commented from the front, plenty loud enough for the Washington boys to hear.
“I wasn’t serious, asshole,” O’Rourke shot back, frustrated by his inability to catch any of the conversation going on in the soda warehouse.
Aggravated, Topping said, “So we don’t even know if it’s him for sure.”
“It’s him,” Trelaine insisted. “And something major is happening if he’s paying a visit in the middle of the day.”
*
Claudia returned to the travel agency with their lunch, her face brick red from the cold. “Brrr. That’s my last time going for lunch until April, at least,” she vowed.
While she peeled off her winter outerwear, Blayne unpacked the sack of food, frowning when the contents yielded only three Styrofoam containers, plastic utensils and napkins. “Forget something?”
Claudia gave her a questioning look. “Did I?”
“Drinks? You know the fridge is empty.”
“Oh shit, that’s right. Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not risking life and limb on those streets again. And besides, the food would be stone cold by the time I got back.”
Blayne grinned conspiratorially. “There is another option.”
“You’re not,” Claudia advised, but she knew damn well Blayne wasn’t about to li
sten. She liked being naughty way too much. “Joyce will stop you.”
“Yeah, what’s up with that, anyway?” Blayne lowered her voice as though Joyce might overhear them. “I like Joyce and all, don’t get me wrong. But she acts like this self-appointed watchdog. We used to go back there and help ourselves all the time when Pete was running the day shift.”
“It is odd,” Claudia agreed. “She sure flew off the handle the last time she found out you’d snuck a few cans.”
“Yeah, I mean so what. Who’s going to notice?” Blair shrugged. “Maybe she’s in menopause or something.”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious she’s dating that Aldo guy. He’s in her office all the time. And I know she goes over there, too.” Claudia made a face like she’d smelled something repugnant. “You don’t think she’s worried one of us would be interested in him, do you? I mean, gross!”
“Can’t be that.” Blayne winced. “He gives me the creeps.”
“Me too. But he does send business our way.”
“Well, yes, there is that, I guess.” Blayne stood and rubbed her hands together, anxious to embark on her soda-snatching adventure. “I’m going before the food gets any colder.”
“You know, one of these days that cute little larcenous side of yours is going to get you into some real trouble.”
“Today is not that day,” Blayne declared confidently. “And I’m sure those guys don’t give a damn. There’s always an open pallet of soda out there. I’ll just duck in, then pick up Joyce on the way back.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” Claudia knew her protestations were pointless. She wasn’t sure what was behind Blayne’s penchant for petty theft; she’d even tempted the Fates stealing little stuff like pens and paperclips in college. It was always something trivial, but her luck at escaping repercussions couldn’t hold out forever. “Be careful.”
