by D. B. Silvis
“I know he’d like to be involved. Like us, he wants to know if the General was murdered by the CIA or the Mafia,” Kip assured them. He knew it would be easier for Killian to infiltrate the Mafia than any of the others realized.
“That’s good,” said Whelan. “Then draw funds from the account, and have him rent a car and a hotel room in the Big Apple.”
“In the meantime,” said Admiral Hildegard, “I suggest we keep a low profile and only meet in case of an emergency, or news from Kip.”
They all agreed.
The first few days, Killian was in New York City, he frequented some of the popular Irish bars before trying the Italian neighborhood bars. He figured, as a big red headed Irish lad, he’d have a better chance of hearing some street talk from Irish drinkers, who might have links with the Italian Mafia.
As discreetly as he could, during conversations, he would bring up the subject of the problems in Vietnam. Then he would mention he’d read in the newspaper about the death of the Army’s General Dugan, and wondered if there might be a connection to the war. He would suggest that maybe the Viet Cong had actually killed the general. The conversation usually went nowhere, as there wasn’t much interest in either of the two subjects. That was until Killian met a guy, half in the bag, who said his sister was married to a loud-mouth Italian, who had bragged to her about how his buddies had taken care of a big-shot Army general. The Irishman told Killian he didn’t put much stock in what his want-to-be wiseguy brother-in-law said, as he was a skinny little weasel who was always shooting off his big Wop mouth. Nevertheless, it was music to Killian’s ears. He learned the name of the man’s brother-in-law, and where the want-to-be wiseguy hung out.
Late the next afternoon, Killian entered Big Ted’s Saloon. It was your typical New York Italian corner bar. Guys were hanging around outside, some making wise-ass remarks to the women who passed by, while others concentrated on trying to look suave or tough in their tight-fitting, or double-breasted, sports jackets. Most of them wore Italian black leather shoes and sported the Italian Deadstock sunglasses. They didn’t pay much attention when a casually dressed guy in his mid-twenties, with wavy black hair and dark brown eyes entered the spacious saloon.
Killian, in his new transformation, glanced around and then sat down on one of the tall metal bar stools located at the long wooden bar. He ordered a whisky and water.
The bartender made his drink, and set it down in front of him. “Ain’t seen you around before, are you new to the area?”
“I am,” said Killian in perfect Italian.
The bartender grinned.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Killian apologized in English, “I sometimes forget. I just came over here from Italy a week ago.”
“Good, welcome to America. I’m sure you’ll like it here. I’m Joe, and the first drink is on the house.”
They shook hands.
“Thanks, Joe, salute.” Killian raised his glass and drank.
Joe smiled and started to walk away.
“Say, Joe, do you happen to know a Louie Bono?” asked Killian.
Joe laughed, “Loudmouth Louie? Sure.” He pointed toward the far end of the bar. “That’s him sitting at the end of the bar, talking to the waitress.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
Joe nodded and walked off to wait on another customer. Killian took a sip of his drink. He looked down the bar at Louie, who was talking a mile a minute with his hands and mouth. Killian grinned. Louie was just the kind of guy he’d been looking for. He picked up his drink, walked over and sat on the empty bar stool next to the short, thin, loud man. Louie glanced at him, but kept on talking to the waitress until the bartender placed the two drinks she had ordered on her tray, and she walked away.
“You Louie Bono?” asked Killian.
When Louie turned in his seat, Killian was faced by a man with a long skinny nose, sunken brown eyes, chicken lips, and Vaseline-slicked black hair.
He gave Killian an inquiring look. “Yeah, who’s askin’?”
“I’m Phil Rizzo. I met your brother-in-law Gavin a couple of days ago. He told me you were the guy to know around here. He said you know all the important Italian people.”
“He told you that?” said Louie, somewhat surprised.
“Yeah, I’m new to this country, and he said you could introduce me around.”
“Yeah, that’s true.” Now Louie changed his attitude, showing his phoney big-shot, want-to-be-wiseguy stripes. “I’m the guy alright. I know everybody, and everything that goes on around here. You got the right man, Phil,” he bragged.
Killian smiled at Louie’s remark. He knew he had the right man. They shook hands.
The two men sat drinking and making small talk for over an hour. Then Louie suggested they go to another place where they could meet a couple of bimbos and party. Killian went along with the suggestion, and they left Big Ted’s Saloon, got into Killian’s rented Ford coupe and headed for the local dive.
“I thought you were a married man,” said Killian innocently.
“Ah, she don’t count. Just an Irish bitch who’s always naggin’ me,” Louie slurred.
Killian felt like punching Louie in his weasel face, but didn’t.
A few minutes later, they pulled into a parking lot next to a cheap joint with a red and green blinking neon sign, and went inside. Big-shot Louie knew most everyone in the small place, and waved as they took a table in the back of the saloon, near the multi-colored jukebox.
It wasn’t long before a couple of attractive, but hard-looking, girls in their twenties joined them. For the next hour they drank, danced and talked. The two women didn’t pay much attention to Killian and Louie’s conversation, as they were clearly just in it for a good time, and free drinks.
Later that evening, Killian felt that Loudmouth Louie was now drunk enough to pump for information. He wanted to find out if Louie knew anything about the Mafia, the CIA and the death of General Dugan. When Killian broached the subjects, he couldn’t believe how much Louie talked, even boasted, about what he knew. He was like a radio you couldn’t turn off. He went on and on about how the CIA relied on his Mafia friends for information and special hits. Killian knew that much of what Louie was blabbering was a mixture of truth and bullshit. Among other things, Louie told Killian his Mafia friends were going to take out Fidel Castro, and members of his family, as well as some communist leaders in other countries.
But, it was when Louie started talking about what had happened to the Army general, and why, that Killian began listening more intently. Louie said his pals the Loretti twins, who were the top wiseguy’s, had done the job on the general, for the CIA. Killian asked him how he knew it was true. Louie said the underboss had a special party to celebrate it, and a bimbo whom he sometimes dated had been at the party. She had told him all about it. Throughout the evening, Killian mixed in other subjects, but from time to time he came back to the story about General Dugan.
“Can you imagine getting a hit like that, Phil?” asked Louie. “I mean, Christ, that’s gotta’ be the best. Someday I’m gonna’ get a chance like that, and then I’ll be a real big-shot like the Loretti twins.”
Killian was gradually able secure more information out of the drunken Italian. He found out where the Loretti twins lived, what their habits were, and where they hung out. After Killian had learned all he believed he could from Louie he was ready to leave, but, he couldn’t separate the guy from the two equally inebriated girls. Finally, he said he had to go, laid two twenties on the table, and left.
Over the next few days Killian, as Phil Rizzo, tailed the Loretti brothers. He learned that Angelo, almost daily, went to the local gym for a steam bath. His brother Anthony was a film nut, who liked to go to the movies in the afternoon. Killian waited for a day when Anthony was at a movie the same time Angelo went to the gym for his steam bath. His intention was to get to Angelo when there wasn’t anyone else in the steam bath. The opportunity came up three times over the next week. However, on th
e first two attempts his plan was foiled as there were other men in the steam bath.
Each time, before Killian entered the gym, he transformed into a CIA agent, assuming the appearance of a strongly built six-foot-one man with short brown hair, and impeccably dressed in a black suit. He always made sure the gym attendant noticed him. On his third attempt, after he had undressed, wrapped a white towel around his lower body and entered the steam room, he found Angelo sitting by himself on the front row of benches.
As Killian entered Angelo lifted his head.
Killian greeted him in Italian, “How ya doin?”
Angelo grinned and answered, also in Italian. “Okay, how about you?”
Killian stepped up to the third row of benches behind Angelo. “Hung over,” he told him, switching to English.
Angelo laughed. “Well, from experience I can tell you this steam will help.” Angelo then draped his white towel over his wet head.
Killian knew he didn’t have much time. He quickly reached out, and with his strong hands grabbed Angelo’s neck and twisted. There was a cracking sound, and the wiseguy slumped backward. Killian laid Angelo’s body against the bench rows, covered the mobster’s face with the towel, and exited the steam room. Then he used his towel to wipe the sweat from his body, dressed, and waved to the balding attendant as he left the gym.
Next, Killian drove the Ford coupe over to the Bijou movie theater. He bought a ticket, and purposely kidded with the young woman who was in the ticket booth. He entered the theater, and stood in the back for a few seconds until his eyes adjust to the darkness. To Killian’s satisfaction, the place was almost empty. Not many people went to the movies in the afternoon. He spotted Anthony Loretti sitting by himself four rows from the back. Killian quietly moved into a seat behind the wiseguy and sat down. Anthony was deeply into the movie, which starred Edward G. Robinson as a gangster. Killian removed a three-foot length of piano wire from his suit coat pocket. Holding one end in each hand he slipped it over Anthony’s head, and drew it tight against the wiseguy’s neck. Loretti quietly gagged.
Killian whispered into Anthony’s ear. “Tell me who ordered you and your brother to kill General Dugan, or you’ve just seen your last movie.”
Loretti started to struggle, but Killian tightened the piano wire around the mobster’s neck.
“Tell me or you die now,” he threatened.
“CIA,” Anthony gasped. “Director Spencer.”
Killian nodded and with his powerful hands twisted the wire. The last of the Loretti twins slumped dead in his seat.
Killian stood up and exited the theater.
He stopped at the ticket window, and looked in at the young woman. “That’s not my kind of movie, too violent.”
The woman grinned and watched the good-looking man in the black suit stroll down the sidewalk and got into a two-door Ford.
Late the next morning, Underboss Mario Marcinetti and two of his men were sitting at a long wooden table in an oversized kitchen. Above them, large pots and pans hung from the ceiling. Deputy Director William Spencer and two of his CIA agents, dressed in their usual black suits, entered the Italian Grotto Restaurant. A big, tough-looking man escorted them through the dining room and into the kitchen area. There weren’t any regular restaurant employees working. The big man pointed to the long table and Deputy Director Spencer and his two men sat down. The atmosphere was icy. There wasn’t any introductory chatter. No laughter or handshakes. The six men sat glaring at one another.
Finally Mario spoke. “What the hell’s going on, Spencer? We do the job for you on that General guy, and then you send a suit to kill my two best boys?”
“Mario, we didn’t do that!” said Spencer with emphasis.
“Bullshit!” shouted Mario. “I didn’t just get off one of our banana boats in Louisiana. Me and my men know a professional hit when we see one, and in this case two. Your guy in the suit was good, real good.”
“For God’s sake, why would we do that? We paid you to get information, and take care of the General. In addition, we’re offering you a hell of a lot of money to take care of Fidel Castro and his brother Raul.”
“Maybe you and Director Waterton are pissed off because we didn’t get the information you wanted from the General before he got killed,” said Mario.
“I admit we were upset, but not enough to kill your men and jeopardize our negotiations on the Castro deal,” Spencer replied.
“Who the hell else would have the balls and ability to do it?”
“Mario, think about it. Who’s the most pissed off about the death of General Dugan? The answer is the United States Army, and I’m sure that’s who killed your men, and made it look like it was one of our people.”
“No way, Spencer, the Army doesn’t have the men who could handle two hits like that. Jesus, you know that! Hell, you guys had to start your own goddamn Green Berets to get tough, skilled fighting men.”
Nothing was said for close on thirty seconds.
“One of your suits was seen by the gym attendant, and by the gal selling tickets at the movie theater.”
“It wasn’t one of our men, Mario.”
“Okay then, who?” demanded Mario, raising his beefy arms in a gesture to emphasis his question. “It had to be one of your men who killed the Loretti twins. They were two of my best men. I can’t believe how anybody got the drop on them. The guy who killed them was very skilled, Spencer. For Christ’s sake, Anthony was strangled with a Sicilian necktie.”
Deputy Director Spencer shook his head. “Maybe it was one of our rogue agents. We had a few who went out on their own, causing us problems. They used our connections to sell drugs, weapons, explosives and other equipment to terrorists and small nations. Maybe one of them is trying to get back at us.”
“And maybe the Army paid one of your boys more money,” suggested Mario.
“I’m sure that didn’t happen. They don’t have the funds we have. Our men are paid very well,” answered the deputy director.
“What have you done about these rogues?” Mario asked.
“We’re working on it. They have some high connections, and have secured some powerful backers.”
“Ain’t nobody out of our reach, director,” said the Mafia underboss.
“That’s a subject we’ll need to discuss at a later time, Mario.”
There was another silence as Mario gazed thoughtfully at Spencer.
“If it’s one of your ex-men who did the Lorettis, then you owe us,” he muttered.
“Why would we owe you?” asked the deputy director, surprised.
“Because you’re responsible, that’s why.”
“For an ex-CIA man, if it was one?”
“Yeah, you trained him, and he killed my best men. It’s going to cost me to replace them.”
“You want more money?” asked Spencer.
Mario shrugged.
“There’s no way, Mario?”
Mario shrugged again.
“It doesn’t make any sense. We didn’t do the hit on your men, Mario,” Spencer repeated.
Mario shrugged again and continued to gaze at Spencer.
“What’s the Boss think about this?” asked the deputy director.
“This was his call.”
Spencer disgustedly shakes his head. “Shit, alright, Mario, twenty-five thousand.”
Mario thought for a moment. “There were two of them. Twins, remember?”
“Mario, if it wasn’t for us needing you for the Castro deal, I’d tell you to go to hell,” said a flustered Deputy Director Spencer.
“And I’d give you five to one you’d beat me there,” said Mario, as he and his men laughed.
Spencer grinned sourly. “Alright, you win. Fifty thousand, but it’s a bitch because, on my mother’s life, I guarantee you we didn’t make the hits on your men.”
“If that’s true, we both need to find out who did. If we can’t, and your CIA people can’t, then we both got a real problem out there. And I might a
dd, the way Anthony died, with the wire around his neck…” Mario paused, and then nodded at Spencer. “Whoever killed him knows the CIA was involved in General Dugan’s death, Mr. Deputy Director.”
“I agree, Mr. Marcinetti,” the deputy director answered soberly.
They all stood up. Mario and Spencer shook hands. Then the deputy director and his men left the kitchen, and made their way out of the restaurant.
CHAPTER 13
The same afternoon, Kip was saddling Blaze while Killian was putting a bridle on one of Zack’s finest horses.
“Our friends are somewhat shocked you killed those two mobsters,” said Kip. “They want to know why you didn’t tell us you’d found the men who’d killed General Dugan.”
“Timing, Kip. Timing is everything. I didn’t have time for all the discussion it would have led to. Those two men murdered our friend; I killed them, but they weren’t the important ones. It’s Deputy Director Spencer who you and the others need to be concerned about.”
Killian mounted his horse and started to ride off. Kip climbed up on Blaze and rode after him. They rode side by side in silence for a couple of minutes.
“I didn’t know you had it in you, to execute two men like you did,” said Kip.
“I’ve done it before. You watched me one time back in Texas, remember? Murderers need to die, Kip.”
“I agree, Killian, but the others wanted to talk about it and make a decision.”
“That’s the problem with you people in Washington. You politicians and high-ranking military officers always want to talk. But while you talk, evil men are causing innocent people to die. By getting the Loretti brothers we sent the CIA and the Mafia a message that we’re not afraid of them. The Loretti twins murdered the General, and would have killed for the CIA again.” Killian glanced at Kip riding next to him. “Now they won’t.”
Kip nodded. A short time later, they came to a shady area where there was a large, open galvanized tank filled with water. They dismounted and let the horses drink.
“Kip, if you men want to talk, how about you make a decision on what to do about Deputy Director Spencer? He paid the Mafia to hit General Dugan.”
